It’s Friday evening, and I have some free time to write a few lines—I’m not sure if that’s a thing. No matter. A few days ago, I saw my first heavy rain in Los Angeles and got drenched trying to escape it!
I’d heard the rumors — that rain in Los Angeles is rare, dramatic, and capable of throwing the whole city into disarray. I didn’t really believe it until I saw it myself.
One gray morning, the sky cracked open, and for the first time since I moved here, the streets glistened with real puddles. The roads were empty — and it was rush hour.
Earlier that morning, there had been no warning signs: no heavy clouds, no strong winds, none of those intense New Mexican gray horizons that used to signal an impending storm. From my window, I noticed the sun wasn’t out, just the usual LA moody haze settling in. So I headed out to catch the bus, not bothering to bring an umbrella.
Just after passing beneath a canopy of trees, the first waft of rain hit me — cold, sharp, and unexpected. That was when I realized I’d underestimated it.
There’s a tingling sensation to LA rain. It carries a certain chill — the kind that bites at your skin but never quite settles in. I’d seen drizzles before, those light 5 a.m. sprinkles on my way to the gym, but never anything like this. This was a downpour.
Yeah — there it was: my first heavy rain in LA.
Unlike my few years living in the Bay Area, I’m actually glad it rains like this here. For a moment, I felt completely alive again.
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