It was supposed to rain in Los Angeles this weekend.
And it did. But not quite the way we Angelenos were promised.
All week, we heard it about it. Weather blogs promised it; local newscasters issued dire warnings about high winds and “frigid” temperatures (relatively speaking). Two full days of rain, the first real “fall” weekend we’ve had all year. People stocked up on rainy day goodies (hot cocoa in some cases, wine in others) and made indoor plans. Couples talked about cuddling all day. I overheard a woman talking with someone on her cell phone and thanking God for the cold weather so that she had an excuse to spend all weekend curled up with a good book. As if she couldn’t spend the weekend doing that if it was sunny.
I think that people in L.A. think that weather is essentially personal — that it comes and goes based on the personal needs of the city. And to be totally fair, there’s a decent reason why that’s the case. The weather is basically always good here. It’s a lazy truth, but a truth nonetheless. For a good eight or nine months out of the year, we have bright sunshine, comfortably warm temperatures, and cool nights. And, like, fairies and unicorns. Sure it can get unbearably hot and occasionally too windy, and there are fires sometimes, and the occasional earthquake, but for the most part the weather is the reason to live here. And all this good sunshine has addled us. It’s become so normal that it’s entirely neutral – we’re blind to it. We’re not used to weather that changes. The concept that it could rain in the morning and then be sunny and maybe rain again later in the day is essentially foreign to us. Weather is steady in L.A. Even bad weather tends to hang around steadily before getting pushed out.
So when we’re promised something like two days of rain, it’s enough for the city to go into spasms of joy, the kind that obliterate any collective memory of the fact that it might not — actually — rain — the whole time. I’m not kidding when I say that I’ve had at least ten or twelve ecstatic conversations this week about the promise of rain over the weekend.
And rain it did — mostly at night.
Today was gorgeous: cool and crisp, blue skies strewn with passing clouds, and wind that rustled the clean-fronded palm trees and made them shimmer in the light. Yes, it was that beautiful.
And just about everyone I’ve talked to today is pissed off.
Neighbor: I’d planned on going to my friend’s rain party today, but it got canceled. Stupid rain.
(PS, what’s a rain party?)
Barista: The only reason I was happy to work today was because it was supposed to rain. Stupid rain.
Friend: It’s not as fun to cuddle with your boyf when the sun is shining. Stupid rain.
Restauranteur: It took us an hour to get the rain gear set up for the patio, and then it clears up just as we finish. Stupid rain.
Crazy Lady at Starbucks: **&^#$%^%$##$%!!!!
It’s like the weather decided to play a monumental trick on the entire city by promising us all kinds of wish-fulfillment rain fantasies and shattering our hopes with sunshine.
I thought about this post all weekend! It was supposed to rain, then about to rain, then lots of speculation if it was probably already raining in some parts of the city, then speculation that weathermen are all Ponzi Schemists (personally, I’d never heard the word Schemists before, but both Tori Spelling and Snooki have published best selling books, so who am I to act as Chief of the Spelling Police), then finally! gloriously! raining; real drops! making puddles! Then the inevitable question actually asked in an actual bar room in Los Feliz: has it rained “enough” to justify all of the hype? The first person said, Have you seen it outside, it’s pouring! The second person said, I’ve been in this bar since 3pm. The third person slinked away, settled up his tab and headed home. A rainy night seemed like a good time to finish off a book.