Arrival in rain

Arrival, ryokan, rain season.

The station feels haunted. The sun has long set, rain beats steadily against the pavement, and people vanish hastily into the dark. The night is punctuated by eerie sound signals by entrances to the station or underground passages. The same repetitive melody plays again and again - out of sync, from one place or another - like a creepy game of whack-a-mole.

I brought no assumptions nor expectations with me about Kyoto - apart from the bit of knowledge of Kyoto’s past as the capital.

I knew well enough not to judge a book by its cover. I was eager for the full itinerary and whatever yokai encounters might await.

But first - it’s raining and I had to leave my luggage somewhere so I marched on to my accommodation while listening to the drizzle. My route took me through narrow paths and in spite of the back alley charm, the way was well lit. No yokais met.

I was bound to do something about the rain issue. The next day was going to rain as well. This was but a perfect excuse to buy one of the popular transparent umbrellas. Only to inevitably leave it at the airport, have it stolen or misplaced it altogether. While pondering on the topic of umbrellas I came to the place.

It was traditional.

I could smell the room, feel the tatami under my feet, hear the neighbors or hit my head against the door frame. I placed my futon next to the window for the feeling of lofi coziness. I only anticipated what it would look like in the sunshine but even at night it has its japanese charm. On one hand, it is a typical view - power lines stretching between the rooftops. The buildings are low and together they form a rustic "skyline". Below, a small alleyway glistens with reflections, still wet from the rain.

That night, I drifted off while watching the quiet glow of the city.