In Patzcuaro the weather is usually mild, and the temperature just right. Not too hot and sticky, like Ixtapa or trapped and polluted like Mexico City. Patzcuaro has warm sunny mornings and cool evenings. It’s never too humid or dry, because you can always count on the rain. It rains like clockwork in Patzcuaro. Each afternoon the storm clouds roll in quickly, cooling off the rocky streets that lead me to the zocalo. The rain suspends activity in town for a moment, but as quickly as the clouds approach, everything in the sky evaporates, producing only sunshine.
Not today.
As we hang the laundry up to dry, Tlaloc creeps up on Patzcuaro. He dims the lights and wrings a sopping wet sponge out over our eyes. He squeezes and squeezes an uninterrupted cascade, forcing us to seek sanctuary inside. He hides the beautiful lake, the island of Janitzio and the expansive mountain range that is usually visible from my window. Lightning rolls and thunder crashes as his thick drops slams against the clay rooftop of our house.
I imagine the rain god is bathing in Lake Patzcuaro with his esponje and jabon, while I attempt to take shelter on the porch. The horizon appears grey and steamy from my foggy glass window. Rain drops leak between the cracks in the roof and dampen my paper. I can see the brick houses next to ours darken with moisture. The red cement dome of another glistens in the last ray of sunlight, while the storm persists. There is an eruption in the East, as Tlaloc hurls flashing bolts of lightning.
The men and women working in town take refuge under blue tarps. The rain pitter patters and collects in the concave of plastic. It spirals down the thick rope that holds the taco and torta stands together. Vendors selling fruits, munecas, zapatos and elotes are packing up. The bees have all left their swarms around the sweet homemade candies and cookies. The fishermen paddle to shore and children run home in wet shirts or wrapped in their mother’s dry rebozo. Everyone scatters like cucarachas, except for the mangy dogs in heat. Ignoring the change in weather they run through the puddles, chasing one another. The lime and pomegranate trees feed on Tlaloc’s bath, while the day has seen the last of its sunshine, and downpour continues into the night.
Not today.
As we hang the laundry up to dry, Tlaloc creeps up on Patzcuaro. He dims the lights and wrings a sopping wet sponge out over our eyes. He squeezes and squeezes an uninterrupted cascade, forcing us to seek sanctuary inside. He hides the beautiful lake, the island of Janitzio and the expansive mountain range that is usually visible from my window. Lightning rolls and thunder crashes as his thick drops slams against the clay rooftop of our house.
I imagine the rain god is bathing in Lake Patzcuaro with his esponje and jabon, while I attempt to take shelter on the porch. The horizon appears grey and steamy from my foggy glass window. Rain drops leak between the cracks in the roof and dampen my paper. I can see the brick houses next to ours darken with moisture. The red cement dome of another glistens in the last ray of sunlight, while the storm persists. There is an eruption in the East, as Tlaloc hurls flashing bolts of lightning.
The men and women working in town take refuge under blue tarps. The rain pitter patters and collects in the concave of plastic. It spirals down the thick rope that holds the taco and torta stands together. Vendors selling fruits, munecas, zapatos and elotes are packing up. The bees have all left their swarms around the sweet homemade candies and cookies. The fishermen paddle to shore and children run home in wet shirts or wrapped in their mother’s dry rebozo. Everyone scatters like cucarachas, except for the mangy dogs in heat. Ignoring the change in weather they run through the puddles, chasing one another. The lime and pomegranate trees feed on Tlaloc’s bath, while the day has seen the last of its sunshine, and downpour continues into the night.
