Once Upon a Tanabata

Once upon a time, there were two lovers. One was a weaver named "Orihime" (embodied by the star Vega) and the other was a cowherd named "Hikoboshi" (embodied by the star Altair). Sadly, these lovers are separated all year long by the Milky Way. They can only meet once a year--on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month (August).

The Tanabata Festival or "Star Festival" celebrates this single day when the two lovers can be together.

And that, my dear ones, is the bittersweet tale behind the Tanabata Festival.

Tonight, as the sun was going down, we left our air conditioned haven and ventured forth to seek out the local Tanabata festival.

But first, we had to find food. We walked a few blocks to a nearby main street (Horikawa-dori) and caught the number 12 bus towards the castle. We got off the bus, already sweaty in spite of the warm breeze, and wandered until we found a wide main road. We found a crowded ramen shop (crowds = a sign of good food, but as it was bursting with people, we had to move on), an empty okonomiyaki shop (empty shop= cause for culinary caution) , an incredibly expensive Japanese restaurant and finally backtracked to a small, brightly lit, fairly generic donburi and katsu shop.

Donburi are rice bowls with meat and other toppings. Katsu are crispy fried pork or chicken cutlets. At this particular spot, you peruse the menu, which was full of various "sets", meaning main dishes plus rice, miso soup, pickles and salad. Once you've made your decision, you go to a machine on the wall, push a button under the picture of your desired food, and feed money into the appropriate money slots. A ticket pops out. Waiters then come by, pick up your ticket, and a few minutes later come out with trays of food.

The food was not gourmet, but it was hot, fresh and plentiful. Nearly every table was full. And after earning a few curious glances at first from our fellow diners, we were in due time happily ignored. Which was dandy with us.

After finishing our meals, we wandered back up the street towards the bus stop. Just before reaching the main street, however, we came to a cement lined river cutting just below and to one side of the main road. Cobblestone walkways and patches of green grass and trees lined the river. Bridges, both decorative and functional arched overhead. And all along the river for perhaps 2 miles or more, there were Tanabata decorations and displays.

The cobblestone walkways were incredibly crowded. Between the heat and the press of the crowds, our teenage Tanabata explorers quickly became grumpy, no doubt missing the relative free range of movement and air conditioned comfort of our modest dwelling. We persevered, leading them along the wandering paths.

Tall bamboo branches, decorated with shining foil cutouts, tinkling metal bells and tightly tied Tanabata paper wishes, created forests that swam and waved above us.

These gave way to projected silhouette pictures, lit from behind and projected on the stone walls lining the river. After these were displays of intricately woven bamboo sculptures, some lit from within, other draped with silky fabric.

Along side us, in the dark shallow water, hundreds of glowing blue plastic balls floated like oversized bubbles.

We eventually came to a long tunnel of woven and arched bamboo. All along it's length of 100 feet or more were thousands of tiny lights. A brighter wide trail of lights cut a path along the top of the arch (this, I interpreted as the Milky Way). On one side of the wide path was a constellation, the connecting lines glowing blue and green (Orihime). On the other side of the wide path was another constellation, lines lit with reds (Hikoboshi). People were pressed tightly against us, their arms raised into the air with digital cameras and cell phones, some of them holding up curious small children, straining to see what all the fuss was about.

And then the pack of bodies loosened. We walked past the last display tables of Tanabata flyers, the last tents selling chips, soda and beer. We sweated our way up some side stairs and up onto a bridge, where we hung our sweating bodies over, our attention caught temporarily by a young cat, comfortably watching the fuss below him from below a bush.

The grumbling of our teenagers had given way to sweaty and rather sullen cooperation. Bob hailed a taxi, which dutifully took us to the edge of our tiny street.

And now, as we settle back into our air conditioning, resting our tired feet, I can't help but hope that Orihime and Hikoboshi had a sweet reunion, before retreating to their opposite sides of the Milky Way, apart for another year.