Free From a Town on the Hudson by Yuko Koyano

the timid-looking lady. As the ladies' welcome speeches came to an end, I went back to my work and started to pin two pieces of fabric together, listening to the words of Rose behind me. The voice sounded beautiful but painful. The previous week Rose's brother and her favorite nephew had died. Even if she might have been the most suitable person for soothing the lonely newcomer, I thought, she didn't have to put on a good show. There hadn't been enough time to heal her sadness yet. When I turned around, however, I saw Rose beaming. If I had been an American woman, I wouldn't have hesitated to hug her saying, "Oh, Rose, how great you are! I am proud of you," just as she used to do for me. I, a shy woman, could do nothing but smile at her with all my heart. I realized that there were some customs that are hard to change no matter what the circumstances are. Even if I wouldn't be able to have her comprehend how much I thought of her, this was my way. However, Rose quietly smiled back and nodded twice as if she understood what I thought. In the room filled with women chatting, I felt at that moment as if Rose and I stood in a special, still place, facing each other.
    Other members of the class also were people who might have experienced many sorrows in their long lives. Nevertheless, they were always cheerful and genuine about their feelings. They were especially open to newcomers. I, too, was a Japanese volunteer who had been welcomed warmly to this Senior Citizens Center two years earlier. The newcomer that day didn't have the shape of a cherub with wings, or a bow and arrow like the ones you see in pictures, but in my mind she had been as helpful as a Cupid. She made the class lively, Rose regain her confidence, and me believe that the differences between two cultures didn't matter as long as we trusted in each other. All of these, however, originated in the most admirable characteristic that Americans have: hospitality. The class was full of love that day.
    These accounts were from the doll-making class at the Senior Citizens Center, Teaneck, New Jersey, before Christmas of 1989. Then the class welcomed newcomers Eileen, Ruth, Evelyn, and two ladies named Hazel. A new instructor, Yoko, also joined us.

AMERICANS, generally speaking, seem to be a people who essentially love freedom. So far as I saw during my five-year stay in America, they were apt to do what they liked in any given situation, even while they were driving. It seemed that they were willing to carry out most of their routines, except for going to the bathroom and to bed, at the risk of their lives.
    One chilly afternoon in December 1989, on the way back home from Manhattan to Fort Lee, New Jersey, I took a New Jersey Transit bus from the Port Authority Bus Terminal on 42nd Street. I sat down on the front seat on the right side. The bus left soon and passed through the Lincoln Tunnel. When the bus came to a hill, the driver let go of the wheel with his left hand which had also been holding a wad of money that passengers had paid. He then removed his right hand from the steering wheel too. As I looked on in disbelief, he held the wad again tightly with his hands and began to count the bills. In Japan I had never seen such a terrible scene, bus drivers doing another job without holding the steering wheel while they were driving. The lives of about forty passengers—including my own—should have been in his hands, but the money was there instead. The bus kept moving ahead. I fixed my eyes on the daredevil driver's fingers, which were leisurely turning over the bills one by one instead of holding the steering wheel. Eventually I could see that he hadn't let go of the steering completely: He was using his elbows to steer the bus! He glanced ahead sometimes, too, but none of these things reassured me. "One, two, three . . . thirty-eight," holding my breath I counted the number of bills with him. I prayed he would finish his performance as soon as