The rain in Vancouver
The rain in Vancouver is a tricky mother's son. First, it starts before you wake up so it makes the weather conducive for sleeping in, and you wake up hurriedly, gobble down breakfast, pack your bag and walk out. Then you walk back in, remove your boots and run up the stairs to take your rain jacket before running out again. You end up in class slightly late.
When you finish your class, you walk out and the rain is out there waiting for you. You shrug your bag off your shoulders, put on the jacket, put the bag on and pull up the hood. The hood is stuck under a bag strap and you have to tilt everything a little to pull it back out.
After you pull the hood up, you walk to your next class and the rain cuts in at angles, instead of pattering down, as if it were trying to get past the defences of the rain jacket and into your base layer. It blinds you because the hood doesn't extend that much past your eyes and you have to keep adjusting the hood, your glasses, your posture. Then when you reach the next class, there is a yellow sheet of paper taped to the door stating that your lecturer has cancelled his class. You pull up the hood and walk out into the rain.
The rain turns soil into sludge, and fields become slick; danger traps all these. Boots work but jeans don't, not for long-distance trudging from the SUB to Tbird. Jeans become wet too, and when you reach home, all you want to do is take them off because they're sodden and cold, and put your hands over the heater because the cold makes it so that you can't feel your fingers. You think about how the next time you go to the big sports shop, other than buying that very nice long-sleeved running t-shirt, you are also going to get waterproof pants, gloves and a thermal hoodie. And then you wonder whether it is a good idea because you live on the equator.
It really isn't, but I really want to. Because the rain, that tricky mother's son, tells me I should.
When you finish your class, you walk out and the rain is out there waiting for you. You shrug your bag off your shoulders, put on the jacket, put the bag on and pull up the hood. The hood is stuck under a bag strap and you have to tilt everything a little to pull it back out.
After you pull the hood up, you walk to your next class and the rain cuts in at angles, instead of pattering down, as if it were trying to get past the defences of the rain jacket and into your base layer. It blinds you because the hood doesn't extend that much past your eyes and you have to keep adjusting the hood, your glasses, your posture. Then when you reach the next class, there is a yellow sheet of paper taped to the door stating that your lecturer has cancelled his class. You pull up the hood and walk out into the rain.
The rain turns soil into sludge, and fields become slick; danger traps all these. Boots work but jeans don't, not for long-distance trudging from the SUB to Tbird. Jeans become wet too, and when you reach home, all you want to do is take them off because they're sodden and cold, and put your hands over the heater because the cold makes it so that you can't feel your fingers. You think about how the next time you go to the big sports shop, other than buying that very nice long-sleeved running t-shirt, you are also going to get waterproof pants, gloves and a thermal hoodie. And then you wonder whether it is a good idea because you live on the equator.
It really isn't, but I really want to. Because the rain, that tricky mother's son, tells me I should.
posted by david at 3:00 PM
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