A Brief Summer Interlude

Oh, man, it's hot.

It's hot, and hot, and hotter still.

Every morning, when my alarm jolts me awake at 6:30, it's already in the mid-80s and climbing steadily (I know it's that hot because stuck to my window is my Official Mark Thompson {remember him?} KRON TV-4 Thermometer). The rest of the day offers more and more of the same, the coming heat stretching before me like a ribbon of shimmering highway between LA and Vegas. Temperatures routinely reach the low to mid 90s, with about a kajillion percent humidity.

Summer in South Korea.

The days are baked asphalt: just as hot, twice as sticky.

I walk from my house to the bus stop, a trip that takes all of 30 seconds, and my shirt is already sticking to my back, my front, and my sides. I stand there for another 30 seconds, and sweat is sprinting down my face, like tiny Bruce Jenner droplets: racing down my forehead, streaking across my glasses, leaping from my cheeks.

They win medals in all events. I stand proudly as the Sweatland national Anthem is played again and again.

I don't mind sweating, not at all. It means that my body is working properly, trying like hell to keep me cool in the oven I'm living in.

I'm worried about the Koreans, though.

They don't seem to know how hot it is.

I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt and sandals and I am sweating like there's no tomorrow (go team go!).

My dear friends, the Koreans, are wearing long polyester slacks and dress shoes and polyester shirts buttoned to their chins, and there's not a drop of sweat among 'em.

I stagger with every step, certain that my blood is boiling just beneath my skin.

They all walk about cool and composed, with nary a hair out of place.

And then come the floods.

Okay, maybe not floods. But, to this California boy, it sure rains an awful lot.

It would be less of a bother if it was a nice, cool, dainty rain that sprinkled itself across this city and soothed my fevered brow.

No such luck.

During these summer months, Pusan, South Korea, is treated to hot, steamy deluges of, if not Biblical proportions, then at least Dead Sea Scroll ones.

And they come without warning.

About once a week, you're bopping along (take a second and picture that verb) in the afore-mentioned ensemble of shorts, sandles, and a t-shirt. It will appear that "hot and muggy" is on today's menu. Again. Sweatland is making a clean sweep of events. Again. When...a drop hits your arm...then another hits your forehead...

You think, "Hey, it's rai--"

And then you are completely soaked.

In very warm water.

Oh sure, you could conceivably carry a small, collapsible umbrella with you at all times, but what's the point? Once you're drenched, does it really matter how much more water you can keep off of you? Are points awarded?

Besides, I'm...um...beginning to like it.

Just try this: the next time you are caught in the rain without your umbrella, fight the urge to stay dry! Go against years of societal pressure! Run out into the storm and be one with the rain!

Let it cover you, caress you, insinuate its liquid self into every nook and cranny of your entire body.

It's one of the few free sensual pleasures left.