Whoa, not to complain or anything, but . . . It has been wet and rainy and even, dare I say the word, COLD!?!  More than once we have gone out in the morning to run errands and returned in a deluge, two among a herd of Quasimoto hunching from one awning to the next, laughing with strangers huddled against the unfamiliar rain, leaping back as passing cars douse the sidewalks with waves of grungy black water washed downhill from the center of town to fill the deep wells of the trees and shrubs planted along the seaside walk called the malecon. We may sometimes get a little snarky in cold weather, having travelled to Mexico for the warm and dry winters, but in this desert country, when rain arrives unaccompanied by hurricane winds, it is always a blessing.

On one recent afternoon, I passed a group of local gentlemen who usually spend the afternoon drinking coffee and swapping tall tales (from what little I have been able to translate while sipping my java at a nearby table). On this particular day, they were standing around holding hot drinks in hand, their usual table and chairs all awash. Pressed against the outside wall of the cafe, bundled in sweatshirts and jean jackets with hoods and collars fully deployed, they gazed sorrowfully as a gust of wind doused me with a heavy shower from an overhanging palm tree. I shook it off, then looked over at them and said “y ahora el viento tambien!” (And now the wind, too!) Apparently this was very funny, for they howled with laughter and one of them bent over cackling. “Si, si, el viento tambien,” they laughed and nodded and repeated it amongst themselves. I waved and continued on my way, having once again provided a bit of comic relief with my slippery grasp on the language.

I was in no hurry on this day to make it back to the marina where the kayak was tied up. I was not particularly interested in paddling the quarter mile back to our sailboat in driving wind and rain, but more importantly, I knew that even though I had tucked the seat beneath the deck when I left, the kayak was sure to be half full of water by the time I arrived. Time for a hot drink!

Passing a favorite local Italian coffee shop whose interior features gray walls painted with black silhouettes of New York and other cities, I grabbed the table abutting a tall open window and ordered a large cup of cafe Mexicano. The young man asked how I was and I said “I am fine, even though it is raining.” He looked at me strangely, and I realized that, once again, I had said “esta llorando” – “it is crying,” instead of “esta lloviendo” – “it is raining,” a mistake I have repeated many times ever since high school. I sheepishly self-corrected and he smiled with me, saying graciously how it is an easy mistake to make.

I took my cup to the window and enjoyed a few spoonfulls of cinnamon foam. The wind was tolerable from here, cut down to an intermittent gust by flowering vines growing up the window frame. I soon warmed up and began to enjoy the La Paz urban scene unfolding around me. A trio of sopping wet young men hurried in, mountain bikers dripping with water and mud and adrenaline from their mad rush downhill through the dirt roads outside the city. They took a table next to a foursome of rather primly dressed young mexican women, and after the initial wrinkled noses at the mud and wet backpacks, both groups were soon sharing photos on their phones.

Next to arrive were three women in a tight huddle. The grandmother serenely loosened her shawl and hitched herself teetering onto a bar stool, then set her huge purse atop the tiny glass table. The middle woman patted her face dry with a kerchief and went to order them coffee, and the granddaughter stayed behind with her abuela, occasionally stealing envious looks at the cluster of young people who were still laughing over each others’ photos and videos. Her grandmother said something to her, quietly, and the girl leaned closer and took her hand, warming it with her own.

Staking out the window seat opposite the room from me was an older man of small stature with a long white beard, his gray fedora enlightened by an eagle feather winging to port.  I have seen him nearly every time I walk that stretch of town, usually camped out on one of the sidewalk tables with his laptop. He is never alone for very long, as it seems he knows half the people who stroll down the malecon. Today was no exception, and every five minutes or so someone new would lean in from the rain and they would exchange quick greetings or stories, Spanish or English. The gusting breeze through his window seemed more damp than mine, for occasionally he would shake a droplet from his hat brim before bending once again to the mysteries of his computer.

Clouds purpled and blackened, glowed and grayed, evidence that the the sun was still going about its business while hidden from view. The street outside filled with water rushing down from the hillside streets, and passing cars were soon delivering gray waves across the sidewalk. When the sky suddenly brightened, I looked up from my reading and saw the lakes and rivers outside were no longer pebbled by raindrops. It was time to make the dash back to the dinghy dock.

After draining what water I could from the kayak , I crawled in and enjoyed a bouncy paddle back to the boat. Pelican Moon was pirouetting around its anchor, dancing with both the wind and the swift incoming tide. Other boats around us each swayed to their own music. I maneuvered the kayak for landing, and for a tense moment was pushed through the water sideways as the hull barrelled through the water with me hanging on tight alongside.

Quickly tossing the lines for Wade to secure, then handing up the groceries, I tiptoed up the rubrail, grabbed the cabin top handrail, and hauled myself up onto the deck. The rain began again just as we heaved the kayak up topsides to dry, and I scuttled below to shed my wet clothes. Inside, Pelican Moon was warm and inviting, and soon we would be enjoying a hot meal with fresh bakery bread. Outside, we were surrounded by rainbows, a nearly full moon, and a sky full of colors and light. In two weeks the desert would be blooming again, proving once and for all that rain is indeed a blessing. Such an obvious truth we pacific northwesterners must surely already know, but in our desire to be warm and dry, we forget, living as we do the rest of the year in the damp land of forever green.