Beating the heat in Japan, literally
Whenever people talk about summer in Japan, the first thing they mention is usually the heat. And fair enough. Japanese summers are not subtle. The air feels thick, shirts stick to your back within seconds, and even the cicadas seem to be screaming about the temperature.
But what I always loved was how communities seemed to have developed hundreds of little ways to make summer not just bearable, but enjoyable.
When I lived in Yamanouchi, a neighborhood in Kita-Kamakura tucked between temples, forests, and narrow winding roads, one of my favorite signs that summer had truly arrived was hearing drums in the distance. Eventually, a tiny truck would emerge from somewhere in the greenery, carrying musicians and festival lanterns, somehow navigating roads that looked barely wide enough for the truck itself.
To this day, I have no idea how they managed some of those corners.
The photo captures one of those moments perfectly. A small blue truck transformed into a festival float, carrying drummers through a neighborhood where the roads were never designed with vehicles like this in mind. The truck would slowly wind its way through the community, the sound of taiko echoing off hillsides and between houses hidden among the trees.
Nobody seemed particularly surprised by it. It was simply part of summer.
That is something I have always appreciated about Japan. Rather than trying to escape the season, people lean into it. There are countless traditions that seem designed to distract you from the fact that it is 35 degrees C or more (95 degrees F) and humid enough to swim through.
You hear wind chimes hanging from eaves. You drink icy mugicha. Bamboo blinds appear outside houses. Children run around carrying festival games prizes. Local shrines become gathering points for neighborhood festivals. Even food seems designed to provide psychological relief, whether it is watermelon, kakigori, or beautifully crafted sweets that somehow look cooler than the surrounding air.
The heat was still there, of course. Nothing was solving that. But somehow the sound of drums winding through impossibly narrow streets made it matter a lot less.
Looking back, I think that is one of the secrets of summer in Japan. The season is full of rituals that create anticipation and connection. You wait for the festivals, the fireworks, the sounds, the foods, and the familiar signs that another summer has arrived.
And every year, in Yamanouchi, that tiny truck somehow squeezed its way through roads that seemed physically incapable of accommodating it, carrying not just drums but a reminder that community traditions are often the things that make difficult seasons memorable.
When I think about summer in Japan now, I do not first remember the heat.
I remember the sound of taiko drums drifting through the trees of Kita-Kamakura and wondering, once again, how on earth that truck was going to make the next turn.
