Every June, I feel a slight apprehension coming on. From autumn through spring, it seems as though the Northern Hemisphere eagerly awaits this month. To many, it marks the beginning of the best quarter of the year: three months from which an entire year’s worth of living must be squeezed. For me, summer has always felt like an inconvenience.

My lethargy towards the season has never much inspired summer travel. Growing up across Indo-Pacific cities, where summer always lingered too long, I thought instead of winters abroad. So, when a four-week window to travel opened last July, I had a decision to make. Though the Japanese summer would be gathering heat, I still wanted to spend it in Tokyo.

Until then, my impression of Japan’s summer came mostly from film. Japanese cinema does not tend to glamorise the season. Instead, physical realities set the scene. In many seasonal cultures, summer seems to ask that we defer all else to seize the outdoors and spend time in the sun. I enjoy being outside, but summer is not what draws me there. In the films I had watched, however, the season was simply a backdrop to the characters’ adversities. Connecting with this portrayal, I grew curious and set off for my first July in Japan.