I am not a fan of sunlight. Ever since my grandmother let me join her on her annual trip the golden rays don’t hold the same appeal. Grandmother has always been eccentric with her pink and yellow patterned clothes and furniture, and even though she radiates joy warm as the freshly risen sun, she prefers light when it is filtered through the clouds. Every year when our family and neighbors finally rejoiced for the return of the long-awaited summer sun, I would instead find my grandmother packing up a bag. When I’d ask her where she was going, she’d simply smile and say, “One day, you can come along.” 

Finally, the year came when I got a bag of my own to pack instead of only a smile. Once we stepped off the plane it felt as though we had traveled through worlds instead of time zones. Despite the gloomy sky, my first view was one filled with color. The buildings were short and painted with unique patterns, and even though there were very few people in sight, the excitement in the air was tangible. I was already struggling to imagine how my grandmother had ever followed my grandfather away from this place all those years ago.

Grandmother led me first to a house that I immediately knew was hers. The patterns matched those she always wore, only here they seemed elevated by the contrast of the surrounding house. Before we could enter, it began to rain. It was only a few drops, but Grandmother quickly spun around and the look on her face was one of absolute joy.

“What is it?” I asked, confused. “Should we head inside?”

“Not quite!” She replied and quickly rushed to open the door and drop our bags inside. She grabbed my hand and we set off through a maze of houses where people were beginning to emerge. They wore clothes and jewelry that perfectly matched the designs of their houses, and many wore coats and dresses more extravagant than what I had ever seen my grandmother wear. The rain began to pour harder, but instead of returning inside, more people flooded the streets. Before long, our parade emerged in what seemed to be the center of the city, where there stood a large square of taller but equally vibrant buildings, and as the rain poured, the people began to celebrate. The women spun and sang in their massive skirts and some of the men pulled out instruments. Those in the tall buildings began to join through opened windows, and before long the entire city seemed to be dancing and singing to a song I had never heard. When I turned to look at my grandmother, she was dancing and singing alongside everyone with her pink and yellow skirt blending in. She really was home. The celebration lasted into the night, and when we finally began our soggy trek home, I asked my grandmother what we were celebrating.

“Nothing really,” she said, “We just like the rain.”