Outside...in the rain

So, it rains a lot here. Yea. I mean a lot. Sometimes it seems it rains at least once a day. Usually it does so around the time I’m ready to get out and do things. That’s the story of my

life.

A friend said Bogota is considered the refrigerator of Colombia. It’s usually high 50s here. But high 50s here is warmer than what I remember at home. 50s here is jeans and a very light, long-sleeved shirt. And I was actually a little warm because of the humidity.

Long story short, when everyone at home was too cold, I was perfect. When everyone will be too hot (oh, it’s coming) I’ll still be perfect. I can’t and don’t complain too much. And then it rains.

There are times I find myself sitting in the middle of the floor, by the window, waiting for the rain to stop. I hate to play into the stereotype; but I am most certainly the black girl that doesn’t want to get her hair wet. Especially when I’m the black girl whose stylist is a whole continent away. I’d much rather my hair stay straight for as long as it can.

At first, the rain was an awesome excuse. I knew I should be out exploring my new home and getting to know the neighborhood around me. There had to be more than the grocery store and the bank. But it was raining and shouldn’t walk. I could get sick, right? For someone like me, who is such a habitual homebody, I found comfort in the familiar. (Yes, I realize the paradox that is the boring adventurer but hey, I’m a complex woman)

But part of the purpose of my travels was to step outside of that box. And part of the charge given to me by my uncle was to be transformed in some way. It’s kind of difficult to do that when you refuse to meet a challenge or embark upon something new. At some point, the rain would have to simply fade into the backdrop and become only a small, detailed brush stroke on the larger canvas of my experience.

I’m not sure when I changed from that girl who trapped herself inside, afraid of what a little water would do to her. Now I grab an umbrella, use a scarf to cover my head and go. And if I get wet, eh. That’s what dryers are for.

I laughed to myself a few days ago. I had just come out of the grocery store. My arms were filled with bags, so there was no empty hand to carry my umbrella. I looked at the line of taxis ready to seize the opportunity of an unlikely cab fare due to the unwillingness to carry groceries in the rain. Then I thought, “It’s just a light rain and I’m only 5-6 blocks from home. I can walk.” I pulled my scarf up and strolled home.

Ok, if you’re my family and close friends, you’re finding several things wrong with this picture. Did she say 5-6 blocks? Arms full? No umbrella? Just a scarf? And the biggest question, “And you had a $3 taxi as an option?”

To that I say, “See. I’m growing.”

So here’s the thing I noticed. It’s always going to rain. But I can’t allow the rain to dictate my journey. Maybe Arthur Freed was on to something. Maybe singing in the rain is the way to go. Maybe it wasn’t just about humming a little ditty. Maybe it had more to do with enjoying the storm and its transformative abilities rather than cowering from it.

I guess I’ll worry about my hair another day. After all, maybe it’s time for a new style.

UPDATE:

I wrote this blog two days ago and just hadn’t gotten around to posting it. I walked in the rain today at a tourist spot called Salt Cathedral. It was less acceptable than I led you to believe. I think I still dislike the rain. Clearly, I’m still growing.