I got caught in the rain on the Williamsburg Bridge on Wednesday and there is nowhere to hide on the Williamsburg Bridge.
That's the whole thing about that walkway. Once you commit, you commit. No awnings. No bodega to duck into. Just you, the pedestrian path, the J train rattling past on the tracks beside you, and the river going gray beneath.
I'd taken the L to Bedford and decided to walk back into Manhattan because the sky looked fine. The sky lied.
Halfway across, right at the top where you can see both the LES and Brooklyn spread out, the rain came down like a Bollywood breakup song. Full drama. No warning. The kind of September rain that's still a little warm.
Getting caught in the rain here is different than at home. At home in Ahmedabad the monsoon is expected, respected, planned around. Here it's a personal insult from a city that promised sun.
I had no umbrella. Of course I had no umbrella. I'm the woman who owns twelve umbrellas and carries exactly zero.
So I did the only thing you can do when you get caught in the rain on the Williamsburg Bridge with no cover for half a mile. I stopped fighting it. I walked.
A cyclist zipped past soaked and laughing. A guy in a suit held his laptop bag over his head, useless, sprinting toward Delancey. We made eye contact and both just cracked up.
There's a strange freedom in already being ruined. My hair was done. My white sneakers were done. My whole outfit surrendered.
By the time I reached the Manhattan side the rain had stopped, obviously, the way it does the second it's finished humbling you. Delancey Street steamed. The sun came out like it had an alibi.
I stood dripping outside a dumpling spot on Eldridge feeling weirdly, stupidly happy.
Sometimes the city soaks you just to remind you you're alive.
Love,