Photo by RodneyRamsey

I find it strange that every time it rains in Los Angeles, I feel compelled to write. Maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe I’m strange. Maybe I don’t belong in L.A., since the sun bugs me and the rain feels amazing, even if it means I’m stuck in traffic for longer than usual. Today it took me almost an hour and a half to get across the palm tree laden landscape. If you think that’s bad, the key word here is almost, as it usually takes more than almost.

The signal of rain in this city signifies the apocalypse in many ways. The vicious mudslides, egged on by the charred remains of fire season, start to wreak havoc, sending Angelenos in a spin. Unfamiliar with the danger of slick roads, they push on the pedals of their (mostly) fantastical, expensive cars, throwing caution and their livelihood to the wind. And so the pileups and minor accidents begin, slowing down traffic even more, if you can believe it.

Some don’t even go to work.

Some complain all day long.

Some have to make use of sandbags so their houses don’t get wiped away.

Whatever way you look at it, it’s a big event.

Me? I rejoice. I love the rain. I love the sadness and contemplation it brings, how it makes you want to hold on to the ones you love just a little bit tighter. I love that it forces you to slow down and think and how it reminds you that the world isn’t just about the next hot party or ridiculously expensive clothing store, at least in Los Angeles. It reminds you that the world is bigger than you, and I wish more people felt that feeling - that the world is bigger than them, than their cars, their belongings, their feelings. It’s nice.