Land of the Rising Sun: Part 8

My ankle didn't hurt. It felt disgusting, though. Something in there was swollen and tender. Something in there felt it when other parts slid by. Were they tendons? Muscles flexing? I didn't know, didn't want to know. I did some experimenting, learned to hobble around without flexing my ankle.

There was something by the door of my hotel room--someone had shoved a newspaper under the door. I picked it up. Generally, I don't understand Japanese newspapers--they use lots of kanji, talking about people and places whose names I don't recognize. But this headline had a lot of katakana--they were phonetically sounding something out. It said ニュヨーク ("Nyu Yo-ku") okay, something in New York. ナズダック ("Nazudakku") Oh! They must be talking about the NASDAQ stock exchange. There was a kanji, but I recognized it--it was part of the word for "under". Hey, I was most of the way through this headline and I was understanding it! I decoded a number: 617. I had understood this headline! NASDAQ was down 617! I sobered up a bit when I realized what I was reading. I put down the paper and hobbled over the the A-Bomb museum.

The Peace Memorial Museum

At the Peace Memorial Museum, I jotted down the Japanese for "Bikini Atoll" : マーシャル諸島のビキニ . (I'm not sure about that first kanji, my writing was messy.) I jotted down 原爆 ("genbaku") (either an atomic blast or an atomic bomb, I'm not sure which). I looked at an exhibit about people who'd taken pictures of Hiroshima in the minutes and days after the A-Bomb attack. The War Office had asked that most (all?) photos be destroyed--perhaps for morale purposes? Photographers who talked about taking pictures while in shock. The phrase "viewfinder blurred by tears" came up a few times. I looked at a mass of fused metal which looked for all the world like one of those burlwood tables that were so popular back in the 1970s. There was a stack of pottery bowls, somewhat merged.

Maybe you've heard of Sasaki Sadoko, who contracted leukemia from radiation poisoning after the A-bomb hit, who died in the attempt to fold 1000 origami cranes. This is where she went to school. If you're at the entrance to Shukkeien garden, go widdershins around the block. You can't miss it. Not that there's much to see.

I didn't get much out of the Museum. By this time, I'd studied the history of the Manhattan Project. I'd read Black Rain. I didn't think I knew everything about the attack on Hiroshima, but maybe I knew everything that this intro-level museum was ready to teach me.

The museum's message was so simple, it was a straw man. The museum's message was, Please don't use anything like the Atom Bomb again. It killed lots of people. That argument isn't very convincing to people in a war, people fearing for their own lives. I'm convinced that Hiroshima was a tragedy, an avoidable tragedy, but this museum would never have convinced me.

In Between Places

When I saw the movie "Ghost Dog", I'd snickered at the pigeons. In the movie, an American who's gotten a bit carried away by reading about samurai decides to become one. He communicates with his liege by courier pigeon. "Oh, a pigeon, that's really Japanese," I'd sarcastically thought. I'd forgotten about the pigeons of Hiroshima. Sure, they were imports, the fall-out of a screwed-up attempt to import doves. But it was impossible not ignore them, to ignore the way they gave a sense of place.

The lady at the Peace Park Tourist Information Center spoke excellent English and gave me a ferry schedule and some useful maps.

I went looking for an Indian restaurant that was on the map in my tourist guide. I failed to find it, but did find another Indian restaurant, which wasn't on the map. It was one of the blander pretenses at Indian food I've ever had, and some of the best food I would have during this trip.

Remembering how crowded Saturday's train had been, I reserved a ticket for next Saturday morning's Okayama-Tokyo run.

Shukkei-En

I went back to the hotel to lie down for a while, then to Shukkei-en, a garden. Sitting and writing was easier than walking, and I took some notes:

This blurry photo adds nothing to the art of photographing Japanese gardens. Can I blame the rain?

Back in the Room

It didn't take a genius to realize that traipsing around that garden wasn't helping my ankle any. I went back to the hotel, making a couple of stops--I burst into a closed restaurant, had an enlightening conversation with the restaurant's proprietor (in which I learned they were closed until 5:00), burst back out, and stopped off at a convenience store to buy a movable feast.

Back in the room, I ate dinner and watched TV. I reflected that if I'd watched this much TV in Albuquerque, I'd have felt as if I was wasting my time. Fortunately, Japanese TV was sufficiently exotic such that watching it was "cultural tourism."

"Chibi Maruko-chan" came on TV. I did a double-take. Hadn't she been on TV the last time I'd been in Japan, eight years before? Sure enough, they were celebrating their 10th year on the air. I listened to "Owner of a Lonely Heart" in a Nissan commercial. I watched a basketball game whose accented commentary I had a hard time following--I thought the game was between the the Jaws and the Spaz, but it was the Jazz and the Spurs.

Monday

You might think this was a sarariman charging forth, proclaiming, "Excelsior!" In fact, he seemed to be a dockboy, running around tossing and catching lines.

I woke up early, packed, checked out. I took the tram to the Ujina ferry harbor station. Thanks to my map, I knew not to get off at the Ujina-1 tram stop, the Ujina-2 tram stop; I knew I wanted the unnumbered Ujina tram stop. Thus, when the driver called out various stops with "Ujina" in the name, I didn't just hop right out. Fortunately, my stop was the end of the line, hard to miss.

Here are some views from the ferry. This was one of the most beautiful times of my life. No, really.

I bought a ferry ticket and headed onto the boat. I watched another ferry coming in on the other side of the dock. A dockboy tossed up a line--I noticed that this dockboy was wearing a suit. Soon someone was hosing down that ferry--and he was wearing a necktie under his waterproof jacket. I don't think I could be a dockboy or a deckhand in Japan. It's too formal.

All of the other passengers had waited back on land, in the designated waiting area. I'd boarded as soon as possible so that I could get a view of the harbor activity from the ferry's high decks. I was looking over at the well-dressed dockboys when a woman in uniform appeared from a doorway and started jabbering at me excitedly. "Wakarimasen," ("I don't understand.") I grimaced. And, bless her, she switched into Tarzan mode. She slowly said, "Kippu wa..." and I knew that a kippu was a ticket, showed her mine, and that was fine.

The ferry ride from Hiroshima to Matsuyama was gorgeous. An inland sea, boats, wooded islands receding into mist, sunlight on water, clouds. It seems ridiculous to point out how pretty the combination of air, water, and light can be, but there you are. It was easily the best part of my whole vacation.

I saw power lines strung from the mainland to an island, power lines high enough for a ship to sail under. I guess that wasn't so pretty, but it was rather impressive. The ferry route carried me into and out of the city of Kure with its many armed navy boats. I did my best to look harmless, not worth blowing up. The ferry smelled of guano and diesel, and there was a constant cold wind. Okay, so it wasn't all beautiful islands.

Here's a photo of me and a photo of this guy. He took the photo of me; I took the photo of him. This happened in the usual way: he offered, in English, to take my picture; of course, he asked me, in English, where I was from; I'm from San Francisco; of course, he said, "Ah, Giants!" and then rattled off a bunch of names which I might have recognized if I followed baseball. It was not the first time I'd had this conversation in Japan. At least I got a couple of photos out of it.

Departures: Land of the Rising Sun: Part 8

Sunday

The Peace Memorial Museum

In Between Places

Shukkei-En

Back in the Room

Monday