the raindrops that welcomed me

Big fat drops. Big fat raindrops fell from the sky in a rhythmic pattern. All around me big fat raindrops embraced different surfaces. I paused and glanced up at the sky. The big fat raindrops showed no signs of relenting and giving me an opportunity to recollect. I sighed with a mixture of acquiescence and resignation, dragging my torn suitcase out into the rain. I had no solid plan; only to get into a cab and find my way to the hostel I was booked into.
Nothing prepared me for the assault on my body. They said that the temperature was 6 degrees Celsius and the wind chill minus 30. Wind chill meant nothing to me as it was my first time in Holland, in Europe and in a country that experienced winter. The wind penetrated my faux pas winter jacket, deep into my bones in a way that made me feel like I was standing naked. My toes curled in an attempt to stay warm. I felt my breath condense every time I breathed, and my lungs burned from the extreme cold.
I stood there, outside of Schipol airport, unsure of what to do.
“Excuse… madam… taxi? Here. Enter.” A hooded man to my left, seemingly a cab driver, ran to grab my things. He took one look at my battered suitcase and paused, as if contemplating whether I would be able to afford his fare. I clicked in exasperation. How many times would I have to explain that the damned airline had damaged my suitcase and refused to compensate me?
I showed him 100 Euros and an address written on a slip of paper. “Kindly could you take me to this hostel?” I asked, barely masking the irritation that I felt.
“Here. Enter,” He said after opening the car door for me. He lifted my bags and put them into the trunk of the cab. I got into the back left and was immediately grateful for the cab’s warmth. I rubbed my fingers to get the circulation going. My teeth at this point were chattering so violently I thought I would eventually unhinge my jaws.
We began pulling out of the parking space. The driver was a tall, young man with a mop of dark unruly hair that stood up in tufts where his hood did not cover.. He ran his hands through his hair and muttered something in what I assumed was Dutch. I gazed at him blankly. He tried again in his halting English. “Madam. This place. Where?” I felt the stirrings of fear in my stomach. If the cab driver, a local, did not know where I wanted to go, how on God’s green earth would I know and manage to communicate with our obvious language barrier?
I felt that I was going to hyperventilate, when he said magic words that calmed me down. “I check GPS. Aaahh. Den Haag. No problem. We go.”