Let it rain.

Let it rain.

Let it rain.

I recently decided that Midnight in Paris was one of my new favourite movies.

It’s not like it’s made my list of all-time greats, it’s more of a companionable thing, kind of like hanging out with an old friend, someone who doesn’t expect anything particularly witty or revelatory, a friend who knows how to chill on the couch.

It’s a movie I could watch again and again, as comforting as flannel pajamas, woolly socks and a fuzzy blanket.

And it’s not because of the oh-so-typical Woody Allen lines (you just have to shut your eyes and listen to Owen Wilson to know he’s a talking-head for Mr. Allen), but because of the nostalgic notion of hanging out with Hemingway in a Paris cafe or Gertrude Stein in her always-open salon.

Such writerly romanticisms…sigh.

I find myself wishing that, instead of Owen Wilson, it was me sitting on those steps, waiting for the bell to toll midnight, and for that gorgeous old car to pull up with Zelda & Scott Fitzgerald begging me to come drink champagne.

And then there’s the constant references to how beautiful Paris is in the rain…and it’s true. I’ve experienced it for myself. There is something devastingly ethereal about Paris in the rain.

But this morning, as the West Coast Rain Forest Gods baptized our city, I saw that Vancouver has her own special rainy beauty too.

Sure, it’s all flash and clear glass when the sun is cracking its hard-edged beauty upon our heads, but the rain…ahh, the rain.

Soft greys, low mists and a wet foggy quiet muffles the city. Car lights push elongated golden beams ahead on the slickened streets, the spring birds chatter and I can almost hear the buds begin their bursting.

Coming back to the gas fire and a steaming cup of tea, I watch from my 11th-story perch as the tops of umbrellas bob along the sidewalk, floating like dark-lillies on a sidewalk pond.

I am happy. I like it here.

Now if only Gertrude Stein would show up and offer her writerly assistance.