We took a tram into Hiroshima from a stop on the JR line to give us an extra half hour, instead of going all the way to the main station. It was a beautiful, sunny, 60-degree day, which juxtaposed our morning of learning the history of the A-bomb, but also made it slightly more bearable to hear.
The A-bomb dome is at the far corner of Peace Memorial Park, which itself is scattered with memorials and statues. Nearly right below the blast, the former convention building was blown out, but not toppled, and now stands as a skeleton monument.
Standing along the path was a guide, whose mother — pregnant with her — came to Hiroshima a few days after the bombing to follow her father. She had binders of information, Q&A about the Japanese and the bombing, including one question that stuck with me: do the Japanese hate Americans? From the answer in the book, and the presentation of the later museum, it is clear there isn't blame for the past, but rather information to prevent this in the future.
We visited the mobilized students monument - many of those killed were middle school students who'd been basically conscripted to make fire blockades by demoing buildings and were headed to work.
Across the river was the children's monument - a student had developed leukemia and heard that folding one thousand cranes would grant a wish, so she folded them while she was getting treatment. She passed away, but the crane as a sign of peace and hope lives on. The monument was filled with the origami offerings.
In a row starting with the A-bomb dome, the fire that would burn until nuclear weapons were off the earth sat next to the cenograph with the names of all known victims of the bomb and radiation, which is continually updated.
Last in the row was the Peace Memorial Museum, arching over (a construction site and) the fountains of peace in the distance.
It was sobering. It was somber. I flowed along with the crowd of people, attempting to both take in what I could of the artifacts and stories while also paying respects to the many, many who are now just possessions behind a case in a museum.
The warping of the roof tiles, glass bottles, and steel girders was a haunting metaphor for those survivors left behind. A wall with the black rain that fell dripping down its wall was weeping.
The final hallway was filled with video screens of interviews with survivors recounting the blast and the days afterward. All but one were fairly matter-of-fact: a blinding flash, coming to, calling for help and not recognizing the war-torn around them. The last was a mother who wasn't able to make it home until the next day. Her baby had been hit in the impact so hard that its buttons had essentially fused to its chest. Her daughter was throw and was lying dead nearby. Her husband had seemingly recovered then became bedridden after a week and died. The bomb took her whole family, she explained, getting choked up. We had a beautiful life, and the bomb took it all.
The schoolboys, teachers, others that were interviewed - their stories varied but it was a harsh reality for something that happened far before my lifetime. And I hope and pray that it will never be used as a tactic again.
I polled Grandma, Grandpa, and Valerie, and a walk to the station in the sun, passing by the rebuilt castle, seemed like it would be a nice way to work ourselves back into reality.
It was a few blocks along a sports complex, then we found a bench for Grandma by the moat as the rest of us walked through the island to the rebuilt tower. A single cherry tree in bloom lay in the shadow of the pagoda-like tower; other stones evoked the ruins of the original castle - a thousand years old, but flattened in the atomic blast.
We swung back by Grandma to say hi to some duckies before finishing the walk to the train station. We took the local train one stop to the regional station, where we bought foodstuffs (Val and I got bento boxes!) to eat a late lunch on the train.
We treated ourselves to a cab ride back to the house, and waiting for Mom, Dad, and Deanne to meet us. A little downtime before our evening plans.
Valerie hadn't had sushi yet, and Deanne hadn't gotten the chance to have her sister's photo booth, so the three of us were going to split off to remedy both of those while the other two generations had Italian food.
The conveyor belt sushi place was packed, so we took our ticket and walked back to the arcade above the Italian place where we dropped them off.
It was intense. I am super impressed by the automatic photoshop this machine did (silky hair, smooth skin, extra mascara, larger eyes), and then we could decorate it with stamps and messages afterward! My intricate work was lost on the wallet-sized print, but I know that I put a super cute heart where that teeny tiny dot is on the printed strip.
We made it back just before our number was called. Dangerously, I was put next to the conveyor belt. It hadn't been two minutes and we had a salmon, two different tunas, and some roe sashimi in front of us. Sorry not sorry.
I did experiment a bit. Two of the four involved these teensy little fish - raw and then coated in a sticky, sweet sauce. Those were fine; not a new favorite, nor abhorrent. The diamond squid was not the rubber texture I was expecting, but my second bite of the crunchy layer of squid was ok as well. We only left one piece of sushi from the plates that we got - and I had the pleasure of eating the first piece off that plate. It was mushy, and sweet in a bad way, and also rotten tasting, and had some other bits in the whitish congealed sauce... But back to how good that salmon was. I refused to eat the corn fritters or tofu skins - more room for sushi!
We spent some time chatting as a family (except with Valerie up checking in on Ben) before calling it a night in our respective rooms, beds, and futons.
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