… is where I am right now.
I have now been entrenched in monsoon for a month. I’ve started a new job–teaching art at the Woodstock School, an international school in the foothills of the Himalayas (see post from last March, Winterline)–and the school year starts off with a red-carpet welcome in the form of a damp, moldy rag.
I now have a whole new understanding of the word wet. In all its soggy, rainy, misty, pouring, moist, unadulterated wetness.
It has basically been raining for a month straight, with the occasional lapse into cloudiness. I woke up the other morning to the sound of water flowing–not just on my roof, but IN MY ROOM. There was a leak, not a drip-drip-drip leak, but a cry-me-a-river cascade. This then wrought two days of men on the roof, pounding incessantly and yelling to each other. This would have been fine, except I’ve been sick with a bad, chesty cold and so was home in bed trying to get a little rest.
I have a sign up in my room that reads:
On the plus side: