Hiroshima in the Morning by Rahna Reiko Rizzuto Read Free Book Online

into the mindset of the intrepid traveler, a woman who would never mention her nostalgia for those things she once was equipped for, her new dread of the scope of sheer opportunity, and the exhaustion of always having to be prepared. Brian never comments on my travelogue, nor do my children, so I write for the image of my father at his computer, waiting. In my mind, he prints out my notes and carries them into the TV room where my mother spends most of her time now, and I can hear my mother’s laughter at the funny stories from Japan that my father reads out loud—I write, in that way, for my mother.

JULY 1, 2001
    LUNCH IS:
    Ramen from 7-Eleven.
    Two daifuku —soft mochi balls filled with red bean paste, which no self-respecting Japanese person would eat more than one of—and an Asian pear.
    Something from the bread shop that looks like a sausage twisted in bread dough.
    Yakitori sticks from 7-Eleven.

    Chocolate bars from 7-Eleven.
    In New York, we don’t even have a 7-Eleven. Do we? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.
     
    TODAY, I FORGOT that the Japanese generally eat lunch only between 12:05 and 12:55 p.m., and that most restaurants close by around two. At three-ish, I realized I hadn’t yet had anything but coffee. There is—according to the guide books—a building with two entire floors of stalls devoted to okonomiyaki —a local delicacy, a sort of crepe omelet with different fillings cooked on a stainless steel fast food frying surface which also doubles as a serving platter (meaning you pull your chair up and eat off it). I decided to check it out—to eat out alone for the first time since I got to Japan.
    The building is in the center of the shopping district, just south of the arcade, but it looks like any office tower. The lighted directory outside appeared to be advertising restaurants, so I went up the stairs. On the second floor, there was a maze of counters, capital I or L or U shaped, hugging small, open preparation areas, partially obscured by the noren hanging curtains printed with the names of each of the businesses. Every stand had been closed and clean for so long I couldn’t even smell the evidence of lunch gone by. I kept going, to the third floor, gaining both confidence and nervousness from the sheer lack of people. Here, a few of the stands were still open. Older women, their skin dry from cooking, their hair wrapped in cloth, made me stop in the entrance of the hall, just by being there. I could see that their stalls were menuless and mostly devoid of other customers
to deflect attention, customers who could have shown me by their actions what I was supposed to do. I realized that, although I know the words for beef, chicken, fish, and vegetables, somehow I was thoroughly unprepared to sit down and try to order a dish I’d never actually eaten, especially since, at this place, it seemed that the diners cooked their own food. I stood there for perhaps a minute, entertaining the sudden fear that I would accidentally order chicken skin and jellyfish and then have to eat it while the owner stood a foot away. Picture me: weighing the thought of crunching on cartilage against the awkwardness of simply standing in the doorway. As the seconds went by, that became a reason to go.
    In the end, I went to 7-Eleven. At least it wasn’t McDonalds—where the windows are plastered with pictures of a bun that appears to be filled solely with mayonnaise and three small cocktail shrimp. More on that in the next installment of the gaijin in Japan!

HELPLESS
    THERE’S A LITTLE GIRL in my head with Shirley Temple curls and freckles playing in a dust-swept road. She is the enemy. She looks about six, even though she shouldn’t be: my mother was not five when she was released from the
internment camp, but no pictures survive from that time so age six is the youngest image I have of my mother, the only image I have from “wartime” was taken after the end of the war. Of course, this little