7.19.2007

Merry England



It's gray out and misting. Has been almost all day, and yesterday, too. It's the kind of rain they called Female Rain at the Pueblo where I did my internship while studying in Santa Fe. The kind of rain that slowly quenches the earth's thirst.

I love this weather. No one comes in from this kind of weather and says, "What a beautiful day," but that's how I feel. It feels soft to me, like the world has gotten smaller and closer and easier to pass through. Less intense. I like to put up my bright yellow umbrella and pretend I'm in England.

My whole family, we're Anglophiles. We like to watch British murder mysteries and drink tea and talk about Jane Austen and play croquet on the lawn. I know that people in the U.K. don't really do those things all day, but they do in our collective romantic imagination.

I visited England a few years ago, and being there only intensified my good feelings about the place. The small towns we saw in Northumberland (with names like Once Brewed and Twice Brewed), the heather-covered hills, the stone walls, the sheep, the gray weather--I liked it all. I know that things always look rosier when you're on vacation, but it really was beautiful. And vegetarian friendly, which I wasn't expecting.

I think that my warm and fuzzy feelings about this weather are closely linked, maybe even dependent upon, this whole vision of sitting in a cozy old house, wearing a wool sweater and sipping a foamy cup of chai. I love passing through it on my way home or watching it through a window, but I despise being stuck in it, like when I'm out camping. Ugh, then it's the worst possible weather--wet and humid, so you're drenched on the outside from the rain and drenched on the inside from sweat, with no hope of drying out until you're out of the backcountry. No bugs, though. I guess that's the bright side.