Driven to Distraction by a Rain-Sullied Landscape

Everyone knows Angelenos can’t drive in the rain. Just like everyone knows size doesn’t matter, blonds are dim but have more fun and cheaters never prosper.

The traffic reports do little to dispel this myth--Sunday’s showers provoked an air of barely contained hysteria among the various afternoon sky crews. The breathless admonitions to stay off the freeways unless traveling was Absolutely Necessary would have been appropriate had Godzilla been spotted battling Megatron above the Hollywood sign. Otherwise . . . yes, accidents increase during the rain, but one is forced to wonder what role panic plays in this.

Conventional wisdom has it that Angelenos are element-challenged drivers simply because they have so little practice. But I believe the problem is more one of sensory displacement than of technique: Los Angeles is utterly unconvincing in the rain.

This is a summer-hued city, built to accommodate and accentuate a backdrop blue sky and unflagging sun. In the rain, its makeup runs and it simply does not know what to do with itself. Stucco buildings blotch and mottle; roofs and billboards are suddenly streaked with dirt; streets puddle with months of grit and grime; and even the sidewalks, unable to muster the slightest bit of sparkle-slick romance, simply lie there like so much damp cardboard.

The poor flora--cacti and drought-resistant succulents are out-of-place and self-conscious in a downpour, and there is nothing more pitiable than a damp palm tree. Bending heroically in a hurricane is one thing, but drooping and dripping in a mild Southern California rainstorm is another. Like a queue of displaced royalty, the once-stately palms huddle along the boulevards, trying to look inconspicuous in their misery, and failing utterly.

Other cities manage to maintain their charm and dignity in the rain--New York glimmers, shot through with taxi-cab yellow; Philadelphia gleams romantically under slick red brick and weeping tree boughs; Chicago steams in sophisticated stolidity, and up north, Seattle and Portland vacillate neatly between brooding and snug.

Los Angeles, on the other hand, just looks bewildered.

The human inhabitants do not fare much better. Citizens who can accessorize appropriately for everything from the Oscars to earthquakes suddenly find themselves without the proper shoes, with raincoats purchased in 1975 at some outlet mall. In a sprinkle that residents of other more inclement cities would not even notice, we tend to overreact, refusing to walk two blocks to a restaurant, hoisting beach-size umbrellas for the walk from the parking garage to the office.

And the umbrellas. Invariably they are either freebies bedecked with corporate logos or last-minute purchases that collapse after the second use like an over-blown dahlia.

Los Angeles sounds different in the rain, subdued and hesitant, with sudden fierce bursts of frustration. We have to keep our windows rolled up, we have to keep our ragtops on, our sunroofs closed. Our visibility is limited--even the most familiar commute has new and unpredictable perils.

It is simply not the same city.

Suddenly we are tourists, fumbling to find the windshield wipers and rear-defrost buttons in our cars, baffled by our inability to keep our side mirrors dry, and concerned about that insistent hiss that seems to come from our tires or undercarriage.

With all this going on, is it any wonder our driving ability suffers a bit?

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Mary McNamara can be reached at mary.mcnamara@latimes.com.