I admit it. After a day of golden and silver pavilions, Zen gardens and palace floors that sing like nightingales, I needed a cheeseburger.

I just returned from the food court of a shopping center next to Kyoto train station, where after perusing the many healthy choices (this is why Japanese people are not fat) I drifted into Log Kit. (A variation of Log Cabin?) The servers wear black cowboy hats and speak English. The specialty is the sasebo burger, which appears to have everything on it (including a couple of things I hadn't expected). The sasebo comes in two sizes, one normal, the other the circumference of a dinner plate.

There are four kinds of French fries. They vary slightly in color and size. I chose the spicy ones. And of course I had Coke. The burger comes in a paper wrapping. I noticed most people did not remove it and found out why; the sandwich oozes mayonnaise and ketchup with each bite. The French fries are served in a paper cone decorated with an American and British flag motif. Perhaps this explains the Britney Spears and Beatles memorabilia; Log Kit was covering all the Anglo bases.

The burger was good. But interspersed among the tomato and onion and iceberg lettuce and cheese was a fried egg and piece of ham. All around me the people of Kyoto were eating their sasebo burgers with an air of concentration, not unlike the look on the faces I saw earlier in the day in the garden of Ginkakuji Temple. I wanted to explain to my fellow diners that the hamburger is not typically garnished with fried eggs and ham, but it seemed rude.

After all, I had been treated with great politeness a few hours before as I blundered my way through a tea ceremony. My guide, Sumiyo, kindly accompanied me and gave me gentle instructions as I removed my shoes and crawled headfirst through the small sliding door that puts everyone on the same level when they enter a tea room. Scooting across the tatami mats on my knees, I entered an austere room with the tea-making equipment in one corner. A lovely woman in a pale geen kimono waited for us to take our places.

After serving us small cakes filled with red bean paste -- something sweet to counter the bitterness of the tea -- she scooped steaming water from a container atop a brazier and added it to the powdered tea leaves in the bottom of an elegantly decorated bowl. Using a bamboo whisk, she gave the green liquid a cappuccino-like froth and then proffered it with a bow. I bowed in return (not low enough, despite my years of yoga) and took the tea. The decorated portion of the bowl is rotated away from the lips and the tea is drunk with gusto; the last sip should be noisy. The curved edge of the bowl is wiped delicately and it is then rotated counter-clockwise three times so that the decorated side faces the host. She removes the bowl. There is more bowing. You exit the room via the same low door.

I was told it typically takes 10 years to become fully certified in the tea ceremony. Sumiyo managed it in six. The idea is to have the ritual down so perfectly that it is not a distraction. There is no talking, or very little. The people taking part are sensing each other's spirits, communicating soul to soul. After a tea ceremony you know something about the other tea takers -- and perhaps yourself -- that you didn't know before.

I am realizing that it is these contemplative acts in everyday situations that make Japan such a harmonious society. It is not perfect; no human institutions are. But there is definitely a gossamer-like web connecting the people here, and the tiniest vibration is felt by all. It is a revelation for someone from the Live Free or Die state.

Tomorrow we fly to Nichinan City, sister city to Portsmouth, N.H.