A close-up, slightly blurry shot from a smartphone of raindrops hitting a hotel window pane in Kyoto, with the faint glow of distant city lights visible through the streaks of water. The focus is on the texture of the rain and the glass, with a hint of the room's dim interior
A candid, handheld smartphone photo looking out from a slightly ajar hotel room door in Kyoto. The hallway is dimly lit, with a hint of a vending machine's glow and a small, delicate origami crane placed on a pillow on a neatly made bed. The image has a natural, unposed feel
A low-angle, shaky smartphone shot of wet, moss-covered stone steps leading up to a small, understated temple entrance in Kyoto. The sky is overcast, and the scene is softened by a light, persistent rain, with a few fallen leaves scattered on the ground. The focus is on the atmosphere and the quiet solitude

Finding comfort in the rain

It's 5:20 in the morning and I'm sitting in a small hotel room in Kyoto, listening to rain tap against the window. The weather forecast warned about this - light rain now, heavier later, with a storm warning for tonight. But I'm not thinking about the weather.

I arrived yesterday afternoon from Nara, and something feels different. Not bad different. Just... different.

The train ride was only forty minutes, but it felt like crossing into another world. Nara was quiet, contemplative, a place where I could sit by a tree for two hours and feel perfectly content. Kyoto is... louder. Even at the station, I could feel the energy - the crowds, the announcements, the constant movement of people flowing in every direction.

I found my hotel easily enough (arriving exactly at 16:10 for my 16:00 check-in, naturally). It's a small place near the station, nothing fancy, but the woman at the front desk bowed deeply when she handed me the key, and there was a small origami crane on the pillow when I entered the room.

I didn't go out yesterday evening. I told myself I was tired from the move, but that wasn't really true. The truth is, I stood at the window for a long time, watching the city lights, and felt... I'm not sure what the word is. Hesitant? Uncertain?

In Nara, I'd finally found something - that stillness I wrote about, that ability to just be present without constantly planning the next thing. And now I'm in a city with thousands of temples, millions of tourists, and I'm wondering if I can hold onto what I learned there.

Can you carry peace with you into chaos?

That's what I want to find out. That's why I'm here.

The sound of rain

I've been awake since 4:30. Not because I set an alarm, but because my body seems to have adjusted to these early mornings. In Nara, I loved the quiet dawn hours at the shrines. Here, the city is never quite silent, even at this hour. I can hear a truck somewhere in the distance, the hum of a vending machine in the hallway, and now, the rain.

The weather report says it will rain most of the day. There's a thunderstorm advisory until 6:00 AM tomorrow, and a storm warning from 21:00 tonight. Wind speeds up to... I don't know, the translation app gave me numbers that seemed dramatic.

Part of me - the old me, the one who arrived in Amsterdam nine months ago with a perfectly planned itinerary - would be frustrated. Rain means fewer photographs, wet clothes, temples that will be crowded with people seeking shelter.

But I'm trying to practice what I learned in Nara. The rain is just rain. The crowds are just crowds. And maybe there's something beautiful about seeing Kyoto's temples in the rain anyway.

What I came here to do

I have a list, of course. I always have a list. Fushimi Inari with its thousands of torii gates. The bamboo forest in Arashiyama - those tall, swaying stalks that are so different from Norwegian trees. The Golden Pavilion. The rock garden at Ryoan-ji where I want to practice meditation.

But sitting here in the pre-dawn darkness, listening to the rain, I'm thinking about something the café owner in Nara taught me without saying a word. She just brought me tea and mochi on my last morning, wrapped in a bamboo leaf. A small gesture. A moment of kindness.

Maybe that's what I'm really here to learn. Not how to see every temple on the list, but how to carry that Nara stillness with me. How to be present in a crowded place. How to find moments of peace between the tour groups and the selfie sticks.

Plans for today

The rain is supposed to be lighter this morning, heavier this afternoon. So I'm thinking: get out early, before the city fully wakes up. Maybe head to Fushimi Inari - I've read that if you go at dawn, you can have the gates almost to yourself before the tour buses arrive.

Or maybe I'll just walk. Find a small temple that's not in the guidebooks. Sit under an eave somewhere and watch the rain fall on a temple garden.

I have 220 days left on this journey. Five months in Japan before I need to start heading back toward Europe for that October bus to Chamonix. That's plenty of time. I don't need to see everything today.

That's what Nara taught me. That's what I'm trying to remember.

The rain is getting heavier now. I can hear it more clearly against the window. In a few hours, the city will wake up fully, and I'll step out into whatever this day becomes.

But for now, I'm just here, in this small room, listening to the rain, feeling something I haven't felt in a while.

Not restless. Not anxious about the next destination.

Just... here.

And maybe that's enough.