A Corner at a Time

I don't remember if I was standing or sitting as I waved goodbye to her; all I remember is her waving at me as the bus doors closed. The next thing I remember was looking into the tinted windows, trying to make sense of how I could say goodbye to this city. I had come here with no expectations, no knowledge of Japanese. Yet in the past ten months, Fukuoka had become my home.

She was sweet and charming, an oddball in every Japanese way I could think of. A common acquaintance told me she was hikkikomori and they were surprised at how she had taken to me. She once turned down an invitation to go the onsen (public baths) because she had a tattoo. She was a pescatarian who brought rice balls with her in case she got hungry. She didn't speak in the polite, roundabout way that I observed was typical of most Japanese. Instead, she spoke directly: "Amerikajin sukijanai." I don't like Americans, she said. As her personal protest against American presence in Okinawa, she didn't speak any English. Despite this, and my barely-there Japanese skills, we spent afternoons together as she told me of her intentions to travel to Ukraine and Estonia. She apologized for not being able to see me off at the airport when I would leave. She also helped me shop for gifts, and had given me several herself. Among them was a Totoro keychain, which she specifically made sure was not cross-eyed, as we had once laughed about. While we sipped our coffee she saw me looking at a tumbler that was specially marked 'Fukuoka,' a tumbler version of the many Hello Kitty toys whose costumes varied from city to city. She gave it to me on the condition that I would return to Fukuoka someday.

I immediately I said I would.

I held the tumbler in its paper bag as the bus moved forward, then stopped, its familiar voiceovers playing in the background of my thoughts. I wondered when I would come back here; wondered if she might one day learn English; wondered if I would still remember the little Japanese I had learned.

Ichi-go, ichi-e: a rare opportunity, for which I was extremely grateful.


A night view of the city's industries passed quickly: large container vans and warehouses by the sea. I heard the name of my stop called on the voiceover, and then called out by the driver. I walked the now familiar path back to my room: I had gifts, a new tumbler, and a lot of packing to do.