For years, I had a relationship with a specific place in Japan, though I had never been there.
This relationship was with Marukyu Koyamaen, a producer of matcha whose tea I had enjoyed from afar.
It’s one thing to appreciate a craft; it’s another entirely to seek out its source. So, on my trip to Japan, I decided to make a pilgrimage. My destination: the small city of Uji, the historic heartland of Japanese green tea, especially matcha.
This journey became a powerful lesson. Sometimes the most meaningful travel experiences aren’t about seeing famous sights, but about pursuing a personal passion to its origin.
The Two Faces of Uji
Uji, located just south of Kyoto, presents two very different faces to the visitor.
South of the train tracks lies the Uji of postcards. Here you’ll find the magnificent Byodo-in Temple (famously featured on the 10-yen coin) and a main street lined with elegant tea houses like Nakamura Tokichi, bustling with tourists eager to sample matcha-flavored sweets and parfaits. It’s beautiful, polished, and designed for visitors.
My quest lay elsewhere.
My goal, Marukyu Koyamaen, was on the other side of the tracks—a detail I only knew thanks to my wife reminding me to check the source, and the modern magic of Google Maps.
Crossing the Tracks: A Journey Off the Map
Stepping onto the north side of Uji felt like entering a different world. The tourist crowds vanished. The streets became quieter, more residential, more… real.
There were no English signs, no souvenir shops. This was where people lived and worked. This was where the tea was actually made.
Finding the Marukyu Koyamaen headquarters wasn’t easy. It wasn’t designed to be found by tourists. The building itself was more like any of the other normal houses I had walked past on the way there. I followed the track Google Maps showed me, and I wondered if it could really be leading me where I wanted to go. It felt wrong.
In fact, as I left later, a young person who clearly lived there went out, looking like they were on their way to high school or to meet friends.
The entrance on the right led to a small, simple shop. This was not a slick, branded visitor center with a cafe and merchandise. This was a place for people who were serious about tea.
The Shop at the Source
Inside, the shop was humble and direct. There were no fancy displays, just shelves stocked with the company’s products. This wasn’t a place for casual souvenir hunting; it was a place to buy tea. The staff, while kind, didn’t speak English, and my Japanese was limited. For a moment, the transaction felt near impossible.
As I struggled with the order form for their matcha, half confident I’d manage, half doubtful, someone had gone and fetched their English-speaking colleague who handled international accounts, a girl who, as it turned out, was from Taiwan.
The exchange was simple, respectful, and focused entirely on the tea itself. Funnily, given how much this has entered our vernacular, she asked me if we Westerners were really using the label of “ceremonial matcha” (vs. culinary) as distinction. I left with my purchase, feeling a profound sense of connection that no tourist shop could ever offer.
(Now, years later and in the middle of a matcha mania that has seen prices rise tremendously and supplies almost impossible to get, I wonder what that would look like… and I’ve started writing to educate on that.)
A Different Kind of Tea Ceremony
Earlier in my trip, I had tried and failed to attend a formal tea ceremony in Kyoto again. There were no showings because there were some special events – or something.
In hindsight, I’m glad. My experience in Uji was a different, perhaps more authentic, kind of ceremony. It wasn’t about the prescribed rituals of whisking and sipping in a tearoom.
It was a pilgrimage itself: the journey to the source, the respect for the craft, and the direct connection with the people who create something you love. It was a reminder that the most rewarding explorations are the ones we design for ourselves.
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