Wrapped up in Hisanohama

Shizue Satou, 68, smiled and said something to me in Japanese. She held up a light blue silk in her arms. It was a yukata, a more casual summer version of a kimono. The robe featured cranes at the bottom, their feet fading into the robe as if the blue silk was water.

“Oh, no thank you,” I smiled, hoping to politely turn down the offer. I remembered that she didn’t speak English, so I added some charades: shaking my head, waving my hand.

I had just shown up to report on the new shopping center that opened this April in Hisanohama. The tiny strip mall had a hair salon, a market and a massage parlor among other things. It was one of the small signs of rebuilding the town after the 3.11 earthquake and tsunami.

Satou’s store, People, was one of the new ones. She sold kimonos, yukatas and accessories like purses and sandals made out of repurposed kimonos.

Satou is a small woman with thinly rimmed glasses and a huge grin. She had a twinkle in her eye, like that of any artist when they see a chance to make something beautiful.

Satou was also insistent, as were the others in my group who were waiting in the doorway of the small shop. Soon I put down my reporter’s notebook and walked into the shop. After all, who was I to turn down a chance to try on a real yukata?

I stood with my arms out as Satou scurried around me, guiding my arms into the billowing sleeves and folding the cloth around me like a robe. The fabric was light, but not fragile. It draped along my shoulders and in the crook of my elbow, and it seemed as if this one yukata of ombre blue could fit and flatter anybody willing to try it on.

Next Satou had one of her friends help hold the kimono in place while she wrapped an obi belt, tightly and almost corset-like, around my waist (and I admit, I sucked it in a bit!) The belt was delicate and pink with little embroidered flowers. Satou did some of her magic, intricately tying it behind me in some sort of bow before clucking in satisfaction.

She had me turn around to show off a bit to my friends in the doorway. I admit, I felt like a princess. Perhaps it was the fabric, or maybe the fact that the kimono is such an iconic garment of Japan. Maybe it was the time this woman spent bustling around me to make sure it draped along my shoulders just so and that the belt was just right in the back where I couldn’t even see it. Either way, in this small seaside town I felt welcomed not only as a reporter, but as an outsider.

I’m obviously a gaijin, or a foreigner. I don’t look or speak Japanese. But this woman was eager to share something of her culture with me, something she found beautiful. Her pride in her town and culture showed me why people would return home to restore towns like Hisanohama.

In the end, almost all of the women on the UM to Fukushima reporting team, and one brave man tried on the blue kimono. It fit everyone, and the delicate beauty laced in the fabric had smiles bubbling up on each face as we posed for photos.

Trying on the kimono in Hisanohama is one of my fondest memories in the Fukushima prefecture. It was a moment where the language barrier didn’t matter. It was just a gaijin and a temporary fairy godmother enjoying the beauty of a kimono by the sea.