I would be lying to you right now if I didn't admit that I was looking forward to the sound of the wind in the bamboo when we get to Kyoto. I'm listening to the leaves of the maples outside my back door here in the pre-storm breezes and just relishing that gentle rustle. Through bamboo it's a heavenly paper-thin whisper worthy of all the poetry granted it throughout the years.
A good thunderstorm in Tokyo to watch people scurry around in umbrellas in would be nice, too. Especially from the window of a nice restaurant one evening, when the lightning lights the streets up with violent blue-white brilliance.
Storms always bring out the more flowery language in me. They're only slightly less universal than the moon.