What hits me first when I arrive in Hiroshima is the peacefulness. Peacefulness of the air, of the trees, of the river, of the colors, of everything that circulates on its wide, bright sidewalks. Of course I know what happened here. This is probably what makes this first impression even more startling, and in a way, unsettling. From everything I set my eyes on emanates a feeling of serenity, calm, brightness. Nothing about this bustling, slightly overcrowded energy I’ve been swimming in in every Japanese city I’ve visited so far.

Prior to anything else, I rush to the hostel to drop off my belongings. There I meet a nice French girl freshly arrived in Japan for a working holiday. The flame of desire rekindles slightly. I’ve got less than a year left to be entitled to the visa myself. I chat with her for a while, before giving in to the call of the sun shining brightly outside. Just enough time to grab two onigiri and a sandwich at the Lawson’s across the street, and I’m off to explore the riverbanks under the shimmering, poetic shade of the cherry trees.

I notice the soft grassy slopes going down to the water, perfect spot for my outdoor lunch. Once seated, it doesn’t take long for fatigue to fall down on me. I slept barely 3 hours (if you wonder why, the answer is in Story of an afternoon tea), and this combined with my general exhaustion puts me to the ground. I doze hard, feeling my left cheek heat up under the white sun. 

Of course, I can’t really sleep, and I have to force myself to lift my butt from the prickly wetness of the grass in order to continue my discovery of the city. The program of the day is light: the castle and the Shukkei-en garden.

Surrounded by a fortified wall and a dark water basin, the castle stands in the middle of a picturesque park full of moss, ancient trees, stone vestiges. People stroll quietly by, some sitting on benches or on the ground, my footsteps crunching on the wide path of chalky soil. I like this place. Its simplicity, its aura of eternity, perhaps.

I continue on to the Shukkei-en garden, described as a little gem. I feel a little less in my comfy bubble here, disturbed as I am by groups of old cruisers taking photos of the carp in the ponds, from all angles and its 57 copies. Apart from that, I must admit the place is stunning, finely thought out and designed, bridges, flowerbeds, small stairs and viewpoints following one another in enchanting harmony. I wander around a little sluggishly, caught up again by my lack of sleep. I finally set off, not forgetting to stamp my travel diary.

As I walk through the vibrant heart of the city to go back to my hostel, D. texts me. I hadn’t forgotten that we were to have dinner together and that he was to let me know when he arrived. He headed to Miyajima first, and is due back to Hiroshima later today. He tells me he’s waiting to hear from his friends, who are also in Hiroshima. He’ll let me know about their evening program as soon as he knows more. Gone is the idea of another lovely dinner for two. I won’t lie, I’m a little disappointed (aka totally hacked off). And I’m also totally exhausted, making the prospect of an evening with people I don’t know almost unthinkable. 

Lying in bed trying to sleep (yes it’s 5pm), I keep open the possibility of an unexpected change of plan, but he confirms me the meal around 9pm, that I thus decline. Too bad. I let him go with his buddies, while I go out at 7pm sharp in search of a good ramen, which I find at Gaba Kamiyacho. Seriously one of the best of the whole trip.

We’re both planning to visit the memorial tomorrow. We say without saying it that we might meet there, or cross paths. Let’s see. 

Having properly recharged after a real night of sleep – on a pillow filled with coarse plastic flakes, by the way, which sucks in terms of comfort, in case anyone doubted it – I set off for the memorial in the late morning. I start with the park. The A-bomb Dome, to be more specific. I already caught sight of it several times since yesterday, as you can see it from the tram. It’s not so much being in front of it that does something, it’s reading the metal plaque against it. 

« The A-bomb Dome is the ruins of the former Hiroshima Prefecture Industrial Promotion Hall which was destroyed by the first atomic bomb ever to be used in the history of humankind on August 6, 1945. »

The first atomic bomb ever to be used.

I don’t know why, reading that sentence engraved on metal, in this city, in front of this ruin, makes a weight fall on my chest. It’s as if I’m suddenly taking a small measure of what happened. The terrible and unimaginable reality of an atomic bomb dropped on a city. 

I continue my procession through the park, a slow and attentive walk, I don’t want to miss out anything. I have this feeling that everything is important. Each statue, each place, that we owe at least that much to them, these dead. Take the time, for real, to invest the place, to look, to feel. There are some huge red tulips, plumped and blazing. There are still lonely souls on benches, the peace that emanates from the leaning trees that shade the ground. 

My next stop is the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. I go there with a solemn and respectful curiosity. First, there are large pictures of the city in the early century. Old trams, men wearing dark coats and hats, an impression of the cheerful hustle and bustle of the 1920s. Then, the digital simulation of the bomb’s explosion and the instantaneous destruction of the 2km² city center quickly bring you back to the reason you’re here. 

After a long corridor, you enter a dark room, still unaware of what a terrible, terrifying den it is. There are photos, drawings, pieces of walls, clothes, more photos, objets, so many objects damaged, burnt, forever frozen in this semi-destruction state, alongside a sign, a name, a face, a story. I don’t know how many stories. More than one can bear, but so little compared to the actual number of victims. 

Even more than images, although some are still printed on my retina, it’s the words that strike me and chill me to the bone. The testimonies, the rough, factual and incredulous descriptions of those who were there, who saw. Excerpts of letters. They overwhelm me. Even when trying to picture it, even when having before my eyes what remains of this unspeakable barbarity, I realize how impossible it is to grasp even a hint of the horror of what happened. It’s hard enough to bear the weight of everything I see as I wander between these gloomy walls, and it’s just a tiny mirror missioned to keep our memory awaken. 

I leave feeling distraught and heavy. I tell myself that everyone should see this museum once in their lives, that it’s an absolute necessity. 

Turns out I had no specific plan for the rest of the day and I’m glad I hadn’t. I feel unable to do anything else than roaming down the streets, reconnecting with the energy of the living. What a strange feeling it is to be walking through Hiroshima now that I’ve seen all this, and to note the relentless ardor with which life goes on. Fortunately, I guess.

While I’m sitting down to a small veggie focaccia (bakeries in Japan are usually good, from what little I’ve tried), we text with D., who has followed the same program as me, with a bit of a time lag. He’s in the museum as we speak. We mentioned the possibility to grab dinner together later. As much as I’m thrilled by the idea, I try to not get ahead of myself. He still wants to visit a park, I’m going for a coffee. It’s barely mid-afternoon anyway.  

So when I see him showing up at the café half an hour later, it’s an understatement to say that the outlook for the end of my day shifts completely. The perfect surprise. He orders an expresso, we discuss the museum visit, which is quite an experience, then we’re off. I understand he’s a bit peckish and would like to find something to eat, but we end up just strolling around.

We walk up the riverbank and talk about the light, which here is like nowhere else. We take pictures. When we reach Yokogawa station, we loose ourselves in the small streets around, there’s no one but us and sun’s rays that come to die on wide facades. The scent of dashi broth wafts from the back kitchens, whetting our appetite. We notice the same details, which make us stop and step back, pulling out the camera to capture the essence of this Japan that moves us the exact same way. 

Night is falling when we head back towards the city center, carried away in deep conversations about our life aspirations. We spend some time again looking for the right restaurant, and luckily, we find it. A discreet izakaya, a little cramped and perfectly local. Exactly what we wanted. We spend the dinner going through my Tokyo adresses, where he’s going for a week the next day. We never watch the clock. When we leave, it’s because we’re craving a dessert, which we’ll have at an Italian restaurant we spotted earlier in the evening (and no judgment about going to an Italian place in Japan, it’s just because the vibes were super nice. And the reason why we only went after dinner. That’s it). 

We share a crème brûlée and some delicious scoops of ice cream and even the mint leaves because we both love it. When he tells me his favorite dessert is tiramisu, I don’t say that it’s mine too, because I think that sounds far too cliché and ridiculous. 

Needless to say, the evening could have gone on forever, but at some point you shall go home. Arrivederci charming interlude. Streets are surprisingly quiet passed 10:30pm. He misses his tram for a few seconds, the next one is in 20 minutes. What a shame. Forced to walk me back to the stop right across my hostel. At least it gives us time to say goodbye properly, and not while half-running. It would have frustrated my fanciful soul. I prefer walks by the silent of lampposts.

Once at destination, I wait with him. We don’t say we’ll see each other again back in Europe. Nor do we intend to lose sight of each other completely. The story doesn’t say whether we kiss or not.

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