Thursday, December 2, 2010


Mum and Dad keep apologizing for the rain.
They live in an apartment that looks out over the harbor, and "when the weather is clear," they say "there's a wonderful view.  You can see all the way across the mountains on the other side of the water."
We tell them that if this view is second-string, we don't think we could survive clear skies.
Outside the apartment, there is a slate-grey sea and a sky like oiled steel, and a constantly shifting panorama of drifting fog banks and sharp rays of sunlight. Tankers and cargo ships and Coast Guard cutters appear and disappear into the mist, and in front of the building, seaplanes go up and come down again in great clouds of roaring spray.

It is beautiful.

And in front of it, the land is green and heavy with water. The city is full of fountains and waterfalls, sheets of water that sleet down the sides of buildings and vanish into pools beneath our feet. To our desert eyes, this cool green place is a sort of paradise.

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