
I'm listening to Ryan Adams' album Love is Hell. He's singing about City Rain and City Streets.
It's rained entirely too much this Fall and Winter in Alabama. The temperature climbs up to the seventies and the water gets squeezed out of the this tropical atmosphere like from a sponge. It drips and and fogs and settles in for days and days.
I don't spite the occasional shower, especially in spring and summer. But this pattern has me thinking mother nature needs a therapist, and its making me want to see my own more often than usual.
The rain here is nothing like New York City rain. New York rain can be brutal, its true. Literally flooding the streets up to mid calf and God help you if you have on fashionable footwear. A cheap umbrella can be found easily enough, but be careful not to put out the eyes of your fellow walkers on the street. But the rain puts a glossy lacquer on everything. As the evening falls the lights start to shine and reflect off of shiny black asphalt and the pools of water that stay behind, sparkling and shining like jewels. The rain washes away some of the less desirable scents of the street and renews everything for another busy day of hustle and bustle.
Here the rain turns everything a muddy grey smelling of dirt and old dogs. There's no quick storefront, coffee shop or restaurant to dart into out of the hardest of rain. Here you either stay in or go out and get drenched.
In New York if you do get caught in a down pour with no umbrella and miles to go before you sleep, there's something romantic and wonderful about the way that where ever you're going half of the people there will also look like chic little drowned rats as well and you're all impossibly cool anyway. That's New York City Rain in your hair, pockets, shoes. You can't get that anywhere else.






