Lanterns on a Working Street

East of the river the streets narrow and then, quite suddenly, stop pretending to be modern. Higashi Chaya is a short grid of two-storey wooden houses with fine slatted screens across their fronts, deep eaves, and stone paving that turns the colour of dark tea in the rain. As the light went, paper lanterns came on one by one beside the doorways.

It is tempting to read a street like this as a museum, and it would be wrong. The district was laid out in eighteen twenty as a licensed quarter where the city's performers entertained wealthy merchants, and it is still a working district. Around forty geiko, as Kanazawa calls its geisha, train and perform across the city's three teahouse quarters, in the same upstairs rooms behind the same wooden screens.

Polly settled on a roof tile as a shamisen started up somewhere above the street, three strings and a drum, then a voice, none of it performed for anybody outside. Below, the street carried on being an ordinary street. A bicycle leaned against a wall. A delivery box sat on a step. A cat crossed without hurrying.

On the corner, a shop sold soft serve ice cream with an entire sheet of gold leaf laid over the top of it, lifted with long bamboo chopsticks and settled with a small puff of breath. The idea is barely older than the tourists who queue for it. Four centuries of the city's most exacting craft, sold in a cone, at the end of a street where people are still working upstairs.