At one point in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Sean Penn is huddled behind a camera on an arid hillside, waiting to photograph a snow leopard.
When the thing eventually saunters by on the opposite ridge, it is a beautiful moment, the meaning of life floats down from the sky, angels sing, worries drift away like dust on a soft breeze, and all of Penn's patience and planning, his will and singular purpose finally place him in the presence of one of the most reclusive beings on the planet.
We thought it would be the same for us when we went looking in Japan for the most secretive of the urban snow leopards, the geisha.
We'd expected there'd be stalking and tracking, and that we'd most likely have to build a camouflaged hideout of bins and rubbish if we wanted to catch a glimpse. We'd prepared for disappointment, but when we got off the bus in Gion, Kyoto, there were geishas everywhere.
"It must be their day off or something," said my wife.
"Or maybe a festival," I said.
Not sure what the etiquette was even talking to geishas, we decided not to interact with them and to shoot from the hip.
We photographed a group of them at the bus stop. We photographed some taking selfies on the stairs going up to Yasaka Shrine. Geishas lit incense in the gardens and some giggled in a queue to a food stand. We found two fanning themselves next to some lanterns in the shrine complex.
In the restored ancient streets and alleyways of Gion, we saw them outside of Kaiseki restaurants eyeing menus. Some travelled with men and had their photos taken outside of the wooden facades of Machiya, townhouses, and Ochaya, teahouses. On one corner a group of geishas watched us and smoked, the smoke curling up and around their painted faces and elaborate headdresses.
My wife and I were so beside ourselves, we hadn't bothered to eat or drink a thing and hadn't sat down once, and our exposed faces and hands hadn't registered the cold at all. We had grown numb with our excitement and overwhelming gratitude for such a windfall of geishas.
We followed a group of them into a main road with modern cafés, clothing stores and galleries. A young lady dressed like a punk rocker zipped out in front of us and asked if we wanted a picture drawn.
"You see geisha?" the artist lady asked as she faffed with chalks and things.
"So many," I said.
"Many?" she said.
"So many."
She shook her head. "I think no."
"I'll show you pictures," I said.
After she'd finished her caricature of us with big heads and foolish grins - me a samurai; my wife, yup, a geisha - I showed her our pictures.
She laughed. She called over her colleague. He laughed.
"Taiwanese tourist," she said, pointing at our precious geishas. Imposters, all of them.
Somewhat downcast, we made our way back through the old streets. Now all the kimono-wearing, headdress-donning crazies just made us sadder. Why would they do this to us?
And then it happened. And this time it was real. And I only saw her for a split second. By chance I had turned to look behind me and there she was, coming up the street, fully made-up and carrying a shamisen on her back. The real thing.
She looked at me and then ducked into a narrow pathway running between two buildings. It was a beautiful moment, the meaning of life floated down from the sky, angels sang, my worries drifted away like dust on a soft winter breeze .
My wife still doesn't believe me. 
• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column...