Urban Diary

I come out of Halfords and as soon as I sit behind the wheel the first drop lands on my windshield. A solitary drop, snaking down the glass, presaging a visit from its sisters (and/or brothers). What follows is an onslaught. It takes only a couple of hundred yards before my wipers swing back and forth at full speed.

When they were little my children learnt the equivalent of the word “snow” in Spanish from a little made-up song I invented. The rhythm owed more to ad lib than to a lullaby template – if such thing exists – and the lyrics consisted only of one word: nieve. “Nieve, nieve, nieve, nieve, nieve. ¡NIEVE, NIEVE! Nieve, nieve, nieve. Were they the same age now I would not be able to create a tune like that. It has not snowed in London this winter yet.

But, my God, has it rained!
 

The usual metallic, azure winter sky has given way to a monochrome, monotonous grey. The white, fluffy stuff has been replaced by continuous cascades, urban waterfalls without a precipice from which to fall.

I turn left at the roundabout and drive on. The clouds keep getting milked (by whom? I don’t know) and the road slowly disappears as it gets swallowed up by the heavy downpour. My route takes me along the industrial estate. On either side stand the monuments to our modern life: warehouses where people of different nationalities and languages are in charge of making our dreams come true. The dreams of quick service, fast collection and delivery. I turn left at the end of the road and climb up the hill under which a train seems to have regurgitated its passengers. Out of the corner of my eye I see the crowd rush outside the station before realising they will probably need a boat to cross the road. I bet that was not included in the train fare. The street to my right dips away from the train station. That is my short cut. I can see, however, that other drivers have had the same idea. I suddenly think that there is no antonym for short cut when confronted by traffic. Long cut?

I reach home and welcome the comfort it brings. I know that in other parts of the UK people will not have the same romantic view of the rain, nor will they sit down tonight to write a post about it. I consider myself lucky, but I do wonder if someone somewhere is watching a single, solitary, drop snaking down its windshield.

© 2014

Photo taken from the Evening Standard website

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 26^th January at 10am (GMT)

Meditations on Britain (Experimental)

Saturday evening. 5.30pm. Outside it is pouring down with rain. Yet, an ice cream van, with its traditional bell-like sound, interrupts the symphony of raindrops crashing against the pavement. It is cold, probably 9 or 10 degrees.

I love British eccentricity.

Copyright 2008

Road Songs (Lacrimosa)

Writing about rain in London is an oxymoron. That much I know. A landscape that in winter is draped mainly in different shades of grey coupled with rising levels of humidity might not be an obvious topic to write about when discussing songs to listen to whilst driving. But as you well know this column defies logic and dogmas.

There was a time when I was afraid to go out driving if it was raining. This takes me back several years when I was still learning how to drive. Whenever the sky got darker and a group of cumulonimbus was discernible on the horizon my first reaction was to get on the phone to my instructor and ask him, in a voice barely disguising my angst, whether we would still be going out for our lesson. The reply on all occasions was resolute and firm: Yes.

Fast-forward to the present-day and that anxiety is almost gone. I cannot say that I enjoy driving in the rain as it is highly perilous and you can easily lose control of your vehicle. But at least I try to make the most of it. And music usually helps.

My first track is rain-themed, by the way. And that is because this natural phenomenon, so essential to us and other living organisms, can also fast-track you to nostalgia, that bittersweet longing for the past. And this is a tear-jerker, especially to us, Latins. This song was and I think still is very popular in Cuba because it manages to convey passion and commitment in a few lines. Excellent.

Armando Manzanero: Esta Tarde Vi Llover

As I cruise the streets of London in my car whilst it is pouring down outside the wipers on my windshield enter a strange relationships with other cars wipers. Their rhythmic 'splish-splosh' motion resembles the bows in the hands of expert violinists and when you are stuck in a set of traffic lights, or waiting to move off in a roundabout, it seems to me that a whole orchestra of windshield wipers have taken over the city and delivered their own perfect symphony. And then this melody comes into my mind. Mozart's swansong, which, unfortunately, he never got to finish. Touching.

Mozart - Requiem Mass in D minor

One's relationship with rain can be a love-hate affair. All those wet roads, the risk of accidents and the lack of visibility are not hurdles to laugh at. In the same way some partnerships in real life can and do, indeed, turn out that way. This singer's husky voice cannot conceal the pain of

what she is going through. When I first heard her I was captivated by her voice and to this day her debut album remains my favourite record by her. Poignant.

Macy Gray: Still

The delicacy with which the following piece is executed reminds me of the rainbows formed when it stops raining. And the other day I was lucky to see a humungous one from my office window. Hmmm... yes, I was not driving at the moment. Sorry for cheating. But when I was researching the music to put on the blog in this week's column I could not help thinking about the miracle of rain-followed-by-rainbow. It is Nature, the watercolour painter, at its best and this singer is an example of that phenomenon in music. Marvellous.

Sting: Shape Of My Heart

And this is all for this week. I sincerely do hope it stops raining soon, but in the meantime I'll continue to enjoy the symphonic splish-splosh sounds of my windshield wipers. I hope you do, too.

Copyright 2007

Rain

"Si me dijeran pide un deseo,

preferiría un rabo de nube,

un torbellino en el suelo

y una gran ira que sube.

Un barredor de tristezas,

un aguacero en venganza

que cuando escampe parezca

nuestra esperanza."

Rabo de Nube

Silvio Rodriguez Dominguez

Rain, little leprechaun, that used to fall onto my head when I was rolling home on my way from school on a quiet night in years gone by. Incessant, continuous, calm and soothing rain. Or maybe in the early hours of the morning as I brazenly supped 'vino espumoso' on the bus. Rain, you hotwired me and used to take me everywhere you wanted me to go. Remember, back in the old days when the first rainfall in May signified good luck for the rest of the year? Not colds or catarrhs for you, we were made of sterner stuff back then. Rain, my favourite type was the simple one, made of small-town materials. Just a drizzle first, enough to keep you in, but you braved through it, you wanted to get to your mate's, you had a concert to go to. This rain didn't shower you, it bathed you. It spreadeagled across the sky inviting you to tilt your head up and allow it to hug you. You walked with that rain-gait so typical of yours, you know, skipping over puddles, holding the hem of your trousers, until you didn't care anymore. By now, it was pouring down and you let the rain overpower you, it was futile to resist. And then at night the same rain billowed through your dreams and from the cool night breeze to the gust of wind, you knew you were alive.

Copyright 2007