I just returned from 8 rainy days in Washington state, where we were visiting my sisters-in-law for Thanksgiving. The landscape where they live in the capital of Olympia is gorgeous -- when viewed from the warmth and dryness of my car seat -- accentuated with masses of majestic Douglas Fir mini-forests. We had a lovely visit, to be sure, but the precipitation I could do without.
Not only was the weather gloomy and miserable (I now understand why Seattle is the reputed suicide capital of the country, and why it's where grunge music took root back in the '90s,) but the odd thing is the locals don't seem to care. Here's a sample conversation that took place on a particularly rainy afternoon:
Sister-in-Law One: "Hey, you wanna go check out the waterfront property we recently bought?"
Me: "But it's raining."
Sister-in-Law Two: "Aw, come on. You're such a city girl."
Me: "Um. O.K."
So we drive in TORRENTIAL RAIN to the muddy lot on Puget Sound. Breathtaking view of the snow-capped Mt. Rainier in the distance. Looks nice.
Sister-in-Law One: "Come on, let's walk around."
Me: "But it's raining."
Sister-in-Law Two: "Aw, come on. You're such a city girl."
In about three and a half minutes, I had walked the property. With no umbrella and cold, wet, muddy feet, I grabbed my youngest daughter (who was wet and whining about her new sneakers getting ruined,) and headed back to the car, fully aware that no one was following me.
Sister-in-Law One: "But don't you want to see the view from the other side?"
Me: "But it's raining."
Sister-in-Law Two: "Aw, come on. You're such a city girl."
And so it went, for the better part of the week, with me being the butt of jokes for not wanting to hike to the river or climb the mountain in the rain. I suppose if I lived where it rained for four months out of the year, I'd probably have to suck it up and go out, too. But I don't. To me, a rainy day means pajamas, a good book and a cup of tea.
I guess I am a city girl, even if I do live on Long Island.
Washingtonians may have one-upped me in the rain tolerance-department. But they can't hold a candle to New Yorkers when it comes to snow management. On our way to the airport Monday night for what should have been a 45 minute ride, we sat on the gridlocked Interstate 5 for SIX HOURS. Traffic literally was not moving. At all. It looked like a scene from one of those end-of-the-world disaster movies, where everyone in town is trying to flee and no one is getting anywhere. Cars were abandoned, a double-length bus was jackknifed, a tractor-trailer abandoned. We even saw a van full of senior citizens that had been evacuated by the fire department. People were walking on the interstate, gas cans in tow. I even got out and snapped a few pictures.
What was the problem, you ask? A quarter inch of snow. Go back and read that again. No, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. In all fairness, there was black ice under the snow. But even so, having spent my entire life either as a passenger or a driver on the Long Island Expressway, you'd think I would have seen it all. I have never encountered such traffic.
We never did make it to the airport that night. When we finally reached an exit (at about 1 a.m.,) and made it to a gas station, we had to wait on a long line, and two of the pumps were out of gas. The porta-potty my daughter so desperately needed to use was padlocked. When we found a convenience store, the restroom lines were long, filled with folks who, like us, hadn't been able to reach the airport and with NFL jersey-attired fans who were trying to make it home from the Monday night football game.
We even saw a bearded lady. With Italian blood running through my veins, I've had the unfortunate experience of tweezing a stray chin hair here and there. That's not what I'm talking about. This lady had a full goatee. In fact, I wasn't completely sure she was a lady until she actually went into the ladies room ahead of us.
It was like being in a Twin Peaks episode.
On the plus side, when I returned my geraniums were still blooming. And beautifully. It's good to be home.
