The Summer That Shivered — Shane O'Brien MacDonald

“There were live measurements of reactor temperatures. Three other buildings that hadn't exploded. It was like a movie. Will they catch fire? Blow up? Melt down? Or won't they…?”
The Summer That Shivered is the diary of Randy Campbell, whose life, after moving to Japan, has taken him places he never expected. Fresh off the plane, he faces the challenges of learning Japanese, navigating the Tokyo train system, and compiling a list of women he's quick to bed, but terrified of committing to. With all this going on around him, Randy has to deal with threats from yakuza while filming a documentary, the racist comments of a girl who is in love with him, and feelings of helplessness when, on March 11, 2011, an earthquake strikes eastern Japan, unleashing a deadly tsunami that envelops a nearby coastline.
With a radioactive wind drifting towards Tokyo from the crippled Fukushima nuclear plant, Randy discovers the terror and absurdities that arise during a devastating catastrophe. Inviting us in on the feelings you go through when everything -- your career, the place you live, perhaps... even your life -- seems about to be wiped away forever.


From inside the book…
After lunch, we walked back to Osu-Kannon temple. Lisa suggested we get our fortunes. I had no problem with that. After all, it's the same as those fortune cookies you get with Chinese takeout, right?
Wrong.
There is a procedure for going to a temple in Japan. Note that a temple is a Buddhist place of worship. A shrine is for the Shinto religion -- the ones with the big red torii gate. That's the symbol you always see representing Japan. That's not what I'm talking about here. This is a temple. No big red gate. The first thing you do is rinse your hands. There's usually a wooden water basin with ladles over to the right of the main temple building. I think you're supposed to clean your mouth as well, but I don't. Pretty much all Japanese people carry a dry facecloth with them at all times. You might carry one to dry your hands.
At the top of the main temple steps is a box. With a top cover of wooden slats. Above which is a rope attached to some bells. If the temple is empty you're supposed to ring the bells to wake the gods up. Then you toss some money into the box, clap your hands twice and say a prayer. Most temples specialize in a certain thing. One for business, another for love, yet another for a healthy childbirth. There are also, for a much more substantial fee, ceremonies presided over by a Buddhist priest. Japanese men seem to fear turning forty-two years old. So there's a ceremony to protect your health and business.
Now, usually to the right of the prayer area is where you buy fortunes. But it's not what you and I are used to, all wishy-washy and uplifting and all that. You can get good, so-so, and bad fortunes. After putting a dollar in a box, you pick up an octagonal-shaped cylinder filled with sticks. Then shake this until one of the sticks falls out through a small opening. At the end of a stick is a number that corresponds to a wall of drawers. Usually numbered from one to a hundred.
Lisa went first.
“What did you get?” I asked.
Silence.
I got my fortune. It was all in Japanese, but immediately I recognized the kanji for bad.
“What does it say?”
Lisa shook her head. “We both got terrible fortunes.”
After that I wouldn't see her again for two years.