Dry feet

Standard

On my way back from the German consulate it started raining as if the gods had decided that this thing with the flood in that popular, funny book was, like, a cool idea and let’s go for it. I wanted to avoid walking 30 meters through the rain and took a detour through the condo which is sheltered.

Or so I thought.
The rain was lashing out as if it was punishing the city for having the audacity of standing in its way, and even when I was taking the pathways which had rooftops I was hit by droplets which were virtually racing horizontally. So I thought I’d take another little detour which I expected to be sheltered even a little more.

It wasn’t, by the way.
But this was not the main problem:

Ah damn: a huge puddle, right there.
Look how the flower beds are overflowing.

This did not look like a good way forward, so I turned around and decided that I’d rather have a few more rain drops on my shirt and hair (the birth certificates that I had just picked up were fortunately safe and sound in the nice, courtesy of the German embassy plastic envelope), than wet feet.

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