A Glimpse of Setúbal
The air is silver with sea mist—the hills of Setúbal, beyond the Rio Tejo, glimmer watercolor like, their serenity at odds with the roar of airplanes eternally circling Lisbon. Right now another growls overhead, descending towards the eastern side of the city, laden, no doubt, with late season holiday makers. As I finish writing that last sentence the sky opens, and rain falls. Rain. Precious rain, which we have been awaiting for so long it is impossible to remember the last time I smelled it or heard it making music on the roof.
I step onto the balcony and observe the scene below: umbrellas popping up like mushrooms; teenagers laughing, bareheaded and pushing each other into puddles; the large oak tree in the church yard swaying gently, shining with precipitation. The thickening clouds slightly dull the grind and woosh of another descending plane, as well as the clang of the street car that passes through the neighborhood.
It has been a hectic month, September, and unusual—or so say the locals. Storms in the north Atlantic have kept a low-pressure system over us, and the humidity has been scandalous. Last night at work we were noting how it was, finally, the first time it felt like autumn might actually happen—that the humidity and prolonged heat and the domineering sun might give way, as they are traditionally supposed to do, to the shorter days—cooler days—and rain. As soon as such things were uttered, wood was knocked, and words were taken back lest we jinx ourselves and end up cursed with a long, hot, sticky October.
The view now of Setúbal and the Tejo are obscured. The schoolyard in the neighborhood still projects the voices of the young, the airplanes descend and it is time to dress to go out into the long awaited rain.