This sweet, wet rain.

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I’m not obsessed with the weather - it is what it is - but I will record the deep satisfaction I feel right now as I lie in bed listening to rain beating against the open window, hissing through trees and gurgling down drains. It’s 3 in the morning when all good children ought to be aslumber, but I’ve once more fallen into the trap of listening to music late at night, fully aware that it would prevent sleep as it always does. But the rain really is very soothing, even if it does transport me here, there and beyond. (Oh dear, I just finished that sentence with a preposition - how embarrassing). I recall rainy nights in Paris, Rome and Athens. I remember tramping city streets late at night, soaked through and with nowhere to stay and hungry. I remember too, and with fondness, sheltering in dark alleyways reeking of pee, glad to be out of the rain, wakening up in train stations feeling stiff and sore. And then there were the strangers who bought me coffee, shared information with me, even took me into their homes, people who left me enjoy a hot shower, dry my clothes, catch my breath. Does rain make you come over all nostalgic or is that just me?