How’s the weather over there?
A recent conversation has made me realise how carefree exchanges with friends and family overseas used to be.
Back in the days before Zoom and FaceTime and social media of all stripes, international travellers stayed in touch via postcards and land-line phone calls. “How’s the weather?” was always the first question to ask, or be asked, and meaningless waffle about rain, hail, snow or shine would eat away at the clock, which would be ticking furiously, gobbling up holiday budgets.
My elder son is sequestered in a Singapore quarantine hotel, but that didn’t stop me inquiring about the climate around Orchard Road. Thanks to FaceTime fandango, he pointed his iPhone camera out the window so I could see the sky. He patiently attended to my interest in humidity levels by reminding me he was locked indoors. All he was prepared to confirm was that snow appeared unlikely. Fair enough. Old habits die hard. I didn’t really care about any temperature except his, which was being checked every few days by the hotel’s COVID management team. All negative and correct, thank heavens.
But the conversation made me realise how carefree such exchanges were in the past. Everything, we would claim, was always fine, even when it wasn’t. It seemed a failure of sorts to be on holiday and find oneself amid a deluge or a drought. The off-season was called just that for good reason. The weather would be off and sometimes staff, too, as hotels pared back service and facilities in anticipation of fewer guests. Then the terminology was changed to low season, which made no difference as it still suggested reduced circumstances and faded spirits. Then the notion of shoulder seasons arrived. I am embarrassed to admit I briefly thought that referred to the prospect of shoulders being bared in anticipation of the sun. Not so. These are the in-between times either side of high and low, and thus the most unknowable seasons of all.
If we are to return to a notion of off-season, I hope it’s the “take-off” season this year. Because most of us would like to spread our wings and while not actively seeking monsoons or blizzards, to be immersed somewhere completely different, and hang the weather forecasts. One of my best travel memories is of winter on the Amalfi Coast, pitching up at the only hotel open for miles and the chef being woken up to cook me lunch. “I have only pasta, a little pecorino, olive oil and rosemary,” he announced. I squealed with delight.
“How’s the weather in Australia?” he asked as he served me a veritable feast and drew up a chair. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” I mumbled, between buttery, cheesy slurps. As the wind roared off the Med and battered the shutters, I settled in for an afternoon of writing postcards home. “I’m in Italy. The weather is shocking ...”