Soaked and the city river

What starts as a drip too often ends a pour. So we get aboard the river taxi with a heavy mist in the air. A canvas sky is painting black, half storm and sunset hour. The city is blue in crashing wave, the water collecting on our brow.

We ride too many stops in the wrong direction, get off too early without a clue. Beads of sweat wash out sticky t-shirts down to the wettest shoes. We run up and down the street past taxis taken and pedestrians taking cover in orange bulb street food tents.

Finally a tuck-tuck takes us hotel bound, us walking the last few meters to shelter in drenched, happy defeat.