Hiroshima, the perfect city? or at least the perfect stay (days one and two)

Hiroshima is a city completely unlike Tokyo. The sidewalks are wider, the people smile more, the greetings are softer; everything around us breathes in deep, slow breaths, from the cicadas in the trees, to the bicycles winding along the sides of the inland sea. If Hiroshima is known as the city of peace, then it is because of the determined openness of its people, who seem to be accepting and welcoming of everyone.

Back in the US I might be wary of surroundings like this—friendliness? Slow, relaxed pace of life? I would miss the hustle, and speed-walk my way around the those strolling along. Yes, peace would be great, but keeping an eye out for trouble, and viewing the world with a layer of skepticism is a necessary part of everyday living.

Would I tell a complete stranger where I was going in the middle of New York? Probably not; I would lie, like I did when I was twenty or so, and an old bearded guy started walking beside me while I was on my way to Port Authority. After shadowing me for two blocks, he asked me my name, where I was from, if I needed help getting to wherever it was I was going, and if I had a girlfriend. (Answers: David, Massachusetts, no, and yes—first two answers false, last two true).

But in Hiroshima, it was different. Cole and I were just out of the JR train station, and we were looking for our hotel. We knew that the way involved taking the one of the local trams

which Hiroshima is famous for. We even knew which stop we wanted and the name of the street the hotel was on. We were confirming it on a map, when we heard a voice. “Where are you going?”

We turned around, and saw that its source was a sturdy old man wearing traditional blue garments. “Peace Park?” He asked.

“No, no.” I pointed at the stop on the map. “Fukuro-machi.”

“Ah…Fukuro-machi?” He seemed confused.  “Dome?”

“Um…hotel,” I answered, but it was hard to get the idea across, and it didn’t help that I have a tendency to mumble.

“Speak slowly and clearly and I will understand,” he said.

“We’re going to our hotel,” cole said carefully, and she mimed a sleeping motion.

He got it. “Hotel! What hotel?”

We told him, and he thought for a minute. Then he borrowed a piece of paper from us, and not only did he begin to tell us where exactly the hotel was, but he also drew us a map of the entire area, with arrows to point us in the correct direction.

We thanked him both in Japanese and in English.

“Are you American?” he asked cole.

“Yes.” She nodded.

He looked to me. “Japanese?”

“No, no. Chinese.”

“Oh.”

“But American too.”

“Ah.” He paused. “I am Peace park guide.”

I looked at him closer, and I began to wonder how he came to be a guide. How long had he lived in Hiroshima? He was definitely the right age, but I couldn’t ask. I mean, how do you ask someone if he or she lived through one of the most horrific tragedies of our time?

As the tram came, he told us where to sit, how to pay, and before he got off, he told the driver where to stop for us.

None of this would have happened in New York. Not meaning that New Yorkers aren’t friendly, if fact, I bet that almost every single person you stop on the street would help out with directions if asked, but none would seek out to help confused tourists. There are reasons for this . What if the tourists are crazy? What if they mispronounce greenwich or houston? Even worse, what if they’re wearing fanny packs….But thank you Mr. Peace Park guide, for helping two strangers out. I’ll try to extend the same gesture back home or maybe even in Shanghai once I know the area.

We settled into our hotel, and then went out to explore our immediate surroundings. Hiroshima was re-built into a grid, so finding places wasn’t that hard. Near our hotel was an extensive covered shopping arcade, which was needed to escape the sun (actually, the weather was a bit cooler and drier there).

The hundred yen shop.

Dinner was a restaurant with absolutely no English menu and few pictures to point at. The waitress didn’t know any English either so ordering was a struggle.

We sat in enclosed booths, cute place.

We ended up ordering a strange combo of cold soba (buckwheat) noodles, grilled fish, white rice and pickles.

The aftermath.

The next morning we decided to be decadent. You see, I had been developing intense cravings for the most silly basic things, like corn flakes with bananas and PB&J. I mean, I love Japanese food, and probably have it two or three times a week usually; but I’m also used to a burrito now and then, or some pasta, or some chow fun, or a turkey sandwich. Eating in Japan is great, but the variety isn’t quite there. But I should get used to this, as I’m sure China will be missing a few staples (what…no knishes or matza ball soup?).

Cole thought that the perfect antidote for my cravings would be the hotel’s breakfast buffet, so we went for it, and boy did I go for it.

First round was the Western breakfast: pancakes, sausage, eggs, fruit. The sausage was good, but the eggs were way too buttery, and the pancakes were a little dry. When I found the waffles I got all excited and put some syrup on them. What I didn’t realize was that the waffles were a kind of dessert bread, already sweet and dense like a roll. With the syrup on top it was too much to take. Complete sugar overload. But, none of it mattered, because sitting on an innocuous side table, were corn flakes. Real, honest to god, cornflakes. A decanter of milk lay next to it, and it wasn’t long until I found a banana. Oh, it was good; never have I appreciated corn flakes and bananas like this.

 

Second round was the Japanese breakfast. Rice porridge, salted fish, pickles. 

Cole showed more restraint than I.

Completely stuffed, we waddled to Peace Park, the A-Bomb dome and the Peace Museum.

Nicole in full Japanese fashion, sporting a sunblocking umbrella (purchased in London).

The side of Peace Park. Carp would unexpectantly leap out of the water every now and then.

The A-Bomb dome. The more I learned about the devastation, the more amazed I was that any of this building survived at all.

Sights from Peace Park:

The Peace Museum was an experience as well, some of it almost too much to bear. I had conflicted emotions about it all. I was an American looking at the terrible effects of our atom bomb, but in the back of my mind I also knew of all the atrocities that Japan committed, including those against the Chinese. 

In the museum though, I was struck by how genuine and fair their displays were. No political angles, just documentation. I still can’t quite grasp how a society can recover from such destruction, when there’s literally barely anything left of a city. How do you go on? It seemed unreal that we were walking right in the epicenter of the explosion, where there were now birds hopping along branches.

We collected ourselves, and wandered for awhile, until eventually we found ourselves in a random restaurant for dinner. Upon walking in, I heard old-fashioned music sung in Mandarin and knew immediately that we were a Chinese restaurant. Sadly, the kind of Chinese food served was the same trimmed down version that is common in Japan…in other words, it was a slight variant of a ramen restaurant. As I slurped my noodles (eh, they were ok), I looked at the one guy that worked there, who served as host, waiter, and cook. Was he Chinese? He seemed like he could be, but since arriving in Japan, I had learned that my ability to discern different ethnicities wasn’t as dead-on as I thought. “Oh well, who cares,” I thought. I was in Japan anyway, it was as good as place as any to try out my awful Mandarin.

With my nerves steeled, I went up to the register pay the bill. He took my money and I let it loose:

“Ni shi zhongguo ren ma?” (are you chinese?)

He gave me a funny look. Ok…maybe my tones were off. I tried the line in Cantonese, which I know is pretty close to what a normal Canton person would sound like. Nope, no luck.

Er…”Ni hui shao putong hau ma?” (do you speak mandarin?)

A light bulb went off, and his mouth lifted into a wide smile. “No,” he said. He spoke something else. And then he went on, saying where he was from, but I couldn’t understand him because of his dialect. He asked me if I was from Shanghai. (did I sound like I was speaking Shanghainese?)

I wanted to tell him that I was moving there in a few weeks to be a teacher, but that was way beyond my meager putuong hau skills, so instead I said that my parents are from Hong Kong, but I was an American. “Keshi, wo shi Meiguo ren.”

And after that there was an awkward pause, because I had exhausted all of my Mandarin (unless he wanted to talk about hobbies or numbers, I got those down), and Cantonese wasn’t going to work, so I thanked him for the meal, and said see you later.

Alright, not the greatest conversation, but it was my first one in Mandarin, and it worked! A nice end to day two.

Hiroshima had much more to offer, but I’ll get into that in the next post. I’ll leave you with a few pictures we took for fun in our hotel room.

Our view.

Writing a post.

Comfy.