Kyoto in Small Moments: Amy Sato

I’ve lived in Kyoto for 30 years. Long enough that it’s not somewhere I “visit” anymore. It’s the place I’ve grown up as an adult. The place I’ve carried good weeks and bad weeks.

When I need to feel steady again, I go to temples and shrines. I don’t go for the perfect photo or the “Kyoto moment”. I go because the quiet there does something to me.

I put my hands together and I pray for good fortune. And I know that sounds big, but for me it’s not. It’s almost embarrassingly simple.

I pray for my family’s health. I pray for the people I love to be okay. I pray for the kind of peace you don’t notice until you’re lying awake at 2am and you can’t remember the last time you felt it.

There are two places I return to more than anywhere else: Kiyomizudera and Fushimi Inari. They’re famous, yes. But the reason I keep going back is because they don’t ask anything from you. You can show up tired, distracted, holding too much in your chest, and they just… hold you anyway. The same steps. The same air. The same rhythm. Like the city is saying, “I’m here. Breathe.”

When I bring guests, I don’t rush them to the big view. I slow us down before we get there. I like to stop in the in-between spaces: the corner where voices drop without anyone being told to whisper, the spot where you hear footsteps and wind and not much else.

And then you see it. People change right in front of you.

Someone who’s been chatting the whole time goes quiet. Someone reaches for their phone and then puts it back in their pocket. A face softens. A breath comes out deeper than it went in.

Sometimes a guest will turn to me and say, almost surprised, “I didn’t realise how much I needed this.”

And every time, it hits me in the same place. Because I know that feeling. I’ve come here for that exact reason more times than I can count. Kyoto has a way of reminding you, gently, what matters. Not the dramatic kind of luck. Just the ordinary kind. The kind that means everyone you love makes it home.

At Fushimi Inari, there’s a small scene I’ve watched for years that always reminds me Kyoto’s traditions are alive, not staged. We’re walking under the gates and you hear it before you see it: a bell, a coin dropped into an offering box, the soft clap of hands. Someone stops at the edge of a shrine, bows, makes a wish that’s too private to share, then keeps walking. No audience. No performance. Just something folded into the morning.

What moves me is how normal it is. I’ve seen people do it on the way to work, in school uniforms, with grocery bags in hand. I’ve seen elderly couples do it side by side without speaking. I’ve seen parents guide their children through the gesture, gently, like teaching them how to enter a room with respect. Nobody is trying to prove anything. They’re just keeping a rhythm.

There’s a quiet kind of care that shows up around those places. Someone steps aside to give you space. Someone points the way when you look lost. On rainy days, people share the dry edge under the eaves without making it a big deal. It’s not loud hospitality. It’s simple, and it adds up.

Kyoto has taught me that faith doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like a small pause, a simple prayer, and then continuing on, lighter. That’s why these places feel personal to me. They’re not only beautiful. They’re part of how people here move through the day.

Food is the other way I share Kyoto, especially with vegetarian guests. One dish I love recommending is shojin ryori, traditional Buddhist cooking made without meat or fish, built around seasonal vegetables and mountain plants.

It comes as many small dishes, each one considered, and together they carry all five tastes: sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and umami. The season shows up on the plate too, with cooling cucumber in summer and comforting root vegetables in winter. It’s beautiful to look at, but what I love most is the feeling behind it. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is careless.

My favorite part isn’t explaining what’s in it. It’s watching what happens at the table.

I remember one guest who’d been chatting the whole walk there, telling me about their trip and what they still wanted to see. Then they took their first bite and went quiet. Not awkwardly. More like something clicked. After a moment, they looked up and said, almost surprised, “I didn’t know vegetarian food could taste this good.”

They started eating more slowly after that. Not to be polite. To pay attention. They’d take a bite, pause, and then look at the next dish like it deserved its own moment. Watching that shift always makes me happy, because it’s not really about food. It’s about noticing. Kyoto does that to people when you let it.

That’s why I love sharing my city. I fell in love with Kyoto’s timeless beauty, yes, but what I love even more is how gentle it can be when you stop trying to push through it. A quiet prayer for good fortune. A path where rituals are still part of the morning. A meal that tastes like care.

For me, that is Kyoto.