It is raining.
In the summer in Hong Kong it rains. Monsoons, typhoons, summer rains, thunderstorms, amber, red and black rain. We have them all, one after the other.
To stay on the train with the colours of the rains, the flooding, the closure of the schools and everything involved in living in a place with shit weather, there are various ways including:
- Hong Kong Observatory App that sends disturbing warnings of natural disasters every ten minutes and that I have silenced and obviously never consult.
- The school SMS that warn about the conditions of the roads, the delays of the school bus and the eventual closure of the school, which I read late (who reads text messages in 2018?).
- Common sense (which I do not have).
- Alerts outside the elevator. A tall, gilded pole with a giant green writing that says, like a flashing signal, “do not go, do not go, stay home, put on decent shoes, you’re an idiot.” I don’t even look at it.
- The little man out of the elevator, the doorman, the caretaker, him. My savior. My personal application, my Al Roker, the man who escorts me to the taxi with an umbrella. The only one who convinces me to come back and change shoes. My hero.
Today he was not there. I went out with sandals and without an umbrella because “can’t rain all the time” and I put my sunglasses in my handbag.
So I’m here with my feet soaked, wet to the pants, to buy yet another umbrella. I’ll have 100 at home, not to mention the bottom of the bags lined with umbrella-folding condoms of all colours, collected over the centuries and never re-inserted.
“I take this one, blue with flowers” I think, “at least it is cheerful”.
But no, it was an umbrella with a print of Dumbo. Damn it.