Hiding from the Rain with Notes of a Crocodile 🌧️

Pokhara’s last day, rain fell over the whole city ☔. By the time I left the inn, the hems of my pants were already splashed with mud. Walking deeper along Phewa Lake, I stumbled on this cafe at the end of a reed marsh—a bamboo shed slanting crookedly, like a haystack softened by rain 🌿. The bamboo slats creaked when I pushed the door; the owner was wiping mugs inside, looking up to say “sit anywhere” 😊. Picked the corner closest to the lake. The old wooden table was damp, my fingertips leaving faint prints when I pressed down 🪵. A small tin lamp hung overhead, its light as dim and melted as butter, turning raindrops bright 💡. I curled my legs into the cushion, rain hitting the bamboo shed in a steady “shusha shusha,” mixing with the dull thud of lake waves hitting the shore 🌊. The smell of wet wood seeped up from under the table, making even the air feel sticky—and suddenly, it felt like this place was made for Notes of a Crocodile 📖. Qiu Miaojin’s words always feel soaked in water: sticky, heavy, with a vague ache 💧. Reading them on sunny days before, I’d always felt a distance, but today was different. Rain slanted across the lake, gray-green waves dizzying the eye; distant mountains hid in fog, only faint shadows left, like the unspoken sighs in the book ⛰️ 🌫️. Occasional mosquitoes drifted through the lamplight, their “buzz” tangling with the “rustle” of turning pages 🦟—and suddenly, I understood those “sticky” sentences. It turns out you need this rain, this damp, to read the folds in the words. When my eyes tired, I looked up. Phewa Lake was washed gray, houses across the water reduced to black blurs, like ink smudges 🖤. Bowing to sip the latte, the cup burned my fingertips, the foam long melted, coffee’s bitterness mixing with a hint of sweet ☕, spreading over my tongue as the rain seemed to fall harder. Pokhara has always felt tangled to me 😐. I loved the morning mist over the lake, could walk two hours along the shore, watching white sails emerge from fog, watching locals squat on stone steps to brush their teeth—no words needed to feel at ease 🤍. But step a little deeper into the alleys, and that ease shattered. Yesterday at the park, under the trees were locals chatting, their stares like fine needles, pricking all over. Someone whistled, someone called “hello” in broken Chinese 🗣️. The longer I walked, the more I felt like a specimen in a glass case, even my breath tight 😬. Yet it’s always when leaving that you find the best corners 🔍. When the owner refilled my water, he pointed to the lake: “Rain stops, there’ll be a rainbow 🌈.” I laughed: “Won’t see it.” He shrugged, leaving a ginger cookie when he set down the kettle: “Just baked, warms you up” 🍪. Checking the bill: two lattes, 520 NPR—27 RMB 💸. Pinching the change coins, my nose suddenly felt sour 😢. These days in Pokhara, I’d toggled between “wanting to stay” and “wanting to flee,” but sitting here in the rain, I realized what I’d miss most were these unguarded moments: light leaking through the bamboo shed, rain-mixed wood scent, a book finally readable 🥹. The rain hadn’t stopped. Stuffing Notes of a Crocodile into my bag, the pages had caught a little moisture, curling at the edges 📚💧. Leaving the cafe, the bamboo shed “creaked” again behind me, like a “take care” 👋. Pokhara’s rain, I think, wanted to remember me 💌. #Pokhara #NotesOfACrocodile #RainyDay #TravelEssay