I’ve never been one to complain about the weather. Come rain, or shine, or … I owe my resilience to the Ottawa valley – where the summers can be desperately hot and the winters unpredictably snowy. 20-odd years of conditioning to Canadian climates and I was convinced I could manage (revel in) a couple tours south of the equator. Coming direct from the great north I suspected that the heat might turn my personal thermostat on its head, but I had sunscreen (SPF 75) and bottled water, and a Silversteinian disposure to look for the silver lining.
And then the raining season broke out over the city. Hours of unrelenting pounding from an unforgiving sky quickly washed away my Western daydreams about Fred Astaire and April showers. Standing on the rooftop terrace, half-deaf from the thundering of raindrops on corrugated metal sheets and I couldn’t help but think some God’s fury is showering down around me. In a city without a proper drainage system, where the roads turn into lakes and people wade through the mess with their shoes thrown over their shoulders, I find myself in particularly foreign territory (forgive the pathetic puns) When the rains comes here, I’m staying the hell inside.