Ave Migratoria

Sometimes, a gray day is simply that: a sky covered in gray. But after having lived in seven cities, a gray sky can also mean the announcement of rain. And there are many types of rain. I like the rain. It doesn’t make me sad — it makes me nostalgic. It inspires me. It makes me want to write. To watch in slow motion. To listen.

I have two dogs. Bubi, the first. She will turn four in December. She’s a Hungarian Vizsla. She’s bursting with energy that deflates when it rains. She has those sad eyes that seek mine when we go out during the rain. It makes me want to hug her endlessly.

The second, Coco. She’ll turn three in September. She’s usually calm. But when it rains, she comes alive. She wants to bite the rain. She looks up at the sky as if she wants to identify which exact cloud is spitting at her. And if she finds a puddle, it’s her chance to splash around as much as she can.

I was born in Trujillo. On the northern coast of Peru. Trujillo was once known as the city of eternal spring. But with climate change, that’s no longer as true. When I lived there until my mid-twenties, I don’t remember many gray days. Or maybe there were some, but compared to what I’ve seen since, they no longer seem that gray.

Immediately after graduating from university, I traveled to Bogotá for an internship at a communications agency. For three months, I walked an hour to work and another hour back. And the room I stayed in had a huge window where I could observe the sky and watch the rain lash against the glass.

Bogotá is cold. An average of 10–12°C (50–53°F) year-round. And when it rains, it pours. I remember walking with soaked shoes, socks, and pants. But I loved it. It was the first time I experienced clouds that truly signaled a torrential downpour — in the middle of a city!

I lived three years in Lima. Gray as a donkey’s belly. Summer heat is intense. But it’s true — for the rest of the year, the sky there is mostly gray. Not just because of the clouds, but also due to pollution. And the color of the sky matches the concrete sidewalks of the city.

Lima introduced me to a job that allowed me to travel to other cities in the Andes and the Amazon. I got to know mountain rain, and rainforest rain. Rain during the rainy season, and rain during the not-so-rainy season. Nature is wild!

Oradea — nine months. It’s the city where I took my first Romanian courses when I arrived in Romania. Its gray sky was my first taste of a real winter. Raw and depressing. I spent a lot of time in my room, eating chocolate, drinking boiling tea, and taking long hot baths.

Ankara. I went there for a semester abroad through a Romanian government scholarship. Four beautiful months. I experienced gray skies from snow. Gray skies from hail. But it was the kind of gray that invited you to sit and sip Turkish coffee, anywhere. I always found little chairs, colorful tables. Visually charming places. In the end, I learned how to make Turkish coffee myself. And now that I think about it, I should start doing that again. Ah, I can almost smell it.

I enjoy gray days in Bucharest. If I can, I try to get home before the rain starts. I’ve learned to read the sky. Or better said: I’ve learned to check the weather app and actually follow it.

If the rain catches me outside, it leads me into deep reflection. It stops me. It makes me sing. It makes me watch people running, covering themselves with plastic bags or umbrellas. Or the cars that splash everyone without mercy.

I take off my headphones, if I’m wearing them, to hear the rain fall. To listen to the thunder, if there is any. And when there is, I like to stop and watch the lightning.

Still, I must confess that I love the gray days of Costești even more. I can sit on the terrace and gaze at the hills. Whether it’s summer full of insects, spring, winter blanketed in white, or autumn with its riot of colors — its gray is an invitation to feel. To think. To rest. To breathe.

That’s where I’ve felt the strongest connection with nature. I’m not sure if it’s because of the seasons, or because I no longer rush like I used to.

My gray days — the sky of my soul — those resemble winter in Oradea and Bucharest. Those cold days when the trees look lifeless, and the old buildings make everything feel stiffer, more gray on the inside.

Those days aren’t easy. I still go on with my routines, of course. But my thoughts shift tone. My energy moves differently. There doesn’t seem to be much to do — except to listen to myself.

Sometimes I think that all I need is an excuse to slow down. And gray days are that for me: an invitation to pause. To stop running. To look at the city and say: the sun didn’t come out today either, and that’s okay.