WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE RAIN IN CALIFORNIA IS like rain nowhere else in the world. Let it come down for half an hour, and it seems that it has been raining forever and ever. And that it must continue until half-past Eternity. Over the lovely if artificial landscape, over the bright houses and the round brown-green hills comes a deathly gray pallor, a gloom of low clouds and everlasting chilly downpour. The color seems to seep out of everything, as if the projection machine in a motion-picture theater had suddenly switched from technicolor to ordinary black-and-white film. And it rains! In Hollywood Santa Monica Boulevard becomes a river dotted with little islands that are stalled and abandoned cars. Where Eastern elms and maples would toss and dance delightedly in the deluge, the palms drip and shiver in the streets, tall, lonely anachronisms, geological freaks which seem to have been left out by some forgetful florist after a wedding. The gutters run full, higher than the curbs. And there are few children to run up and down barefoot, screaming and sailing their boats of shingle, for mothers remember the little boy a year or so ago who was washed down into the sewer and out to sea….
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