English rain

So much for it not raining much. Made up for it this weekend.
We had 80 mph gales and lashing rain for about 24 hours.
The big windows in this old house rattled and the inside doors banged and strained against the wind. Big raindrops plopped on our bedroom attic windows all night long, sometimes in a torrent, other times slow and fat.
No wonder Turner, so good at painting gales and massive waves and horizontal rain, was British. (Saw the Turner show yesterday at the Tate gallery near Westminster).
What other nationality could he have been?
I don't mind big weather like that.
It sweeps over the British isles and then goes on its way somewhere else.
It's the drizzle that drives me nuts.
When you don't really know if it's raining or not.
Well you do. But you don't want to admit it.
After the big rain, the drizzle set in.
My son and I were out in it.
I only had a big umbrella, which is stupid, of course, but I had misplaced my little one (or my three little ones) that fit into my bag.
For me, it was definitely raining.
When your hair is getting wet, and you're a woman, it's raining. Pretty simple.
All the women on the high street were under umbrellas, although admittedly their umbrellas were about a third of the size of mine.
My son insisted it wasn't raining.
Fine.
All the men in the street seemed to not be under umbrellas, shielding themselves behind flimsyly-upturned collars or pulled-up sweatshirt hoods instead.
This is a basic difference between men and women. Umbrellas.
Anyway, since my umbrella was so huge, I had to walk significantly behind my son -- or risk putting one of his eyes out.
And my hair got wet anyway -- and so quickly looked like shit -- because it got wet before I put my umbrella up.
While I too was saying it wasn't raining.

It's the weather, stupid

Besides the food, the landscape, the history, the umbrella pines, the magnificent architecture, the majestic cities, (etc, etc.,) another attribute that makes Italy special is the weather. Gorgeous weather in Italy, right?
So much so that even if it's slightly bad -- partly cloudy, let's say -- nobody knows what to do. Including me.
Ever since I've come back from London, about 10 days ago now, the weather in Italy's been bad -- and by that I mean partly cloudy, with some showers. What?
In England, this weather would be good. Changeable yes, but the sun has shone a bit most days, it's still warm, and rain has only been intermittent.
Here it may be time to break out the fur coats.
No, no, please no. Not yet. I'm not ready.
The last two weeks of beautiful weather here I left to go back to London for my two weeks of freelance work.
A friend from here had invited me to go to the Aeolian islands with her for a few days to a villa she rented there.
But I had to go work for the man. When the man calls, particularly in these shitty times, gotta go, let's be serious.
My friend came back the color of mahogany raving about the Aeolian islands -- the food, the sea, the view from the terrace of the house she rented.
And it's been cloudy and rainy since I came back.
Italians are now wearing jackets. Not a good sign.
One consolation: A couple of evenings we've had the most amazing thunder and lightning over the lake, a natural pyrotechnic show. One night the noise rivalled the fireworks on the mall in Washington on the fourth of July. We were awestruck.
But still. Still. I'm not ready for winter. I'm just not.