Mark Twain called it "the saddest and most moving piece of rock in the world."
He wasn't wrong.
Before the throngs of Asian tourists descended we got lucky and had the whole place to ourselves.
For almost half an hour on that cool morning with the fog just beginning to lift and autumn colored leaves floating gently into the pond, almost in slow motion, it felt like a solitary place.
It felt like a privilege to be there to witness the quietness of that grove while a sleepy city was waking up all around us.
Also it gave us the chance to set up our camera on a bench and get one precious timer picture of the two of us alone there.
And just like that, we were crowded out by tourists.
Which we are not, because we live here.
Also, I drank from the mouth of a fish.



 
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