Santiago Rei | The missing half

Earlier that day had been the Yamaboko Junko — the grand float procession, the heart of Gion Matsuri. It was more than just a festival—it had felt like a living memory, a thousand years of tradition rolling through Kyoto’s sunlit streets. For Santi, it had been a bridge to a father he barely knew.

He'd arrived in Kyoto just days ago, the jet lag still a faint pulse beneath his skin. Everything felt both foreign and familiar: the clean lines of machiya houses, the quiet hum of cicadas, the scent of incense and grilled dango drifting from small stalls. He had walked the streets alone, clutching the old photos of his dad, trying to trace the path that had once been his father’s.

The day before, he’d nearly walked into a torii gate with his hat on; a small, unthinking mistake. An older woman near the shrine had gently reminded him to remove it, bowing slightly. Santi had bowed back, overdoing it just a little. He felt awkward, but her smile had been kind. It was easy to mess things up here, but people seemed to appreciate when he tried. He tucked the moment away, one more quiet lesson in learning how to belong somewhere you’ve never been. Though there’s no rule against it, he still wanted to respect and learn as much as he could.

Santi’s Japanese wasn’t fluent. He understood enough to catch bits of conversation and the rhythm of the festival chants, but reading the intricate kanji on signs and pamphlets was another matter entirely. So, he’d relied on his phone’s translation app and the kindness of strangers. Tonight was no different.

The Yamaboko floats — colossal, ornate, and painstakingly decorated with tapestries and carved wood — loomed ahead, each one named after a neighborhood. Santi’s favorite was the Naginata Hoko, the spear-shaped float towering above the crowd. Its towering bamboo poles swayed gently, paper lanterns flickering to life as dusk deepened.

Santi pulled out his notebook, sketching the silhouette of the hoko againsst the blue sky. The air buzzed with excitement and reverence; this was no ordinary parade. It was a ritual to honor Yasaka Shrine’s deities, to ward off disease and disaster, a community’s collective prayer carried on wooden wheels.

The mikoshi togyo would come later in the month — a nighttime procession where locals carried the shrine’s sacred palanquins through the streets with rhythmic chants and unshakable energy. Santi had read about it in one of the travel guides stuffed in his bag, and he was already hoping to still be in Kyoto to see it in person. For now, he let himself be fully present in this moment, watching the grand floats disappear down the avenue like moving monuments.

The day before when the night deepened, lanterns multiplied, illuminating the narrow alleys with a warm glow. Santi wandered away from the thick crowd, down a quieter lane where the festival's hum softened into whispers. Paper lanterns dangled overhead, and the smell of yaki-imo (roasted sweet potatoes) teased his senses.

He found a quiet spot near the Shijo-Kawaramachi intersection, a crossroads packed with locals and tourists alike. Vendors called out, selling yakitori, takoyaki, and frozen mikan. The festival’s traditional music floated through the air: the taiko drums booming with steady pulse, flutes weaving airy melodies, and the occasional shout from groups nearby.

His phone’s battery was low; the map app had stopped loading. The maze of streets felt more daunting now. He wanted to see everything and found himself wandering without direction, overwhelmed but fascinated by it all. Santi stopped, looking around at the softly lit alleyway lined with wooden houses and small shops shuttered for the evening. A gentle breeze stirred the lanterns above, making them sway like fireflies caught in silk. He had no idea where he was.

He sighed and tried a phrase he’d practiced: “Sumimasen, doko desu ka? Yamaboko junko wa doko desu ka?” ("Excuse me, where is the float procession?") He tried to ask the few people he saw as he walked down one of the smaller streetways.

No answer. The few passersby either shook their heads or kept walking. Santi didn’t take it to heart; his pronunciation was probably not the best and he didn’t even know if that was the correct phrases.

Just then, he spotted someone nearby. They looked more confident in these winding streets. He stepped forward carefully, offering a small bow out of habit more than confidence.

“Sumimasen...konbanwa,”’ he said softly with a polite excuse-me, followed by a hesitant “good evening.”

Then a pause. He glanced away briefly, then back at them, eyes hopeful but cautious.

“Um...sorry. Do you know how to get to the main street? Where the floats are?”

A small laugh escaped him, more nervous than amused. “I think I turned down the wrong alley like... four alleys ago.”

He adjusted the strap on his bag, shifting the weight across his shoulder, trying not to look too much like the lost tourist he absolutely was.