Jack Kerouac, On the road (1957)

I wish I could remember back to every rainy night I’ve ever known. There are a few.

Like that time we drove back from that stupid dive bar you love so much. You know the one. In that sad excuse for a city smack dab in the center of ol’ Virginny. Back to your house, over the undulating roads and the way you pulled in the circular driveway making some awful drunken attempt at “offroading” in your compact car. I can still laugh at loud at the thought of your hands on your head as we watched the tow truck driver pull your wedged vehicle from the muck the next morning. I can almost feel the same amount of warmth in my gut that I did that day as I write this. I remember trying desperately not to burst out laughing, all the while, secretly adoring you for how silly you could be sometimes.

Or in a less specific sort of way, how could I forget walking home through the District’s sad excuse for a Chinatown on a rainy evening? It was usually after working my second job of the day in retail. I begrudgingly left that place with a hatred for humanity after almost every shift, but there was always something so peaceful and quiet on the nights I walked home in the rain. After getting over the initial irritation of inclement weather and the accepting of the fact that I wouldn’t melt, I would then plug in my headphones and begin the journey home. There is nothing more beautiful than a rainy city at night. How it empties out as its contents (its residents) file indoors. The stoplights keep shuffling; the reds, yellows, and greens glimmering off the rain-soaked roads. And then that song comes on and all of a sudden, you’re overwhelmed with a new, exciting intimacy with this city you’ve come to call home.

I will never allow myself to forget the importance of moving slowly on a rainy day. I will always remember to mind the myth of a rainy night–past, present, and future.