After spending a year in paradisal San Diego, I forgot how much I love the rain. Or at least, to be fair, a Californian rain, which isn't the same thing as a DC rain or a Baltimore rain or any rain coming from the northeast. Those are generally bone-chilling and misery-inducing, the product of grim Canadian winds. These are wonderful and fresh and add a dolorous touch to the day, something I often find both useful and enjoyable. Plus it gives my occasional sardonicism a sense of legitimacy. And the smell is intoxicating, but that goes without saying. Few things can compare to cracking the window open during a strong shower to allow in the tag team of rainwater's soundtrack as it splashes atop the pavement and the warm, sometimes cooly refreshing aromatic results, a strange metallic yet somehow organic, leafy smell, wet pavement warmed by hours spent under the sun letting loose a concrete-like fragrance, the sopping fabric of shoes busy carrying people where they're in a hurry to go and their damp hair, more alluring than it ever was styled and dried and precise. Even the jaded look in the eye of someone tucked underneath the awning of a building just to smoke a cigarette, struggling to keep dry; that nicotine comes towards me so much sweeter. Simpler still, the fat humidity in the air. It's funny to think that those wonderful smells so associated with rain are the result of the chemicals, bacteria, or acidity of the surface it mixes with upon impact. Also, at the heart of things I retain a slight east coast mentality, and if I don't have something to complain about then what's the fucking point?
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