????南相馬位于日本福島縣，從東京往北約150英里，人口7.1萬。平日里，這座太平洋沿岸的小城熙熙攘攘，熱鬧非凡。

????海嘯災難發生前，該城的多數居民都在沿街的小商店或小作坊里上班：美容院和銀行、小飯館和咖啡館、快餐連鎖店、一家面包房和兩座大型超市。這兒還有兩家大型工廠，其中一家生產廚房用具，是該市最大的雇主；另一家日立電子（Hitachi Denshi）工廠生產汽車電子產品。但是，小生意才是該市經濟的生命力所在。

????這是一座再普通不過的日本小城，唯一的例外是：眼下，企業無論大小，全都關閉了。今天，坐車穿行于南相馬的主要街道，你會發現，幾乎所有小買賣鋪都拉上了窗簾。

????勿庸贅言，現在并非平日。在今天的南相馬，即便支付車費這樣再平凡不過的舉止，都會令出租車司機落淚。這座城市的最近端僅位于福島第一核電站（Fukushima Dai-Ichi power plant）北側20公里，而后者正是切爾諾貝利核事故以來最嚴重的核危機的事故現場。可以想見，該市恰好位于如今已是一片顯眼的核不毛之地的地理中心：近三周來，日本政府給居住在離福島第一核反應堆20~30公里范圍內的居民的“指導方針”是：他們可以選擇留在城里，但應該待在室內，否則會冒呼吸核輻射氣體的危險。

????上周末，我跟我的同事、常駐東京的自由記者高山秀子乘車在南相馬市四處轉悠了一圈，拜訪了這座核廢城。當地政府表示，上周六上午八點的核輻射水平完全處于正常范圍內。因此，我們決定冒險進城。事實上，該市市長櫻井勝廷曾在YouTube上呼吁新聞記者們親臨南相馬，親眼目睹這場核危機給這座小城帶來的災難性影響。

????我們駛過了一個又一個街區，街上見不到行人，只有屈指可數的幾輛車匆匆駛過。兩三只走失的狗在街上閑蕩，在絕望地四處覓食。勿庸贅言，位于小城商業中心的那些小店鋪，如今全都關張了。答應載著我們四處轉悠的出租車司機名叫雄一，他所效力的小出租車公司共有四輛車，平日里通常能收入約4.5~5萬日元（約合550~610美元）。雄一說，昨天，四輛車總共只拉了一趟活，收入680日元（約合8.30美元）。

????南相馬的商業中心遠離海邊（約4英里），因而得以在海嘯中幸存。但是，在離海岸較近的居民區，情形就截然不同了。這些地區與從北部的巖手縣到南部的福島縣的所有沿海小城一樣，遭受的破壞之嚴重，簡直難以形容。

????度量損失

????當我們到達市政廳，海嘯對這座小城的破壞程度之大，便顯得更為觸目驚心了。這兒是小城里唯一有生命跡象的地方，南相馬的政治領導人和官僚們在想方設法平息災難導致的混亂和恐懼。幾名房屋或者公寓已被海嘯摧毀的居民一窩蜂涌進來填表，以證明他們現在已無家可歸（即便在這場史無前例的災難中，官僚作風依然盛行）。樓上，就在市長辦公室外面，有塊告示牌，上面記錄著最新的統計數字：截至上周六傍晚，已確認共有301人死于海嘯，1,173人“失蹤”（盡管官方仍然不愿意公開承認，但這些人已被假定為死亡），共有1,800座房屋被毀。

????再上到三樓，便是櫻井市長的辦公室。小城的官員們在這兒聽取負責搜尋尸體的搜救隊的匯報，獲取最新消息；盡力調配送往城外疏散中心的食物和水等物資，該鎮的許多居民眼下都躲在疏散中心；還要實時跟蹤東京電力公司（TEPCO）核電站的活動情況。盡管從市政廳無法看到核電站，但它卻無時無刻不出現在小城官員們的心里。

????市長眼下正與救援隊的成員開會，我們就坐下來，與他的主要助手攀談起來。這位助理名叫安倍晉三，在南相馬市政府已經干了30多年了。他的多數同事都用小小的白色棉口罩，護住了鼻子和嘴。在日本，在過敏和流感季節，這樣做純屬稀松平常。但是，安倍坦承，現在他們戴著口罩可不是為了防過敏或者流感?！八麄儞牡氖禽椛??！彼毖缘?。

????口罩是個安全防護層，戴上它，人們心里的安全感會增加許多。即便遠在東京的幾百萬人如今也整天戴著口罩，那可不是因為他們擔心會染上流感。但是，如果有誰覺得，戴上它，就能高枕無憂，不必再擔心會呼吸到輻射性氣體，那簡直是滑天下之大稽。安倍本人就沒戴口罩。

????他告訴我們，自從日本政府宣布，居民可以留下，但只能待在室內，不得外出后，該市7.1萬名居民中，已經有近5萬人離開了這座城市。安倍還介紹說，尤其是對老人來說，這條法令純屬扯淡：“如果他們不能出門去商店的話，又怎么能填飽肚子？”

????盡管多數人不顧一切地選擇了逃離此地，該市不久還是開通了公共汽車運營服務，駛往位于30公里區域外的幾家超市。離開的人要么搬去與在日本其他地區的親戚同住，要么躲到了疏散中心。本地設有多家疏散中心，用于收留那些受到地震/海嘯/核危機災難影響的人們。安倍表示，離開的人隨時可以回來，事實上，已經有少數人開始陸續回到城里。但是，還是有越來越多的人搬走，因為他們無法確知，即便有盼頭的話，到底哪天，才能夠重返家園，正常過活。

????準備不足

????安倍面露疲憊之色，這一點也不奇怪，而且，像所有日本人一樣，他是那么彬彬有禮；但是，隨著談話的深入，他的義憤填膺也變得昭然若揭。他既生東京電力公司的氣，也生日本政府的氣。他表示，在自己服務于南相馬市的30多載里，無論是東京電力公司還是日本政府，誰都從未說過，提前為可能發生的緊急核事故做準備，才是上策。因此，一旦意想不到的災難突然降臨，他們既沒有經歷過疏散演習，亦不知如何召開商討對策的市政會議。什么措施都沒有。

????“什么措施都沒有？”我追問道。怎么會呢？所有人都知道，這里可是地震帶， 而地震會引發海嘯，還有核電站就建在海邊。不僅如此，這里可是日本，一個以注重細節、人民服從指揮而聞名的國度……

????安倍打斷我，從緊閉的牙關里崩出一句話：“什么都沒有，什么都沒有。他們從未給過我們任何指導或者指令。”他激動難耐。

????那么那些離核電站更近的城鎮呢，他們平時是否有演習？“我想有些有，但也不能肯定。”安倍表示。（事實上，上周早些時候，我曾在南邊的一個疏散中心內，采訪過雙葉鎮的一名官員。雙葉鎮緊挨著福島第一核電站。那位官員表示，在雙葉，每年一次，居民們都會集中到當地體育館，接受“如何使用滅火器”的指導。）盡管南相馬市的居民們偶爾也進行防火演習，卻從未針對核事故進行過任何準備?！皷|京電力公司從未表示過，有可能發生眼下這類災難?！彼笸蟮馈?/p>

????正當我們步出市政廳時，看到了古怪而滑稽的一幕，不禁啞然失笑。在一樓大堂，有個外國人全副武裝，穿著看似核防護服的東西：從頭到腳一身雪白，頭戴兜帽，腳踩白色軟底短靴。我不免納悶：這位是何許人呀？據說法國已派出若干名核工程師，幫助控制福島所受到的破壞。難道這位是法國核工程師？他是否曾進入核電站內部？我得跟他談談。

????我們四目相對，走向彼此。他根本不是核工程師，只不過是常駐東京的電視記者，也是來采訪南相馬市長的。我伸出手去，摸了摸那衣服的面料，感覺像是棉的。我方才明白，他穿的根本不是核防護服，因為那類東西通常都是用橡膠、或者塑料合成材料或者是兩者做成的。“這有用嗎？”我半信半疑地問道。有用，他毫不猶豫地說，當然有用。

????這時，一個滿臉絕望的攝像師拖著沉重的腳步走進了市政廳，身上穿著牛仔褲和輕便外套。在戰時或重災區，一名電視記者試圖將人們的注意力吸引到自己身上來，生活中鮮有比這更荒謬的了。我使勁控制著自己別笑出來。不知為何，彼時，我腦子里想到的只有伍迪?艾倫的經典影片《安妮?霍爾》（Annie Hall）中的一句臺詞。艾倫扮演的角色一路飛奔到洛杉磯，其友麥克思（由托尼?羅伯茨飾演）開車到機場去接他，身上穿著核防護服。當他們坐進車里，麥克斯脫掉兜帽，摘下眼罩，艾倫目不轉睛地盯著他，問道：“麥克斯，我們要開車經過钚輻射區嗎？”

????我迫不及待地想對那個電視臺的家伙重復這句臺詞?？删驮诖藭r，我突然想到，誰又說得清呢？也許那天的空氣指數級別報錯了，也許我們真的在開車穿越钚輻射區，那我們所有人可能都應該穿上地地道道的核防護服了。

????空蕩蕩的午餐桌

????在采訪市政府官員時，我們曾問出租車司機雄一，能否在趕往下一個目的地前，先在附近找個地方，喝杯咖啡，吃個三明治。我們從市政廳出來時，他激動地告訴我們，事實上，這座城市里就有家咖啡館在營業呢。這個，我們一定得眼見為實。

????憩咖啡館坐落在市中心附近。它所在的街道，除了一條流浪犬，整條街都空蕩蕩的。我們進去時，店內已有兩位客人。一位年長的男子坐在柜臺邊喝著咖啡；一張桌子邊上，一位年邁的婦人獨自坐在那兒享用午餐。店主吉田美智夫婦也在。在這座核廢城，我們就看到這么四個平頭百姓沒有老老實實地待在家里。我問71歲的吉田，既然政府已經客氣并堅決地提出要求，任何決定留在城里的人都應該待在家里，為何他的咖啡館還在營業。

????他回答說，起初他們夫婦二人也都撤離了。“我們待在離城很遠的一個疏散中心。我們是周三到那兒去的，那天是16號，前一天日本首相菅直人剛發表了電視講話，稱核問題將日益嚴重?！彼麄冊谀莾捍藘芍?。但是，吉田受不了了。“整天待在那兒，什么事也干不了。我悶得快瘋了。”他說?！按送猓覀儼压妨粼诩依锪恕Ｎ覀兏静恢肋@種情形會持續多久。無論政府還是東京電力公司，都從未告訴我們，修復核電站需要多長時間。我開始擔心狗會餓死，于是我們就在31號那天回來了?！?/p>

????他接著說道，次日，他決定咖啡館恢復營業?！俺禽椛涑潭仍愕饺虩o可忍，我們不會撤離?！彼硎尽！澳菚r我就想，為何不讓咖啡館恢復營業呢？也許會有客人來呢?！?/p>

????這天，他的一位客人就是83歲的Sumiko Oya。她坐在我們前面的雅座上，一邊吃著醬燜魚，一邊抽著煙。（魚是從本地市場買來的，但是在福島第一核反應堆的放射物開始泄漏到海里之前就買回來并放到冰箱里冷凍起來的。）

????Oya身著綠色短外套，上面別著碩大的金色胸針，頭戴時髦的黑色筒狀圓帽，就連臉上的的妝容和口紅也透著優雅。眼下這里正經歷核災難，但就在南相馬市中心，這位年邁的婦人身著盛裝，儼然去參加夜晚狂歡一般。

????或者，就今天的情形來說，是白日狂歡。我們不禁問了她同樣的問題：你到底到這兒來干嗎？她大笑，熄滅了手里的香煙，又點燃了一支?！拔也挪还苷趺凑f呢，”她說道：“我已經83歲了，還有什么能嚇倒我的？如果我待在這兒，10年后我可能患上癌癥，還是怎么的？”她又大笑起來，這回笑得更厲害了。我們也都笑了。說得在理。

????她住的地方離咖啡館只有5分鐘的路程。災難發生之前，她幾乎每天都到這兒來吃午飯。海嘯和核事故發生后，她依然留在自己的公寓里。“我女兒住在北海道，她在電話里沖我大喊大叫，讓我過去跟她同住。但是，北海道那兒老下雪，我們這兒從不下雪。我喜歡這兒?！?/p>

????過去3周里，她是怎么解決吃飯問題的？“我吃得不多，我在家里存了足夠的食物，幫我挨過過去幾周?！蔽覇査斕焓欠袷亲叩娇Х瑞^的。

????她一臉被辱的樣子，“當然不是！我開車來的。怎么，你覺得我83歲了就不能開車了？”她的朋友們呢，他們撤到別處去了，還是有些也像她一樣留下來了？“我剛給一個鄰居打過電話，我已經有兩周沒見過她了。我問道：‘你在哪兒呢？’她回答說：‘我住在新瀉（位于南相馬正西100多英里的一座城市，靠日本另一側海岸線）的一個疏散中心。’我又問：‘你在那兒干嗎呢！？’這回她沖我吼道：‘你還留在南相馬干嗎？’”

????Oya又笑起來。“你知道，先夫兩年前去世了。我們搬到這兒，全都是因為這兒的氣候好。我們喜歡這兒的氣候，至今不變。我哪兒也不去?！?/p>

????一次難忘的出租車搭乘經歷

????我們付了飯錢，離開了咖啡館。我請司機雄一載我們去20公里禁區的近端。我們驅車穿過一條條空無一人的街道，終于駛進一條四車道的開放公路，朝著海邊和福島核反應堆的方向直開過去。但是，差不多在整20公里處，公路被封了，沒有任何路障，也沒有日本自衛隊（Japan Self Defense Forces）把守，甚至也沒有國家或地方警察示意我們停車。（千真萬確，這兒見不到一個人。）

????阻止我們（以及任何人）前行的，不過是一條細細的警戒線，從路的一側拉到另一側。上面甚至沒有任何標識，連老鼠藥瓶上常見的嚇人的骷髏頭也沒有。看起來就像警方匆忙用警戒線隔離了犯罪現場，然后就一溜煙地撤離了。雖然剪斷警戒線繼續前行易如反掌，但我們沒有。

????我們根本不想那么干。雄一朝著西邊的山開去，然后一直向南。下午五點左右，高山跟我在南邊還要進行另一個采訪，那里遠離核輻射區。到達目的地后，我們跟雄一結清了車費，共付給他3.4萬日元。他收下錢，向我們道謝。這是三周來他頭一回拿到像樣的車費。

????就在此時，就要動身返回位于南相馬的家中時，雄一的眼里滿含淚水，他開始哭起來。

????譯者：大海

????

????FORTUNE -- In ordinary times, Minamisoma ("south" Minami) is a bustling little city of about 71,000 that sits along the Pacific coast line in Japan's Fukushima prefecture, about 150 miles north of Tokyo.

????Most of the town's citizens used to work in the small shops and businesses that line its streets -- beauty parlors and banks, small restaurants and coffee shops, fast food joints, a bakery and a couple of big supermarkets. There are a couple of large factories -- a plant that makes kitchen appliances is one of the largest employers in town, and there's a Hitachi Denshi factory that makes electronics for the auto industry. But small business is the town's economic lifeblood.

????It's as ordinary a Japanese town as you could find, except for one fact: these days, small or large, all the businesses have one thing in common: they're closed. Ride through the Minamisoma's main streets today, and you'll see shades drawn in the windows of nearly all the small businesses.

????These are not, needless to say, ordinary times. Minamisoma today is a place where the simple act of paying a cab fare reduces the driver to tears. The city, at its closest point, lies just 20 kilometers (12.4 miles) north of the stricken Fukushima Dai-Ichi power plant that is now the site of the worst nuclear crisis since Chernobyl. As such, the town sits at the geographic core of what's become a strange, nuclear never-never land: for nearly three weeks now, the Japanese government's "guidance'' to those living 20 to 30 kilometers away from the Fukushima Dai-Ichi reactors is that they can remain in town should they so choose, but they should stay indoors or else risk exposure to radioactive gases.

????As such, to cruise through Minamisoma, as I did this past weekend with a colleague, Tokyo-based freelance reporter Hideko Takayama, is to visit a nuclear ghost town. Radioactivity levels at 8am Saturday, according to the local government, were completely normal, so we decided to venture in. The town's mayor, Katsunobu Sakurai, had actually issued a plea on YouTube for reporters to come and see for themselves the devastating impact the ongoing nuclear crisis is having on his little city.

????For block after block, there are no pedestrians on the streets, and only a few cars in transit. A couple of stray dogs roam, looking desperately for food. The small merchants whose stores and shops comprise the commercial heart of this little city are, needless to say, getting crushed. Yuichi, the taxi driver who agreed to ferry us around, works for a small company that has a fleet of four cars and usually takes in about 45,000 to 50,000 yen a day ($550-$610). Yesterday, he says, the four taxis had one fare between them. It came to 680 yen ($8.30).

????The commercial center of Minamisoma lies far enough away from the ocean (about four miles) that, physically, at least, it survived the tsunami. That is not true of the residential areas closer to the coast, where the destruction, as in town after town up and down the coast, from Iwate prefecture in the North down through Fukushima in the South, is all but indescribable.

????Tallying the damage

????Just how destructive the tsunami was to this particular town becomes very specific when we get to city hall, the only place in town where there is any sign of life. There, Minamisoma's political leaders and bureaucrats try to cope amidst the chaos and fear. A few residents whose houses or apartments have been destroyed troop in to fill out the paperwork recording that they are now homeless (even amidst a catastrophe of biblical proportions, bureaucracy grinds on). Upstairs, just outside the Mayor's office, there is a sign with the up-to-date statistics: as of late Saturday afternoon, there were 301 confirmed deaths from the tsunami, 1173 people were "missing" (and, though officialdom still won't say so publicly, presumed dead), and 1800 houses had been destroyed.

????Up on the third floor, where Mayor Sukurai's office is, city officials take updates from search and rescue teams hunting for bodies, try to coordinate getting supplies of food and water to the evacuation centers outside the city where many of its residents are now holed up, and keep track, minute-by-minute, of the activity at the TEPCO nuclear plant, which is not visible from the town hall, but is uppermost in their minds.

????The Mayor is meeting with a rescue crew, so we sit down with his chief aide, a man named Sadayasu Abe, who has worked for the Minamisoma government for more than 30 years. Most of his colleagues are wearing the little white cotton facemasks that cover the nose and mouth, a commonplace in Japan during the allergy and flu seasons. But, Abe concedes, that's not why they're wearing them now. "They're worried about radiation," he acknowledges.

????The facemasks are a security blanket, something that provides the illusion of increased safety. Millions of people as far south as Tokyo are wearing them these days in Japan, and not because they're worried about getting the flu. But the idea that they help protect anyone from exposure to radioactive gases is, of course, a joke. Abe himself doesn't bother wearing one.

????He tells us that of the town's 71,000 residents about 50,000 have left, since the national government said it's okay to stay, but only indoors. For elderly people in particular, Abe says, this edict was untenable; "how were they to get anything to eat if they can t go out to shop?"

????After a while the town began running buses to supermarkets outside the 30-kilometer zone, but the majority of people chose to get out anyway. They're either staying with relatives elsewhere in Japan, or are holed up in one of the many evacuation centers set up to house those affected by the quake/tsunami/nuclear crisis. They can come back at any time, Abe says, and a few have started to trickle back into town. But most continue to stay away, unsure when -- if ever -- it will be safe enough to return and live anything resembling a normal life.

????Lack of preparedness

????Abe, not surprisingly, looks exhausted, and like all Japanese, he has the politeness gene. But it also becomes clear, as we talk, that he is angry. He's angry at Tokyo Electric Power, and he's angry at the national government. At no point in the 30 years he has worked for the city, he says, did TEPCO or the government say it would be a good idea to prepare for a possible nuclear emergency. No evacuation drills, no town hall meetings to discuss what residents might do should the unthinkable happen. Nothing.

????"Nothing?" I ask him again. How can that be so? This is an earthquake zone -- everyone knew that -- and earthquakes cause tsunamis, and the plant sits right along the coast. And this is Japan, a nation that pays attention to detail, whose people famously follow instructions, who...

????He interrupts me, and through gritted teeth says, "Nothing. Nothing. We never received any guidance or instruction from them." He's boiling.

????What about towns closer in, did they have drills? "I think some did, I'm not sure," he says. (In fact, earlier in the week, at an evacuation center farther south, I spoke to a city official from the small town of Futaba, which literally sits in the shadow of Fukushima Dai-Ichi. He says that once a year the residents of the town would go to a local gymnasium, where they would be instructed on "how to use a fire extinguisher.") The townspeople of Minamisoma occasionally had fire drills, but never was there any preparation for a nuclear accident. "There was never any communication from TEPCO that something like what's happening now was even possible," he sighs.

????As we make our way out of the building, there's an odd moment of comic relief. In the main lobby on the first floor I see a foreigner wearing what looks to be a Hazmat suit: he's in white from head to toe, a hood on his head and little white booties on his feet. Who the hell is this, I wonder? One of the nuclear engineers France has sent to help try to contain the damage at Fukushima? Has this guy actually been inside the plant? I need to talk to him.

????We make eye contact and approach each other. He's not a nuclear worker at all. It turns out he's a Tokyo-based television journalist. He, too, has come to interview the Mayor. I finger the material of the suit, and it feels like cotton. I realize there's no way this is a Hazmat suit, which are usually made of rubber, or a plastic synthetic, or some combination thereof. "Does this help?" I ask him, a bit skeptically. Oh yes, he insists, of course.

????Then, as if on cue, a forlorn-looking cameraman comes trudging through the entrance of the town hall. He's wearing jeans and a light jacket. There's little in life more preposterous than a TV journalist trying to draw attention to himself in a war/catastrophe zone. I try not to laugh. For some reason all I can think of at that moment is a line from Woody Allen's classic film Annie Hall. Allen's character has flown out to Los Angeles, and his friend Max (played by Tony Roberts) picks him up at the airport... dressed in a Hazmat suit. As Roberts pulls the hood and visor down over his eyes as they get in the car, Allen stares at him. "Are we driving through plutonium, Max...?"

????I desperately want to repeat that to the TV guy, except then it occurs to me. Who the hell knows? Maybe the day's atmospheric readings are wrong. Maybe we are driving through plutonium. In which case we probably all should have been wearing real Hazmat suits.

????The lone lunch counter

????We had asked Yuichi the cab driver to see, while we were interviewing the city officials, if there was anyplace in the vicinity to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich before pushing on. He excitedly tells us as we come out that in fact, there's one coffee shop in the city itself that's actually open. This we have to see.

????The Ikoi Coffee Shop (it means "relaxation") sits near the center of town; the street it's on is deserted, save for the presence of yet another roaming dog. When we enter, there are two customers present -- one, an older man, sits at the counter having a coffee. At one of the tables, sitting by herself, is an elderly woman, eating lunch. Also present are the owner of the café, Yoshitomo Yoshida, and his wife. These are the only four civilians we've seen out and about in the nuclear Ghost Town. I ask Yoshida, 71, why in the world his shop is open when the government is politely but firmly suggesting that anyone who decides to remain in town should stay indoors.

????He says he and his wife originally got out entirely. "We stayed at an evacuation center well outside of town. We got there on Wednesday, the 16th, the day after [Japanese prime minister Naoto] Kan went on TV and said the nuclear problem was going to get worse." They stayed for a couple of weeks. But Yoshida couldn't stand it. "There is absolutely nothing to do there. I just got bored out of my mind,'' he says. "Plus, we had left our dog at home. We had no idea this would drag on so long. Neither the government nor TEPCO gave us any indication of how long it would take to fix the nuclear plant. I began to get afraid our dog would starve to death. So we came back on the 31st."

????The next day, he said, he decided to open his shop. "We'll stay unless the radiation readings get really bad," he says. "I figured, why not open the shop? Maybe I'll get some customers.''

????One of his customers this day is 83-year old Sumiko Oya, who sits in the booth in front of us, eating fish stewed in soy sauce and smoking a cigarette. (The fish come from a local market but had been bought and frozen before radiation started leaking into the sea from the Fukushima Dai-Ichi reactor.)

????Oya is wearing a green jacket with a big gold broach, a stylish black pillbox hat, and has tastefully applied both makeup and lipstick. Here, in the middle of Minamisoma, amidst an ongoing nuclear drama, is an elderly woman who has dressed up as if for a night on the town.

????Or, in this case, a day on the town. We ask her the same question: what on earth are you doing here? She laughs, stubs out a cigarette and lights up another. "I don't give a damn what the government says," she says. "I'm 83 years old, what do I have to be afraid of? What, that I might get cancer ten years from now if I stay here?" She laughs again, this time ever harder. We all do. It's a fair point.

????She lives just five minutes from the coffee shop -- a place where she is used to coming almost every day for lunch. She had stayed in her apartment after the tsunami and the nuclear accident. "My daughter lives up in Hokkaido, and she was yelling at me to come up there and stay with her. But it's too snowy there. We never get any snow down here. I like that."

????How did she feed herself for the past three weeks? "I don't eat a lot, and I had enough food stored at home to get by these past few weeks." I ask if she had walked to the coffee shop that day.

????She looks insulted. "Of course not! I drove. What? Do you think because I'm 83 that I can't drive?" What of her friends, did they leave, or did some stay, like her? "I just called one of my neighbors who I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks. I said, `where are you?' She said, `I'm in an evacuation center in Niigatta [a city more than 100 miles due west, on the opposite coast of Japan].' I said, 'what the hell are you doing there!?' And she yells back at me, 'what the hell are YOU still doing in Minamisoma?'"

????Oya laughs again. "You know, my husband and I -- he died a few years ago -- we came here because of the climate. We liked it here. I still do. I'm not going to leave."

????A cab ride to remember

????We pay the bill and leave. I ask our driver, Yuichi, to take us to the closest point we can get to the 20-kilometer no-go zone. He drives through the empty streets of town and eventually gets on a four lane open road, heading straight for the coast and the Fukushima reactors. But at 20 kilometers almost exactly, the road is blocked off. Not with barriers of any kind. Not with Japan Self Defense Forces, or national or local police waving us down. (There is, make no mistake, NO ONE around.)

????Preventing us (and anyone) from proceeding any farther is but one thin strip of police tape, stretched from one side of the road to the other. There isn't even a sign of any sort, no scary looking skull like on a can of rat poison. It's as if they had cordoned off a crime scene -- and then got the hell out of dodge. It would have been easy enough to just cut the tape and drive on.

????We wanted no part of that. Yuichi heads for the mountains to the west, then due south, where Takayama and I and are due for another interview late that afternoon, well out of the nuclear zone. When we arrive at our destination, we settle up with Yuicihi. We pay him 34,000 yen for the day's work. He takes the money -- by far his first decent fare in three weeks -- and thanks us.

????And that's when, just before heading back to Minamisoma, his home, tears well up in Yuichi's eyes, and he begins to cry.