The Art of Slow Travel: A Month in Kyoto

In an age of whirlwind itineraries and "10 countries in 14 days" tours, I chose a different path. For one full month, I made Kyoto my home, renting a small apartment in the Gion district and allowing myself the luxury of time – time to wander without purpose, to revisit favorite spots at different hours, and to develop relationships with local shopkeepers and artists.

Slowing Down in a Fast-Paced World

The concept of slow travel isn't new, but it feels increasingly revolutionary in our hyperconnected, achievement-oriented culture. It's a deliberate choice to value depth over breadth, to measure travel not by the number of attractions visited but by the quality of experiences and connections made.

Kyoto, with its 1,600 Buddhist temples, 400 Shinto shrines, and centuries of artistic tradition, demands this slower pace. Attempting to "see it all" would not only be exhausting but would miss the point entirely. The city reveals itself gradually, rewarding those who linger with layers of meaning and beauty that remain invisible to the hurried visitor.

Morning Rituals

Each day began with a walk to the local bakery, where the owner, Tanaka-san, would practice his limited English as I fumbled through my equally limited Japanese. By the second week, he was setting aside my favorite matcha croissant, and by the third, inviting me to join him for tea after the morning rush.

These small, daily interactions formed the rhythm of my stay – the elderly woman who taught me to properly feed the koi in the pond near my apartment; the calligraphy master who allowed me to observe his morning practice; the young student who asked to practice English during my regular visits to the Philosopher's Path.

None of these connections would have been possible had I been rushing from one "must-see" attraction to another.

The Same Temple, Different Worlds

One of the greatest gifts of slow travel is the ability to revisit places under different conditions. I returned to Kiyomizu-dera Temple no fewer than five times during my stay – at dawn when only monks were present, during a school field trip filled with uniformed children, under the full moon for a special nighttime opening, during a sudden spring shower, and on a clear day when Mount Daimonji was visible in the distance.

Each visit offered a completely different experience of the same physical space. The temple wasn't just a checkbox on an itinerary but a living, breathing place that changed with the light, the weather, and the company.

Finding "My" Places

By the second week, I had begun to discover what I think of as "my" places – spots that resonated with me personally, even if they weren't featured in any guidebook. There was the tiny teahouse hidden behind a bamboo grove where the owner played classical records on a vintage turntable; the riverside bench perfect for sketching the passing boats; the neighborhood shrine where local residents came to offer brief prayers on their way to work.

These became my anchors in the city, places I returned to repeatedly, developing a relationship with them that felt almost like friendship.

The Economics of Staying Put

Beyond the emotional and cultural benefits, slow travel often makes economic sense. My monthly apartment rental cost less than two weeks in a mid-range hotel. Shopping at local markets and preparing simple meals at home not only saved money but became a way to engage with local food culture more authentically.

I invested the money saved into experiences that mattered – a private tea ceremony, cooking classes, a workshop with a traditional woodblock print artist, and occasional meals at special restaurants that would have been beyond my budget on a shorter trip.

The Challenge of Depth

Slow travel isn't without its challenges. There's the fear of missing out on other destinations. There's the occasional day of boredom or restlessness. There's the deeper emotional work that happens when travel becomes less about distraction and more about presence.

On my third rainy day in a row, confined mostly to my apartment and local cafes, I found myself questioning my choice. Couldn't I have seen Kyoto's highlights in a week and moved on to Tokyo, or Osaka, or the rural villages of Hokkaido?

But it was precisely these quieter moments that allowed for reflection, for processing the experiences I was having, for transforming tourism into something more meaningful.

Becoming a Temporary Local

By week four, something subtle had shifted. I was no longer just a visitor passing through but a temporary local with my own routines and relationships. The city had become familiar – not fully known, as Kyoto could never be fully known even by those born there – but familiar enough that I could navigate its back streets without a map, recognize the changing seasonal specialties in shop windows, and feel a sense of belonging, however temporary.

This is perhaps the greatest gift of slow travel: the brief illusion of having another home in the world, another community, another way of being that remains available to you, at least in memory.

Taking Slow Travel Home

As my month drew to a close, I realized that slow travel isn't just a way of moving through the world; it's a philosophy that can be applied even after returning home. The practice of attention, of presence, of valuing depth over breadth – these are portable skills that enhance life wherever we are.

I now apply this "slow travel" mindset to my own city, setting aside days to explore a single neighborhood without agenda, revisiting familiar places at different times, and prioritizing connection over consumption.

The Invitation

Slow travel won't work for every trip or every traveler. Limited vacation time and the desire to experience a variety of places are realities for most of us. But I offer this reflection as an invitation to consider, when circumstances allow, the profound pleasures of temporary rootedness in a place that speaks to you.

Perhaps it's not a month but a week in one location rather than splitting time between three cities. Perhaps it's building a free day into your itinerary with nothing planned. Perhaps it's returning to a place you've visited briefly before and allowing yourself to go deeper.

In a world that increasingly values breadth over depth, quantity over quality, and novelty over nuance, choosing to travel slowly is a small act of resistance – and one that might just transform your understanding of what travel can be.