“The key is to be in the right state of mind," declared Inoue Yachiyo V to a hall of young women gathered at the Yasaka Club in Gion. "Spirit and attitude will be vital," she emphasised, speaking to the district's 90 Geiko and Maiko as they prepared for the first Miyako Odori performance after the COVID-19 pandemic. The event carried an unusual weight for organisers and participants. After two years of cancellations, Gion's renowned spring dance was set to feature a larger-than-usual number of debut performers.
For some aspiring Geiko (芸妓)—Kyoto's term for Geisha (芸者)—the psychological toll of waiting in uncertainty during the pandemic had proven too great. Far from their homes, they faced the prospect of a career that might never begin. Many chose to abandon the profession. Those who remained struggled with anxiety over their lack of practice. Even their immediate seniors, who would typically offer a stabilising presence, were uncertain if they had the experience to support their juniors adequately.
Inoue, the fifth-generation head of the Inoue School of Kyōmai, is well qualified to speak on mindset. As a Living National Treasure, she represents the discipline the Kyōmai (京舞) dance form requires. It demands a perpetually low centre of gravity, necessitating physical endurance and exceptional self-control. In Gion, Geiko must master this art during their formative years as a Maiko (舞妓), a trainee Geiko.
Beyond mastering dance, a Maiko must develop expertise in various disciplines. These include the tea ceremony, proficiency in at least three musical instruments, vocal performance, and the intricate application of specialised makeup and hair. Geiko, however, cannot follow the example of Ashikaga Yoshimasa, retreating from public life to pursue the arts. Instead, they must also cultivate exceptional conversational abilities and impeccable etiquette.
Conversation is often overlooked as a skill set that needs to be developed actively. Yet, it is vital for Geiko, who perform routinely at o-chaya (お茶屋, tea houses) during ozashiki (お座敷, banquet performances). These venues primarily cater to wealthy, high-powered patrons who are willing to pay a premium for an evening of refined entertainment. Access is restricted and typically requires prior introductions. High expectations in these settings underline the importance of a Geiko's ability to captivate and engage her audience through both performance and conversation.
During the evening, she is prohibited from eating but is often expected to drink alcohol to socialise and please the guests. Geiko balance alcohol's effects with their technical work while maintaining their manners. Adding to the challenges is the takamakura (高枕)—a hard, elevated headrest used to preserve their elaborate hairstyles—undoubtedly a hindrance to quality sleep. Yet, despite the compounding toll of such a lifestyle, Geiko carefully manage their weight and skin, maintaining a flawless appearance.
More than a motivational speech from an elder may be necessary to cultivate the right state of mind for all this. Fortunately, the robust hierarchy of the Geiko system provides that support. The journey begins when a young woman, often in her late teens, arrives at the okiya (置屋, lodging house). The okiya becomes both her home and her place of training. There, she is mentored by an experienced proprietress, the okā-san (お母さん, "mother"), who oversees her development.
An aspiring Geiko begins her journey as a shikomi (仕込み), a trainee who is adopted into a disciplined, communal lifestyle. Her responsibilities include household chores, assisting the Geiko and Maiko, and attending lessons in the arts. Over several months to a year, the shikomi must memorise the intricate customs and rules that govern the Geiko world. This phase involves intense observation and learning, during which the okā-san evaluates her resilience and dedication.
Upon demonstrating sufficient discipline and readiness, the shikomi advances to the minarai (見習い) stage. This intermediate phase, lasting several weeks to a few months, allows her to observe and learn directly from her seniors during ozashiki performances. The culmination of this training is the misedashi (店出し) ceremony, marking her formal debut as a maiko and her official introduction to the geiko community.
The new Maiko begins a demanding five-year training period. At some stage in this intensive journey, she starts mentoring a new shikomi, sharing insights from her own recent experiences. Simultaneously, the Maiko is paired with a fully fledged Geiko, known as her onē-san (お姉さん, "elder sister"), who offers guidance throughout her development.
The hierarchy is carefully constructed, ensuring that each person in the system is supported by someone just ahead of them while also being responsible for guiding someone just behind. Modern theories, such as mentorship models and distributed leadership, describe such systems as enabling resilience, mutual growth, and skill development through reciprocal guidance. Yet, the Geiko world has been practising this for centuries, building a durable chain of mutual support even as the challenges of sustaining their traditions grow.
Nationwide, the number of Geisha has plummeted from approximately 80,000 in the 1920s to fewer than 1,000 today—Gion alone once held over 1,000. I watched a reflective NHK interview with Ōta Kimi, the 8th-generation successor of Tomiya, one of Gion's approximately 60 remaining o-chaya. She shares her thoughts in the back of a taxi passing by Hanamikoji-dōri, Gion's main street. One moment stood out: "Seeing young girls here, I think, of the places available to you, thank you for choosing Gion."
Considering all this, the path of a Geiko is exceedingly tough. The question stands: who would choose to become one today, and why? This query guided my conversation with a Maiko-san in the early stages of her career. I met her on the terrace of a teahouse converted into a bar last autumn. She described seeing a television show about Geisha when she was younger and instantly falling in love with the visual. I've watched my share of geisha television documentaries too. These often centre around a young trainee with a recurrent story: they once caught a glimpse of a Geisha, either on the streets of Kyoto or via some form of media, and became captivated.
The work begins from this pivotal moment, well before becoming a shikomi. The first challenge is persuading perplexed family members to support the decision to forgo college—or even high school—in favour of an uncertain route that disconnects them from home. It often entails moving across the country to join an industry that remains somewhat opaque to many Japanese civilians and is still clouded by perceptions of inappropriate expectations or questionable practices from the past.
Perhaps only an artistic soul, truly enraptured by beauty and aesthetics, would undertake such a path and embrace its accompanying rigour and hardships as a lifelong calling. I see an element of the Renaissance woman in them, combining intense resolve with a broad repertoire of life skills and artistic abilities. Ōta Kimi may be right in her gratitude: new shikomi are the profession's future, but the challenges laid out by tradition will not ease for them.
In the same interview, Ōta expresses a longing for the o-chaya that once lined Hanamikoji-dōri, many of which have now become restaurants. As traditional Gion culture wanes under social, economic, and cultural change, o-chaya have had to evolve. Across Japan's hanamachi (花街)—traditional geisha quarters—many have closed entirely, while others have reshaped their spaces to meet the demands of the modern era.
Some o-chaya are repurposed for other uses or vanish entirely, but a common adaptation is their transformation into ryōtei (料亭)—upscale traditional Japanese restaurants that typically specialise in kaiseki (懐石), a multi-course haute cuisine experience. These establishments carry forward the tradition of exclusive dining in an atmosphere of refinement, naturally extending the legacy of the o-chaya. At the same time, they contribute to preserving Japanese culinary arts and hospitality, appealing to the same affluent clientele.
Ryōtei have adapted to modern customers' evolving tastes, attracting an increasingly wider audience, including tourists in search of authentic cultural encounters. Yet, dining at one remains a nuanced affair. Many establishments are Michelin-starred, with reservations challenging to secure. Language barriers, cultural subtleties, and premium pricing further add to the complexity of the experience.
Wandering into the city's historic districts at night in pursuit of this lofty experience grows harder still. Imagine a narrow Kyoto alley, its wet stone path shimmering under the reddish-orange glow of lanterns. Their light spills onto the wooden façades of traditional machiya townhouses, casting gentle shadows. Noren curtains sway lightly in the night breeze, shielding the sliding doors.
The red and white paper shades, slightly shorter and rounder than those seen elsewhere in Japan, evoke Kyoto's legacy as the imperial capital. Adorned with motifs or the distinctive crests of teahouses, they seem to offer an invitation. You linger outside, summoning the resolve to step beneath the curtain and cross the threshold. At last, you slide open the door when the shuffle of a kimono-clad proprietress echoes in the genkan. She approaches swiftly, crosses her arms, and bows deeply before apologetically delivering her verdict: "Members only." Indeed, it is a kaiinsei (会員制) establishment.
The term kaiinsei, or "membership system," can be broken down as follows: 会 (kai, meeting or gathering) evokes an intimate circle; 員 (in, member) identifies those within it; and 制 (sei, system or regulation) establishes the structure that enforces its boundaries. Together, these characters represent a world of curated access, where entry is a privilege and a mark of trust.
Applied to dining, kaiinsei suggests a form of refined hospitality that transcends the meal, offering an experience shaped by privacy and personalisation. Historically, like o-chaya, members-only restaurants catered to a privileged few—business magnates, political figures, and cultural elites. While the practice existed earlier, the rise of kaiinsei dining became particularly pronounced during Japan's economic boom in the glittering 1980s, when membership became a coveted status symbol.
Consider the Kyoto restaurant "Q," a six-seat chef's table in a hotel in the Mibu area of Nakagyō ward. The hotel comprises a group of renovated machiya from the Meiji period, with the restaurant concealed within one of these historic buildings. Its presence is so understated that even the hotel's guests remain unaware of its existence. Access is by invitation only and is limited to those personally introduced through its network.
Kaiinsei systems extend beyond teahouses and dining. In the Fushimi district, away from the main tourist attractions of Gion, lies the nightclub Maroon, on the basement floor of a nondescript zakkyo building. Since 1980, Maroon has been in the luxury hideaway business. Guided by a strict dress code mandating jackets, ties, and impeccable decorum, patrons—including politicians and business leaders—are welcomed into a world steeped in old-school values and discretion. Hostesses serve drinks, engage in conversation, and perform karaoke. It is a modern evolution that invites speculation on its parallels with the traditional o-chaya concept.
A sole proprietor often lies at the heart of many a kaiinsei establishment, their discretion and policies ultimately deciding who gains entry. During my last trip to Kyoto, I had a brush with this discernment. Without a dinner reservation, I wandered the Tominagachō area looking for a walk-in table—an unfavourable position at 8:30 pm on a Friday. Just as I was about to abandon the effort and settle for ramen, a woman appeared from an extremely narrow side alley. She was bidding a customer good night and remained at the alleyway's entrance, waiting until he disappeared entirely from view.
I took my chance as she began to retreat down the alleyway toward the small door at its far end. Politely, I asked if a table was possible despite not having a reservation. She paused, assessing me for a moment, then asked me to wait outside. A few minutes later, she returned and granted me a seat at the far end of a six-person counter. However, she laid out the conditions: this was typically a members-only establishment, the seating charge was non-negotiable, everything was conducted entirely in Japanese, no one spoke English, and there were no formal menus or visible prices. Naturally, I delight in these scenarios.
The matron had been consulting her husband. The establishment revealed itself as a family-run variation of kaiinsei, where members were treated more like friends. Regulars dropped in and out, engaging in easy conversation with the husband-and-wife proprietors behind the counter. Some would ask about the day's recommendations, while others shared only their mood, awaiting a tailored omakase experience. The owners explained that the kaiinsei refusal is frequently given, especially in Kyoto, often out of concern over potential communication difficulties with non-Japanese speakers.
I can appreciate this predicament. Many negative Google reviews for small bars and restaurants in Japan stem from tourists frustrated by unclear seating charges or the lack of a priced menu or itemised bill. Yet, these practices are standard in such establishments. The potential for cultural misunderstandings is evident—visitors may interpret the seating charge as a hidden fee. From a local perspective, however, it is expected and needs no further explanation.
That night, I ended my evening with a nightcap in Ponto-chō, one of Kyoto's five hanamachi. While Gion Kobu, the more significant portion of Gion, is the most famous, geiko culture persists in other neighbourhoods. South of Gion, Miyagawachō stretches along the Kamogawa, known for its historic theatres. To the north, Kamishichiken—the oldest hanamachi in the city—offers a retreat near Kitano Tenmangū Shrine. Smaller and more intimate than its neighbour Gion Kobu, Gion Higashi preserves tradition on a quieter scale.
Ponto-chō lies between the Kamogawa and the picturesque north-south axis of Kiyamachi-dōri. Its entrance, a narrow opening at the foot of Shijō Bridge, is marked by a small stone and made unmistakable at night by lanterns that beckon a steady flow of visitors. One theory behind the name Ponto-chō (先斗町) traces its origin to the Portuguese word ponto, meaning "point" or "bridge," reflecting Kyoto's historical ties with foreign merchants. The lanterns lining the alley are especially striking, each adorned with the area's emblem, the Kamogawa chidori (千鳥, plover). The bird motif pays homage to the small plovers that once flourished along the Kamogawa.
The main alleyway stretches 500 metres. Over three centuries ago, its land was reclaimed from the Kamogawa River to create a hub for teahouses and o-chaya. Today, it retains a blend of traditional and contemporary hospitality, lined with classic establishments, upscale restaurants, and an increasing number of whiskey and cocktail bars with a more youthful feel. Many of the venues facing the Kamogawa, feature noryo-yuka (納涼床)—seasonal wooden terraces extending over the river.
Ponto-chō draws heavy footfall, though it becomes noticeably calmer after the dinner rush. Along the main stretch near the bridge, few places are off-limits, with many actively advertising foreign language menus and multilingual staff. While these venues may sacrifice some mystique for accessibility, after an evening of relatively high-stakes dining, I was happy to walk into whichever spot caught my eye, free from any process or ritual.
On the other hand, narrow alleyways and makeshift passageways, tangled with piping, extractor fans, and power cables, occasionally branch off from the main path. The establishments at their ends retain an air of exclusivity. I'm often surprised by how few people venture down these nooks. Stepping away from the well-trodden route offers a welcome sense of respite and discovery, even in what has become a central attraction.
A handful of o-chaya still operate in Ponto-chō, meaning you might occasionally glimpse some of the city's Geiko or Maiko on their way to an evening's work. Considering all we know about their rigorous schedules and training, I encourage restraint. Resist the urge to reach for your phone, leave your camera alone, and enjoy the fleeting view as they pass. At such moments, I often ask myself: who truly needs another image?
Across cloud servers and mobile devices worldwide, there are surely millions of blurry photos of Geiko—and countless more high-quality, professional images attempting to distil their aesthetic and allure. Yet, this very instant will never repeat itself. Choosing instead to pay full attention, mindfully committing the scene to memory, might just hold longer-lasting personal meaning than a photograph. It also respects privacy and means you are not contributing to any anxiety a Geiko might harbour about walking the crowded Ponto-chō.
Next week, we'll return to Tokyo, resuming our usual programming after three aesthetically pleasing weeks in Kyoto. If this is your first newsletter, I encourage you to revisit parts one and two to explore the city's urban layout and artistic foundations—the basis for this brief account of its nighttime activities.
At the close of last week's newsletter, I suggested that a Geisha might have the final word. Not quite. Instead, I'll leave you with the poignant words of o-chaya proprietor Ōta Kimi. It is a sentiment I find relatable. She tells the camera in her distinctive Kyoto dialect and with a sense of duty to the past: "I want Gion to last forever."
Until we meet in Kyoto,
AJ
Note
Each insight, story, and detail in this week's newsletter was hard-earned and carefully articulated for your reading experience. If you found it valuable, there are a few ways to support my work:
- Become a member to help sustain this project.
- Purchase Slow Tokyo: Exurban Exploring, my first eBook.
- Share the newsletter with someone who might like it.
And if you'd like to do 1 & 2, yearly members will receive the eBook as a complimentary perk.
From the depths of Tokyo's quietest suburb, thank you for reading.