Hoi An, Vietnam

When the rain comes, street vendors methodically unroll protective plastic sheets, pushing their stools and crates just inside, an inch shy of the unrelenting wave funneling down. The small slice of universe they've carved out for themselves suddenly gone dark and soggy and the hoard of customers scattered, they seem to hold steady, visually unfazed, built bone deep for two extreme seasons, feast or famine, hot or hotter, eternally wet or searingly dry.