The rain came around midnight. It fell in blinding sheets, backlit occasionally by dramatic and disconcerting flashes of lightning that silhouetted the coconut palms. We’d opted for a “fan only” (no air conditioning) room and the slatted metal shutters were folded back to let in the lukewarm sea breeze. With the torrent came an occasional gust and as we lay in the mosquito-netted king-sized bed, we were enveloped in a cooling mist. After one particularly close explosion of white lightning with simultaneous crash of thunder, the ceiling fan stopped spinning. Was this another of the government’s scheduled electricity interruptions or had the storm zapped the hotel’s wiring? I slept fitfully for the next few hours, awakened occasionally by booms of thunder. I didn’t mind. In a week I’d be back in chilly Minneapolis, craving these monsoon dreams.
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