When I was in third grade, I went for a walk down a road in rural Bavaria with my mom and great-great uncle. It was a typical (spring) day in Germany: gray with intermittent showers, and Uncle Alfred brought along an umbrella. For a mountain kid, an umbrella is a novel toy: we have coats, mittens, all sorts of protective garments, but we just don't carry umbrellas. I discovered that if you spin around real quick the umbrella feels really strong, and that if you spin even quicker, the umbrella pops inside out. And I very quickly discovered that you do not conduct such experiments with Uncle Alfred's umbrella.
I have had an aversion to the things ever since.
Well, up until last summer, traveling through urban Europe with stuff I didn't want to get soaked in the afternoon showers. At that point, an umbrella struck me as a handy enough tool to make me not resent using one, and actually wish for one here in Thailand, where I have a commute of about 3 long city blocks without much shelter, and where I carry a computer and papers and run around hither and tither once I'm on campus.
So I seized a temporary lull in the downpour to get to town and buy an umbrella.
I did not buy one with a sword in the handle. (Don't worry, I looked. Something about rust.)
I bought the only telescoping model I could find without Disney characters or Hello Kitty emblazoned all over it.
In retrospect, especially since they were the same low price from the same bad factory, I should've bought one of the (unlicensed) Disney models, just out of principle.
I was at a crossroads, and rather than cross via the diagonal, I decided to cross via two of the four streets; lately, especially after dark, scooter captains have been lifting their feet out of the spray and ducking their heads against any oncoming precip while exhibiting an especial sense of urgency to arrive at their destinations, no matter what the obstacles.
It started raining as I crossed the first street, so I opened my new, blue, telescoping protect-o-shield.
It was one of those rains that starts out like the punishingly humid air condensing into a stupidly-pervasive shower: it's not that aggressive, but it feels like the air you inhale turns into water as soon as it enters your windpipe.
Now imagine that air column stacking up about three miles, maybe four, and the entire lot condensing at once: while it starts out pleasant enough, the shower soon turns into a pummeling of fist-sized grenades hurtled at terminal velocity from the frigid heights.
Cheap, telescoping umbrellas telescope before collapsing entirely.
A spacesuit would probably protect against a soaking, as would an Arctic-calibre drysuit, but that's about it. And neither of those alleviates the proportionally punishing weight of a heavenly firehose spraying full bore from on high.
The greatest irony, though, is that it's downright chilly. Consider that 70 degree water sucks heat as quickly as 40 degree air; then consider what happens when the air plummets from 68 with 98% humidity and a steady breeze to 60 with a 45 degree downpour and howling winds. I wouldn't say anything, given that I no longer have the mass to judge temperature, but the Thai people are walking around in puffy jackets with fleece pullovers and silk scarves.
When I first touched down, I would've said it's just shy of hell freezing over. But here we go, welcome to Thailand.
Love it.
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