Rain in Costa Rica has a particular feel to it. Sometimes you find yourself stepping out of City Port Java when it drizzles and notice the smell of soil perpetrating your nostrils, and can't help exclaiming "What humidity!". That nostalgizes me - not that it reminds me of something in my past. The glimpse of white, foamed, bouncing drops paints an exotic, separate reality whenever I happen to catch it: my childhood here, in Santa Ana, or my growing up as a Tica, frequenting volcanoes, sunsets on beaches, rain forests, rice and beans, ludicrous infrastructures. It's the ramification of my having observed numerous small and carefree souls enjoying themselves under the rain. That sort of thing can be seen almost everywhere, and goes directly to the heart of everyone on Earth who has in his or her past a somewhat peaceful childhood. Then as an older, worried child, I always stop for a latte, listen to something melodic, gaze at the membrane of water and the distorted perspective behind - no matter where I am and what I do. Now that I'm about to leave, again I am assured that rain is what connects my realities and keeps me from falling apart. Coincidentally, 'rain' was the very first word I said.
It's been noticed that I was not the sole rain gazer in the school. The gray and striped cat, looking as omniscient as Socrates but is forever hungry, could always be found sitting comfortably on his little 'veranda' - just wide enough to keep his waterproof mind safe from the repercussion of Newton's third law (namely, the rain drops' bouncing back after striking the ground). This is very misleading, though, because when it's sunny and dry and maybe windy, he turns out to be an scared brat, wandering around the waste baskets every meal, waiting for something half-decent to eat, fleeing whenever someone attempts to get closer, leaving the friendly cat-lover feeling ostracized. I would say that if he was such a mysterious (and thus seemingly able) philosopher, this revelation would be real ignominy. But he doesn't seem to care much; and to me, his indifference makes a virtue which most of human beings - who want to live happily and ignorantly - are deficient in. Now that I'm about to leave, I look for him whenever passing by the cafeteria, hoping to see his cynical eyes. Those hostile eyes always stare at me as if pointing out that my ideas of him were just a set of fallacies. I named him Caulfield, and ascertained that he was fond of it.
Something that I also enjoy doing when it rains is playing bass. I'm not sure how the low pitches get along with the ra-ta-ta-ta's, but it's real consolation. It's been my favorite time of the day, when I just mindlessly go through the four finger technique, fret by fret, while pondering the big and small things happening behind the membrane of rain outside. Although it's not the best way to practice, I admit, it's actually for the clarity of my thoughts more than my musicality (which needs to be worked on too). Knowing that I won't be touching a bass for a while after leaving here saddens me.
I pick up a tattered clover. It feels heavy as if the gray sky has fallen on me.
