Tales from the Gorge, Part 1

It's a lovely day in Ithaca, New York - or as much as I can hear of it from inside my room in one of the large, well-aged houses that perch steadfastly on the hill up to Collegetown. I have to make sure I don't lean back in the computer chair, as the cushioned black back is currently a makeshift drying rack for the damp clothes I wore yesterday, no longer dripping out traces of the sudden afternoon downpour.
The theory-heads pouring out of the lecture hall after yesterday's lecture were, as I was, completely shocked at the very wet turn to a day that had until then been an oven-baked, sun-saturized steambath. In retrospect, though, I should have known that the thick waves of humidity were bubbles in the hot air waiting to erupt into the torrents of rain that threatened us as we looked dismally out at the gray gusts blowing sheets of water across the previously steaming pavement. In the morning the sun beating down gave no indication (I thought) of what was to come, so I foolish decided this was the best day to leave the raincoat in the apartment. In my defense, climbing the hills to the Cornell campus is an ordeal that makes it significantly easier to choose to leave behind anything that could add weight to the trek. The consequences of the morning's choice were staved off by a compassionate colleague who offered to share his umbrella with me down to the library. It turned into an impromptu adventure, as the sudden surges of wind threatened to blow the small umbrella into useless bits of metal. We skirted, unsuccessfully, the ever-growing puddles and streams while holding our bags close, trying to find a way out of the maze of buildings to the quad. We left our dripping footsteps on the plastic-covered wallways of a physics building in construction, finally finding an exit through which we could see the tower that promised the shelter of the library. After making that far, I parted ways with my umbrella-buddy and made the slightly loony decision to walk the rest of the 30-minute way back to the apartment without rain protection. By then my feet were threatening to slip out of the front of my sandals with every step - which is more of a problem when you are heading down a series of semi-steep slopes, as I was. Another serendipitous umbrella-ride took me to the bottom of the first hill, and I continued to the bridge over the gorge. As I expected, the water was rushing madly under the series of grates one must traverse on the pedestrian edges of the bridge. I gleefully took in the series of shivers induced by the combination of sounds provided by the storm - the sustained rush and whoosh of the gorge under my feet, the rolling, shivering rumble of thunder and the splash of the cars on the pavement. It has been years since I have heard thunder and seen flashes of lightning. I have missed the eerie magnificence of Texas storms! I walked past a local pub, hair dripping, and heard the astute observation from a smoker outside: "You're wet!" Yes, I said, and made the turn to the familiar row of houses before trudging up the stairs and hurriedly slinging the less-dripping clothes on the chair, where I now sit.
Turns out it isn't such a nice day in Ithaca, by the standards of sun-lovers. I am pleased, though, to hear small rumbles of thunder and the slight patter and slush that lets me know that the rain is lingering still.