After three days in Tokyo we headed south, away from the Kanto Plan toward Kyoto, Japan’s former capital. June is a rainy month in Japan and I, being a complete novice at traveling, had brought nothing to protect me. Chika insisted that I take one of her umbrellas. While I was grateful for her thoughtfulness, carrying it complicated things. I could tie it to my backpack where it would catch on anything I walked past or carry it in my hand, which made taking pictures more difficult. We couldn’t afford to take the Shinkansen, Japan’s famous Bullet Train, so we purchased tickets for the slower local train. As we traveled south young women walked up the aisles selling snacks. “Ice-o crem-u desho ka!” “Coca-corrra desho ka!” they called out in a melodious singsong. Larry and I sat together facing an elderly woman in the opposite seat wearing a traditional kimono. She seemed to be studying my umbrella, which lay across my knees. Suddenly, and without a word, she grabbed it, opened it and neatly folded the pleats along their creases. She then closed it and collapsed the handle and, again without a word, handed it back to me. It had never occurred to me that it had a collapsible handle. We would be subject to many more acts of random kindness during our visit. During several stops I noticed a curious thing. The train would come into the station, the doors would open and some passengers would exit. They would order a bowl of noodle soup at a nearby kiosk, gobble it down and be back on the train before it left. That was Japan in the ‘70s, not a moment wasted.