Singing In the Rain

Despite our valiant efforts to catch up to the 19th century—we now have actual heaters in the sitting room and our bedroom—I can still count on the frigid air in the unheated hallway and bathroom to snap me awake as I stumble around in the dark every morning. And these past days, with the temps dipping down into previously uncharted depths, it has snapped me awake quite sharply.

This morning, however, it was not quite as cold, so I knew there had been a change in the weather. And I was right; it's raining.

But this isn't light, misty, well-mannered English rain; this is angry, lashing, blowing, why-didn't-I-move-to-Majorca-when-I-had-the-chance rain. So I did what you do at these times: I walked from my heated kitchen into my attached, heated garage, got into my heated car, pressed the garage door opener, drove to work and parked in the underground lot and took a heated elevator to my heated office.

Sorry, that was me daydreaming about America. Here I walk out into the storm, wait for a bus, sit on the bus with 57 other similarly drenched commuters and, having marginally dried off, receive a fresh coating of rain as I walk to my office so I can arrive looking as if someone just sprayed me with a fire hose.

Before all you Americans sign off thinking, "What sort of bollocks is this?" (or whatever you think in America these days) and you Brits surf on to a more interesting page with a dismissive, "Yeah, it's raining, so what?" allow me to explain how this can make life just a bit more interesting, informative and potentially convenient.

First of all, I rarely experienced rain in the US, at least not on such intimate terms (precipitation participation, perhaps?) and on those rare occasions when I did find myself in a deluge, I was not as prepared for it as I am this morning. Here I have weather gear I didn't even know existed, so when I stepped into the storm, I was fully ensconced in my survival apparel, gloved, hooded, Velcroed at every seam and carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pile of Christmas cards (destination US) in the other.

It's interesting to be in a gale and hear the wind whistling around your hood and feel the rain drumming on your back but still remain slightly detached from it, as if you're in a bathysphere exploring the Marinas Trench and knowing only in an academic sense that, just beyond the confines of you personal space, it is very, very wet.

What I'm finding informative is the bus ride.

I know it's hard to believe, but there's a deep sense of satisfaction gained from braving the blizzards of New York. When you arrive at work, you look around at the others who made the treacherous trek and exchange silent, solemn nods; acknowledgments of the bond you share with your fellow adventurers. Your absent colleagues? Well, they're all pussies, aren't they?

But in England, bereft of snow (no, I mean real snow; spend a winter in Saratoga county, then come talk to me), we have to content ourselves with being brave in the face of rain.

And so it is this morning, with the bus carrying only half of its usual passengers, the others—the fair-weather greens who retreat to their cars at the first sign of inconvenience and the students with the luxury of just staying home when it suits them (I may be making a rash judgment here but, as I look around me, I see more briefcases than book bags)—serve as absent reminders of our fortitude and resilience.

Or maybe they're all like me and simply have no other way of getting to work.

And lastly, I think I might have found a way of making being drenched in the morning work for me. Remember the cards I was carrying, the end result of countless hours of work by my wife—who hand-made the cards, filled them out and addressed, stamped and sealed the envelopes—and endless minutes of grumbling and procrastination by me—who had to sign them? Well, they don't react agreeably to water.

In my defense, I didn't believe it was raining as hard as it was before I ventured outside, and once I did, what was I do to? I couldn't penetrate my survival gear while holding cards and a briefcase and wearing ungainly gloves, and even if I could, it wouldn't have been a wise thing to do. So I tucked the cards under my arm and sheltered them as best I could on the slog to the mailbox.

As you might imagine, it did little good. By the time I got there, the cards were soaked and decorated with fetching little monochrome watercolor paintings that used to be addresses.

And wouldn't you know it, this was the year I sent cards to simply everybody back in the States—my friends, relatives, casual acquaintances and, yes, even you—but I doubt the cards will get there now. Darn that rain!

So, if you're in America, and you don't get a Christmas card from me this year, don't think it was because you were left off the list, blame the rain.

Or the fact that I don't have a heated garage.