my room. Even with this as encouragement I don’t think I’d survive the winter here.
This was the wet season, which lasts from May to October, and the nights were stormy. Active volcanos dwell in this mountain area and after I returned to Australia I heard that an earthquake had killed many people in San Miguel.
I loved my delightful room, especially the minute streetfront balcony where I put out food for my friends the sparrows, who came every morning for breakfast. On my first morning a couple of sparrows had flown down to sit on the electricity wires strung across the street close to the balcony. They had perched there for so long looking hopeful that I wondered if they were accustomed to receiving hand outs. I put some of my crumbled toast on top of the balcony rail and within minutes they were eating it. Other little birds hopped around in the courtyard below the other side of my room, filching the fallout from the budgies that spent their days in cages hung on the wall.
Standing at the hotel reception desk in the early morning when I first arrived, I had heard the loud cheeping of birds. The sound seemed to be emanating from the reception room itself but, although I looked around, I couldn’t see any cages. I asked the receptionist about this and she pointed to the floor. On a low bench I saw a stack of cages piled three high and covered with a cloth. Underneath the cover a dozen budgerigars were chirping to let it be known that they wanted to go outside to their places on the wall. The sparrows hop in and out of the creepers and crevices of the walls all around the cages and I wondered how the poor little budgies watching them felt about this. As I observed the sparrows flying around in the mornings, zipping in and out among the roof tops and landing on my wires, I thought of the bumper sticker that my hang-gliding nephew displays: ‘Hang gliders know why the birds sing.’ I bet the caged budgies know why the birds sing. I wondered if they still longed for the feel of the wind beneath their wings.
One night as I came out of the cafe up the road from the hotel, I noticed a huge black cloud hanging over the nearby hills. Back at the hotel I climbed up to sit on the roof patio and watch this marvellous, inky cloud stream down off the mountain dragging the rain behind it and bringing the storm. At first a few big splatters fell and then a deluge followed, accompanied by deafening claps of thunder and brilliant stabs of lightning. As soon as the rain began two of the hotel girls rushed outside to bring the budgies in.
Another evening we had the grandmother of all storms. I had got used to it raining a little most evenings but this was excessive. At four o’clock the sky was dark and lowering and it was raining a little, but by five, when I had gone out for a walk, it was throwing it down by the bucketful. I walked around for a while looking into some attractive, drowned courtyards but, much as I love a storm, after half an hour I gave up. This town was not built for hoofing about in such an assault. Even with my brolly aloft I got soaked and the turmoil was no longer fun. The houses had no gutters – water simply ran off their flat roofs by means of a whacking great pipe, which sent it splashing down into streets that were soon awash in torrents. Too bad if your car happened to be underneath a pipe.
At the hotel I sat on my balcony above the courtyard, thrilled by the stupendous thunder and lightning right overhead, while rain poured from the roof pipes and splashed to flood the courtyard, thoroughly washing the flagstones and making everything sparkle. In my room, water started rushing through the unglazed bathroom window and very old wooden French doors that opened onto the balcony on the street side. I thought I’d soon need a boat. Fortunately the floor was tiled, so no damage was done.
During the night more heavy rain fell and at one time I woke to find that my feet were wet. I couldn’t work out how
This was the wet season, which lasts from May to October, and the nights were stormy. Active volcanos dwell in this mountain area and after I returned to Australia I heard that an earthquake had killed many people in San Miguel.
I loved my delightful room, especially the minute streetfront balcony where I put out food for my friends the sparrows, who came every morning for breakfast. On my first morning a couple of sparrows had flown down to sit on the electricity wires strung across the street close to the balcony. They had perched there for so long looking hopeful that I wondered if they were accustomed to receiving hand outs. I put some of my crumbled toast on top of the balcony rail and within minutes they were eating it. Other little birds hopped around in the courtyard below the other side of my room, filching the fallout from the budgies that spent their days in cages hung on the wall.
Standing at the hotel reception desk in the early morning when I first arrived, I had heard the loud cheeping of birds. The sound seemed to be emanating from the reception room itself but, although I looked around, I couldn’t see any cages. I asked the receptionist about this and she pointed to the floor. On a low bench I saw a stack of cages piled three high and covered with a cloth. Underneath the cover a dozen budgerigars were chirping to let it be known that they wanted to go outside to their places on the wall. The sparrows hop in and out of the creepers and crevices of the walls all around the cages and I wondered how the poor little budgies watching them felt about this. As I observed the sparrows flying around in the mornings, zipping in and out among the roof tops and landing on my wires, I thought of the bumper sticker that my hang-gliding nephew displays: ‘Hang gliders know why the birds sing.’ I bet the caged budgies know why the birds sing. I wondered if they still longed for the feel of the wind beneath their wings.
One night as I came out of the cafe up the road from the hotel, I noticed a huge black cloud hanging over the nearby hills. Back at the hotel I climbed up to sit on the roof patio and watch this marvellous, inky cloud stream down off the mountain dragging the rain behind it and bringing the storm. At first a few big splatters fell and then a deluge followed, accompanied by deafening claps of thunder and brilliant stabs of lightning. As soon as the rain began two of the hotel girls rushed outside to bring the budgies in.
Another evening we had the grandmother of all storms. I had got used to it raining a little most evenings but this was excessive. At four o’clock the sky was dark and lowering and it was raining a little, but by five, when I had gone out for a walk, it was throwing it down by the bucketful. I walked around for a while looking into some attractive, drowned courtyards but, much as I love a storm, after half an hour I gave up. This town was not built for hoofing about in such an assault. Even with my brolly aloft I got soaked and the turmoil was no longer fun. The houses had no gutters – water simply ran off their flat roofs by means of a whacking great pipe, which sent it splashing down into streets that were soon awash in torrents. Too bad if your car happened to be underneath a pipe.
At the hotel I sat on my balcony above the courtyard, thrilled by the stupendous thunder and lightning right overhead, while rain poured from the roof pipes and splashed to flood the courtyard, thoroughly washing the flagstones and making everything sparkle. In my room, water started rushing through the unglazed bathroom window and very old wooden French doors that opened onto the balcony on the street side. I thought I’d soon need a boat. Fortunately the floor was tiled, so no damage was done.
During the night more heavy rain fell and at one time I woke to find that my feet were wet. I couldn’t work out how
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