It’s Hot in Tokyo

If there’s one unsettling truth I hadn’t anticipated, it’s that Tokyo will become a blazing inferno this fall with a single goal in mind: To kill me. The moment I step out of my air-conditioned hotel, I’m transformed into a soaked creature, my sweaty silhouette a testament to a body in agony. All for wanting a little sightseeing in Shibuya, Akihabara, and Shimokitazawa, only to be punished by some evil god, spirit, or yokai wielding the concentrated power of a thousand suns. I was completely unprepared for this unfair battle with climate change, which ambushed me along the way and turned my joyful journey into an odyssey in the blink of an eye.

I have to plan my daily trips through this burning concrete jungle down to the very minute - though, of course, that's hardly possible. If I spend even a second too long away from the air-conditioned havens of subway stations, department stores, and art museums almost sealed off from the outside world, I liquefy into a dark, sweaty, and miserable mess that not even the iciest drinks from the omnipresent vending machines can save. Japan wants me, and anyone else brave, or stupid, enough to face the open air on these diabolical days, to know who’s in charge - and no portable fan, mobile sunshade, or colorful popsicle can spare us from that harsh reality.

The longer I endure this endless game of hide-and-seek with the sun, the clearer it becomes: There’s no point trying to strategize against nature’s brutal counterattack on humanity. My time here in Tokyo is finite, and I’m not going to let a giant fireball in the sky ruin my trip. Stepping out of a Family Mart onto the midday streets of Asakusa, I begin to melt at the first step, as the beloved konbini jingle morphs into the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my boiling head. Fuck you, sun, I think as a puddle of sweat forms beneath my feet, and I slowly drag myself toward the next temple, shrine, or cute maid café for a few photos. I will survive - hopefully.