Gaien-Nishi-Dori is it’s usual hustle and bustle. One of the main arteries weaving it’s way around down-town Tokyo. Green, yellow, and black taxis stopping and starting, picking up and dropping off at every corner. Two airport limousine buses are parked outside the Roppongi Hilton waiting for passengers to board for the long journey out to Narita airport. I am in my usual hurry on my bike to get to the kids bus on time, weaving in and out of people, speeding on the bumpy pavement, dodging quiet Japanese ladies with home made bags full of their daily groceries, a sweaty salary man making his way to his next appointment, and small kids walking with their hard leather rucksacks on their backs, some of them wearing little yellow hats, letting the public know their first grade status, that they are big kids now. Six years of age. The age of independence in Japanese society.

To my left, at the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a bunch of chefs running down some outside stairs, donned in their chef hats. It must be a kitchen fire I think to myself. A split second later I look to my right and all movement has stopped. Cars, bikes, people. I stop pedaling and get off my bike. My music is cranked up pretty loud in my ears so I can’t hear what’s really going on. I yank them out. An eerie silence greets me. I see people getting out of cars, cowering under briefcases, hiding under still cars, pedestrians running to doorways, huddled in groups looking up to the sky. I look ahead and am horrified at what I see. Two skyscrapers rocking back and forth, one almost touching the other.

My heart starts beating fast. The dreaded is happening. Earthquake. The big one. I jump back on my bike. I notice that I am the only one moving. I’m biking past a mirrored-glass covered building, I look at it’s surface rippling. I bike past a lady with a pillow on her head. I pedal faster. I need to get home. Somewhere familiar. Where are the kids? Are they on the bus? Are they still at school?

I get home in record time and see my apartment neighbors huddled under the tree outside the building. “Sam, what are you doing? It’s still shaking. Get off your bike!” one of the neighbors shouts. I am shaking too, or is it the ground? It’s still the ground. The longest earthquake in a long time.

It finally stops. I’m on my bike again. I pedal hard. I need to get to the school. The kids must still be there. They won’t have let them on the buses with the earthquake, surely. I suddenly see a kid walking down the street. He’s wearing the school uniform of where my kids go.  The local warning sirens suddenly blare out, first in Japanese, then in English “Tsunami alert, get to high ground”.

To be continued…..