I don’t mind the rain any more, not even cold rain. When skies turn the color of graphite, a memory emerges from behind the clouds. I’m part of a small clutch of tourists, caught in a tropical downpour, seeking shelter among the tentacled trunks of a massive banyan tree. As balmy drops find warmth-starved bare arms and legs, coax us back into the open, we allow ourselves to be anointed. And talk about paradise.