The Rain

THE RAIN

“It’s SOOO hot!”

“It’s Cartagena.

Same as always. How boring. But after all, one is responsible for their own happiness.

We decided to go to the beach. While Pete finished sweeping the yard and mopping the floors, I put on my bathing suit and got our stuff ready. It was getting late, and soon we’d want some lunch.

“But I don’t want to eat at the beach. I want something healthy,” he was saying.

“It’s already noon,” I replied as we crossed the pedestrian bridge.

We talked about the time and our options and decided to go Downtown and eat at X Restaurant*, because of the time and it being Sunday, where it’s good and cheap. We didn’t mention “pretty,” but it is what it is.

We got into a collective taxi and sped off to the walled city. The taxi left us in the Calle de la Moneda, and as soon as we stepped into the street, it started to rain.

“There’s time to get there before the storm really breaks.”

Optimist. I don’t run anymore. My knees betray me.

“Well, we are dressed for getting wet.”

We hadn’t brought an umbrella or a purse or anything. Just the mesh beach bag, a book, a towel and a bottle of water. Bathing suits under shorts and tees, the oldest flip-flops. For the beach.

We crossed the Plaza de Telecom to see if they were serving buffet today at the Hotel Cartagena Hil, but they weren’t. It was on the way to X Restaurant anyway. Now it was raining in earnest, and we were getting wet. At least the heat had gone down, and the plan was to escape it. We crossed Tripita y Media and entered Getsemaní barrio.

I’d never eaten in X Restaurant; that’s why I wanted to try it, to do something different. Variety IS the spice of life.

We entered half soaked but happy, and the power went out. We didn’t care. We sat near the entrance where there are windows. A typical place, old but clean. Nondescript décor. Some pictures. Typical pottery. The place looked worn out. The waitress, too. Young but bored. We ordered fish, the executive menu for $8000 COL.

My soup was bone broth with a meaty bone, not well cooked, but the yuca – ah the great yuca of the coastal region. It has a special, grainy texture, like the fine white sand of Playa Blanca. Seems like the heat that annoys us so much is just what makes it the best yuca in the country. Pete had the fish soup. I’ve never liked it much. After all, I’m not from the coast....

I ordered fried bream; he had mackerel steak. The bream was over-fried and almost charred, accompanied by extremely dry rice, a slice of fried ripe plantain, plain red beans and something called “salad.” This was a piece of wilted lettuce, the type one should consign to the compost, with a little slice of tomato and two slices of cucumber, sans dressing. Dry as the rice. I almost didn’t find any meat on the fish bones, and the lemon was dry, too. The best part of the meal was the beer we had brought in with us, purchased at the Plaza de Telecom on the way.

Pete, as always, ate everything. If you like mackerel, his was the better choice.

“You recommend this place to tourists? I asked skeptically.

“Yeah. Good and cheap.”

“But not pretty. Not good either. But I wanted to try it…It stopped raining.”

We paid but didn’t leave a tip and exited the restaurant to find the street flooded.

“Careful,” Pete warned me, as always. And I had on the oldest flip-flops. I might slip.

“You be careful. I’m fine.”

Water everywhere. It happens all the time Downtown in the Heroica. In a little while the water would go down. It was sure to be flooded to the canal and out to the sea. City of water. Eternal summer. At least the humidity wasn’t besieging us now. It had solidified and made it rain. Bendito. I was still hungry but grateful for the experience.

“Yeah, not worth going to the beach now.”

“But at least it’s cooled off.”

“Thank God.”

We crossed Tripita y Media again and went toward the Plaza de Telecom. Once again the clouds burst and the rain soaked us. How odd. As if it had been sent specially to get us wet every time we stepped on the street.

We decided we’d rather just go home now.

“It’s going to keep raining.”

We got into another collective taxi headed to Crespo. The rain let up, but after crossing the pedestrian bridge, it started up again.

“It’s pursuing us.” Suddenly he slipped, but grabbed my wrist and didn’t fall.

“Careful, honey.”

“The flip-flops.”

We found the house bathed and cool, and the patio tank full from the blessing of heaven. I decided to bathe with rain water. Delicious.

And so we spent the coolest afternoon in three weeks. Blessed water.

*The real name has not been used to give the establishment the benefit of the doubt. Any resemblance to real persons or places is intentional, but privacy has been respected. After all, every story has some element of non-fiction, doesn’t it?