A noticeable strain was evident at the intersection. Designed around automobiles, Canberra is a structured city in an American fashion. It’s common to see three or more lanes of traffic on numerous roads, even within the city’s heart. As an avid walker, the majority of my time is spent anticipating the green-man signal. This usually serves as a pleasing indication of a city where there’s rarely a rush and the thought of a 30-minute commute would incite a hearty giggle from most people.
Following over a half a decade in London where people hurriedly and resentfully navigated the bustling streets, on the cusp of emotional breakdowns, Canberra’s slower pace and the absence of being pushed or cramped is indeed a welcome change.
To me, this place still retains a sense of novelty, which makes standing still for a few minutes enjoyable. Embarking on my quirky daily journey to the local grocery store from our flat, I couldn’t help but note the pronounced difference in the size and cost of fresh food compared to London. Being here for several months did nothing to dampen the novelty. A kilo of minced beef for less than €8. The largest, most delicious avocado for only 80 cents. Peculiarly, as I sauntered down the street, the Canberra sky mirrored my native Limerick — greyish and shifty, akin to a mottled watercolour set low on the ground.
In Ireland, venturing out without an umbrella is notoriously seen as a form of audacious presumption that justly invites prompt and harsh retribution. The ancient gods of our ancestors are thought to sit in anticipation, ready to unload billions of litres of chilly rain from the low-hanging clouds onto everyone, simply because someone dared to leave without an umbrella. With empty promises of a “dry day” and the claim “it’s only a 15-minute walk,” not even Sandra’s sockless shoes were exempt. It’s this kind of mentality that cost us the six counties.
Per usual, I halted at the intersection as traffic from all directions whizzed past on the six lanes. A few individuals started to gather on either side, awaiting the green signal, which further amplified the sticky, dense air and a sense of clammy apprehension. The looming threat of rain initiated a noticeable shift in behaviour, with people glancing up at the sky, shuffling uneasily and murmuring amongst themselves about the rain’s potential arrival.
Fully embracing the concepts of emigrant behaviour that would never be accepted back in my homeland, I was clad in cream-coloured trousers. To be fair to Canberra’s residents, the rain here doesn’t resemble the soft, romantic drizzles we’re accustomed to back home, which gradually build up to a scene fit for heroes like Heathcliff to emerge from the moors, or for Marty Morrissey to manage an interview under, while the sponge-like mic padding slowly expands from the dampness in the air. Rain here is unpredictable, quick and alarmingly warm, making it feel like you’re taking a fully-clothed public shower when your mother is reluctant to turn on the water heater for more than half an hour given the current cost of heating.
As I stood at the pedestrian crossing in Canberra, my phone showed 29 degrees and the rain started to speckle my head and footwear, I started to feel the disturbing panic of the people around me drizzle into me. We were all unready. No one had a brolly. Embracing unfamiliar impulses of leaving home, I wore light trousers. People were sheltering under handbags, hunching as the drizzle turned into a steady rain. A gentleman, unable to wait for the pedestrian light any longer, rushed into the traffic lanes like a farm hound seeking control but bewildered in an urban setting.
I caught myself fussing over this collective alarm. “Blimey! It’s raining.”
Then reality hit me.
What follows is more of an emotionally-felt truth than a scientifically-proven statement about weather patterns (any ensuing letters to the editor contesting this may be misdirected). Anyone from western Ireland will resonate with my statement. It has rained every single day in Limerick since I was born until my recent holiday home six months ago. It was incessantly wet, possibly the entire day. Not a single memory from my childhood days was set in dry times. I was “born in the rain,” to paraphrase Tom Hardy’s Bane, just like everyone else. Many of my initial memories involve being cold, soaked or both, which is quintessentially the Irish experience (and never getting to turn on the water heater because warmth is an abstract concept rather than a practical reality).
Amidst an overwhelming downpour, I found the Australians hurriedly seeking shelter, in what was a wise move, worried that a biblical flood was imminent. However, I squared my shoulders, oozing a sense of national pride, and resolutely continued my seemingly absurd trek.
Admittedly, the experience of a warm rainfall was unacquainted to me. The unfamiliar sensation left me disoriented, prompting me to question whether I was in desperate need of a restroom or whether my body was involuntarily betraying me. During this period, it dawned on me that I had integrated into the new culture much more profoundly than initially perceived.
Having lost my accustomedness to the rain, I was nonetheless familiar with its characteristics. Much like any Irish native, I possessed the ability to withstand a steady downpour, unperturbed by the activities unfolding around me – whether it was a game, a casual stroll, a bout of marital discord. Subsequent days laboring or studying in damp attire was a commonplace consequence. The sensation of water-logged feet rubbing incessantly against the interior of saturated shoes was a feeling that resonated fundamentally with me.
As the Australians continued their frantic search for cover, fearing a cataclysmic inundation, I held my ground with an inflated sense of Irish nationalism and persistently carried on with my seemingly nonsensical journey. “You’re not constructed of sugar,” I spoke soothingly to myself as the water trickled down my spine, once again causing my body to misinterpret the sensory signals, making me think I needed to void my bladder.
Returning from my journey, the incessant rainfall had resulted in my paper shopping bag disintegrating. The degree of ripeness of an avocado was demonstrated rather dramatically when it fell off my bag onto the road and was subsequently crushed by a passing vehicle. In stark contrast, an avocado from a local Irish supermarket would have either remained intact or resulted in a deflated tyre.
I smirked with self-satisfaction, thinking, “It’s just a sprinkle,” leaving behind the crushed avocado remains, my footsteps squelching distinctly on the rapidly filling pavement.