Yesterday, under mostly blue skies, Charlotte and I visited Kyoto Imperial Palace – the former residence of Japan’s emperors until the capital moved to Tokyo in 1869.

The weather alone made the experience feel almost ceremonial: sharp autumn light, crisp air, and not too many other visitors sharing the neatly raked gravel paths between the great wooden gates and walls.

What struck me first was the color palette – especially the deep, organic vermillion-orange on the gates, columns, and inner walls. It’s not the typical neon orange we see on street signs or some modern temples, but a more ancient, earthy tone derived from natural pigments.

That color, I learned, was traditionally reserved for imperial or sacred structures, marking spaces associated with the Emperor and Shinto sanctity.

Depending on one’s social rank, the Emperor would receive visitors in a building that reflected their standing. Diplomats, nobles, monks, messengers, and foreign dignitaries all entered different halls — each one either more intimate or more ornate according to strict court protocol.

Walking between these vast wooden halls, I kept thinking how architecture itself once measured respect. Even today, the palace grounds still carry the quiet dignity of Kyoto’s imperial past.