Richardson and I were not tourists but refined tramps. We decided to religiously avoid the American and European hotels for two reasons--first, for economy, and second, for the interesting things we would see and learn. The man is fortunate who can get off without paying eight yen (four dollars) a day at the average Western hotel in an Oriental city, while around the corner at a Japanese inn it is possible to get a room and two meals for from one to three yen a day. There is not the same amount of comfort and luxury as is offered by the Occidental hotel, but there is a thousand times more interest.
The _Asia_ arrived in Tokyo Bay and the city of Yokohama loomed up before us. After a short customs examination, through which I managed to smuggle some American tobacco--for I had learned something of the inferior qualities of this commodity in Japan--we took a rickshaw each, from among the hundred or more that were waiting at the pier, and were off up the street.
Miyawaki, our Japanese friend, accompanied us. Our rickshaws drew up to a Japanese inn and Miyawaki soon made arrangements for our rooms. We sat down on the little porch and took off our shoes, leaving them on the sidewalk along with a score of others, and put on a pair of slippers. After we were robed in kimonos, a dainty little maid pattered in with a tray load of provisions. She knelt down and spread before us the evening meal. Rice represented the bulk of the food and there were raw fish, a bowl of soup with one egg in it, a dish of boiled bamboo shoots, a plate of sweetened beans and a little receptacle containing some black flavouring sauce. The meal was concluded with several small bowls of tea. Richardson and I flew to this assortment almost like animals, we were so hungry. The little maid was much amused at our awkward efforts to manipulate the chop sticks. Rice was especially hard to handle with these two strips of wood.
Richardson and I became so fond of rice before we had lived long on that staple that we thought we could never again eat a meal without it. The Japanese understand how to prepare it and cook it in such a way that each grain is dry and separate from the others. The average dish of rice in America tastes and looks like a mass of Library paste.