YOU WILL NOT MELT, AUNTIE!

Chinese people hate rain nearly as much as pipe smokers. That is to say, pipe smokers who really thought it wasn't going to rain, and left the house without an umbrella, but with two fine briars and a pouch of Virginia tobacco. It sprinkled the barest little bit yesterday.
A wee sprinkle, nothing more.

When I stepped outside after lunch at Little Paris, weird wet crap was falling from the sky. Not much, but enough to convince me that lighting up my already filled pipe at that point and in so exposed a place was a bad idea. So I hurried over to the awning over the front of Dol Ho, because they were already closed, and consequently there would be no one connected with their business to object to my smoking out front.

[Dol Ho ("much good") is a dim sum restaurant. Breakfast, brunch.]

There were, however, three elderly women. Who looked remarkably sour when I arrived. They thought they had that broad spread of dry zone entirely to themselves.
I considerately positioned myself as far out into the weather as possible, and at a point where the smoke would blow away from them.

Grumble grumble grumble keui sik yin ge.
Grumble grumble grumble kwailo.
Grumble grumble, gam chau.
Grumble grumble. M-ho.

Again, the breeze was blowing the smoke AWAY from them. And I was at least fifteen feet away from the nearest dessicated old wreck.

The reason why pipe smokers do not like rain when they lack umbrellas is that rain drops leave speckles on the stem of a pipe, and also affect the finish of the wood. We care about our pipes, and do not wish them damaged by weird wet crap falling from the sky. We do not like that.
For ourselves, we are far less concerned.
A bit of rain never hurt anybody.
Except for Chinese people.


That was an extremely enjoyable smoke. Nearly empty streets, at an hour when there should have been mobs of people thronging all over Stockton and Pacific. Nearby bakeries must have been doing a booming business. Desperate Chinese people fleeing the frightening wetness.
The soft murmur of grumbling wreckage behind me.
Altogether peaceful and other-worldly.


After finishing, I went out into the now severely lessening bluster. Which, bear in mind, had been the lightest and wispiest of rains, barely even dampening the pavement.

There was a long-haired cat outside of one of the stores on Stockton Street, who instinctively understood that some folks need to commune with animals.

Either that, or working for a Chinese shopkeeper, she feels attention-starved. The Chinese are not very demonstrative, except when they're vocalizing sotto voce about white people smoking where they want to shelter from the ten drops of wet that might get their hair frizzy.

It's a very sweet cat. Very social and affectionate.
Her owners must be doing something right.
The cat isn't spooked by people.

Ten solid minutes of petting.


I'll have to remember that store and start buying stuff there. Judging by the cat, they are good people.




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