Italian Thunder

I already remarked about how intense Greek thunder is, and Italian thunder is no different. It's equally intense, but the biggest difference is in the size of raindrops. The raindrops in Arizona range from the size of reset buttons you find in toys and electronics (you know, the ones you need a pencil or pin to push) to the carbonation inside soda. Italian raindrops range from the size of skittles to marbles. We have no one living above us in our apartment, so the entire night felt like we were under attack. These weren’t the gentle sounds of rain you find in cheesy CDs at craft stores; this was an extended drum solo CD being played simultaneously in 300 stereos at 40% volume.

I have slept through television noises, barking puppies, people knocking at my door, et cetera. But this boisterous storm woke me up at least three times during the night. I was cranky because of my disturbed sleep, but I couldn’t even imagine how upset I’d be if my laundry was drying in the patio, like Emily’s was. She had been trying to dry her clothes all week, but the humidity of Rome was keeping dry clothes from her as long as it could. And now, it rained all over her entire wardrobe.

She was up before me, and before I could complain about my restless sleep or empathize about her re-wet laundry, she breaks me.

“Wasn’t that just the most beautiful rainstorm?” she says, smiling widely.

“I couldn’t really sleep… and your laundry, that sucks Emily…”

“Oh it’s no big deal, that rainstorm was just. So. Beautiful.”

My shining light of optimism, she falls back into bed, still smiling.

I guess it was a beautiful storm after all. When else will I feel like a World War is taking place around me?