Buckets of Rain

I've been in the Netherlands for ten days now, and have yet to buy an umbrella that won't flip inside-out in the wind. My walks are like a scene from Mary Poppins gone terribly awry.

Today, on the way home from IWPR, it started to rain...not a downpour, but still a heavy, persistent shower. I had left my hapless umbrella at home, and proceeded to get drenched.

I can't remember the last time I've been caught in a cloudburst, but there's something about it that satisfies a small, careless part of you. I don't know if it reminds you of when you were younger, or if it just seems more natural to become completely soaked rather than fumbling with an awkward umbrella that leaves a cold drizzle dripping down the back of your neck no matter which way you maneuver it.

Then again, take that too far and you could end up forty-years-old, standing on a corner in a thunderstorm singing "Who'll Stop the Rain?" while strumming the air guitar. It's all a matter of degree.