Monday, December 8--Rainy Days and Mondays

It rains a lot here. Or maybe I just notice it more since I walk more than I drive. I go by train to most of my teaching jobs, which means a 15 minute walk to the train station, rain or shine. December is actually one of the driest months of the year, as far as rain accumulation. I believe May and June are the rainy season—before then I will have to get a “real” umbrella. The compact variety that Americans prefer just doesn’t cut it here. The diameter of a Totes purse-size model makes it suitable for nothing more than the typical American rain experience--a quick dash across the Walmart parking lot. Here in Japan, if the wind is not blowing, it might serve to keep my head and shoulders dry, but everything south of that suffers from a combination of raindrops from the heavens and big splats falling from the edge of the umbrella. We won’t even talk about the chillingly soggy results of a strong breeze—or the struggle to keep the surprisingly flimsy umbrella from turning inside out. (Working on the theory that you get what you pay for, on our last trip to the outlet mall before leaving the U.S. I chose the $20 compact purse-size umbrella over the old-fashioned suitcase-size $7.99 model, assuming for that price it would withstand at least a Category 2 hurricane. What a waste of $12.)

The Japanese take the rain in stride. If rain breaks forth from a sky that was cloudless and blue just moments before, umbrellas (the sturdy Mary Poppins type) miraculously appear, as it seems no citizen leaves home without one. If one happens to be caught without an umbrella, every store from the high-end boutique to the corner convenience mart sells them. When the skies open up, sidewalks immediately become a sea of bobbing umbrellas. From above, I imagine it looks like the health class videos of red blood cells streaming through your veins—moving with purpose and direction, speedier individuals brushing past slower ones, with some groups occasionally branching off from the main stream to pursue a different path. The Japanese are very aware of the space their umbrellas take up, and they raise, lower, dip, and turn them fluidly to avoid colliding with other umbrellas or pedestrians. I am willing to bet that no Japanese hospital has treated a patient for an eye injury sustained from a poke by a stranger’s umbrella.

With all those drippy umbrellas, you’d think that any public place would be a soggy, slippery mess. In reality, the only place that ever shows the ravages of a rainy day is the train. If they don’t already have a permanent umbrella stand outside the front door, most stores and restaurants roll out an umbrella station as soon as the first drops fall. This station might be a large rack where patrons deposit their umbrellas before entering and pick them up when leaving. (I know! This would never work in the U.S.—someone would come by and pilfer the whole lot of them to sell later on eBay.) Other stations are stocked with a supply of long, slender plastic bags—slip the wet umbrella inside the bag and carry it with you. Both you and the store remain dry. The community center where I meet one of my students on Monday nights takes the prize for the most high-tech umbrella station—it has an electric dryer that blows off all the excess water in a matter of seconds, allowing you to skip the plastic bags and carry your dry umbrella with you. Unfortunately, it is designed for sturdy, Mary Poppins style umbrellas, not my Totes compact purse-size $20 model.