Centuries ago, an adventure was in store for any woman who walked from Edo (now Tokyo) to the Japanese imperial capital of Kyoto along the Tōkaidō Road. Each traveler on this 300-mile trek encountered happy things and melancholy 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 Utagawa Hiroshige. Exploring his ukiyo-e series The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō feels like embarking on a road trip through one of history’s most storied routes.
Volumes have been written about the beauty of Hiroshige’s woodblock prints and the men who indulged in the Tōkaidō’s seedier pleasures. So I’m focusing on the women—all of them, not just the courtesans.
First, a little history and a handy map
In 1601 the Japanese government created a network of 53 way stations to aid travelers along the Tōkaidō Road. Before long, each way station was surrounded by taverns, tea houses, food stands, and rustic inns.
At regular intervals along this popular coastal route, officials turned away anyone who lacked the proper credentials. As you would expect, women were subjected to a physical examination far more often than men.
The series begins in Edo, the artist’s birthplace, and moves westward. From the complete set of prints, I’m focusing on thirteen that depict women one might have encountered along the way.
Rise and shine
In Hiroshige’s day, huge wooden gates known as kido separated large sections of Edo. These gates opened at 4 a.m., allowing early-bird travelers to reach Shinagawa just as the first rays of morning light streaked across Tokyo Bay.
In the print Shinagawa Sunrise, travelers and workers wait patiently while a feudal warlord’s entourage makes its way through the village. At a nearby food stand, three waitresses strike a pose as muscular samurai walk by. Meanwhile, a man quietly observes the procession from the shadow of a doorway.
Further down the road in Kanagawa, the scene grows more lively. Two waitresses cajole travelers into a tea house that offers a breezy balcony with a superb view of the bay. Nearby, a child stops and stares at the women’s surprisingly aggressive behavior.
Time to unwind
Late in the afternoon, travelers begin looking for overnight lodging in Totsuka, located about twenty-five miles from Edo.
In the woodblock print Totsuka: Fork in the Road at Motomachi, a man catches his foot in a stirrup and tumbles from his horse. He narrowly avoids the arms of a pretty maid—much to the chagrin of his female companion and the bemusement of a bystander.
Boards hanging from the inn’s eaves announce the names of this evening’s guests. Most of these travelers will gather after dark to share stories over cups of warm saké.
At times, I find it challenging to distinguish workers from travelers in Hiroshige’s prints because he paints every figure with the same careful attention to detail.
Views of Mount Fuji
In the 1800s, wheeled carriages were almost non-existent in Japan. Because most women traveled on foot, the desolate stretch of road near Hara must have been a little frightening.
In the woodblock print Hara, two women pause to consult their porter. Behind them, Mount Fuji dominates the stark landscape, rising so high it pierces the picture frame. Long ago, this active volcano was worshipped as a female deity. Men who reached its summit believed they would undergo a spiritual rebirth and find true happiness.
In its heydey, the Tōkaidō Road was among the most sophisticated transportation arteries in the world. It was laid deep with gravel and covered with sand, with natural water drainage on both sides.
Several major rivers along the route were intentionally left bridge-free to slow down invading troops. To cross the Abe River at Fuchū, women had to engage palanquin-bearing porters or piggyback on the porters themselves.
Yam soup in Mariko
Following the Abe River crossing, women often paused at the Mariko Tea House for bowl of grated yam soup made famous by this haiku by the legendary Edo-period poet Matsuo Bashō:
Young leaves of plum
and at the Mariko way station
a broth of grated yams
In Hiroshige’s print Mariko Tea House, a tall freestanding sign advertises the yam soup known as tororo-jiru. While two sparrows twitter away on the roof, a baby naps on the back of a woman who, I just learned, is the great, great, great grandmother of the restaurant’s current owner.
Roughly 130 miles west of Edo, the Tōkaidō Road ascends steeply into the Sayo Mountains. In the print Nissaka: Sayo no Nakayama, five travelers stop to reflect on The Night Weeping Stone, the sole witness to a horrific crime. Even a samurai who has already passed by stops and looks back.
According to legend, mountain bandits murdered a pregnant woman on this very spot, staining the boulder with her blood. A traveling priest heard the stone’s supernatural cries for help and ran to deliver the dead woman’s unborn child.
They say the stone weeps every night for the young mother and her son, who eventually returned to the mountain and avenged her death.
In the print Kakegawa, it is Mother Nature—not mountain bandits—who poses the threat. An older woman struggles against a fierce wind as she crosses a trestle bridge. Meanwhile, a strong gust snatches a child’s kite, carrying it high above the wetlands toward Mount Akiba, a famous shrine wisely dedicated to the god of fire.
Hot tea in Futakawa
Before crossing the Toyo River, three traveling musicians stop for a cup of tea in Futakawa. Each woman is carrying a samisen, a three-stringed lute plucked with a bachi.
Behind them lies a unique landscape of open scrub and stunted trees known as The Monkey Plateau. To convey its eerie strangeness, Hiroshige uses an abstract printing technique comprised of ghostly grays and a subtle blue-green wash.
Typically, he uses up to twenty different colors to produce a single print on handmade paper. Each hue in this meticulous stamping process requires its own block of hand-carved wood.
Akasaka after dark
In Akasaka: Scene at an Inn, the man on the far left returns from a hot bath while, in the dining room, a samurai with the trademark shaved crown and pigtail relaxes on the floor. The lady of the house brings him two dinner trays. Is he expecting company?
On the far right, two courtesans meticulously apply their makeup. Behind them, a stack of red and blue bedding rolls hint at the evening’s upcoming entertainment.
At the time, the Japanese government restricted inns to no more than two courtesans—known as meshimori onna—to maintain a degree of control over public morals. The women wore thick face powder formulated with white lead which, it is my forlorn duty to report, caused many of them to die before reaching the age of twenty.
A beacon in the rain
Further up the road in Tsuchiyama, where the Tōkaidō crosses the Yasu River, a torrential spring rain drenches travelers as they head toward a way station hidden among a cluster of sugi trees.
One of the first Japanese artists to portray inclement weather, Hiroshige initially used white ink to depict the rain in Tsuchiyama, one of his finest prints. But he switched to black ink, feeling that white lines evoke the essence of a soft summer rain rather than a heavy spring downpour.
It is autumn in Minakuchi, where three women hang gourd shavings to dry while another slices a ripe calabash gourd. These shavings, known as kanpyō, are traditionally boiled with soy sauce and sugar before being tucked into sushi rolls.
Ten miles to the west lies Ōtsu, a high-traffic tourist hub situated on Japan’s largest lake. In Hiroshige’s print Ōtsu, a woman working at an art gallery gently rolls up a poster for a waiting samurai. Behind her hangs a painting of Oni no Nembutsu (A Demon Praying), a mystical goblin who calms crying babies.
Across the street, a woman tries to calm the village idiot.
Through her eyes
A woman’s 300-mile journey reaches its emotional conclusion as she crosses the Great Sanjō Bridge and sees Kyoto’s magnificent palaces and temples for the first time.
As a memento of the trip, a pocket edition of The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō became an immediate bestseller and deservedly so.
Hiroshige is at his finest when he’s painting a landscape, although he rarely depicts nature in isolation. Instead, he populates each landscape with everyday figures who draw us into their world without aggressively asserting their presence. His characters are good company—and good company makes a long journey seem shorter.
Epilogue
Hiroshige’s ukiyo-e prints were among the first in Japan to express the mingling of beauty and sadness that defines human life. When Albert Einstein visited Japan on a lecture tour in 1922, he was presented with a full-size volume of The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaias as a gift.
