One of these days I'm going to get caught up with posting these.

It probably won't be until I'm done writing them.  When I'm home.  In July.

--

06 May 2008.  8:27pm.

The sky is dark, clouded, full of pregnant cumulonimbi ready to burst and shower forth mountains of wet progeny as I make my way through the thinly-wooded park.  The smoothed rocks on the uneven path are slick, and my shoes slip and slide as I attempt to climb the steep incline.

Back home I wouldn't dare hike in weather like this, but Spanish rainstorms seem inexplicably lightning-less.  I grab the trunk of a tree, pulling myself further up the modest hill.  The afternoon is steeped with the anticipation of the inevitable precipitation, waiting for the right moment to erupt forth and give the countryside a wet, sloppy kiss.

I reach the crest of the hill right as the bloated clouds groan, a low, threatening rumble that shakes the ground and reverberates through my quivering body.

So maybe I spoke too soon about no lightning and thunder.

I gaze up into the bleak sky as the faint, preliminary drops drip onto my upturned face and into my open mouth.  Sweet, wet Mediterranean rain.  I walk along the crest of the hill as the misty drops transform into huge, cold projectiles, exploding on impact, leaving sodden scars all over my body.

Another brilliant, earthshaking lightning bolt streaks across the sky, accompanied by another deep, thunderous roar.  Water slicks my bangs down to my forehead as it runs off my nose and onto my lips.  I dive for the ground, remembering my long-lost days in Cub Scouts when they taught us "what to do in a rainstorm".

The large balls of water begin to fall, quicker and more densely, until the morph into a wall of rain, pounding into the countryside with brute force and transforming me into something akin to a drowned rat.

Another flash of blinding light, closer this time.  I shiver and curl up into a ball, trying to conserve the heat being leeched slowly out of me by the freezing waves of water pounding down on me.  Despite the cold and the nagging threat of possible electrocution, the countryside is beautiful - a splotchy, ill-defined painting of quiet browns and muted greens, sparkling with a fresh coat of moisture in the dark, growing grays.

I lay there on the ground, wrapped in a cold blanket of errant raindrops, until the storm abates and I am able to meander through the soggy trees and over the slick earth all the way back down past the Puente del Diablo and out to the street to wait for the next bus.