在自然環境長大的我，1988年夏一下子闖進了現代化的社會環境，身體還真的跟不上。坐飛機暈機，坐小車也暈車。你想啊，過去在國內的時候身體的五臟六腑幾乎都是處在四平八穩的狀態下的。那時國內的公共汽車甚至綠皮火車的速度都是比較慢的，眼睛根本不會跟不上看移動的物體。這一跨進現代化的環境，交通工具幾乎都是高速的，那習慣了看平穩慢速物體的眼睛在高速行駛的交通工具中看啥都是拉風拉道道的，能不眼花嗎？腦子就跟著受不了，那胃也是啊，在開長途的車裡，那胃老是在晃動的感覺，能不翻江倒海嗎。出門坐車要帶上好幾個塑料袋，好在是在自家的車裡鬧騰，沒在大眾面前出醜。又好在高速公路上常有加油站，可以停車及時扔垃圾。後來隨著時間推移，慢慢適應了，就不再暈車也不吐了。
1988年9月中旬從美國回到日本後，我就去橫濱市的飛鳥學院學日語了。但這種對現代化節奏的不適應還在延續——每天來回要坐2個多小時的電鐵，中途換一次車。在國內坐過的車，車窗都基本上開著的，而且車速都比較慢，根本沒有憋氣的感覺。現在一下子要在全封閉的電鐵裡待一個多小時，真的很難受。感覺憋得慌，透不過氣來。我只能靠車門站著，一旦車靠站了我馬上把頭探出去做深呼吸。人多下班擁擠的時候，車廂裡的人味兒也受不了。日本車廂裡貼滿了廣告，頭上方也掛滿了廣告，眼花繚亂的我還真不適應。讀了3個月那期日語班就結束了，修了證書上的日期是昭和63年12月23日。
1989年3月初從泰國回到日本後，J經人介紹幫我找了一位三十來歲的台灣女生教我日語，按2千日元一小時付費。當時在一般工廠、超市裡打零工（アルバイト）是五六百日元一個小時。不久她就回台灣了，她還把跟她學中文的一位在日本一所中學教書的日本中年男子介紹給我，跟我學中文。後來J又幫我在東海大學的別科報了名。4月開始，我就拄著拐杖，乘巴士去學校上課。大約半小時的車程。頭一天中午，J還給我送了便當過來，很暖心，也引人羨慕。記得教日語的中年女老師也看見了，她在接下來的課裡教日語單詞「親切」時還舉例說「グノさんの夫は親切ですね。」（グノ先生的丈夫真體貼呢。）你猜我怎麼回答的：「えっ、本当ですか？」（誒？真的嗎？）引得教室裡哄堂大笑。那位老師布置的作業寫短文，我就把做電鐵透不過氣來，一旦停車就把頭伸出去深呼吸的事寫了，她還當作範文在課堂上讀了。
跟日本的男人相比，J真是「親切」多了。1990年11月底在日本東海大學醫院做手術取出大腿骨上的三顆釘子。一年前在泰國北部清邁坐大象穿山谷時，被大象顛下來摔斷了左腿。泰國醫生用三枚釘子給我固定接骨。這次住院同病房有四五位日本病友，看著J每天都帶著鮮花來探望，她們都很羨慕我。J還給我拿來我喜歡聽的錄音帶和隨身聽。她們的丈夫可能是風俗，平時幾乎不來探病，只是手術那天現身。
在病床上我畫了幾張畫，還送了一張單支紅玫瑰畫給了對面床上那位很質樸的老婦人，她很高興。開刀當日J給我的鮮花我也畫了下來。
這两張J拍的照片是27日那天，手術前扎針準備做手術。從服裝上看，給我打針的這位小帥哥，好像不是護士。賽博高人（大青蛙）說：這位看起來不像是護士的小帥哥，極有可能是實習醫生（研修醫）或者是專門負責抽血檢驗的臨床檢驗技師。果然，從照片上看，他穿著醫生穿的白大褂，那動作好像是在抽血。我左手臂彎上方有條橡皮筋扎著，我的左手腕是立著的，大魚際在上面，他似乎是在手腕側面扎我。很痛的。照片中我都痛得張大了嘴巴，當然是無聲的。他是看不見的，他正低著頭聚精會神地扎我呢。
我們日語班上有十幾個學生，大多是大陸來的，還有從台灣、韓國、東南亞和北歐來的。
有一天我在家附近等巴士，一輛小車停在車站前方的幾米距離，一位很有學者風度的中年男士，打開車窗朝我招招手，跟我說：「是去東海大學的吧？」「是的。」我回答。「快上車吧。」他說：「我認識你丈夫。」原來他是我們別科的主任。到了學校，他會把車停在別科樓附近的樓前請我下車的，很低調。後來他還給我搭過幾次車。我很感激這位善良的別科主任，很有學識風度，但對我卻沒擺架子。
1989年11月14日到17日，我們TOKAI大學別科日語班的大部分同學與教授們一起坐新幹線去奈良、京都、廣島見學。
當晚我們參觀了大唐高僧鑑真和尚在公元759年所創建的唐招提寺。鑑真和尚從公元742年到753年，不畏艱險六次東渡五次失敗，途遇狂風怒濤、海盜官府追截以及觸礁，抵達日本時鑑真和尚已是66歲高齡，並且雙目失明。他為弘揚佛教以及促進中日文化交流做出了傑出的貢獻。
奈良公園內建於公元728年的東大寺，是世界上最大的木製建築。
這兩個立在地上的木雕頭像神態生動，是江戶時期的増長天王和持國天王的頭像。
奈良公園的鹿被視為神的化身。我們都買了鹿餅，餵了這頭餵那頭，很有趣。
這集體照是在奈良的法隆寺拍的，我站在最後一排的最左邊。站在最前排中央位置一臉笑容的是別科頗有聲望的老教授，大概是副主任，比較幽默。有一次上大課，課堂上學生基本上是不敢調侃老師的。那天他說了一句似乎是自嘲的話，我卻忍不住說了聲：「やっぱり」（果然如此！）。他聽了一愣，那一愣的意思是說，咦，怎麼有學生敢調侃他，而且個女生，但他也只能尷尬地笑了，同學們也都在偷笑。當然他也調侃地說過我拄著拐杖走路像風一樣快。
在奈良傍晚跟同學們自由逛街時，看到一家店燈火輝煌，門前有一排花籃，旗幡招展，從裡面傳出鈴鈴瑯瑯的聲響和傳聲器裡興高采烈的說話聲，十分熱鬧。在日本常看到這樣的店，但不知是幹啥的，同學說那叫パチンコ是彈珠房，便帶我進去玩兒。在彈珠機邊的小口投入500硬幣，嘩啦啦滾出一把鋼珠來，放進機器入口，轉動把手，鋼珠就唰唰地往上亂打。有點眼花繚亂，他們說手勁兒要悠著點兒，將鋼珠朝一個點打，那樣鋼珠才有機會落進那些一開一合的小洞，就會回流出幾顆珠子。珠子多到一定數量可換錢。那晚還經過一個脫衣舞店，時間已經過了大半場，好奇呀，也就跟著他們進去看看，我坐在最後一排，台上有幾個女人一個個單獨出場表演，都幾乎一絲不掛，她們和觀眾還有互動，尺度很大。最後那個拿著燃燒的蠟燭表演，還把蠟燭流出來的蠟滴在身上做出自虐狀。那是屬於我不該去的地方。
坐落在音羽山的半山腰、建於公元798年的清水寺，是京都最古老的寺院，其結構巧妙沒有用一顆釘子。
京都東映太秦映畫村是很多日本古代劇取景的地方。村裡有仿造的江戶時代明治時代的古街。街邊放著一台江戶時代的轎子，簡樸無華，就是一張木凳子兩側後邊與上方用席子擋住，頂部有一根粗木槓子。多年後的今天，2026年10月29日才從賽博高人（大青蛙）那兒知道，這轎子在日語裡叫「駕籠」（かご），是江戶時代日本平民和低級武士最真實的代步工具。再一看照片，後面屋子的牆上就醒目地寫著「駕籠」這兩個字，只是我一直沒把這兩個字與這頂破轎子聯想到一塊兒。這不，我剛在轎子上坐下，即刻樂呵呵地過來一個抬轎子的，他不是我們班的，有人端起相機拍了一張，這時又跑過來一位我們班的「轎夫」，就又接著拍一張。在布景道具小茶館兒裡，我也拿起茶壺茶碗兒當一回老闆娘給客人倒茶。拍這張照片時我試圖拔守門武士的腰刀，被他一臉佯裝嚴肅地一折扇劈將下來。同學們嘻嘻哈哈玩兒得很盡興。
映畫村裡還有拍和服照的業務，樣品照片都美得令人想起「最是那一低頭的溫柔」詩句。2千日元一張，貴是貴了點兒，打工一小時才賺五百多點兒。我還是忍不住排隊拍了一張，當照片寄到家時打開一看，真是太醜了。那樣品照片裡的女人都是精心化妝過的，白臉紅唇，很美。而我們排大隊等拍照的就沒有被精心化妝的可能，結果拍出來的是黃臉婆，戴著不服帖的假髮，表情也不嫻靜。你想啊，這邊排著大隊等拍照，照相館數錢數得手酸，沒時間給你捯飭，有下一位等著上鏡頭，你也心不定，怎麼會氣定神閒？！這和服穿在我身上也顯得太短了，即刻我就把照片撕了。
京都金閣寺1397年初建，曾是幕府將軍的度假別墅，後來成了禪寺。金閣寺曾在1950年被寺裡一名21歲的見習僧人林承賢縱火燒毀，據說他是要報復社會。
具有盛唐文化氣息的二條城建於公元1603年，是德川家康幕府將軍在京都的行宮。二條城的木質走廊有鸝鳴地板之稱，人走在上面會發出鳥鳴的響聲，是防止刺客的報警機關。二條城唐門雕樑畫棟極盡唯美。這次活動中其他班的日本老師與不同班裡的同學開始熟悉了，雖然還不知道對方姓甚名誰，拍照時也會有人走上來一起拍。有的照片不知是誰抓拍的，回到學校後統一貼在牆上，找到自己想要的付個沖印費去取。
我比較喜歡這張照片，是一個不認識的老師抓拍的。背景的那棟建築因為只有一小部分看不出地點，大家都站在建築前的空地上，似乎在聽取介紹。我和後面的一位其他班的男同學都側頭抬望我們的右側，面部表情嚴肅。我穿的米色立領風衣敞開著，內側是深藍色的薄絨，裡面是件披在肩上的紅毛衣，襯衫是黃色的。脖子上還掛著相機，雖然照片只有胸口之上，但我卻顯得知性大氣，似乎思緒被帶到了過去。我對被拍照全然不知。這就是抓拍的妙處，真實自然。
我們見學的最後一站是廣島，在那裡我們參觀了原爆紀念館。雖然早就知道二戰末期，美國總統杜魯門下令美軍在廣島與長崎投下了兩顆原子彈。但參觀時目睹歷史照片中的慘狀，心情還是十分沉重。1945年8月6日早上8點15分原子彈爆炸的瞬間造成了廣島市超過十萬居民死亡，城市遭毀滅性打擊。
走出展館看見和平公園裡一大群和平鴿在自由飛翔，便走過去餵鴿子。留個影吧，走過來一個其他班不認識的男同學坐在了邊上。這是我有生以來唯一的一次拍照時伸出兩根手指，發自內心的願望世界和平。
這張照片是我拍的那棟被原子彈炸毀的樓，另外一張是網上找到的是這棟樓沒被炸毀之前的樣子。原子彈爆炸後，只有這棟樓殘留了下來。1945年8月15日，日本宣布無條件投降。任何戰爭都是百姓遭殃。
在紀念雕塑前留影時一位不認識的男老師也過來跟我合影。不同班的幾個同學一起拍個集體照，我們的班主任齊老師匆匆趕來，側著身子右腳都還沒落地，就被快門抓拍了下來。
我們還去了廣島西南部的宮島，這是我在宮島入口處，一隻鹿正向我鞠躬行禮，不知被誰抓拍的。
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| 這次見學最後一晚的旅館大廳 The hotel lobby on the final night of this study trip |
在大願寺裡轉了轉，據說大鳥居代表神域的入口，用於區分神域和人類居住的世俗界。
1990年2月18日我們去班主任齊老師家作客。這是我和另外兩位同學三人走在去她家的路上。
這是齊老師一人在廚房裡忙活，我們在廳裡聊天兒。一共八個同學去了齊老師家，一個南韓的、一個泰國的、一個歐洲人，和五個大陸的，其他的打工等原因沒去。
至今我還保留著我們九個人連齊老師在內的約條。約條上寫著2000年8月第二星期天，我們班的這些人將再一次在中國的北京聚集，還寫有學校留學教育中心的電話號碼。我們每個人都信誓旦旦地簽了字。齊老師當場去樓上她家的書房裡，用複印機也許是FAX傳真機給每個在座的影印了一份複印件。當時覺得2000年是個好遙遠的日子。不知道別人怎樣，我失信了，我來美國後就與他們失去了聯繫。現在想想，我至少應該在2000年8月給學校留學教育中心打個電話的，很後悔~~
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From High-Speed Shinkansen to the Lost Promise of 2000: My 1989 Memoir in Japan
Growing up in a natural environment, I suddenly burst into a highly modernized society in the summer of 1988, and my body truly struggled to keep up. I got airsick on planes and carsick in automobiles. If you think about it, back when I was in China, my body and organs were used to a perfectly steady, slow-paced existence. In those days, the speeds of domestic public buses and even the "green-skin" trains were quite slow; your eyes never struggled to keep up with moving objects. But stepping into a modernized environment meant almost all transportation moved at high speeds. To eyes accustomed to steady, slow-moving objects, looking at anything from a speeding vehicle turned the world into a blur of rushing streaks. How could one not feel dizzy? My brain simply couldn't handle it, and neither could my stomach. In a car on a long-distance drive, my stomach felt as if it were constantly rocking—how could it not churn violently? Whenever I went out by car, I had to bring several plastic bags along. Fortunately, all this commotion happened inside our own family car, so I never made a fool of myself in public. It was also a blessing that gas stations were frequent along the highways, allowing us to pull over and discard the trash in time. Over time, as I gradually adapted, the carsickness and vomiting stopped.
After returning to Japan from the United States in mid-September 1988, I went to the Asuka Academy in Yokohama to study Japanese. Yet, this maladjustment to the fast pace of modernization persisted. Every day, my round-trip commute on the electric train (densha) took over two hours, requiring one transfer along the way. The trains I had ridden back in China usually kept their windows wide open and traveled at a much slower speed, so you never felt suffocated. Now, suddenly having to spend over an hour inside a completely sealed electric train was incredibly difficult. It felt stifling, as if I couldn't catch my breath. I had no choice but to stand right against the train doors; the moment the train pulled into a station, I would immediately poke my head out to take a deep breath. During the crowded rush hour after work, the sheer smell of the packed carriage was unbearable too. The inside of Japanese trains was plastered with advertisements, and placards hung thick right over your head; it was a dizzying sight that I truly found hard to get used to. That Japanese language program lasted for three months before concluding, and the date printed on my certificate of completion was December 23, Showa 63 (1988).
After returning to Japan from Thailand in early March 1989, J found me a Taiwanese young woman in her thirties through an acquaintance to tutor me in Japanese, paying her 2,000 Yen per hour. At that time, part-time jobs (arubaito) in typical factories or supermarkets only paid about 500 to 600 Yen an hour. Not long after, she returned to Taiwan, but she introduced me to a middle-aged Japanese man who taught at a local junior high school and was learning Chinese with her, so he could study Chinese with me. Later, J helped me enroll in the Bekka (Special Course) at Tokai University. Starting in April, I relied on crutches to take the bus to school for classes. The commute was about half an hour. At noon on my very first day, J even came over to deliver a bento box to me; it was deeply heartwarming and drew envious glances from others. I remember our middle-aged female Japanese teacher saw it too. In a subsequent class, while teaching the vocabulary word "Shinsetsu" (kind/thoughtful), she used us as an example and said, "Guno-san no otto wa shinsetsu desu ne" (Mrs. Guno's husband is so thoughtful, isn't he?). Can you guess how I responded? I blurted out, "Eh, hontō desu ka?" (Huh, really?), which sent the entire classroom into roars of laughter. Later, when the teacher assigned a short essay as homework, I wrote about how I felt suffocated on the electric train and would stick my head out for a deep breath the moment it stopped. She actually read it out loud to the class as a model essay.
Compared to typical Japanese men, J was indeed vastly more "shinsetsu." Near the end of November 1990, I underwent surgery at Tokai University Hospital to remove the three steel pins from my femur. A year earlier, while riding an elephant through a valley in northern Chiang Mai, Thailand, I had been thrown off by the elephant and broke my left leg. The Thai doctors had used three pins to secure and set the bone. During this hospitalization, there were four or five Japanese roommates in my ward. Watching J arrive every single day bearing fresh flowers to visit me, they envied me tremendously. J also brought along a Walkman and cassette tapes of the music I loved to listen to. For those Japanese women, it seemed to be the cultural custom that their husbands barely ever visited them while they were hospitalized, only showing up on the actual day of surgery.
While bedridden, I sketched a few drawings. I even gifted a drawing of a single red rose to the very simple, old woman in the bed opposite mine, which made her incredibly happy. I also sketched the fresh flowers J gave me on the day of my operation.
This photograph taken by J shows the day of the 27th, when I was being put on an IV needle in preparation for surgery. Judging by the uniform, the young fellow giving me the injection didn't look like a nurse. The cyber-expert (the Cyber-Frog) remarked: This young man who didn't look like a nurse was highly likely either an intern doctor (kenshū-i) or a clinical laboratory technician specializing in drawing blood. Sure enough, looking closely at the photograph, he was likely a clinical laboratory technician; he wore a doctor’s white lab coat, and his movements looked exactly like he was drawing blood. A rubber tourniquet was tied just above the bend of my left elbow, and my left wrist was propped upright with the thenar eminence facing up; he seemed to be piercing me right on the side of the wrist. It was excruciatingly painful. In the photo, my mouth is open wide in a silent gasp of pain. Of course, he couldn't see it—he was looking down, completely absorbed and concentrated on piercing my wrist.
There were a dozen or so students in our Japanese class, mostly from Mainland China, along with others from Taiwan, South Korea, Southeast Asia, and Northern Europe. One day, while I was waiting for the bus near my house, a small sedan pulled up a few meters ahead of the station. A middle-aged gentleman with quite a scholarly air rolled down the window, waved at me, and asked, "Are you going to Tokai University?" "Yes," I replied. "Hop in," he said, "I know your husband." As it turned out, he was the director of our Bekka department. Upon arriving at the university, he would low-key drop me off right in front of the building near the Bekka department. He gave me a ride a few more times after that. I was incredibly grateful to this kind department director; he was a man of great learning and stature, yet he never put on airs with me.
From November 14 to 17, 1989, most of the students from our Tokai University Bekka Japanese class, along with our professors, took the Shinkansen for a study tour to Nara, Kyoto, and Hiroshima.
That evening, we visited the Toshodai-ji Temple, which was founded in 759 AD by the great Tang Dynasty monk, Master Jianzhen. From 742 to 753 AD, braving unimaginable perils, Master Jianzhen attempted the eastern voyage to Japan six times, failing five times due to fierce winds, raging waves, pirates, government interceptions, and shipwrecks. By the time he finally arrived in Japan, he was already 66 years old and completely blind. He made monumental contributions to propagating Buddhism and promoting cultural exchange between China and Japan.
The Todai-ji Temple in Nara Park, built in 728 AD, is the largest wooden structure in the world. These two large wooden sculpted heads resting on the ground, dating back to the Edo period, possessed incredibly vivid expressions; they are the heads of Zōjō-tennō (the Growth Heavenly King) and Jikoku-tennō (the Dharma-Protecting Heavenly King), though they consist only of the neck and head without bodies. The deer of Nara Park are revered as messengers of the gods. We all bought deer crackers (shika-senbei), feeding this one and then that one—it was wonderful fun.
This group photo was taken at the Horyu-ji Temple in Nara; I am standing on the far left of the very back row. Standing front and center with a broad smile was a highly esteemed old professor from our Bekka, likely the associate director, who was quite humorous. On one occasion during a large lecture class—where students typically never dared to tease a teacher—he made a self-deprecating remark. I couldn't help but call out, "Yappari!" (Just as I thought!). He froze for a second, and that stunned look on his face seemed to say, "Huh? A student actually dares to tease me, and a female student at that?" But he could only offer a helpless, embarrassed smile, while the rest of the class quietly snickered. Of course, he also playfully retaliated later by teasing me that even on crutches, I walked as fast as the wind.
While wandering the streets freely with classmates in Nara during the evening, we saw a shop brilliantly lit up. A row of flower baskets stood before the entrance, banners fluttered, and a loud, clattering clink-clink-clink sound echoed from within, accompanied by excited voices over a loudspeaker. It was incredibly bustling. One often saw such shops in Japan, but I didn't know what they were for. A classmate told me it was called a Pachinko parlor and took me inside to play. After dropping a 500-Yen coin into a small slot on the machine, a handful of steel balls came rolling out with a loud clatter. You feed them into the machine's tray, turn the handle, and the steel balls go shooting upward in a flurry. It was a bit dizzying. They told me to relax my grip and aim the balls toward a single spot, as that gave the balls a chance to fall into the little pockets that blinked open and shut, which would then return several more balls. If you accumulated enough balls, they could be exchanged for cash. That night, we also passed by a strip club. The show was already more than halfway through, but out of curiosity, I followed them inside to take a look. I sat in the very back row. On stage, several women performed solo one after another, almost entirely stark naked. They interacted with the audience, and the performance was highly explicit. The last performer used a burning candle, letting the dripping wax fall onto her skin in a self-punishing display. That was a place where I truly didn't belong.
Perched halfway up Mt. Otowa, Kiyomizu-dera Temple, built in 798 AD, is the oldest temple in Kyoto. Its structure is remarkably ingenious, constructed entirely without a single nail.
The Toei Kyoto Studio Park (Eigamura) is a place where many historical Japanese dramas are filmed. Inside the park, there are replica old streets from the Edo and Meiji periods. By the roadside stood an Edo-period palanquin. It was simple and unadorned—essentially just a wooden bench covered on both sides, the back, and the top with woven mats, topped with a thick wooden pole. It wasn't until decades later, today on October 29, 2026, that I learned from a cyber-expert (the Cyber-Frog) that this palanquin is called a Kago in Japanese, and it was the most authentic mode of transportation for commoners and low-ranking samurai during the Edo period. Looking closely at the photograph again, the two kanji characters for "Kago" (駕籠) were actually written conspicuously on the wall of the building in the background; I just had never connected those words with this dilapidated palanquin before. Sure enough, the moment I sat down on the bench, a local carrier happily came over to lift the palanquin. He wasn't from our class. Someone raised a camera and snapped a photo. Just then, another "carrier" from our class ran over, so another photo was snapped. In a prop-set tea house, I also picked up a teapot and tea bowls, playing the role of the shop mistress pouring tea for guests. When taking the photo with the guard, I tried to draw the waist sword of a gate-guarding samurai, only to have him bring a folding fan snapping down on my wrist with a mock-serious expression on his face. The classmates laughed and giggled, having an absolute wonderful time.
Inside the studio park, there was also a service for taking photos in traditional kimonos. The sample photos were so beautiful they brought to mind the poetic line: "Most beautiful is that gentle drop of the head." At 2,000 Yen a photo, it was a bit expensive—considering a part-time job only earned a little over 500 Yen an hour. Still, I couldn't resist waiting in the long line to take one. When the photograph finally arrived at our home and I opened it, it was shockingly ugly. The women in those sample photos had been meticulously made up with porcelain faces and crimson lips—they were gorgeous. But for those of us waiting in a massive queue, there was absolutely no chance for careful primping. The result turned out looking like a sallow, haggard woman wearing an ill-fitting wig, with an expression that was far from serene. If you think about it, with a huge line waiting, the studio staff were counting cash until their hands grew sore; they had no time to groom you. With the next person waiting to jump on camera, you couldn't settle your mind either—how could anyone look composed and at ease? Furthermore, the kimono looked far too short on my frame. I tore the photograph up immediately.
The Kinkaku-ji Temple (Golden Pavilion) in Kyoto, originally built in 1397, was once a vacation villa for a Shogun before becoming a Zen temple. Kinkaku-ji was destroyed by arson in 1950 by a 21-year-old novice monk named Hayashi Yoken, who reportedly did it out of resentment toward society.
Exuding the rich cultural atmosphere of the Tang Dynasty, Nijo Castle was built in 1603 AD as the Kyoto residence of the Tokugawa Shogunate. The wooden corridors of Nijo Castle are famously known as "nightingale floors"; walking upon them produces a bird-like chirping sound, serving as an alarm system against assassins. The Kara-mon Gate of Nijo Castle is carved and painted to absolute perfection. During this trip, Japanese teachers from the other Bekka classes and students from different classes began to grow familiar with one another. Although we didn't yet know each other's names, people would willingly walk up to join in whenever a photo was being taken. Some photos were candid shots taken by unknown hands; upon returning to school, they were all uniform pasted on a wall, and you could pay a printing fee to retrieve whichever ones you wanted.
I am particularly fond of this photograph, which was a candid shot captured by a teacher I didn't know. Because only a small section of the background building is visible, the location is hard to discern. Everyone is standing on the open ground in front of the structure, seemingly listening to an introduction. A male student from another class behind me and I are both turning our heads to gaze up toward our right, our facial expressions serious. I am wearing a beige stand-collar trench coat left open, revealing a deep blue thin fleece lining over a red sweater draped across my shoulders, with a yellow shirt underneath. A camera is slung around my neck. Although the photo only captures me from the chest up, I look intellectual and dignified, as if my thoughts had been carried back to the past. I was completely unaware of being photographed. That is the magic of a candid shot—it is completely authentic and natural.
The final stop of our study tour was Hiroshima, where we visited the Peace Memorial Museum. Although I had long known that at the end of World War II, U.S. President Truman ordered the military to drop two atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, witnessing the sheer horror in the historical photographs during the visit left me with an incredibly heavy heart. At the exact instant of the atomic blast at 8:15 AM on August 6, 1945, over 100,000 residents of Hiroshima lost their lives, and the city suffered a catastrophic blow. Stepping out of the exhibition hall, I saw a massive flock of peace doves flying freely in Peace Memorial Park, so I walked over to feed them. Wanting to capture the moment, a male student I didn't know from another class walked over and sat down beside me. This was the only time in my entire life that I raised two fingers in a V-sign for a photograph—a heartfelt wish for world peace. One photo is of the building I snapped that was ruined by the atomic bomb, and the other is one I found on the internet showing what the building looked like before it was destroyed. After the atomic blast, only this building remained standing. On August 15, 1945, Japan announced its unconditional surrender. In any war, it is always the ordinary citizens who suffer.
While posing for a photograph in front of the memorial sculpture, a male teacher I didn't know also came over to join me. When a few classmates from different classes gathered for a group photo, our class advisor, Teacher Qi, came rushing over; her body was tilted and her right foot hadn't even touched the ground yet when she was caught by the shutter.
We also traveled to Miyajima in southwestern Hiroshima. This is a photo of me at the entrance of Miyajima, where a deer is actually bowing to me in greeting, caught in a candid shot by someone unknown. I wandered around Daigan-ji Temple. It is said that the Great Torii Gate represents the entrance to the sacred realm, serving to separate the divine domain from the secular world where humans dwell.
On February 18, 1990, we went to visit our class advisor, Teacher Qi, at her home. This is a photo of me and two other classmates walking on our way to her house. Here is Teacher Qi busy working all by herself in the kitchen while we chat in the living room. A total of eight students went to Teacher Qi's house—one from South Korea, one from Thailand, one European, and five from Mainland China—while others couldn't make it due to part-time work or other reasons. To this day, I still keep the written pledge signed by the nine of us, including Teacher Qi. The pledge states that on the second Sunday of August in the year 2000, our class would gather once again in Beijing, China, and it even includes the phone number for the university's International Student Education Center. Every one of us signed our names with absolute solemnity and devotion. On the spot, Teacher Qi went upstairs to her home study and used a copier—or perhaps a FAX machine—to make a photocopy for each of us present. Back then, the year 2000 felt like such a distant date. I do not know how it went for the others, but I broke that promise; after I came to the United States, I lost touch with them entirely. Thinking about it now, I should have at least made a phone call to the university's International Student Education Center in August 2000. I regret it so much...
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第四百三十六篇
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