When the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead.
It rained much of the night, and the morning was unpleasantly rainy still. Our son went to catch a bus to his class in Montevideo.
There were no buses.
No strike, no holiday; simply no buses on the road in ugly weather.
My wife called the friend who agreed to translate for her at the hairdresser. Let’s do this another time, the woman said, it’s ugly today. This despite door-to-door transportation.
Perhaps the bus drivers knew no one would go anywhere, so they stayed home too.
My best guess is that people here have learned to avoid the risk of getting wet, and consequently chilled, because homes here aren’t built to be warm. There is evidence that this has a historical basis (1897):
One thought on “When the rain comes”