Motoring to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain

I will defend to the death the general sensibility and competence of Angelenos, especially on the road, despite the stereotypes. It is simply a mathematical miracle that there aren’t more accidents on a daily basis. But still, I can only shake my head when three drops of rain fall and suddenly everyone south of San Francisco forgets how to work the turn signals and the difference between the brake and the accelerator.

There are many theories about why Angelenos cannot drive in the rain: not enough practice; unfamiliarity with car when top is up/sunroof closed; anxiety over possible water spots, muddy footprints, personal melting. But I have come to believe it is simpler than that, as simple as the sound of the raindrops on the roof.

I am old enough and come from far enough away to remember the sound of rain falling on the tin roof of a farmhouse. (I think it was tin, it might have been aluminum, I guess, but it was metal, of that I am certain.) It is a lovely sound, a lulling sound, metallic enough to be musical but muffled and watery like the ceaseless mutterings of the womb. Listening to it, you felt safe, cozy (unless you were Dad and suddenly realized you never did get around to cleaning out those gutters, but that’s another story).

It is, like the thick silence after a snowfall or the sound of frost-brittle leaves and grass splintering underfoot, an audio touchstone that you miss when you live in L.A. The closest thing you get is the sound of rain falling on the car roof. Although that is a different sound--louder for one thing, with more splat and less music--it seems to have a similar effect. Peering past the windshields and driver-side windows of my fellow motorists on a rainy Monday morning, I saw a lot of semi-comatose expressions. It was the first time I had encountered anything lotus-like in this allegedly laid-back town.

Maybe it was Monday, but I think it was the rain. It is easy to be mesmerized by the rain, especially when we’ve all seen so little of it this year. I remember as a child riding in the car and watching as the drops hit the glass, then slid and snuggled against each other, trading molecules and forming larger drops that clung to the glass, writhing and moving sideways or impossibly upwards until weight and gravity did their work. The water moved with such hilarious grace, seeming sometimes joyful, sometimes reluctant, that it seemed alive; the drops were like fat little animals playing.

There is restorative value in such whimsy, but not when you’re merging, changing lanes or making a left onto Alameda at rush hour. Then such distractions, and even the soothing throb of the rain on metal and glass, are just one more layer of insulation between us and other drivers, between us and what is really going on.

When we’re in our cars, with music playing or a conversation unrolling, it’s easy to imagine that we are the only people in the universe, that the rest of those ungainly vehicles are merely obstacles to be thwarted in some huge video game on our way to work or the store. The rain makes it even worse--it’s hard to see the people behind the glass, easier to lose ourselves in the sound and movement of the water as it strikes and slides off our little bubble of self.

This is when it’s a good time to open that window, or even the sunroof. Angelenos are not as well-acquainted with the properties of rain as they might be, but it is a bracing thing when it gets past the roof and the glass, an reminder that there are things to be done, including driving well.

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