An old joke goes, "He was at death's door, and they still managed to pull him through." I've been pulled every which way in the last week, through death's door both ways as far as I can tell, having lain in the grip of 'la gripa' for over a week. It isn't what you're thinking - it's been a perfectly dry and orderly siezure of the respiratory function with no graphic, projectile or otherwise ill-mannered results than my emergence from this trial bleary-eyed, far more surly than is my usual wont, wishing for a not undignified end and wondering why in the name of all that's reasonable and civilized I traveled to this distant outpost of sunny hospitality to fall into such a state of misery.
The course of this protracted indisposition has not been unrelieved by other compensations. More than one friend has sent to my notice the same YouTube clip of a weather-induced fracas in my hometown (a nameless spot in the darkening middle of the cultural spectrum somewhere to the north). A young man was standing on the moderate slope of a suburban street freshly greased in light snow, recording with his cell phone a series of slow motion collisions as they developed - eventually about 20 cars in a single pileup, stacked like a shoal of frozen carp along one curb, collecting one casualty after another as it slid down the street frontways, sideways, backwards, providing the while a delightfully artless, charmingly naive, benignly profane and gleeful commentary on the proceedings. His delight increased with each addition to the heap, heightened each moment by his having been on the scene and filming from the start. He was both cameraman and color commentator and (with due attention to his current breadth of adjectives) he may have a future in broadcasting (which is the old-fashioned word for "media").
These scenes undeniably warm the lonely days of those who have escaped the ravages of the northern winters for more hospitable places. How else account for the popularity of the Weather Channel? Its largest audience and the backbone of its considerable revenues rests in the retired classes who have gone south for the rest of their lives and who, as a bit of perverse nostalgia, watch the weather to see how their hapless and less fortunate acquaintances are suffering this season. Of course, those patterns are less reliable than they used to be in the palmy days before climate change (or "climate change," depending on your preferred school or "school" of thought). Winters in Mamaroneck or Port Jervis can be fairly benign in an off year, while the hurricanes season in your newly-adopted abode can be an awning shredder for the record books.
As I said, I am not certain which way I went through death's door, whether I was pulled through by my feet or headfirst. I must have gone through it however, since I know what hell will be. Those who go to Hell will find themselves lying with a pounding headache in a dimly lit room just above a street in a Mexican town, hearing the same car alarm go off seven successive times in ten minutes just below their open windows.
In fact, as I write just now in my upper story room, a car alarm is going off below in the very street where I have taken temporary refuge and where I hope to regain my shattered health. There is no escaping the car alarm in this country, of that I am now certain. In fact, the very notion that it is an alarm is an alien idea here. It is rather a welcome sign that one's car is in at least partial working order. It is a signal to a proud and grateful owner: "Your car is ready for your entry." Or, upon arrival, "You have successfully exited your car." And depending upon the level of assurance any particular car owner requires, the alarm can be turned off now, upon a leisurely arrival at one's doorstep, or in the morning. It doesn't really matter, because it's not really meant to alarm anyone about anything.
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