Cool Drips of Sentuality

Running water sweeps the city, zigzagging at random, with only a passing obedience to the laws of gravity. Pools spew from the ground, like volcanic activity or a burst water main, both events that wouldn't surprise me in this city. Waterfalls on hilly streets are now a spontaneous new tourist attraction. The city becomes dissected by impassable barriers, with the routine flow of people traffic responding with the development of a queuing system for the remaining pathway, using makeshift bridges carved from improper construction procedures and badly repaired street tiling; on normal days your arch nemesis but ironically now your savor from wet socks and mud-singed jeans. After sometime, piles of collected trash begin to block the already modest drainage systems, resulting in what looks like a mouth drowning in its own littered vomit. The only carry over today is the driving style of choice; it continues to be all about offense, except this time innocent bystanders are dragged into this jungle battle of attrition, with artificial waves of bubbly water squirted on all and discriminating against none. Welcome to Buenos Aires on a rainy day.

Cities with normally good, consistently clean weather suffer from the same problem; it's citizens are picky and a night with even a tiny hint of unpleasant conditions is used as an excuse to cancel much looked-forward-to plans. If you're set on going out, and that venue has an indoor option, why let 15 minutes of rain and 20km/h winds change your mind? The same disease that plagued Sydney and annoyed me has also swept over BsAs. People don't go out unless Mother Nature blesses the idea personally. Bollocks. In my opinion, the only way to intimately meet a city is on a rainy wet weekend, with a wet slide in your walk and a dense smell in your nostrils. The colours take on a rich blend, a disco-ball reflection, distorting your sense of distances and mashing elements of the senses into a big cake mix of contrasts. No longer are people spread out, marking their own path, everyone must now use the limited tracks remaining to make their way. At no other time does one have so many close ups, shoulder brushes, and eavesdropping situations as a rainy night. A connection forms between the street walkers - everyone feels each others pain. The stares are softer, the body language more open, and old fashioned comradeship emerges in the form of gestures - umbrella space is offered, taxis are passed on to the most needy, and hospitality service seems a little better than in the past. Warmness of the soul sometimes doesn't equate with warmness of the body.

Ridley Scott was renowned for his signature damp city scenes. Think Blade Runner, Black Rain, even Gladiator. He was no fool when it came to imagery. Darkness and negativity brings personality and intrigue. The masses and dull mainstream are washed away, revealing the inner-city lifeblood, the people tied inexplicably to the weekend night - your derelicts, vampires, street hustlers, drug fiends, party seekers, perverts, bored youngsters, high end networkers and those who grind the streets for work - late night store owners, taxi drivers, pan handlers and street entertainers. All melted together, huddled under the same walkway roofs, all afraid of getting wet, all the real human heartbeat of a city. Try it sometime. Go out and get wet. Walk around. Feel your cities pulse bleed water.