A little old lady asked for directions on the D.C metro the other day. From her accent and facial features I thought she may be Japanese. I asked. She confirmed she was from Japan.
When I mentioned that I had been to Japan, she let out a squeal of thrill – that came as a surprise. She beamed. Her little dark pupils twinkled like black diamonds. She raised her hands and fist pumped like an excited but cautious little girl. I was elated to bring a smile to her face.
She followed me onto the train and we sat together, smiling like buddies who’d reunited after years apart. She was soft spoken, never mind that the chug-chug of the train drowned out any attempts to have a meaningful conversation about places, culture, impressions. Our smiles did the talking. The guy to her right tried not to look, a little old Japanese lady and an African woman – quite the combination. What he couldn’t see were two hearts connected to a place. The nostalgia, the home-sickness – the joy of being understood.
I came to my stop and bid her farewell, she held my hand and shock it several times. I’d shared a thin slice of her Japan, a little string which perhaps for her was a life time of memories – a stroll at the foot of Mt. Fuji, a trek through Fushimi Inari, slurps of spicy ramen or a gentle bow of the head to say “Arigato!”
ugandanmama 