“No,” I said, reaching for the orujo I had left behind. “I’m dry. But I have been wet.”
The rain came not in drops but in sheets, then in walls, then in something closer to a vertical river. Within sixty seconds, I was blind. My jacket became a second skin of cold water. The dirt track I had been following turned to chocolate-colored mud that sucked at my boots with every step. I could no longer see the village behind me, nor the low hills ahead. I was suspended in a world of grey and water, a solitary creature at the bottom of an invisible ocean. The Rain in Espana 1
“ Pasa ,” she said. “Come in. Close the door. The rain does not like to be watched.” “No,” I said, reaching for the orujo I had left behind