Long ago, a great adventure awaited anyone spirited enough to walk from Edo (now Tokyo) to the Japanese imperial capital of Kyoto by way of the Tōkaidō Road. Tourists and pilgrims who made this 300-mile trek encountered happy things and melancholy things, surprising things and annoying things, strange things and dangerous things.

As a rule I don’t seek out extreme tourism, but I’ll break that rule if the guide is Japanese artist Andō Hiroshige. Leafing through his 19th-century masterpiece, Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō, is like taking a road trip on one of the most famous routes in history.

Volumes have already been written about the beauty of these ukiyo-e woodblock prints and the shenanigans of the men who pursued the great road’s naughty pleasures. So I’m focusing instead on the women who dared to make this journey — all of the women, not only the courtesans.

A little history….plus a handy map of the Tōkaidō Road stations

In 1601 the Japanese government set up 53 transportation offices to aid travelers along this popular coastal route. Soon rustic inns, beer taverns, tea houses, and food stalls sprang up within a stone’s throw of every way station.

At periodic checkpoints, guards turned away anyone lacking the proper credentials. You won’t be surprised to learn that more women than men suffered the indignities of a physical examination.

Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō begins in the Nihonbashi mercantile district of Edo, the artist’s hometown. In Hiroshige’s day, whole sections of the city were cordoned off from each other by heavy wooden gates called kido that were closed at night and not reopened until four o’clock in the morning.

As soon as the gates opened, early-bird travelers left Edo and walked south to Shinagawa, where they hoped to see the first rays of morning sunlight streak across the horizon.

In Hiroshige’s Shinagawa print, three waitresses in a gaily decorated tea stall watch as a feudal warlord and his powerfully built samurai march through the village. Across the street, several local farmers tease the young ladies. In the shadow of a doorway, an anonymous man quietly observes the procession.

Government officials rarely stopped in Shinagawa because this way station was too soon on their journey to take a break.

Just down the road in Kanagawa, two waitresses try to pull travelers into an upscale tea house with a breezy balcony that offers a gorgeous view of the seashore. A child stops and stares at the women’s aggressive behavior.

Travelers who left Edo at dawn usually looked for overnight lodging in Totsuka, some twenty-five miles from the city.

In Totsuka: Fork in the Road, a guest catches his foot in a stirrup and nearly falls off his horse and into the arms of a young woman — to the chagrin of his female companion and the amusement of a stranger on the bridge. I must say, it can be difficult to discern travelers from workers in Hiroshige’s prints because all his figures display the same loving attention to detail.

Vertical boards hanging from the eaves of the inn display the names of this evening’s lodgers, many of whom will gather after dark to share stories and drink cups of warmed saké.

Even at sunrise, the bleak stretch of road near Hara may have been a little frightening for women, most of whom traveled on foot because wheeled carts were almost nonexistent in Japan.

In Hara, two women turn to consult their porter. Behind them, Mount Fuji dominates the stark landscape. This active volcano was venerated as a female deity centuries ago. Men who reached the summit believed they were reborn and could finally find happiness.

In Hiroshige’s painting, Mount Fuji rises so high — both literally and lyrically — it pierces the picture frame.

In its heydey the Tōkaidō Road was one of the most well-built arteries in the world. It was laid deep with gravel and covered with sand, with water drainage on both sides. Steep mountain slopes were paved with stone.

Some of the larger rivers were left without bridges, a construction strategy designed to slow down enemy troops. To ford the Abe River between Fuchū and Mariko, women hired palanquin-bearing porters or piggybacked on the porters themselves.

After they crossed the river, everyone stopped at the Mariko Tea House for an unusual yam soup made famous in this haiku by the Japanese poet Basho:

Young leaves of plum

and at the Mariko way station

a broth of grated yams

The soup, called tororojiru, is advertised on the tall sign leaning against the Mariko Tea House. A pair of sparrows twitter away on the roof, while a baby naps peacefully on the back of a woman who, I just learned, is the great, great, great grandmother of the current owner of the restaurant.

About 130 miles west of Edo, the Tōkaidō Road ascends steeply into the Sayo Mountains. In Nissaka: Sayo no Nakayama, five travelers stop to reflect upon The Night Weeping Stone, the lone witness to a terrible crime. Even the samurai who has gone on ahead stops and looks back at the boulder.

According to legend, mountain bandits murdered a pregnant woman on this spot and her blood splattered on the rock. A passing priest heard the stone’s cries for help and ran to deliver the dead woman’s unborn child.

It is said the stone weeps every night for the young mother and her infant son, who grew up and avenged his mother’s death.

In Kakegawa, the danger comes from natural elements. A strong wind buffets an older man and woman who struggle to cross a dirt-covered trestle bridge. The wind snatches a child’s kite and carries it out over the wetlands, toward a famous shrine at Mount Akiba.

In Futakawa, three women use walking sticks to climb up a hill to buy an afternoon cup of tea. Each of the traveling musicians carries a samisen, a three-stringed lute plucked with a bachi.

Behind them, the odd landscape of open scrub and stunted trees is known as The Monkey Plateau. Hiroshige captures its strangeness by using an almost abstract technique comprised of ghostly grays and a blue-green wash.

All of the Tōkaidō prints were painted using up to twenty ink colors. Each color in the process required its own block of intricately carved wood.

In nearby Akasaka the adventure is indoors. The man on the left is returning from a bath. A samurai, with his trademark shaved crown and pigtail, relaxes after a long day. The lady of the house presents him with two identical dinner trays. Is he expecting company?

In another suite, two courtesans apply thick white makeup. The tall stack of bedding rolls in the cupboard behind them will probably be part of tonight’s entertainment.

In the 1800s, the Japanese government restricted each inn to no more than two courtesans, to maintain some kind of control over public morals. The young women wore toxic lead makeup, and it’s my forlorn duty to report that many of them died before they reached the age of twenty.

Eighty miles up the road in Tsuchiyama, where the Tōkaidō crosses the Yasu River, travelers are getting drenched by a torrential spring rain.

Hiroshige was one of the first Japanese artists to portray inclement weather. He originally used white ink to depict the falling rain in Tsuchiyama, then changed his mind. He decided white lines create the impression of a soft summer shower, not a heavy spring downpour.

On an autumn afternoon in Minakuchi, one woman slices a calabash gourd while two other women hang gourd shavings to dry. The shavings, called kanpyō, are boiled to soften and then boiled a second time with soy sauce and sugar, before being added to sushi rolls.

Tourists flock year-round to Ōtsu, a pleasant town located on Japan’s largest lake, nine miles east of Kyoto. At this folk art gallery, a woman finishes rolling up a souvenir purchased by a samurai. Inside the shop, the large painting on display is Oni no Nembutsu (“A Demon Praying”), a hugely popular image of a goblin who quiets crying babies.

Across the street, a woman tries to quiet the village idiot.

The emotional conclusion

The 300-mile journey comes to an end when travelers and pilgrims cross the Great Sanjō Bridge and see Kyoto’s magnificent palaces and temples for the first time.

As a memento of the trip, Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō became a national bestseller and deservedly so. Hiroshige is at his best when he’s painting a landscape, although he rarely portrays the landscape alone. He populates the scenery with entirely human figures who draw us into the scene without strongly asserting their presence. They are good company, and good company makes a long journey seem shorter.

Epilogue

In 1922 a complete album of the 55 Tōkaidō Road prints (53 way stations plus the Edo and Kyoto prints) was presented as a gift to Albert Einstein when he visited Japan on a lecture tour.

Einstein liked Japanese women — actually, he liked the women pretty much everywhere he went — although he was tight-lipped about what he saw in them.

“On the exquisiteness of the Japanese woman, I have remained reticent,” replied the physicist, “for here the common mortal must cede the word to the poet.”

Jerry Adler, “Smithsonian Magazine,” 2018

Postscript: If you happen to be in Montreal…

Dreamscapes by Andō Hiroshige — featuring a complete set of the Tōkaidō Road prints — is on view at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts thru September 8, 2024. Click on the link for details.