Date: Wed, March 2, 1995 8:12 PM EST
From: HTO2.aol.com
Subj: 95.3.2 Train to Kobe
To: --Email to family--

This train doesn’t go as fast as it used to; the route isn’t as straight either. It slows down for track changes that are new to me. Alongside, the work continues: men in trucks with backing-up beepers warning men in helmets standing with shovels. We go by places that used to be stations but there is nothing to stop for now.

The tracks are elevated so we can see into the third floor of large apartment buildings. Sometimes it is the fourth floor because a floor below has disappeared. The quake tossed them into the air, and when they came down, they compressed. Smaller buildings look as if they have been washed up on shore—tilted left and right. In the distance I see buildings leaning on other buildings across the street.

I see the building eaters—articulated cranes—one-armed monsters with lobster pincers that cut and crunch concrete. Scurrying around them are little backhoes the size of Volkswagens. I think Ma would love one. They come in pink and violet and have cute names like “Windy.”

We enter the dead zone. I saw the smoke the day of the quake. From where I was, it looked like a bad rainstorm coming. It was a firestorm. Japanese wooden houses reduced to their metal content: sinks, pipes; mixed in with burned out cars. Concrete telephone poles mark where streets should be. Standing amongst the rubble, 6- or 7-story apartment buildings, their dark and hollow eyes have too much mascara.

Some of the riders look out in silence. Perhaps this is their first time since the quake; perhaps they look for changes, rebuilding, reopening; perhaps they still don’t believe. Most are as they ever were: newspapers, novels, sleep. The train stops. The railroad track no longer exists. We go out of the station, taking our tickets with us, and wait in line for commandeered tour buses. Ahead are the riders of several trains before us. Like school children we follow flags, march to whistles. We zig past collapsed houses, zag around piles of rubble decorated with piles of flowers. Thirty minutes, forty minutes and finally down to the main street where the buses line up for us.

They don’t make these buses for my size, but I’m glad to sit down. Mine is the aisle seat, literally: as the last riders to board, we unfold hidden seats bridging the walkway. Five abreast now, our ride is fifteen minutes alongside the elevated expressway. The sections which fell over have already been eaten and carted away. That which remains is propped with girders stacked like the stick houses we made on Willow Point beach.

The bus stops. We get off to walk a short distance to the train station. A TV news crew is waiting for us. This station has just reopened. The commuters are tired of being asked “How does it feel?” and avoid the crew in favor of the housewife and daughter selling box lunches and cans of juice. A poster above them on the station wall has a Phoenix (the symbol of Kobe) and the words “Ganbaroya! We Love Kobe.”

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