Because You Never Asked

     (This is the last essay in a series including "The Weather" and "The Weather Where I Live". Once again, I remind the reader that it was written in 1997.)

     If we talk about the weather in the Spanish Mediterranean, we could take note of the usual stuff like temperature, rainfall, wind, cloudiness, etc., just like any other place on this whirling rock of dirt, water and vegetation known as Earth. There is no place anywhere that doesn't have these things and even in the places that, practically speaking, don't get rain, this element and its absence is at the center of its weather experience. Although, as I shall explain a bit further on, I don't consider any of these factors to be the focal point of the natural experience on an island in the Roman Sea, some mention should be made of these routine climatic indicators because they were all somewhat out of sorts this year, especially rainfall.

     In the 10 years I've been coming to this island, there has always been some rain, but never more than a light dusting leaving hardly a trace; clothes on the line were not effected, tennis courts were immediately playable, and simply the appearance of rain was always considered a novelty. This year there were numerous instances of light spray and at least 2 or 3 milestones which could be referred to as real rainy days. There was one genuine deluge which let loose more water in one 2 hour assault than all the rain I'd ever seen put together over 20 months of annual visits covering 10 years. By far! Before ever coming here, I'd traveled much of the Mediterranean at about this same time of year, including Greece, what used to be Yugoslavia, Italy and even North Africa, and can only remember a brief instance of rainfall on the Greek island of Paros in all those travels.

     There was a remarkable amount of rain this year.

     I might also mention that temperatures were recognizably cooler as well as the fact that there were unusually long periods of very high winds (2 to 3 days at a time).

     But none of these climatic factors are truly at the core of the physical sensation of the Mediterranean environment. The most important quality of this part of the world's natural experience is something more subtle, more subconscious, and more wonderful . the light!

     The nature of this light has inspired artists since the first days our species ever began living here. Is it any wonder that the glorious Hellenic-Roman civilization, as well as the rebirth of western culture known as the Renaissance, with its explosion of artistic-cultural renewal, was incubated in the radiance of this precious light? And let's not forget the great Moorish domains of North Africa and medieval Spain, which were the great centers of scientific and artistic enlightenment while Europe lived the hangover known as the Dark Ages.

     My own literary experience is dappled with numerous references to this light, from Lord Byron to Lawrence Durrell to D.H. Lawrence, including, I'm sure, many others. Although it's been 25 years since I've read the passage I'm about to speak of, its reference to the "light" is still vivid in my mind, though I must foofily admit I can't remember the literary work it came from (probably one of the books from Durrell's Alexandria Quartet). In any event, a young man is traveling south from his native England for the first time when he finally reaches the southern slope of the Alps and begins his descent into Italy. As a native of the gloomy north, he is immediately dazzled by "the light, the light .", which seems to energize him as he continued on towards his destiny. It was as if he suddenly felt more optimistic, as if the idea of living had taken on a whole new meaning. "The light! The light!"

     Stepping back from such romantic flights of rapture, an experience from my own mundane childhood might best express the light of the Roman Sea for me.

     When I was a boy, perhaps once or twice every winter I would go see the New York Rangers play hockey at the old Madison Square Garden on 49^th street. I always arrived early enough so that the players had still not come out. Upon entering the arena, my expectations would soar as I gazed upon a virgin expanse of ice spread before me like a slab of polished marble. It was always an impressive sight. But the great surprise would come a few minutes later when the players emerged from the building's subterranean innards. As the first skate smoothly glided onto the still unscarred surface, another bank of houselights were unleashed and what I previously considered "light" was humbled under a barrage of clarity I had not even conceived of until that moment. I had emerged from the womb and the world had just begun. The colors of the uniforms, the lines on the ice, the sounds, the smells . everything had become more provocative . "The light! The light"!

     The prevailing conditions governing the Mediterranean environment conspire in letting this wonderful light go free and unhindered, like a predator cat gloriously dashing cross the African grasslands. The arid climate comes equipped with a "high" sky which allows the light to arrive everywhere in equal amounts, rarely having to sift and work its way through uneven cloud cover which might break it up, divert it, bend it, or destroy its uniformity. This "high" sky, generally unblemished by the haze of more humid climates, provides a blue dome that is easy to look through, like a perfectly clean window. These arid conditions, which retard any exuberant outbursts of vegetation, allow the light free reign on the ground as well. Unlike my home in the humid tropics, there is no voracious canopy of gluttonous, jungle-like growth to hide under. The light in the Mediterranean does not fight a guerrilla war of infiltration, but is free to attack like an infantry division storming a weakly defended enemy line. This brilliant light and exquisite clarity is the signature of this legendary region . the birthplace of modern western civilization.

     This year someone forgot to turn on the light.

     As it is when I am home, I have a rather personal way of judging weather conditions while living by the Roman Sea. This haphazard, yet generally effective method of gathering weather data is based upon the visibility of the neighboring island. This geographic neighbor sits to the north about 10 miles in the distance and is possessed of the usually jagged profile with which most Mediterranean islands rudely burst from the sea (in this case there are peaks of almost two thousand feet).

     Every morning, upon having sclerotically dragged my seemingly corrugated frame out of bed, and even before having entered the bathroom for the usual hygienic purges, I timidly step outside and cast a blurry eye towards this geographic neighbor. For 10 years I have grown accustomed to seeing its exquisite mole with a sharpness that could lead one to believe that some omnipotent God of Fine Arts had just chiseled its shape into the splendid indigo of the Mediterranean sky. The varying shades and textures of the gigantic, rust colored rock formations are clearly visible and on a day slightly better than normal, what could be the movement of an automobile edging along like an industrious insect, might even be seen. This magnificent view, which is something a sensitive, mature mind should never tire of, is the routine but welcome weather report proclaiming the start of yet another beautiful day. Up until this year, I never even questioned the overwhelming probability of these conditions. But this year was, like the winter discussed in the previous essay, a mutant.

     As my 2 month stay here draws to a close, there has been no more than 3 or 4 days with the kind of clarity just described above. For the most part, the neighboring island vaguely showed the colorless outline of its brooding form, like a black dog sleeping mysteriously behind a willowy, gauze curtain. There were a number of days when it could not be seen at all, including some very peculiar, though beautiful variations on this theme; on more than one occasion, a thick ground fog shrouded all traces of the neighboring island behind a cottony white blanket from which a few of the highest peaks eerily emerged with startling clarity. One could more easily imagine some kind of King- Kong-lost-world domain than a typical island in the Roman Sea.

     I recently did some research amongst the locals, just to corroborate my confused meteorological feelings. They all agreed, the weather had not been strange, but "very strange". I had the feeling that none of them had ever seen anything like it either.

     The light? The light?

     Post Script: In the 8 years since this essay was written, the lack of my now fondly remembered clarity has remained constant. The atmosphere is definitely more encumbered with a quasi-permanent haze that renders the neighboring island little more than an ambiguous outline in the distance. Most locals attribute this to an increase in humidity. Rainfall and temperature seem to have returned to normal.