Good evening,
The brief period of a few real summer weeks, when Tokyo does its best to justify its listing as one of the most liveable cities in the world, is about to be over. The nights when an open window is sufficient for comfortable sleep, and the days when walking on the famously clean streets of the city does not feel like a choice between life and heat-induced death, the 5-minute morning walk to the station does not trigger or add to one’s self-love issues due to its impact on your body and clothes, and outdoor dining still feels like a fairly earthly experience, not an extraterrestrial one, will soon become the dearly cherished Tokyo memories, at least until early October.
First comes the rainy season, which begins this Saturday, with the weather forecast predicting almost two weeks of continuous rain. Unfortunately, Japan's rainy season is nothing like the monsoon season in Southeast Asia—there are no sudden downpours and, alas, no rainbows that come right after. Instead, we get boring, consistent drizzling during the day and intense, noisy rain at night, forcing me to sleep with headphones on.
The wet season typically ends around the third week of July. As soon as the Japan Meteorological Agency announces the end of the 梅雨 (tsuyu), the entire city, despite knowing what comes next, enters a state of delirious happiness. However, the joy of waking up to a sunny morning with endless possibilities under a cloudless sky lasts only a few seconds until the reality of the soul-body-mind crushing humidity, already present as early as 4 a.m. (when the sun rises in Tokyo in the summer), hits and makes one question not only the decision to live in Tokyo but also the very meaning of life.
So, if you want to build a higher tolerance and appreciation for the summer weather at your home, I highly recommend spending a week in Tokyo in mid-August, followed by another week in Osaka (I have yet to decide which one gets worse). If that is not enough, you can consider adding a third week to your trip to explore the streets of Nagoya, otherwise known as the “concrete jungle.” The experience will change you forever, giving a new meaning to the concept of “summer heat” in your life. For instance, I am looking forward to spending a few weeks in August in the small towns along the Mediterranean and Aegean coasts of Turkey. It is not just because it is my home and, in my obviously very subjective opinion, beautiful but also because I know that the weather will be much more tolerable than in Tokyo. And dear reader, if you have been to the Turkish coast in the summer, you know what this says about Japanese summers—yes, that bad.
Knowing what was ahead, I tried to make the best of these past few rain and humidity-free weeks by enjoying a lot of outdoor dining, taking an overnight hiking trip on the weekend to Kyushu, and changing my commute by replacing the metro station next to my office with a farther one that requires a 40-minute walk, as the weather and overall aura of the city become particularly delightful after 6 p.m.
During these past weeks, I also tried to write the May edition of Letters from Japan many times, but with no success. It was not due to a lack of time—of which I honestly have plenty—but because I had a hard time (and still do, as you will see below) finding the right words to express the unparalleled joy that my recent week-long hiking trip, mentioned in the previous letter, brought to me.
The endless and roaring ocean
When I sent out the latest April edition of the Letters from Japan, I was about to leave for the biggest trip of 2024. It has now been over a month since I returned from Australia, where I hiked the Great Ocean Walk trail.1 The past tense here makes me feel deeply grateful but, at the same time, very sad. Grateful because the experience meant so much to me, far more than just undeniably spectacular scenery. But also sad because I will never get to hike the Great Ocean Walk for the first time again, just as I will never get to watch Six Feet Under or read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote for the first time again. It was one of those experiences that felt so joyful and/or satisfying in a unique way that you knew —even while it was happening, long before the glorifying effect of nostalgia, which has the power to turn almost any experience into a more memorable one, set in—it would be nearly impossible to replicate, so you do your best to enjoy and cherish every second of it.
The Great Ocean Walk trail was beautiful—idyllically beautiful, no doubt about it. But I have been fortunate to have hiked equally, if not more stunning, trails before. So, what made the trail and the experience stand out was a combination of multiple factors, with the scenic beauty being merely one of them and not even the most important one.
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