I step off from the MK, and it coasts away with a stillness beneath the audible hum of the busy station, to meet my aunt and uncle, who are weary but exhilarated from two weeks of whirlwind travel under a family friend’s itinerary, packed tighter than a salaryman’s briefcase. Now, finally, they could slow down and take in Japan at a different pace—my pace. A close friend who had joined them earlier had already flown back to the States, leaving us just in time for our own changing of the guard. It's November of an election year. We embrace, then begin the tranquil trek toward Kamakura’s most famous monument: the Great Buddha of Kōtoku-in.
One of only two colossal bronze Buddha statues in Japan, Kamakura’s Daibutsu was cast in 1252 during the Kamakura period. Originally housed inside a temple hall, the statue has stood exposed to the elements since the 15th century, after a series of typhoons and earthquakes wiped out its shelter. And yet, it remains—serene, unmoved, welcoming all who approach with an unspoken promise of timelessness.
Midway through our pilgrimage, we make an unexpected but welcomed stop at La Nostalgia, a small Argentinian eatery known for its golden, flaky empanadas—a delightful departure from the usual tourist fare of bubble tea and skewered street snacks. Biting into the crisp shell, I am momentarily transported—not just to the Pampas, where gauchos once roamed, but to the labyrinthine prose of Borges, where reality and fiction blur. The empanada is no mere snack; it is a vessel of history, perfected in a land of poets and cattlemen, now finding its place among Kamakura’s ancient shrines. The shop’s owner, an Argentine expatriate, smiles as she hands over our order, her sleepy-eyed child tugging at her dress. Kamakura, despite its historic veneer, is a crossroads of cultures.
We continue our walk, hands clasped behind our backs in quiet contemplation. My aunt, uncle, and I—all from Long Island—trade observations, likening Kamakura to a spiritual counterpart of our suburban home, while my wife, originally from Kagawa, offers her own perspective. If Tokyo is Manhattan, then Kanagawa is “Lawn Guyland,” but with a weight of history that the commuter belt back home could never muster. The temples here carry a gravity missing from the haunted Catholic churches of our youth, where faith felt more like an obligation than an awakening. Where our memories are punctuated by military facilities and the rhythmic lull of the LIRR, Kamakura moves at the pace of an old priest on his morning rounds—unhurried, reverent, steeped in stories yet untold.
As we near the Great Buddha, the air thickens with the murmurs of tourists. A line of schoolchildren snakes through the crowd with practiced ease, their matching yellow hats bobbing in unison. To my right, an aging photo catches my eye—a snapshot of former U.S. President Barack Obama, mid-bite into a hot dog during his visit. He looks impossibly young, a whole lifetime and an Occupy Wall Street ago. Around us, selfie sticks punctuate the air as a medley of languages rises above the hum of the city—Southeast Asian dialects, European accents, and the clipped tones of Mandarin-speaking visitors, all shaded under precisely chosen sun hats.
The Great Buddha is striking, but the real surprise comes when we’re invited inside. Hollowed out, the interior is stifling, the air thick with the collective body heat of visitors squeezing through the narrow space. The chamber, built for a smaller medieval audience, now struggles to contain the influx of modern-day travelers of all body types. It’s a tight fit but a worthwhile detour—after all, how often do you get to step inside an icon?
Having taken the obligatory photos, we decide to dodge the crowds and summon the MK. Our ride materializes on cue, sleek and effortless. The driver, a seasoned local, recommends the perfect sunset spot, and soon we are en route to Ninai, a seaside haven ideal for unwinding at the golden hour.
With the sky painted in hues of ember and lavender, my uncle, my aunt, and I crack open cold beers while my wife sips on a soft drink, the waves lapping at the shore in rhythmic applause. A flock of birds, reminiscent of the seagulls at Jones Beach, takes flight—a scene straight out of an 80s music video, their kaw-kaws slicing through the air like a synth-laden guitar riff. We dip our feet into an outdoor onsen bath, the natural heat seeping into travel-worn muscles. "Now this," my uncle proclaims, "is what it’s all about."
A glass of crisp white wine sits on the table, its mineral notes blending with the salty sea breeze. The sun, a fiery orb of perfection, makes its slow descent over the Pacific—a sunset in the Land of the Rising Sun.
Before leaving, we indulge in Ninai’s unexpected specialty: Pad Thai—a dish so remarkable it warrants its own footnote. Hours melt away in our private corner, where the panoramic view keeps us spellbound. As if on cue, the MK hums into the parking lot, ready to whisk us back to the station. Another perfectly chill day in Kamakura, seamlessly executed, wrapped in the luxury of good company and effortless transport. No rigid schedule was needed—just time to take it all in, slowly and mindfully. The question isn’t how far you go, but how much you let in.
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