From romantic nostalgia to muddy humility, and the lessons found in a sudden splash.
Lisbon has been experiencing rainy spells of late. And me, being a hopeless romantic, have always loved the rains.
I hail from a land where seasons shift with a dramatic flair, and each transition is a burst of colours, emotions, and an overall change in the soul’s vibe. The autumn rains there brought a special, sweet nostalgia. They meant slowing down, huddling up in cozy clothes, sipping masala chai as I gazed at the trees outside my window, their leaves turning to fire. It was a signal to spin a hearty soup or deep-fried snacks that warmed the insides as much as they tantalised the taste buds—a ritual of comfort and introspection.
Lisbon’s rains are different.
They are often less a rain and more a persistent, fine mist that hangs in the air, soaking you quietly, insidiously. It was only last week that I heard the first crack of thunder in five months, a proper, decent downpour that arrived while we were out, celebrating Halloween at a local library. It felt like the sky had finally remembered how to shout.
And with this difference, my relationship with the rain has fundamentally changed.
Rains now mean I worry about my kids getting drenched while navigating the public transport to come back home. Rains now mean I anxiously watch the sky, calculating if I have a dry pocket of time to rush to the supermercado and carry the groceries back without getting soaked, a tangible challenge in our car-free life. Rains now mean the practical puzzle of drying the laundry indoors, without the liberty of a dryer, turning our living space into a tapestry of hanging clothes.
The romance has been tempered by reality.
And then, yesterday, the universe offered a lesson in a puddle.
Esam and I were walking around our neighbourhood, killing time before our older one’s Jiu-Jitsu class ended. A car sped past a large puddle and hurled a wave of muddy water all over me. I stood there, stunned for a second, in my newly decorated, mud-splattered jeans.
I wiped off what I could, trying to clean the stain with a dab of hand sanitizer—a traveler’s trick. And then, instead of frustration, a smile broke through. I was struck by the sheer irony of the moment.
How time changes.
Making the moment light and introspective, I joked to Esam, “You know, I might have done exactly the same to someone in my past life. Driving past a puddle, overlooking a pedestrian or a bike rider, shielded by the glass and metal of my car, enclosed in my own little world of entitlement.” Although, I do fondly recall passing on many umbrellas to random strangers, too—a small stash I always kept in my car for such moments.
Funny, isn’t it? How you can suddenly find yourself on the opposite end of a puddle.
It’s a humbling experience. A quiet reminder that no season, no circumstance, and no perspective lasts forever. The protected can become exposed. The driver can become the pedestrian. The one who offers shelter can be the one caught in the storm.
The rain washes away more than just dust; it washes away our assumptions. The lesson isn’t to curse the puddle or the car. The lesson is to wipe the mud off, smile at the absurdity of it all, and just keep walking.
One humble, grateful, and slightly damp step at a time.
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