Several cars slowed to watch our progress and we probably made a score of people giggle. Huge puddles in the roads splashed my jeans, and my T-shirt became nearly transparent. At the overhang of our hotel, three doormen opened the doors for us and told us to go on in, that they'd clean up the mess behind us. I walked barefoot dripping wet even after I had wrung the water from my hair and shirt over the marble floors and Persian rugs to the elevator while other guests' mouths hung open and several asked stupidly if it was raining outside. Several towels and another shower later, I watched the rain from my bedroom on the seventh floor.
Rain never seems to last quite long enough.
It seemed to us that every time we walked a distance from our car, the rain would start. Not anything like the pelting shower we had after our Chinese dinner, but the little spurts of misty rain stalked us at every turn. We'd dash for the car or open our umbrellas, which we carried everywhere after our soaking. And then the rain would stop, leaving the memory behind in the wet, steamy streets, but no evidence in the clear, blue sky. And, too soon, our trip ended like the rain, with a few photos and a multitude of memories, but no lasting evidence of the sunburn, the taxing hours in the car or the days of relaxation.