We arrived at Lake Como Lago di Como in the middle of a rainstorm ferocious enough to flood the town and start the waterfalls pouring down the mountains. We went straight to the bar of the hotel. As you would. Across the room, a few British couples had found each other and the women were being vociferous about the weather, as if it was a terrible trick the Italians had played on them. As if their holiday could be refunded.
Later, when I lived in England, in the drizzle that never quits, I understood their dismay. Still, that dismay got in the way of seeing the spectacular drama all around them. It prevented them from just being in whatever weather they got. Which is not to say I’m one big happy chappy when the weather starts messing with ME.
I had to leave the midwest of America – not because I don’t like and love it, not even because I can’t stand the weather (I can’t), but because a few weeks of uninterrupted winter gray plummets me into depression. It’s been tested. I plummet.
It all makes me appreciate women who live beautifully in any weather. They’re heroes, who never get called a hero. They’re farm women, country women who know things need doing and they’re the ones to do it. They’re urban women, and mothers and teachers – who couldn’t stop, even if they wanted to, to cuddle up at home with hot chocolate (which is exactly where I head when the weather turns wild and unpredictable and messy – except when I’m traveling. THEN I’m heading to a cozy pub with a fireplace. No apologies.) They’re bus drivers and doctors and librarians and hundreds of other things that need. to. be done.
I hope brilliant sun and fragrant winds visit all of them soon. Assuming that’s the kind of weather they want.