It Never Rains in Northern California

It rained last night. At least, what northern Californians call rain. It looks more like god sneezed and didn’t quite cover her mouth in time. A little spittle here and there, a fine misting that isn’t even enough to produce puddles; heavy fog more than anything. 

But when you live in a place as rain starved as Alameda county folks will take any trace of precipitation and call it rain.

I’m convinced the lack of rain is the reason San Francisco smells so bad. On any given street or walking down into the BART tunnel, the smell of urine assaults you and strangles the breath from your nostrils. How can it not? No public toilets and no rain to flush the streets that people use instead.

I never thought I’d miss rain. Growing up in the water logged south where at least half the year is eying hurricanes with weariness and enduring a thorough dousing even when the storms don’t makes shore, the idea of dry feet was a novelty.

Then, about five years ago, I flew to a training in Alabama in the middle of the summer. It was oppressively hot and humid. I was peeling off the sweaters I’d purposely layered for this very reason because SFO in the summer is cold and foggy and Alabama is anything but. 

When we landed the clouds were puffy and pregnant with gray. As the day passed, more clouds assembled and sky turned a dark gray color – not the green tint of tornadoes but the darkness of a coming storm. 

The first drops hit, heavy and with purpose, and then the sky opened up and bathed the ground below in cool relief from the heat. It rained for a while. More than a five minute Bay Area sprinkle that transforms the dust on a dirty car to mud –this Alabama rain rinsed cars clean and shiny.

I had the urge to go stand in the rain, to splash in puddles as children are often wont to do. I refrained. Instead I stared out of windows and breathed in the fresh and almost foreign scent of ozone. 

Since then I have a special appreciation for the rain; the thundering rain that pounds a white noise lullaby on rooftops and wipes the city new. Appreciation that makes me chuckle to myself when traffic goes crazy in Northern California over a quick misting and people acknowledge our desperate need for it while exclaiming, “it is really pouring out there.”

Pouring?

I’ve watched a New Orleans street fill with enough water to cover half a tire in 15 minutes, that is pouring. What we have out here is a facsimile – and not even a reasonable one at that. 

People in places pounded by rain and snow will probably want to choke me as they shovel and shuffle through wetness. How dare I complain about months’ worth of clear blue skies strung together like brilliant diamonds? Who wouldn’t want that?

I have to tentatively raise my hand. Even without the current drought that threatens our water supplies and renders our forests fire hazards, I miss a good night’s sleep ushered in by the music made by gray clouds.