Tokyo's rainy days fall most often during the Tsuyu season. Tsuyu describes the plum rain front, an annual meteorological event observed across Japan, Korea, China, and Taiwan. It gets its name from the timing of the rains, which coincides with the season of plums ripening. While Tsuyu's timing differs across Japan, Tokyo traditionally sees these rains from early June to mid-late July. However, torrential downpours and extended rainy periods now occur more unpredictably throughout the year.
Warm, moist air from the Pacific Ocean meets the cooler, dry air from the Asian continent, bringing a prolonged season of dampness and humidity. Rain clouds move steadily from the south to the north of the Japanese archipelago during a time of year that leaves a nostalgic imprint despite the discomfort brought on by the weather. Hydrangeas and irises bloom dramatically, and television weather forecasters reach for the term ōame, a compound of the kanji characters for 'big' and 'rain'. On big rain days—and more so when a tropical storm or typhoon looms—complex and vast systems stand at the ready beneath the city's streets. It's a detail of which most residents remain blissfully unaware, yet it is designed to protect them.
Should sensors around roadside ventilation shafts near Tokyo Metro station entrances detect a critical risk of flooding, watertight shields will slide into action, preventing water from inundating the station. Doors capable of completely sealing the opening are positioned behind these shields. If these measures fail to some extent, flood gates in the network's crucial tunnel sections will activate, diverting the water flow to massive underground chambers with integrated pumps ready to expel water swiftly. Detailed infographics found throughout Tokyo Metro's stations and carriages, predominantly in Japanese but rich in illustrative detail, offer insight into this sophisticated system. They read like an intense, multidimensional version of the water cycle diagram.
Since its inauguration in 1927, the Tokyo Metro has drawn insights from the pioneering subway systems of London, Paris, and New York. Japan's knack for integrating and refining foreign technologies is well-documented across numerous sectors, and the Tokyo Metro is no exception. However, it is not merely an imitation; it is a network finely tuned to Tokyo's specific requirements, such as its dense population and need for earthquake-resistant infrastructure, particularly following the devastating Great Kanto earthquake just four years prior. Preparing for the worst has been integral to the Tokyo Metro's blueprint since its inception. Even in the 1950s, as Japan was recovering from the war, a significant portion of the national budget was devoted to disaster prevention and risk reduction.
Closer to my home, by the tranquil banks of the Thames in South West London, riverside homes feature mini front doors starting around a metre above the ground, with steps leading up to thwart water ingress. There is something comical about these doors and the challenges they pose for entry and exit. On days when the Thames turns tempestuous, residents might draft in sandbags at their frontages for an added layer of defence. While Tokyo's proactive stance on disaster preparedness may not be as deeply rooted in other global metropolises, challenges still loom: Paris faces the Seine's potential for dramatic overflows, engineers in London race to mitigate the London Underground's vulnerability to flooding, and New York braces for the next inevitable hurricane.
Beyond the sophisticated mechanisms of the Tokyo Metro, there exists a method of safeguarding the populace of Greater Tokyo that operates on an entirely different magnitude. Fifty metres below the surface in Kasukabe City, Saitama lies an intricate system encompassing 6.3 kilometres of tunnels, water tanks, and colossal pillars capable of enduring 200 tonnes of water. Known officially, and forgettably, as the Metropolitan Area Outer Underground Discharge Channel, it's colloquially dubbed the "G-Cans" project after its magnificent silos. It is a vast subterranean labyrinth engineered to divert flood waters away from Tokyo with the stage name of a hip-hop MC. I've seen it likened to a cathedral or temple dedicated to disaster prevention. Indeed, its monumental scale exemplifies Japan's sacrosanct commitment to urban disaster mitigation.
The facility is activated approximately six times a year; however, when not in operation, it opens its doors to visitors, inviting them to behold its immense scale and industrial elegance. Still, if G-Cans doesn't top your list of must-see attractions, Saitama—the frequently overlooked prefecture adjoining Tokyo to the north and forming the northern part of Greater Tokyo—stands out as a destination for numerous other reasons. Here, one can experience both rural charm and the buzz of urban life, all within a brief train journey from the capital.
Densely populated regions from Saitama through Tokyo to Kawasaki in the south are interlaced with a myriad of rivers and canals. In the mid-20th century, Tokyo's Shitamachi, the city's historic lower district, frequently faced flooding, especially during Tsuyu. I saw a television interview with an elderly Shitamachi inhabitant who reminisced about koi carp swimming in the streets. He and other local kids would capture the majestic fish and present them to the neighbourhood goldfish merchant. Such natural adversities turned streets into rivers, interrupting everyday life but also displaying the community's fortitude. Floods in Tokyo have spurred urban renewal, prompting the development of advanced defences like G-Cans, altering the city's relationship with its waterways and ingraining a culture of resilience into its fabric.
Adjacent to most Tokyo Metro stations, discreet, neatly designed plaques are installed for public awareness, depicting the station's elevation relative to sea level. Upon surfacing to street level, I occasionally pause to look at these markers. I might feel a heightened sense of safety in an elevated western ward like Suginami-ku, standing 40 metres above sea level. Conversely, at a mere two metres above sea level on the reclaimed lands of Odaiba, a sense of vulnerability might creep in. I often have such thoughts travelling around the city. Even in the comfort of Tokyo's backstreet neighbourhoods, the eerie sound of the public address system cuts through stormy days, broadcasting ōame warnings, keeping the risk of flooding at the forefront of the mind.
These thoughts, however, are not those of catastrophe. I resided in Tokyo during the March 11, 2011, Great East Japan Earthquake and chose to stay despite the formidable tremors that shook the city and the ensuing nuclear concerns stemming from Fukushima. Over time, forging a bond with Japan and spending considerable periods here have taught me the importance of reconciling with the possibility that a life-threatening extreme weather event could occur at any moment. Suppose all preventive measures fall short and the combined forces of sea-level rise and seismic activity find me at a Tokyo Metro station just two metres above sea level at a less than fortunate time. In that case, I have come to terms with the potential consequences. There is a certain solace in this acceptance.
Precipitation offers solace in more quotidian ways, too, in contrast to finding peace with one's mortality in the face of an aquatic disaster. Those who have experienced the low-level drain of persistent self-talk, losing days to a dissociative malaise, might acknowledge the rain's sound as a subtle cue, capable of gently interrupting such unhealthy, cyclic ruminations. If you become aware of this moment and pause to pay attention to the rain's rhythmic patter, you might discover a hidden shortcut to mindfulness.
I used to rent a room in an old wooden house tucked away on a cul-de-sac in the peaceful yet bohemian neighbourhood of Ikenoue, situated along the Keio Inokashira train line. It was arguably the quietest place I've ever called home, remarkable for its low decibels in a dense area just a few train stops west of Shibuya. Set far from any significant traffic, the cul-de-sac was a haven for the few of us living on this secluded street.
Although it might be a bit generous to label the house I lived in as traditionally Japanese—it was likely a prefabricated structure from the '60s—it was indeed built to the measure of traditional Japanese architecture. The interior featured a welcoming genkan entrance and a dark wood getabako shoe shelf, complemented by tatami mats and paper shōji screens throughout. My room on the ground floor even had eaves outside, under which hung a kusari-doi or rain chain. More than just a functional downspout alternative, this rain chain beautifully channelled water in a spiral pattern, creating a soothing sound.
Upon settling in, I opted for a kotatsu cover from the nearby Shimo-Kitazawa Muji outlet as bedding, attracted by its affordability and warmth comparable to a duvet. Alongside it, I selected a modest paper lamp. The presence of tatami mats and shōji screens alone suffices to imbue a room with a distinct ambience, and I felt little more was needed. At times when the rain would align with introspective Sunday afternoons, I'd recline atop my kotatsu cover, with the shōji screens partially closed, the paper lamp casting a warm glow, while soaking in the sound of rain cascading off the eaves and trickling down the kusari-doi. The persistent ticking of thoughts would eventually dissolve into the soundscape. As it goes, kusari-doi trace back to the Sukiya architecture of the Azuchi–Momoyama period's tea houses (1568—1600), used for chanoyu tea ceremonies. While tea masters might have favoured the rain chain for its utility, I can't resist linking it to a deeper, almost spiritual purpose.
Rainy days in Tokyo can also serve as an effective salve for social anxiety. Tokyoites often cancel plans due to rain. Social gatherings are typically well-organised in advance, and more significant events usually have a backup date should the preferred day be rainy. I'm someone who values firsthand experiences and spending time with friends and family. Yet, a part of me feels a sigh of relief when an event, particularly one involving a large group and the prospect of navigating numerous unfamiliar interactions and small talk, gets called off. While some may find such cancellations disappointing, I see them differently: as an opportunity for unexpected, supplementary time and space for oneself.
When venturing out in the rain is non-negotiable, Tokyo residents love an umbrella. At the first hint of rain, convenience stores promptly position their umbrella displays at the forefront, catering to those surprised by the sudden downpour. I have a preference for the 70cm clear, one-touch umbrellas from Family Mart, complete with a black handle. Priced at ¥711, it's a sturdy choice. Provided you're not bracing for a typhoon, it offers reliable protection against the elements, while its transparent canopy allows for clear visibility through the rain-speckled surface.
The ease with which clear umbrellas are abandoned post-storm is noteworthy, presenting a distinct urban quandary in Tokyo, which contrasts sharply with the city's renowned tidiness and sophisticated waste management systems. The widespread use of clear umbrellas, often priced lower than my favourite ¥711 model and regarded as disposable, intensifies this issue. This practice highlights a disconnect between traditional values and contemporary consumer habits. Designers have proposed solutions to this challenge. Aki Saito, the visionary behind MONDO DESIGN Co Ltd, introduced PLASTICITY, a fashion label that repurposes discarded clear plastic umbrellas into covetable tote bags and other accessories. The pre-eminent maverick of architecture, Kengo Kuma, built temporary houses from umbrellas. Picture 1950s Shitamachi children collecting koi carp during floods and then the modern phenomenon of adults leaving behind enough umbrellas to construct housing.
Transparent umbrellas catalyse other social phenomena in Tokyo. An unspoken communal agreement permits borrowing an umbrella from a public stand during unexpected rain, provided the act is driven by necessity rather than theft. This tacit understanding hinges on the notion that umbrellas, especially those from convenience stores, hold a quasi-communal status. It's an informal umbrella exchange, where an individual who borrows an umbrella is implicitly expected to return it or leave another in its place; a culture of shared use over personal ownership. In other words, you can jack an umbrella, provided you intend to pay it forward. However, this practice isn't universally accepted. Some venues, such as banks and public baths, have introduced umbrella stands equipped with combination locks or keys to deter potential borrowers. The last time I used one of these, the weather improved whilst I was inside the bank on a lengthy errand, so I forgot the umbrella, inadvertently walking away with the key.
The enduring scene of borrowed clear umbrellas enveloping Shibuya Scramble Crossing in the rain prompts a thought: how many tote bags could Aki Saito potentially create at each shift of the traffic lights? However, you can't currently enjoy the classic view of the crossing from the second-floor Starbucks within the Q Front Building with a flatteccino in hand. It is momentarily inaccessible due to renovations at the Tsutaya branch that accommodates it. Similarly, the former San-ai Dream Centre site, a futuristic architecture icon of the '60s and home to Le Café Dotour, a prime people-watching spot at Ginza 4-Chōme intersection, is no longer. Yet, savouring a coffee on the upper floors of a café from a corner seat overlooking an intersection on a rainy Tokyo day remains a vital city experience in my estimation. Thankfully, many other elevated cafés offer views like these and superior coffee compared to the aforementioned chains, even if they're located on less iconic crossroads.
I recently met the owner of 2F Coffee in the Hatchōbori-Shintomichō area at the counter of a nearby record and whiskey bar that piqued my interest. She invited me to stop by and try her locally acclaimed Japanese-style pudding. 2F Coffee, a homely spot overlooking the Hatchōbori 1-Chōme intersection, offers a compact, angular layout with merely ten seats and a single table by the window, necessitating good timing or luck securing a view. I sought the owner's advice on mastering hand-dripped coffee. She stressed that no technique is as crucial as selecting high-quality beans. Her Shintomichō blend drip coffee, notable for its balance, affirmed her approach. The pudding, with its bittersweet taste, was an appropriate match for watching the rainy, photogenic streets of Tokyo below.
I lingered for a while, observing the early evening street lights of Hatchōbori casting romantic reflections in the puddles while commuters brandishing clear umbrellas streamed past. Such scenes are a magnet for photography enthusiasts. In the 1970s, before the era of Instagram-famed photographers, Canadian photographer Greg Girard was skillfully capturing Tokyo's rain-slicked streets. However, his portfolio isn't confined to just rain-soaked neon scenes. As a consummate documentary photographer, Girard seizes the quintessential and authentic in his subjects, employing elements like rain, fog, and ambient light to enhance the atmosphere in otherwise understated moments.
In the late 2010s, creatives such as Scottish photographer and game designer Liam Wong, along with Japanese street photographer Masashi Wakui, began to gain traction within the nascent algorithms of social media. Liam Wong carved out a career with his distinctive portrayals of Tokyo, bathed in purple hues and a cyberpunk, rain-drenched aesthetic. His surge in popularity marked a turning point, sparking a trend in this genre of photography. Wong crafted a unique style, evolving Blade Runner-inspired visuals into contemporary representations with modern fidelity, colour palettes, and saturation levels. Much of the subsequent photography in this vein is driven primarily by aesthetic appeal. While I'm attracted to the visual spectacle, I harbour reservations about this approach. Characterising Tokyo as a futuristic, cyberpunk metropolis can be captivating, yet it risks exoticising Japan and its inhabitants.
Romantic depictions of Tokyo in the rain aren't solely the domain of photographers. Japanese Enka music also vividly captures this mood. Enka, a bluesy popular genre that melds traditional Japanese melodies with Western musical styles, is known for its emotive ballads and themes of melodrama, longing, and deep emotion. The songs, with their expressive singing and nostalgic lyrics, often touch on love, loss, and the trials of life. Ballads from the '60s to the '90s about heartbreak amidst Tokyo's rainy nights fit the mood. Tracks like Kadokawa Hiroshi's Ame no Akasaka (Akasaka in the Rain) and Akira Kurosawa's Ame No Ginza (Ginza in the Rain) are notable examples. At the same time, the classic Nagasaki Wa Kyō Mo Ame Datta (Another Rainy Day in Nagasaki) is a more regional affair with the theme of rain.
This week's newsletter, however, wasn't written with the backdrop of Enka music. Naturally, I wrote to the sound of rain. A particularly challenging seven days with competing priorities left me with little room for focused writing. Meanwhile, persistently draped in grey and offering only a drizzle of late, London failed to deliver any meaningful precipitation during my week of creative need. Consequently, I turned to lengthy, calming rain videos on YouTube for a semblance of consistency as I took brief moments to write on train journeys or late into the night. The outcome is a series of reflections akin to scattered showers.
This process reminded me of a term from the Studio Ghibli film Only Yesterday, originally titled Omoide Poroporo in Japanese. Omoide translates to memory, and poroporo is an onomatopoeic term that conveys the idea of falling drops. Omoide Poroporo is a poignant, cinematic animation where the protagonist's past memories delicately interlace with her present, unfolding in droplets—brief, seemingly unconnected vignettes that collectively sketch her childhood over a slow-burning two-hour narrative.
Given the nature of my week, I set out to write a light newsletter that would require minimal editing. How time-consuming could a short meditation on rain be? But memories and ideas began to poroporo. I hope this stream of thoughts, woven together by the sound of pre-recorded rainfall, can offer you something valuable or comforting, meriting your reading time. If you find yourself in Tokyo, particularly during the plum rain, you might be fortunate enough to experience the authentic sounds of a rainy night. While rain might initially seem like a travel inconvenience, it transforms into an opportunity in Tokyo. Assuming the conditions steer clear of severe storms—and the likes of the disaster prevention cathedral remain on standby—I recommend borrowing a communal clear umbrella from the hotel lobby and venturing out to soak up Tokyo's unique atmosphere under the rain.
Until we meet in Tokyo,
AJ
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Tokyotheque #3: Tokyo's Vertical Streets