October 11, 1990
When the wind stopped blowing, although it was still raining, I rode my bicycle downtown. The weather was cool enough to require two sweatshirts, but the rain was gentle, so I got damp but not soaked. I splashed through puddles, and laughed hysterically, and streamed along the sea wall standing on the pedals, getting sprayed as the waves crashed over the breakwater and smashed up against the sea wall. The violence of the storm was mostly dissipated, although the sea remained murky and choppy.
In town, I fell in love with Japan all over again. Everything delights the senses: the arcades are bathed in a weak, yellowed light; twisted, grimey streets branch out at odd angles; splashes of color are visible here and there at a green grocer's or a flower seller's, but most color is subdued by the dim light, the perpetual artificial twilight.
I love it all now: the cracking pavement; the open sewers steaming with water flowing from hot spring baths; the yardless houses, the walls of which are built right up to the streets and alleys so that you can hear their tenants cooking and talking and watching TV and moving about as you pass. And then there are the smells: of hot oil and tempura and fish; and of manju and pastries and roasting green tea; and the rotten egg smell of the sulphur springs and the inescapable cigarette smoke. Then there's the damp smell rising from the stone walls and the moss and the rotting wood, a rich sweet smell of decay. And everywhere people are burning garbage and leaves.
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens
October 11, 1990
Share Your Thoughts
Today, I grew impatient with being shut in by the ceaseless rain.