Yet in the end, it's a noodle seller who provides the most sincere example of openness. He's a big, bearded man running a newly opened place near the ryokan, with pine tables, modern calligraphic scrolls and a baby grand piano. He appears to like simplicity: the shop sells udon noodles. Nothing else, just udon noodles. It's the shortest menu imaginable. You can have them cold or hot, in a square lacquer box, accompanied by vegetable broth with the option of a few slices of duck. Oh, and Schubert. As he works, making the single dish to which he's devoted himself, the noodle-maker is always accompanied by the chamber music of his favorite composer. The udon, needless to say, are perfect. I pay and pick up my umbrella. Outside there is a storm.
First winter rain -
I plod on,
Traveler, my name.
－ Basho
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