I have lived in Kamakura for almost thirty years, yet I still hesitate to call myself a true local. Knowing a place, I have come to think, is not simply a matter of how long you have lived there. It is also about knowing how the streets have changed, remembering what used to stand on a certain corner, and carrying the town’s rhythms and memories inside you. In that sense, Kamakura still feels strangely unfamiliar to me.
The record-breaking stretch of rain that has lasted for more than a month finally seems likely to end today.
That said, another typhoon has already formed, so who knows how long this fine weather will last.
The other day, I was talking with an acquaintance when the recent flooding beneath the railway underpass in Geba came up in conversation.
“I was surprised that something like that could happen even in Kamakura,” the person said.
I was not quite sure what was meant by “even in Kamakura.”
From my point of view, the flooding attracted so much media attention precisely because it happened in Kamakura, one of Japan’s best-known tourist destinations.
“That area is low-lying, so it tends to flood when we get heavy rain. Local people know that, so for us it was more like, ‘Well, yes, that can happen there,’” I replied, sounding as though I knew everything about the place.
But then I wondered: how much do I really know about Kamakura?
I have lived here for nearly thirty years, so perhaps I should be able to call myself a local by now.
But compared with my wife, who grew up in Kamakura, I am still an outsider. More than that, I do not really know the atmosphere of everyday Kamakura.
A true local probably knows what the town is like during the daytime on an ordinary weekday.
I hardly do.
The Kamakura I know best is the Kamakura crowded with tourists on weekends, when I go out into town together with them.
Still, when my children were small, I used to ride my bicycle all over the city on my days off.
I also walked around Kamakura a great deal with Naito and Koro, our previous dogs.
With Anne, however, I do not walk nearly as far as I used to.
Perhaps knowing a town means knowing how it has changed.
What used to be on that corner.
What this street looked like years ago.
To recognize change, however, you first need to know the town as it once was.
And perhaps a place only truly becomes part of you when you know the streets without having to think about them—when you feel as though you could almost walk them with your eyes closed.
Naturally, I know the neighborhood around my childhood home in Tokyo well.
In fact, even Shibuya, which was simply a station I passed through during my junior high and high school years, feels more familiar to me.
Shinjuku has changed enormously, too, but I still understand its basic layout, so I rarely feel uneasy there.
Kamakura is different.
Even after all these years, it somehow does not completely feel like my “hometown.”
Sometimes I even wonder what I would do if I got lost.
Toward evening, I heard the sound of festival music coming from the direction of Egara Tenjin Shrine, so I took Anne out for a walk.
Perhaps being able to encounter little local events like this simply because I live here is part of what it means to be a local.
Still, I cannot help thinking that my sense of belonging would be very different if I had grown up with these sounds, festivals, streets, and seasons as an ordinary part of childhood.
Perhaps a hometown is not simply where you live, but where the memories of a place have had time to grow with you.
・・・
record-breaking stretch — 記録的に長く続く期間
low-lying — 周囲より土地が低い
outsider — よそ者、その土地の出身ではない人
everyday — 日常の、普段の
come up in conversation — 会話の話題にのぼる
be familiar with — ～に馴染みがある
basic layout — 基本的な街の構造、配置
sense of belonging — 自分がそこに属しているという感覚
grow up with — ～を身近に経験しながら育つ
hometown — 故郷、地元
#Kamakura #LocalLife #SenseOfBelonging #LivingInJapan #EverydayJapan #Kamakura #JapanesePathologist
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