A Typhoon By Any Other Name

Merely mention the word, and my spine tingles. After surviving the fury of super-typhoon Pongsona in Guam in 2002, I am well aware of the catastrophic potential of such storms. As the news article states, a bumper crop of 10 typhoons slammed Japan last year, which is about seven or eight more than average.

Thus, I heeded warnings about Mawar, which means “rose” in Malaysian. I braved buckets of morning rain to stock up on essentials, namely sushi and Häagen-Dazs. A female voice cried out from the afternoon raindrops; crackling echoed over the emergency PA system. She spoke slowly and calmly, but all I understood was “please,” “this is,” “typhoon,” and “Koto-ku” – the ward I call home. More informative was her stern undertone of caution. Now, did she mention anything about filling up the bathtub in case of a power outage?

Instead of remaining housebound, I strapped on Tevas and rolled up my wind pants to attend my first freelance writers’ meeting for Japanzine, which is publishing a variation of my earthquake blog for its September issue. By speaking in nouns to a platform attendant, I confirmed the following: Konban. Taifu. Chikatetsu. Mondai nai? Nan-ji ni shimari masu ka? (Tonight. Typhoon. Subway. No problem? What time do you close?)

In Tokyo, typhoon Mawar proved to be just a two-day rainstorm. Japan’s elegant umbrella etiquette enables me to enjoy such rainy days. Drizzle or downpour, kasa smoothly pop open to ward off wetness. Plastic sheaths greet customers at shop entrances. Umbrella culture also condones swapping, which initially I mistook for stealing. Tonight someone at our Canadian pub meeting place swiped my umbrella. Of all nights, just my luck, I moaned while peering through streaked glass. Worry not, a fellow writer advised, as I reluctantly helped myself to a replacement from those remaining.

On the way home, I splashed through the empty streets with my newfound guardian, which like its predecessor is clear plastic with a white J-shaped handle. They don’t come any cheaper. Streetlights illuminated driving sheets of rain. The wind was picking up. I danced across a bridge over a swollen canal, reminiscent of a Hiroshige print, Shower at Ohashi Bridge. Tokyo in the typhoon was mine for the taking.