Stormy weather
On average there are 300 days of sunshine in Portugal, which compares to 100 annual sunny days in San Francisco. We’ve gained twice as many days of sun in our move, which is welcome, but i's not all sunshine and Sagres and happy chickens, not by a long shot. We've been really lucky in many respects but that saying when it rains it pours is not just about salt. Today we were having coffee in the entryway, the doors propped open. We'd been to the quinta already, for toast and jam and juice. Now we were getting ready for the day. I kept finding reasons to go outside - the weather was so peculiar, and very reminiscent of a midwestern spring - the sky gray but bright, the air balmy. If I were in Illinois feeling this weather I'd know a thunderstorm was on the way, maybe even a tornado, but this is Portugal and I didn't think that, until the rain started pounding down. There the h and I were, having our coffee and feeling cozy when all of a sudden the sound of rain pouring outside became the sound of rain pouring inside.
We jumped up and opened the door to the living room where a fast trickle of water fell from the previously repaired ceiling. The h ran upstairs to find the source (from the third floor you can see most of the roof); I ran around looking for buckets, which were all over at the quinta, necessitating I grab a guarda chuva and walk over there, my pants and shoes becoming instantly soaked. I found two buckets filled with rain and emptied them; I also found the entryway to the quinta, the room where we've been cooking and charging up our electronics, had sprung a leak; when I looked up, raindrops feel stinging into my eyes. There was no time to do anything but cover the appliances with plastic and hope the leak stayed confined to one place. In the drenching rain on the way back to the palaceta I searched for Stella and her chicks and cried for not having the chicken coop ready - poor Stella's brood has shrunk during the storms down to three, and the koi pond mamas are going to be lucky to have any of their chicks left after the rain stops.
The h heard me crying. What's wrong? he asked. We should have finished the coop before the rains came, I sobbed. It's all my fault they're losing their babies! And the quinta is leaking!
We set the buckets under the living room leak and grimly rotated them for the next half hour. I ran into the kitchen to find the mop and found water puddling on the floor, dripping in from the double doors that lead to the kitchen patio. I set about cleaning it up figuring the h would see it when he saw it, no sense searching him out like some gore crow squawking more bad news.
My phone blipped with severe weather warnings. Outside our gate the street became a fast flowing river, cars creeping by at 5 mph. Videos of Lisbon streets underwater flooded my social media. The entire country , it seemed, was being pummeled with rain.
As bad news goes it's not the worst. We knew the roof had a twice-repaired leak; in between the last repair and now, it has held up during record-setting rains that last December completely filled our pool, which is huge.
I've been needing to mop this floor, I say when the h comes in and observes the puddle, and he laughs, and the spell is broken, I no longer feel like all we're having an end to our good luck, I no longer feel like what next, when it rains it pours feels like just another saying and not fate singling me out. I changed out of my wet clothes; in my warm red sweatshirt and Outdoor Research pants, dry socks and waterproof boots I felt once again ready for anything.
The quinta roof is fine, the h reported after checking the situation out. It was a minor issue, easily solved; nothing even got wet. As soon a the rain slacked off the h caulked the kitchen doors where the water was coming in, solving that problem. The fancy new ladder that makes itself into a platform halfway up will be employed shortly; here's hoping the roof repair is as manageable a the others.
When the rain slacked off I looked out in the courtyard to see two dozen hens and roosters standing about, drying their feathers. The biggest one spread his ruff, shook himself and gave a mighty crow, as if to tell me It takes more than rain to bring us down, lady.