Joining a few close friends at the White House Easter Egg Roll
Today I am in Washington DC. I speak at Penn State on Wednesday, and I decided to bring my youngest grandson, Woodrow, with me. Woodrow lives in Palos Verdes (near Redondo Beach), and is enjoying his spring break. We decided to combine business with pleasure on this trip, and we are squeezing in DC before we go to State College.
View of Nara and the Ikoma mountains beyond the Yamato Plain
There are certainly cultures in the world that strive to remain apart. The Japanese, for all of their western trappings, do not have to work hard to remain distinguishable. The radical differences in language are, in part, responsible. Although English is commonly seen in Japan, most of it is related to the perplexing English tag lines, slogans, and non sequiturs that Japanese marketing whizzes concoct. Otherwise, Japan is for the Japanese.
A-Bomb Dome, Hiroshima
The name is synonymous with the A-Bomb. The two are interlocked, interchangeable, forever connected by the one ghastly day.
On August 6, 1945, at 8:15 am, the atomic war age began. Since that moment there has not been a day that “nuclear” (even when mispronounced) wasn’t perched on the lips of the world. I would carve up human time into BB (before the bomb), and AB (after the bomb). We are living in the year 65 AB.
Oura Catholic Church, Nagasaki
We are in Nara, in the Mikasa roykan within the Nara Koen (Park). We are well above the valley that holds the city, surrounded by forest, deer, and silence. Given the tourist bustle of Kyoto, I welcome this peaceful interlude.
Peace Statue in Nagasaki
If you are my age you grew up with the bomb. As a child I would peer out the window of my Dad’s Chevrolet as we drove to my grandparent’s home in Paris (Texas) and wonder if any of the summer clouds billowing in the sky signaled an attack (Dad! That one looks like a mushroom!). In October 1962, at Landrum Junior High in Houston, we drilled daily during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The siren would howl, and we would drop under our desks and cover our heads in expectation of the big blast.
Dance performance, Shuri-jo
America imports oil from Saudi Arabia, cars from Japan, wine from France, shrimp from Viet Nam, coffee from Costa Rica, jalapeños from Mexico, and even toothpicks from China. We have perfected consumption, and the world feeds our insatiable appetite for stuff.
In return, America exports pop culture. No matter where you might wander, blithely expecting to be swallowed in a culture unlike your own, your first meal likely will be accompanied by the viral voices of Michael Jackson or Lady Gaga.
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Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan |
 Dohyo and yakata |
 Flying rikishi |
 Cherry blossoms, Glover Gardens, Nagasaki |
 Virginia and Cassady on the Wakakusa-yama trail |
 Dejima, Nagasaki |
