The Wonder of a Rainy Morning in Yokosuka

reflections from a cozy coffee shop

Toirowa, Yokosuka, Japan

I am sitting in the second story of a traditional Japanese-house-turned-coffee-shop that bears the marks of age and creaks with every step. Soft piano music plays gently over the speakers and heavy rain beats against the opaque windows. I am the only one here besides the friendly barista who moves around just loudly enough downstairs so I don’t feel at all alone. 

One Google review of this place reads, “I found a quiet space that felt like time had stopped.” It’s a welcome difference from the Starbucks I visited yesterday (namely for its picturesque view of Tokyo Bay) that was bustling and carpeted and modern. Here, the worn wooden floor dips, the furniture is old and warped, the stairs so steep I worry I’ll tumble down them if I’m not careful.

Toirowa sits unassumingly on a quiet road beneath a lush hill. The menu is simple, offering single origin coffee from Ethiopia, Central and South America, and freshly prepared breakfast, lunch, and dessert. I walk in with the only two words I’ve gathered so far (good morning and thank you), half soaked from the steady morning downpour. The barista (who I later learn may be the owner) greets me warmly, offers a space for my umbrella, a bilingual menu, and ushers me up the steep stairs to an eclectic room with antique furniture. I have the entire space to myself. I order a cup of slowly poured Victor Paz Honey from Honduras and the savory French toast.

Rain beats against the side of the house and I am warm (and drying), surrounded by the small stack of books I managed to cart across the Pacific. The stairs creak as the barista ascends with breakfast and a fragrant cup of coffee in a handmade ceramic mug. The downstairs kitchen is absurdly small, but boasts all the gadgets I’d expect at a modern hipster coffee shop (but without the chatter and pretension). 

The French toast is thick, eggy, and beautifully seared, served with a long slice of bacon, tangy wild mushrooms, and an arugula salad. I sip the black coffee, delighting in its fragrance and smoothness. I read David Hinton’s book of poetry Desert and write about the rain and the coffee in my journal. After a while, I hear voices and laughter (American I think) drifting up the staircase. I smell something fresh and yeasty, something sweet and spicy, alongside the subtle wafts of slowly poured coffee. I read for a long while and eventually, the room lightens as late morning light pours in through the obscured window panes. 

When I leave, the barista opens the door for me and steps out onto the stoop. He looks up at the sky and smiles, “Look, the rain has stopped.”