JUST ANOTHER WEEK IN JAPAN

Where rainy-season storms meet trembling ground

The other day, I was reminded that living in Japan means accepting that nature occasionally likes to keep things... interesting.

Take last month.

We were in the middle of the rainy season – that damp stretch from early June to mid-July that every resident complains about while quietly acknowledging that, without it, the country would have a slight agricultural problem. After all, it provides around 20–30% of Japan's annual rainfall.

It's several weeks of grey skies, persistent drizzle, and humidity high enough to make your clothes question whether they'd rather remain indoors.

Normally, that's enough weather for one month.

Not this year.

Suddenly, a typhoon appeared.

In June.

Out of season.

Completely unauthorised.

Typhoons are usually an autumn affair, arriving fashionably late after summer has already exhausted everyone with thirty-five-degree temperatures and humidity normally associated with tropical fish tanks.

This one clearly hadn't checked the calendar.

One day of torrential rain and violent winds was enough to bring large parts of Tokyo to a temporary standstill before disappearing as abruptly as it had arrived.

The following morning, the weather returned to its regularly scheduled rainy-season programming.

Business as usual.

Two weeks later, the weather forecasters returned with even better news.

Not one tropical storm this time.

Two.

Travelling side by side, as though they'd arranged to meet somewhere over Tokyo.

Apparently, the weather gods had decided that one wasn't making enough of an impression.

Meteorologists even have a name for two nearby storms dancing around each other: the Fujiwhara Effect.

Trust Japan to give coordinated typhoons a technical term.

Fortunately, they were due at the weekend, sparing millions of commuters while simultaneously ruining everyone else's plans instead.

Outdoor dining seemed optimistic.

I was sitting at my desk while the rain hammered against the windows. It was no longer entirely clear where the rainy season ended and the typhoon began.

Then I suddenly felt the house move.

Not from the wind.

An earthquake.

After almost thirty years in Japan, the routine is well established.

Step one: stop for a second.

Step two: check your phone to see where the epicentre was and how strong it measured.

Step three: carry on with whatever you were doing.

Japan has had centuries of practice.

Buildings are designed to sway rather than collapse. Children practise evacuation drills from an early age. Households keep emergency supplies tucked away somewhere, just in case.

The country can't prevent earthquakes.

It simply assumes they'll happen eventually and prepares accordingly.

It's a surprisingly practical approach to life.

Unfortunately, one thing even Japan hasn't mastered is predicting earthquakes.

The famous early-warning system can sometimes provide a few precious seconds before the shaking arrives.

Enough time to move away from a bookshelf.

Or, if you're quick, dive under the kitchen table.

That evening, I was already asleep when my iPhone suddenly exploded into life. Unlike the afternoon tremor, this one was polite enough to announce itself first.

The emergency alert is not subtle.

It sounds less like a helpful notification and more like the opening scene of a disaster film.

Within a fraction of a second, I had gone from deep sleep to complete panic.

The earthquake itself?

Perfectly modest. By Japanese standards, anyway.

In fact, the tremor earlier that afternoon had actually been stronger and hadn't triggered the alert at all.

Sometimes the warning system seems considerably more dramatic than the earthquake it's warning you about.

Still, I'd rather have five unnecessary alarms than miss the one that matters.

But living in Japan means accepting that the weather occasionally ignores the rules, typhoons arrive uninvited, and the ground sometimes decides to wobble beneath your feet.

Oddly enough, after a while, that becomes normal.

Though I still think whoever schedules typhoons outside their designated season deserves a stern talking-to.