The Sunday letter · Mara LinIssue 01081522283337404345474848
Afterword.
Opening the journal
Travel
Cities that make sense in the rain
Tokyo, Glasgow, Lisbon: walking the wet streets until they speak.
- KindTravel
- DateSep 28, 2026
- Read time11 min
Travel
Cities that make sense in the rain
Tokyo, Glasgow, Lisbon: walking the wet streets until they speak.
- KindTravel
- DateSep 28, 2026
- Read time11 min
Travel
Cities that make sense in the rain
Tokyo, Glasgow, Lisbon: walking the wet streets until they speak.
- KindTravel
- DateSep 28, 2026
- Read time11 min
TravelSep 28, 202611 min read
Some cities are built for sun. They spread out their squares and their cafés and they wait for you to sit down. The cities I love best do something else. They wait for rain, and then they begin to make sense.
I learned this in Glasgow, on a November afternoon when I had planned to visit a museum and instead stood for forty minutes under the awning of a closed bakery, watching the street turn to copper. The sandstone darkened. The bus windows fogged. Everyone walked a little faster and a little closer to the walls, and the whole city seemed to lean inward, like people sharing a secret.
Tokyo, with an umbrella
In Tokyo the rain is almost polite. Umbrellas open in a single movement across a crossing, and the neon doubles itself in every puddle. I walked from Shibuya to a small neighbourhood whose name I never learned, following a woman with a yellow umbrella simply because it was the brightest thing in the street. She led me, without knowing it, to a noodle counter with six stools and a window full of steam.
“A wet street is a map with the noise taken out. You only see the places that are lit.
Lisbon, sliding
Lisbon in the rain is a different animal. The pavements are polished stone, and when they are wet they turn into something close to ice. I spent a whole morning holding on to railings, laughing at myself, while old men in flat caps walked past me as if the hill were flat. The trams kept running. The tiles on every façade went glossy and blue, and for a moment the whole city looked newly painted.
Why the rain helps
I think the rain helps because it removes the choice. On a sunny day there are a hundred things to do and you feel you should do all of them. In the rain there is only the next doorway, the next awning, the next warm room. You stop sightseeing and start walking, and walking is how a place begins to speak.
So when the forecast turns, I no longer cancel. I find my worst coat, the one I do not mind ruining, and I go out with no plan at all. The best cities are waiting for exactly that.
— Mara
All essays
TravelSep 28, 202611 min read
Some cities are built for sun. They spread out their squares and their cafés and they wait for you to sit down. The cities I love best do something else. They wait for rain, and then they begin to make sense.
I learned this in Glasgow, on a November afternoon when I had planned to visit a museum and instead stood for forty minutes under the awning of a closed bakery, watching the street turn to copper. The sandstone darkened. The bus windows fogged. Everyone walked a little faster and a little closer to the walls, and the whole city seemed to lean inward, like people sharing a secret.
Tokyo, with an umbrella
In Tokyo the rain is almost polite. Umbrellas open in a single movement across a crossing, and the neon doubles itself in every puddle. I walked from Shibuya to a small neighbourhood whose name I never learned, following a woman with a yellow umbrella simply because it was the brightest thing in the street. She led me, without knowing it, to a noodle counter with six stools and a window full of steam.
“A wet street is a map with the noise taken out. You only see the places that are lit.
Lisbon, sliding
Lisbon in the rain is a different animal. The pavements are polished stone, and when they are wet they turn into something close to ice. I spent a whole morning holding on to railings, laughing at myself, while old men in flat caps walked past me as if the hill were flat. The trams kept running. The tiles on every façade went glossy and blue, and for a moment the whole city looked newly painted.
Why the rain helps
I think the rain helps because it removes the choice. On a sunny day there are a hundred things to do and you feel you should do all of them. In the rain there is only the next doorway, the next awning, the next warm room. You stop sightseeing and start walking, and walking is how a place begins to speak.
So when the forecast turns, I no longer cancel. I find my worst coat, the one I do not mind ruining, and I go out with no plan at all. The best cities are waiting for exactly that.
— Mara
All essaysTravelSep 28, 202611 min read
Some cities are built for sun. They spread out their squares and their cafés and they wait for you to sit down. The cities I love best do something else. They wait for rain, and then they begin to make sense.
I learned this in Glasgow, on a November afternoon when I had planned to visit a museum and instead stood for forty minutes under the awning of a closed bakery, watching the street turn to copper. The sandstone darkened. The bus windows fogged. Everyone walked a little faster and a little closer to the walls, and the whole city seemed to lean inward, like people sharing a secret.
Tokyo, with an umbrella
In Tokyo the rain is almost polite. Umbrellas open in a single movement across a crossing, and the neon doubles itself in every puddle. I walked from Shibuya to a small neighbourhood whose name I never learned, following a woman with a yellow umbrella simply because it was the brightest thing in the street. She led me, without knowing it, to a noodle counter with six stools and a window full of steam.
“A wet street is a map with the noise taken out. You only see the places that are lit.
Lisbon, sliding
Lisbon in the rain is a different animal. The pavements are polished stone, and when they are wet they turn into something close to ice. I spent a whole morning holding on to railings, laughing at myself, while old men in flat caps walked past me as if the hill were flat. The trams kept running. The tiles on every façade went glossy and blue, and for a moment the whole city looked newly painted.
Why the rain helps
I think the rain helps because it removes the choice. On a sunny day there are a hundred things to do and you feel you should do all of them. In the rain there is only the next doorway, the next awning, the next warm room. You stop sightseeing and start walking, and walking is how a place begins to speak.
So when the forecast turns, I no longer cancel. I find my worst coat, the one I do not mind ruining, and I go out with no plan at all. The best cities are waiting for exactly that.
— Mara
All essays