There are rules to rainy days:
Rule 1: It can't be too cold. If it's cold, then snow is the appropriate response.
Rule 2: Rainy days are common in the Spring, hence there should be no cold days in Spring, especially late Spring. Europe fails on that one. It's been cold, grey and rainy for about five days now, or an eternity. What's the difference? I think Oklahoma and Arkansas (excluding present disaster in OK) win on this. Our Spring rains are most often the BEST thunderstorms. If it's cold and raining, being inside becomes a prison. If it's warm and storming, being inside is the most comfortable thing. Open your window, listen through the screen as rain and thunder pound and hum that sweet Spring melody.
Rule 3: This is more a rule for life, but for optimal enjoyment of rainy days one needs to live at ground level. One of the best parts about rain, aside from playing in it, is its sound. Droplets on leaf, tin roof, and especially in puddles are the best background music. If you're too high up, those puddle plops disappear.
I was in Croatia a little over a week ago. I went with one of the classes in one of my schools. I honestly don't even really want to talk about it. The students were great, and riding my bike on the coast was wonderful, but I was on a resort, and I don't think there are many things uglier than a resort. It's like living in a giant Walmart. They have everything you need, and there are lots of cool things and great deals, but it is completely ______ of anything meaningful. I was in a foreign country for five days, for goodness sake, and I got no taste for the local culture or history at all. I mean, I have a hard enough time being a tourist, but just using a country for its landscape? I think that's called being a leech.
I did get to taste some delicious seafood, though. On the last day we got some "bad" weather. It'd been sunny and warm every day, but on that day it rained nearly the whole day. Since James and I were in charge of the biking group, we kind of got the day off. In the morning, we got a group of students and took back the bikes we had rented. Since we and the students didn't have anything to do, we just planted ourselves in a cafe and chatted with the students for a couple of hours. While sitting, I noticed one of those dispensers filled with big bouncy-balls. I didn't have the change for it, but after I looked at them longingly for long enough, one of my students bought one for me. In the afternoon, James and I went out to find something to pass the time. James, with is trained eye, had spotted a small joint on the docks that looked to be one of the local favorites. As we walked there in a light drizzle, I bounced my ball and dreamed dreams of my future barber shop and my arcade/soda fountain with a small theater. Something about bouncing a bouncy-ball really gets cogs turning. Rule 4 for rainy days: always have a bouncy ball on hand.
We made it to the small shack and settled in the back corner of the non-smoking half. I ordered and ate calamari for the first time in my life, and it was amazing. James ordered wine for us, and we talked while boats rocked outside the window. Cozy in our seats, we grabbed the shack's chess board and began playing. That was one of my favorite afternoons in recent memory. We sat in thought as the Mediterranean rose and fell to the beat of Bob Dylan, CCR, and relaxing background music. A local sat behind James and watched our game, eventually commentating James' eventual doom. He muttered the few German words he knew to warn James, and James decried his inability to "finish" me. We spent a good four hours tucked into that back corner, and it couldn't have been more comfortable. I won a game, James won a game, and we declared ourselves of equal greatness. Rule 5 for rainy days: play chess.
I do have to pause to give credit to Croatians for their multilingual capacities. Because of the vicinity, many of them could speak Italian fluently. James and I often sat at a restaurant or cafe and listened as the fishermen weaved in and out of Italian and Croatian. Most waiters or waitresses could also speak a good amount of German and English. I mean, we probably wouldn't often expect waiters to be a highly educated group, but these people were on average much better educated than the average American.
Last week I went on another bike trip with the Faulesaupartie. It was the first day of this accursed week of cold, rainy weather. As some of the people leading the pack, James and I got to the top with another guy before the others. James and the other guy disagreed about which direction they were supposed to head in, and we went our separate ways. We soon found out that James was wrong and had to find a way to the hut to meet up with the others. There wasn't really a good path, so James decided to go the way he usually goes when skiing on that mountain: through a forest with no path. He had on shoes that clip into pedals. I had on running shoes, so he was able to get some traction and I wasn't. He led the way atop twigs and piles of dead, wet leaves, and I followed, slipping and falling the entire way. As I tried to figure out how to effectively move my body and bike, I bit it at least six times really hard; falling every time with my right elbow onto some hard surface. Until that point, I had been in a fantastic mood. I did my best to maintain a good spirit, but it is an art to be a happy camper without firm footing. Just about one of the most irritating things in life is the feeling that you can't find your footing. When the ground becomes your enemy, every painful throb reminds you of false steps and stupid mistakes, and you can't even trust your own feet it's hard to have a good sense of humor. Most of us just become this blustering, complaining fool; cursing at every step.
It's at times like these that I hear Dory's voice from Finding Nemo. "Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming." Every day I become more convinced that movement is the answer to just about everything. So I tread along, and eventually James led us out of the forest and onto a real path. My first step onto solid ground was accompanied by a furious sigh, a couple of curses, something like, "James, that hurt like hell", and then I laughed at myself. We rode on and scooted onto a bench with our friends in a hut. The stove was so old that you could see the fire burning inside through a large crack in the stove-top. Heck, the hut was so old it didn't have electricity. The owner harbored the greatest of beards, and the table we sat at was next to his bed. When it got so dark we were having a hard time seeing he brought out an old gas lamp and put it in the middle of the table. Through the hut's tiny, square windows we could see the fight ahead, but walls and warmth are never as far from us as we fear, so we enjoyed the warmth while we could, and when it was time to ride we rode. Rule 6 for rainy days: find good company.
So when the rain falls, and waves rise, my bouncy-ball gives good replies. Mostly it jumps to my hand, but sometimes it hops rebellion, so I chase and we do a dance. There's a subtle hum and shh, a patter, beat and occasional clap. I listen and bob, maybe sway or flop while looking for my next move. I move as I know, or I make it up as I go, but sometimes I just ain't got no moves no mo'. So I look to my mate to take the lead, and we bounce out the shadows and slip off the leaves. That's my rap. It's okay if you tapped your feet. Pitter. Patter. Peace.
