Spring takes winter.

That's a Darren Hanlon reference, by the way. (Excuse me, indie-pop sensation Darren Hanlon.)

The weather here has been tortuous. It's been raining almost without a break for two solid weeks. What's weird is that it doesn't feel like particularly rough rain to me, accustomed as I now am to Sydney's semi-tropical electric downpours; it's much softer and the drops are small, and if the wind isn't up and you've got an umbrella and waterproof shoes you can be outside without too much trouble. It totally takes Sydney in stamina, though: it just goes on and on and on, and on, and then on some more, until finally you walk downstairs to find that your basement is buried under half a metre of water. (Not ours, fortunately, but entire towns have been flooded out and the Governor of Massachusetts called a state of emergency - and that was before the most recent series of storms.) Jamaica Pond is creeping over its banks minute by minute, and if it's not soon appeased it may well swallow the neighbourhood whole. We have awakened the Kraken.

With summer coming, all this rainfall is theoretically a good thing, as it means we're less likely to have a water shortage (yes, we have them here too). In fact, this is not the case: because of all of the flooding, many areas of the state have had their emergency reservoirs polluted with outside water. Those people are now in the confounding situation of being on water restrictions while having the firies pumping floodwater out of their houses.

But finally, finally, a change is coming. In Sydney, seasons change with the calendar, and the second you flip that page the weather follows. I don't understand it, but clearly a deal was struck somewhere along the line and you all just go with it. But in Boston, you know the seasons by their smell. No matter how many cool days you have, it's not autumn until you wake up to that smell of wood and cinnamon and crumbled leaves; no matter how much snow you get, it's not winter until there's cold tin in the air; and no matter how many times you see the sun, it's not spring until you smell the earth waking up again.

And you can smell it. Everyone can. And it changes people: they smile more, they're suddenly outside in droves. Everything's a celebration. A couple of weeks ago we had two beautiful 70˚ days, and on Friday afternoon in Jamaica Plain it was like the entire neighbourhood was having a street party: the rush hour traffic stuck around with the cars just cruising playing soul and Motown and soca and reggae, and all loud with the windows down; people of every age standing around on street corners laughing and talking and flirting with strangers; no coats or scarves or mittens to be seen. Sydney may have better weather, but it's almost a fair trade when you get this much more joy out of it when it comes.

Oh, and I learned today that I got a second interview for the job I'm going for. As the first interview lasted two hours and involved four people, I can't imagine what they've got left to ask me, but as this one is scheduled for 90 minutes clearly it's something significant. That's not until next week, though, and there's a whole lot of burlesque between now and then!

XOXO