I have returned to Tokyo, somewhat regretful of leaving Canadian Farm that had truly come to feel like home, and I arrived just as a typhoon was working its way up the coast. Yesterday the air was a thick mat of gray, wind, and wet. While other areas south of Tokyo experienced severe flooding (mudslides dammed a river near Osaka, and villages downstream had to be evacuated), nothing too harrowing came to pass for us, tucked away warm and dry in the safety of an apartment high rise surrounded to every horizon by a dense metropolis. It peaked in the night, its bellowing gusts groaning about the windows and blankets of rains falling continuously, occasionally stirring into a fusillade of intensity only to settle back into a soldiering slog.
As I lay in bed reading, occasionally hearkening an ear to the storm, I felt a trepid wiggle apprehensively work its way up through the building, ever-so-slightly jostling my bed. An earthquake, but only a minor one that seemed a little unsure of itself, shaking a bit then subsiding and returning quietly to readjust itself hoping no one will notice, like someone self-consciously blowing their nose in church.
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