The Road to Tohoku

I’m sitting on a coach bus at 7 a.m., staring out the window, scanning the streets for tourists. This isn’t where I thought I’d be. Not after graduating with a Master’s in International Relations, fluent in two languages, and ready to take on the world. But here I am.

Outside, the street is quiet. I spot him—our last passenger, a foreigner in a blue T-shirt and shorts, looking as if he’s searching for something. I jump out of the bus, waving him over, holding my clipboard. It’s my way of taking control. A trick I learned from my manager.

He approaches with a bounce in his step, his enthusiasm almost too much for this early hour. “The bus to Tohoku, right? I saw the Misano Line sign.”

“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “And you are?”

He grins. “Just someone looking for adventure.”

“Miles, by any chance?”

“Yep, Miles, Miles Webb. Sorry I’m late. I hope you weren’t going to leave without me?”

“No, of course not.”

We were going to leave in another two minutes. Company policy.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“My name?”

“Yes. What’s your name?” he asks, chuckling.

“I’m Yuki.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Five months,” I say, acting disinterested. I glance at my clipboard, hoping he’ll get the hint.

“Do you like your job?”

“Yes. And you’re in Seat 12B.”

He looks at me as if he has something else to say, but finally steps into the bus. I exhale. I don’t know why Americans feel it necessary to engage in pointless chit-chat with people they don’t know.

The bus rumbles to life, the engine groaning as its heavy weight swings northward. The office towers of Tokyo are soon rushing past the window.

I pick up my microphone. “Welcome to the Misano Line’s Tohoku Tsunami Tour. There are 17 people joining our tour. Over the next two days, we’ll visit eight important sites in Fukushima, Miyagi and Iwate prefectures. Our first stop is in three hours. Enjoy the ride. If you need to use the restroom, it’s at the back of the bus.”

The guests nod politely, except Miles, who rolls his head.

With nothing to do for the next few hours, I happily sit back in my seat and pull out the book I’m reading: 3.11 Stories.

“When word of the tsunami arrived, students at Okawa Elementary School began to desperately ask to climb the nearby hill. Their teachers insisted they stay on the school grounds and wait for the principal’s decision, unfortunately the tsunami soon overwhelmed them…”

My mother called it heroic how those teachers stayed with their students instead of returning home to their own families. 11 teachers and 73 students died. One of the great tragedies of the tsunami

“Excuse me!” Miles is standing out of his seat.

“Please stay in your seat while the bus is in motion,” I say, my tone firm.

He ignores me, gripping the tops of the seat backs, he makes his way to the front. “I don’t like that guy,” he points back toward his seat. “The one in 12A. I’m sitting over there instead.” He gestures to an empty row in the front.

“Changing seats isn’t allowed.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and plops down in the empty row, backpack clutched tightly to his chest.

I sigh, and glance back. The man he was next to, Greg, meets my gaze and shrugs. I recite the mantra I was taught: Keep everyone together. Stay on schedule. The only things that matter.

On the drive, most of the passengers go quiet, staring blankly at the endless rolling hills, wooden houses, and brightly lit convenience stores that go past.

Three hours later, as we approach Fukushima, electronic displays of real time radiation levels begin to appear next to the highway. I pick up the microphone.

“Radiation levels in Fukushima are 0.35 micro-sieverts. Staying here for a week is the equivalent of getting a tenth of a chest X-ray. There are still 28,000 evacuees, mostly from the exclusion zone who—”

“—Excuse me.” Miles raises his hand.

“Yes?”

“Can we do a pit stop, preferably not in a radioactive zone, I can’t use that toilet back there.”

“We can’t stop just for you!” someone blurts out. I see it’s Greg in seat 12A.

“Easy there, buddy.” Miles says, then shuffles past me toward the bus driver and points toward a Circle K store. Soon the bus is pulling into a stop and he rushes out.

“I can’t believe this,” Greg mumbles.

In a flash, Miles is jogging back to the bus. “Mission accomplished. You’re welcome everybody.”

Moving again, the group grows quiet. The reality of the disaster is around us, in the empty buildings and unmaintained plots. I point out to a hilltop dotted with solar panels. “They’ve been rebuilding,” I say. “It’s slow, but it’s happening.”

We arrive and pull over at the Fukushima Observation Deck, just outside the exclusion zone. In the distance, the familiar rectangular silhouette of the Dai-Ichi nuclear plant juts into the sky. It feels surreal. The group scatters—some head for the vending machines, others wander toward the observation deck. Miles stays behind, sitting alone on the bus, his gaze fixed on something.

I climb back onboard, pretending to check my clipboard.

“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I’m just thinking.

“About?”

“Nothing,” he says, offering a faint smile. “But thank you for asking.”

That afternoon, we make two more stops in Fukushima to observe the lingering effects of the radiation and the evacuation. I tell the guests how animals died here after no one was left to care for them.

After an afternoon of sightseeing, by 7 p.m., we’re seated at Umi no Kagayaki, a local seafood restaurant. The mood lightens as plates of grilled fish, tempura, and steaming bowls of miso soup are handed out at the table. Overseas tourists are often surprised to learn most seafood in Japan is eaten cooked, not raw.

Stuffing fried shrimps into his mouth, Miles launches into a monologue about American politics. I hear something about Trump. It doesn’t take long for Greg to chime in, and counter Miles’ points. The tension between them is palpable.

I make up an excuse to squeeze between them. “Have you tried the squid yet?” I ask, pushing a plate toward Greg. “It’s amazing.”

The conversation shifts to Japanese food, and the tension eases.

Miles is about to order another Asahi Draft, his third, when I step in. “It’s time to go,” I say, looking at the time. “We need to check-in to the Asanoya Inn.”

“You’re no fun,” he says.

I ignore him, and soon with the others we grab our belongings, and get back into the bus, with Miles reluctantly following.

Ten minutes into the drive, Miles stands up. “We need to go back. I left something,” he says, his tone urgent.

I turn in my seat. “What is it? What did you forget?”

He hesitates. “I can’t say. We just need to go back.”

Greg grunts. “Tell me, we’re not going back! We have a schedule.”

“Please,” Miles looks at me, his eyes pleading. “Just go back.”

Out of idea, I tell our drive to do a U-turn, and an eternity later, we arrive back at Umi no Kagayaki. Miles rushed toward the door.

“I’ve got to see this,” Greg says, then gets out to follow Miles into the restaurant.

Not knowing what to do, I follow Greg following Miles. Before we reach the door, Miles returns holding a small Tokyu shopping bag.

“We went back just for that?” Greg grunts.

Miles whirls around, his face flushed. “Fuck you!” he snaps.

“Your shopping?” Greg asks derisively.

“This,” he says, “is my girlfriend’s ashes.” His face flushes.

I usually steer clear of emotional outbursts and conflict. But this time, I step forward, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder and gently pulling him back. “Enough,” I whisper. He shoots me a look but relents, turning away with a resigned shrug.

Back on the bus, after we depart, I take a seat next to Miles. Eventually, he starts to open up. He tells me about his plan—how he’s carrying his girlfriend’s ashes to her hometown in Iwate Prefecture to release them into the ocean.

“To Iwate?” I ask, trying to piece it all together.

He nods, his gaze fixed on the package in his hands. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing. She never really lived there. Her family moved to America when she was a kid. I just thought… it’s where she belonged.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I stay quiet. Sometimes, silence is the best response.

The next morning, to my surprise, Miles shows up on time, smiling politely at all of us. We make our way to the remains of Okawa Elementary School. The thought of children losing their lives is too much. I try to think of other things to take my mind off of it while I go through the motions. Honestly, I don’t know why people would want to go on a tour like this one.

As we gather on the bus, getting ready to leave, Miles stands up from his seat.

Again. I brace myself for whatever is coming next.

“I have something to say.” He gets everyone’s attention. “I’ve changed my mind. My girlfriend never lived in Iwate. I want to do this,” he gestures toward her ashes, “release her ashes with all of you today.”

Sheepishly, he looks toward Greg.

Greg nods. “I get it. You’re doing something important, for you.” Another guest nods, and soon all the others follow suit.

Sometimes schedules are made to be broken, is something my dad might have said.

I speak to the driver, and we take a detour to Sohama Beach.

We shuffle out of the bus onto the narrow beach. Clouds hang low over the bay. Across a narrow causeway, the Arashima Shrine hovers in the mist on the top of an islet. We walk there to a red tori gate, built next to the remnants of the one destroyed in the tsunami.

Miles steps forward, a small urn cradled in his hands. He pauses at the water’s edge, shoulders trembling. I move to stand beside him, placing a hand on his back. Greg takes the other. One by one, the group gathers around him, forming a semicircle.

Miles opens the urn, and the ashes scatter into the ocean, the tide slowly carrying them away. No one speaks, the moment feels too big for words.

Miles stays quiet for the rest of the tour, blending into the background. On the last day, the guests disembark in Tokyo and say their goodbyes. Some exchange hugs. This group has become closer than most.

As the crowd begins to thin, Miles approaches me. There’s a thoughtful look in his eyes. “You handled this trip incredibly well,” he says. “Very professional.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, holding it out. I see the name of a well-known media company. “If you’re ever looking for a new job. I’d be happy to make an introduction.”

I take the card and bow slightly. “Thank you. I will contact you after my contract ends.”

He smiles. “A loyal employee! I love it. Take care,” he says, then turns around and disappears into the afternoon crowd milling in front of Tokyo Station.

I stand there for a moment, watching the busy crowd. Everyone is on a journey.