Climate and Intimate Thoughts About Two Cities in Totally Different Positions on the Globe

Of the things that I notice, living in a different country, the most impressive of them are those related to the weather.

Having come from a city in the interior of a state called Tocantins, which also is located in the interior of Brazil, I was accustomed to an immense climatic variety, namely: dry weather and rainy weather, both very warm.

Although I was born and raised in Gurupi, I had been living in the capital of the newest state of Brazil, Palmas, for over 10 years before venturing into these wet and cold lands here in Ireland.

Palmas, in fact, was the last of the capitals projected in the 20th century and carries the sun on its flag and that of its state.

Sounds like an exaggeration?

Perhaps only for those who have never been there. The capital has, by far, one of the most rigorous climates I have ever experienced, even though I only realized this with the distancing of the gaze that living outside gives me.

Perhaps because I was raised by parents, grandparents and uncles, who spent most of their lives living in rural areas, and also because I myself spent much of my childhood and adolescence in this context, I have always been very attentive to the minimal climatic nuances, which only the people of the countryside usually have.

I learned from them.

It is not uncommon to hear my father saying: “With this dull heat it is making, before sunset it rains!”, or my mother, predicting: “You can spread the clothes on the clothesline, that all the ‘hallelujahs’ went out, today it does not rain anymore!”, and it is said and done.

The ants still in their winged versions, the ‘hallelujahs’, according to her, are too smart to come out of their nests and risk their fragile wings in the open if it were still to rain.

How do they get this weather report?

It’s a mystery to me to this day, but I think what she means by that, and it’s proven by how everything really happens, is that the animals know about these things. Just like the edge of the dam that was only filled with tadpole cords when the rainy season actually proved to be here to stay.

Another thing is the weather analysis, repeated progressively every single year when my birthday date is already threatening to turn the corner: “On your 1st anniversary a waterspout come down, and we had to move the whole party into the house at the last minute, and now every year it decreases more. I bet that this year doesn’t even rain!”. And since last year, it hasn’t really rained.

Not to mention the circle around the moon. “Circle near, rain far, circle far, rain near”, I heard my father say hundreds of times. Or that time when we stopped at a cashew tree of ‘cerrado’ that was in the middle of the pasture to pick some.

Only after I had put the first one in my mouth following his refusal, I realized his smile waiting for my grimace, which he was sure I would do, to then say: “The ‘cashew rain’ has not fallen yet, honey! It’s bitter, isn’t it?”, besides dozens of other comments or experiences that I had the pleasure (almost always, as we can see) of being able to experience.

Anyway, given the circumstances of the warm and dry land in which we lived and the dependence on planting to survive, most of this vernacular knowledge has always had a very close connection with rain. Whether or not it would come, whether it would take that year and whether it would come in sufficient quantity.

So I grew up with all this knowledge, and already as an adult, I got used to seeing from the balcony of the apartment the black cloud of torrential and tropical rain that was approaching, bringing with it a spectacle of lightning, and I learned to really value all these phenomena and cycles with which the Earth is transformed, agitated, and then become quiet again.

Having said so much, you can already imagine that it didn’t take long for me to spontaneously start making some observations in my new place of residence, right?

There’s no lightning here in Dublin.

And this is by far one of the things I miss most, climatically speaking. Don’t get me wrong, because I love the cloudy weather, the cold, bluish sun and the calm of the thin, freezing rain that comes and goes for days. Unlike the overwhelming majority of Brazilians who live here, obviously. But it’s just that I miss that heavy, warm rain, which comes with the force of a current, washing everything in front of us, rising steam from the streets, dust from the ground and bringing that strong smell of wet earth.

However, nostalgias aside, I learned to admire a somewhat unique fact that is new to me here.

The four seasons very well defined.

Spring Summer Fall Winter. In a way that only those who are very far from the Equator Line can perceive.

One of my most remote literary memories involves a collection of children’s books, each one corresponding to a season, with several short stories related to each one, and for which I was totally fascinated. Even if at that moment, I was only understanding the abstract concept of what it was like when the weather changed every three months.

We arrived here in the middle of summer, a not so summer, according to some long-time residents, but it was still much colder than the worst winters in the land I came from.

From time to time, a glimmer of sunshine slipped through some clouds and we spread out on some grass to enjoy. And when the icy wind punished me, I always wondered: “Is it too ‘summer’ for me to put on my gloves?”. Clearly, an outsider when it comes to the fashion etiquette of oceanic climate.

Some time passed, and autumn then decided to show its face.

And what a face!

The trees little by little yellowing and spreading their leaves on the ground like confetti from a golden Carnival. It was impressive to see the landscape change every day, starting from a shiny green and gradually fading towards the opaque grey.

And since the beginning of December, we have been living through the winter and I have daily regretted every bitter word addressed to the so misunderstood summer.

The leaves finally stopped falling, as there was no longer any left in the branches or trace that one day they were there. The logs and lawns, once vivid, became faded as if everything had received a sepia filter, two shades darker than normal.

And the cold? Oh, the cold!

It is one of those that hurts and we’re not even talking about such a cold country.

With winter I learned to walk cautiously looking at the ground, in search of some frozen water blade that would slide even the most cautious. I saw my first snow, which lasted about seven and a half minutes, but that was enough to fill me with commotion and make me teleport to the Christmas movies I watched so much during my childhood. I found that if we dress properly, after creating the courage to get out of bed, it’s not even that bad.

But in addition to the freezing cold and the sharp wind, it also brought with it some beauties, such as the known result of such frequent rains with days in which we can see a little sunshine.

That is, rainbows!

But not those that from half to the end are already beginning to fade. Here in Dublin, rainbows are almost always full-bow.

Besides, winter has also brought another phenomenon that still leaves me dumbfounded and like a child, with my neck stretched out, looking up in awe: the formations of birds on their way to migration.

To have been able to see with my own eyes for the first time, the various bands aligned, forming that perfect V, was a very remarkable moment for me. Before I could see it with my own eyes, I thought that it could only have been the invention of some half-crazy ornithologist, with dozens of photomontages scattered throughout the Biology books.

It is too extraordinary to be real.

Not to mention the enchantment that causes me the fact that they also know exactly when they should leave, where they are going and when they will return, based on their instinct of how the weather is affecting them at that moment.

Now, I am here. Spring is here too, but most of us are stuck in our own homes, while we wait for this pandemic, which spreads fear around the world, to go away. I really don’t know how long this is all going to go on. But I am sure that I will still be able to appreciate all that this season is keeping for me.

And when that happens it will be like closing a cycle: a whole year of experiences and seasons.

In the meantime, I remain on my balcony, watching from afar the blooming green leaves on the trees and wishing we can all be well soon.

Finally, I can say that I have learned many things. I learned to always look at the forecast on my cell phone, before leaving home, to choose the warmest coat or scarf, instead of the most beautiful and to always have a raincoat at hand.

I also learned to admire people who face this routine on a daily basis, to go out under the covers, face the weather and continue following their lives, as if the climate were just another fragment of all the challenges that life already dictates to us normally.

As well as I also always admired the ‘palmenses’ — the ones who was born in Palmas — for walking under the scorching sun, many with their parasols in hand, through the monumental avenues and roundabouts. Most of them, enduring the dry weather and the strong fires, magnified by the heat, which leave that smoke hanging over the horizon during all the months of summer.

Palmas and Dublin are two very different cities and I think that even between them, only the wind is common. The one that carries you and when it catches you off guard it practically knocks you down, like a push.

But the fact is: each place has its own expressiveness.

Comparisons will always be inexact in the face of so many factors and so many singular characteristics.

However, if we squeeze our eyes a little and open our hearts a little, we can at all times see the beauty in everything around us.

And in the end, that is what matters.

Whether in the passage of the seasons, in the movements of the waters or in the rhythms of the animals. Everything is there, right in front of us. We just need to look!

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