My demeanor was not so easy to alter. The fare of the bus increased with each stop, and when the
yellow poles of a train crossing lowered in front of us, I thought I would lose my mind. Were we
ever going to make this ferry?
We did - an extra 5 dollars later - but just minutes after we found seats on the hydrofoil,
we were told they were reserved and we would have to move. Ordinarily this type of restriction
would not bother me, but I was at my wits end. "THANK YOU!" I snapped back at the
attendant, and then muttered general unpleansantries under my breath. I was fuming, and wished I knew
how to swear in Japanese.
By the time we reached Hiroshima's ferry port - we would need a tram ride to reach the center
of the city - my temperature was back in the low 100's, and Miriam and I talked about what
we wanted to see after we had checked into our hotel. The time was now irrelevant; we were there.
We decided to leave the memorials for Sunday; I had learned in Nagasaki that its best to
see them on your way out of town.
Ordinarily, in a city like Hiroshima, where one sight attracts almost every tourist that passes
through, I would avoid that sight with conviction. But holocaust memorials should never be
missed, and so I forgot my distaste for the 'must-see' mentality of travel.
That night we had fish and chips and listened to real Irish folk band in a pub called Molly
Malone's. The pub had just opened, and to promote the place, the owner's had flown the band in from
Dublin. The music was good, the food was great, and the draft Guinness was beyond explanation.
By the time my head hit my pillow at the Aster Plaza Hotel - we never did figure out who Mr.
Aster was - I was finally relaxed and slept like a log.
In the morning we walked through the Peace Park and past its colorful paper cranes - the Japanese
symbol of hope and rebirth, past the A-bomb Dome - proof that while the destruction was severe,
it was not apocalyptic: the building's frame still stands - and toured the Peace Memorial Museum
- an exhibit the world's political leaders should be forced to see before ever taking office.
I've had the good fortune to visit a few of World War II's worst places - the beaches at
Normandy, Nagasaki, Okinawa, Hiroshima - and each one is harder to write about than the previous.
There's something about war sites that stifles a writer's pen, silences his voice. We spent
the rest of the day in mindless reverie, waiting for our ferry back to Shikoku.
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As the hydrofoil careered over the water like a low-gliding bird, I thought about our whirlwind trip
to take in such a deeply important place. In terms of time, we had not done it justice. And I felt guilty somehow.
I didn't want to think about why and how come, I was just sad. But if Hiroshima is about one thing it is
resurrection, a city that rebuilt itself back from oblivion to order in a matter of years. That look of determination
I had seen on the hunchbacked women was telling; slowed, maybe, but broken, never.
