Leaving the airy recesses of my secret lair (read: “the cube farm”) for lunch, I stepped out of the building to find that, for our convenience, Elliott Bay had been relocated to the air above and around Seattle. Mind the fish when you cross the street…
Mist was never an option in Michigan. Unfrozen precipitation came in one of two forms: rain (which fell) and fog (which didn’t). Nothing could have prepared me for these drippy, dichotomous days of mist with a mission where it’s cool enough to make me consider wearing a jacket that it’s really too warm for. Where an umbrella would be lovely, but there’s not quite enough actual dripping to make it worthwhile.
In other words, it’s the perfect weather for a city like Seattle.
That’s probably why I like it so much and why I tend not to join in the seasonal grousing every winter as we’re dealt another day of rain. It’s simply because it wouldn’t happen back east. It’s a kind of proof of location, if you will. Like the mountains or the Sound, like getting off the bus up the hill (!) from my apartment the mist is a (damp) concrete reminder that I’m not in the flatlands anymore.
I have a feeling that the next time I see the Michigan barista, we’ll actually be happy to see the rain, much to the chagrin of anyone in our vicinity.
“What do you mean you’re glad it’s raining?”
“It could be worse.”
“How?”
“It could be Michigan.”