Devil's tears
I had just encountered Michael, who looked mighty spiffy today on the brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill. I loved that blue shirt with the jaunty white stripes. Before he got to me, Michael had to finish chatting to a tourist from Manchester (who most definitely wasn't a shaven chimp with a head like a fuckin' orange). Finally, the imp of Charles Street noticed "Sister" and I got a hug for my smile. The rain started to come down, and Michael ordered me to join him on his perch outside of the corner Starbucks. It was a steady patter, but I thought I could run through it without getting drenched. I bid adieu to King Michael and jumped in.
Wrong. About half way up West Cedar, the skies just started dumping huge amounts of water. I was drenched in two minutes. I started to hum "It's Raining" as I skipped over the instant puddles everywhere. These rain drops were so huge, I could have swung a bat at them, and knocked one over Mass General. That's how I found myself under the bridge that guides the Red Line into downtown Boston via Beacon Hill. Lots of people were seeking shelter, but no easy conversation.
In New Orleans, brief tropical downpours force people under balconies and into doorways, too. But, you could swap the time of day, stories, and recipes while waiting for those blue skies to reappear. Not Boston. This city just has resigned faces counting cars and minutes before they can return to the grind. There are many reasons to love Boston, but in this instance, New Orleans trumps the Hub. Rain is an aggravating inconvenience in Boston. In the Big Easy, it's a social event.
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