CLOTHING STORE LINE-UP

Faced with the choice of having no birthday presents at all and receiving at least some, even though I would be buying them for myself, I wandered down Fifth Avenue in search of something I needed. I am an extremely efficient shopper. I need no help in choosing what I want and can decide within seconds whether or not I will make a purchase in a store almost instantaneously. With this tremendous shopping ability in tow I set about my task.

In all fairness to those who feel the need to buy me something for my annual anniversary commemorating my arrival date in this world, they do persist in pushing me for an answer to the age old question of what I want for my birthday. I am not one who has everything but I am one who needs very little. I don't do gadgets. I usually don't like others buying me clothes even though my wife points out to me constantly that someone should. I love buying my own wine and picking out my own books and music. In essence, I am a birthday present buyer's nightmare. So these days I am told to buy what I want and give it to my wife the day before my birthday so that it gets wrapped and presented to me once again by my kids and wife on my actual birthday. I am worthy of an Oscar nomination based on my surprise and delight in receiving such fantastic gifts and thank the kids profusely for picking them out so dilligently. All of them play along with this charade as they try to convince me of the huge effort they took in finding me these presents.

I walked in and out of three stores in quick succession. The clothing was either way too trendy with lots of bells and whistles on them or they were geared more for the middle aged golfer who always wears pastels and plaid shorts. Not for me! I was looking for shirts I could wear for work and then double up their role at the weekend for use as smart casual ones. I was finding it very difficult to find the aforementioned particular type of shirt. At each store where I thought there was a possibility of finding decent clothing, I was approached by a very helpful sales assistant who tried to point me in the right direction. They always greet you with the coined phrase ," hello sir can I help you?" I always responded." Yes please. I am looking for a couple of shirts. I prefer blue or gray or mauve but not too mauvey or blueish. I don't like dark blue and sky blue doesn't really suit me. The gray can't be really gray. It has to be lighter than gray . Oh and one more thing, these shirts are for work where it is business attire and also for the weekend where I am much more casual." By the time I have finished with my perfect description the sales assistant has usually vanished. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if they will return armed with bundles of choices but instead I normally find them hiding behind pillars or hanging out in the fitting rooms.

With visions of a first present-less birthday my spirits were becoming more and more downtrodden, reflected in my hunched up posture as I ascended Fifth Avenue. I was running out of options. I then stumbled across a store whose window had tons of shirts that fitted my description. I entered through the revolving doors and was immediately met by an employee who asked the usual question. I walked straight passed him, my eyes fixated on the business casual shirts displayed on a shelf a few paces away. I held a few up into the light and then put them against my body to work out the correct sizing. The employee was hovering over me asking me if I needed help in deciding which shirt and what size. I was too excited to pay him any attention whatsoever and instead I scooped up a couple of my soon to be birthday gifts and headed over to check out.

The first question I was asked in trying to pay was, " did anyone help you today?" I replied that someone did indeed hang over me for an extended period. I was asked a whole series of follow up questions. I answered, "no, I don't know his name; no, I don't know what he looks like; no, I don't know what he is wearing and no, I have no idea if he has an accent." The cash register operator was aghast. This had clearly never happened before. She continued to hound me about the missing identity of the sales assistant and wouldn't ring my shirts up. I begged and pleaded to just pay and leave but she then informed me that all the salesman were dependent on commissions. I felt awful. I had to find out who the mystery man was so I demanded a line up.

" What do you mean by a line up sir?" she retorted, looking ever so slightly confused, represented by a downward movement in her eyebrows. After a short consultation with another member of staff it was hastily arranged. Nine friendly, well groomed and eager to earn commission staff duly lined up by the cash register. Each one was dressed in the clothes they sell in the store and no one looked familiar at all. I walked up and down and looked them close in the eyes trying to jog my memory. The truth was I had not had any eye contact with the staff at all since I entered the store. It was hopeless. So I simply said out aloud, " You know who you are . The one who clung to me when I entered the store. I know who you are but I want to see if anyone else is trying to be dishonest." At that moment one person raised his hand. I would never had guessed it was him since he had really spiky hair and was the weirdest looking out of all of them. He had a tattoo on his neck. He had a large crucifix hanging around his neck . He spoke with a rather bad speech impediment. Only a blind brainless buffoon couldn't recognize him.

With this ordeal out of the way I shared the check out counter with three other customers who had waited rather patiently during the line up. I hastily handed my credit card over , signed the slip and grabbed the bag and ran. I was extremely pleased with my two shirts that I would receive the next day for my birthday. I jumped in a waiting taxi and went home. When I walked in to my aprtment, my wife promptly ushered me into the bedroom and asked to see what I had bought so that she could wrap them before teh usual dinner mayhem started. She took the two items out of the bag and removed the flimsy protective paper. She loved the pastel sky blue sweater and dark gray shorts I had bought. After all that I had grabbed the wrong bag. I smiled back agreeing, knowing I would never wear them!

THE WORST PLACE IN NEW YORK TO BE DELAYED

I am not the greatest fan of leaving New York City but when I do I want the process to be as smooth and quick as possible. The recent increase in air traffic over New York City has led to incredible delays at its three airports. The top five delayed airports in the country feature all three of New York's flying hubs . It makes for disaster when traveling to and from this metropolis. The whole process of leaving New York is made that much worse by the lack of facilities at one Gate area at La Guardia Airport that I seem to get stuck at on a monthly basis.

Air travel should be equated with the solitary word 'misery'. Just thinking about flying out of La Guardia gives me bouts of depression. Even if you have enough common sense and arrive ninety minutes before the scheduled take off time, having already printed out the boarding card, checked to see for any delays and packed only hand luggage; the process is still so daunting. The passenger still has to go through security; the luggage needs to be scanned and then they have to wait near the gate ; board the plane and sit strapped in, on the aircraft waiting for a take off spot. Nothing mentioned above is a pleasant experience.

Even the most seasoned travelers struggle with the moving goalposts of Homeland Security regulations. One week something is permissible and the next it is declared capable of bringing down an aircraft and banned completely. An example of this is mouthwash. Up until a few weeks ago small bottles up to 200 ccs were allowed in hand luggage. Last Friday I had my 150 cc bottle confiscated. The amount was changed to 100ccs becuase of increased securtity measures. The Homeland Security officer said I could finish it before I went through security. I replied that my breath was bad, but not that awful. A special search was then reserved for me following my bout of sarcasm. Mouthwash is still allowed on board but only in tiny quantities. I would hate to be a victim of mouthwash terrorism , as fresh breath could clearly cause airplanes to dive out of the sky for reasons no one can explain to me.

I do consider myself an expert in avoiding the luggge scanning machine and body search apparatus. With the exception of mouthwash I never travel with liquids. I buy any provisions I need at my destination. I wear lace-less shoes so that I can slip them on and off. I don't carry any weapons and avoid objects that could be confused with guns, knives or bombs. I refrain from wearing a belt or any jewelery that would ring the bell unnecessarily. I normally breeze through all surveillance machines and providing there isn't a long line in front , it goes quite quickly. There is nothing worse than being stuck behind the passenger who knows nothing about air travel. They usually are carrying enough liquid on them to be classified as a small stream. They have so many sharp objects in their bags that they resemble a traveling dentist. They have a tendency to wear boots with laces that wrap around fifteen clips per boot and take half an hour to remove, per foot, and have no idea about the removal of all metal objects including chewing gum wrappers, coins, pocket knives and rapper type gold chains. Being immediately behind one of these novices can cost an extra fifty minutes of frustration and mental torture.

This brings me nicely to THE "A" GATES at La Guardia. This is the home of Air Canada, Continental and Jet Blue. I think as it starts with the letter A it was the first wing of La Guardia. It is so antiquated that I imagine this part of the terminal was built in 1652 some two hundred years before the invention of air travel. It was updated during the prohibition period because it is impossible to be served any alcohol once through security. I guess the planes that latch themselves to the A Gates get so delayed that the authorities dare not serve alcohol to passengers because they would either get violent in response to all the delays or they have so much drinking time while waiting that the majority of the passengers would pass out before the flight took off.

What is made even worse is that at "Gate A land" the passengers cant even sit down for a meal either. Their are literally no facilities at all for the waiting ticket holder. There is a pretzel making kiosk and a sandwich shop that sells rubbery things Saran wrapped so thick that it is impossible to see what is really inside. The food and drink services are so bad it makes even the die hard New Yorker like me want to get the heck out of town as quickly as possible. Some of my finest experiences in air travel have been at airports where there are plentiful supplies of food and drink and delays and cancellations don't feel that bad because you get to eat drink and be merry with other customers. I honestly believe that spending time at a New York Airport and in particular La Guardia is like receiving a jail sentence. You have to go through strict security controls, there is literally only bread and water available, you spend huge amounts of time inside and if you argue with the authorities the chances of getting out get smaller and smaller.

BACK TO SCHOOL

I was asked to make a presentation in front of my son's class this morning on the subject of immigration. I jumped at the chance. I am an immigrant. I may not be typical of those that come to America to live but I have been through the same process nonetheless. I have not experienced the same hardships as those who come here from very different cultures and with little knowledge of English but I do have a wealth of funny stories that happened to me on the road to becoming an American.

My journey began in 1996 when I suddenly woke up one morning in the Center of London, with a strong desire to move across the Atlantic to New York City. I dismissed this ridiculous idea and carried on my normal schedule but that yearning feeling inside of my head continued to grow, enticing me to the Big Apple . Some three months later, I had secured a great job, applied successfully for a three year visa and had packed my bags and was gone from London. I was here in New York City.

I explained to my son's class the differences between how I came to The United States and how previous generations had struggled to get here. The time period they are studying involved mass immigration by boat, landing at Ellis Island where Citizenship was automatic on condition of passing a basic health test. As long as the immigrant didn't die during the health interview or cause a major epidemic in the waiting room, then entry to America was granted. With a stamp that provided automatic citizenship it wasn't rare for the newly landed to hug the immigration officer on duty on completion of the process. I arrived at J.F.K on an American Airlines flight from London Heathrow at the same time as an Air Jamaica flight from Kingston and an Air India flight from what was then called Bombay. I waited three hours in line to be seen by an immigration officer who was so rude to me that all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to England.

Once on American soil and cleared of all red tape and formalities the new immigrants of the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries usually moved into squalid conditions in a neighborhood that had familiar people already there from the "Old Country." This usually involved staying with relatives who had made the move previously. Many were crammed into tight living conditions. Most jobs available were manual labor with very long hours and little pay. Times were very hard. After I cleared immigration and collected my luggage I was picked up by stretch limousine, taken into Manhattan to a five star deluxe hotel where I stayed for a week , and then went to work two days later at an infamous Investment Bank in Midtown. I had some family living here but they never offered that I should move in. It didn't cross my mind either. I moved into a swanky Upper West Side doorman building after my stay at the hotel came to an end. All accommodation for the first year was covered by my employee as they had invited me to move far away from home and so gave me a very generous package.

Large scale immigration the past two centuries has had such a profound affect on the fabric of American society. New York City is still home to a vast majority who were born outside of this country. In the past it added such a flavor to the composition of its population. New York was not really a melting plot as nationalities tended to live amongst each other and kept themselves to themselves. It was more like a tossed salad with various ingredients lying separately brought together by a common dressing that is American citizenship and the freedom and opportunity that came along with it. By the time I arrived the immigration process was much different. Manhattan has become much more elitist and many newcomers posses amazing qualifications in their field. Nowadays, New York now attracts the creme de la creme in most white collar professions with a special emphasis on Finance, Law, and The Media. Long gone are the days of mass unskilled labor arriving looking for work. There is very little industry left in New York City. The factories have closed their doors here forever. Only in the service industry do the poor and unqualified still fill the vacancies in what is perceived to be the bottom of the to-tum pole.

Being back at school and standing in front of a bunch of eager to learn kids addressing the subject of immigration, I felt a bit of a fraud. Compared to what they are learning, I have had no hardship at all. What I do share with most who have come here is that we all feel that this is the best place on earth to live and raise a family disregarding whatever it is we have had to go through to make it here!

The Clogging of the Arteries

My son Bradley has an ice hockey practice or a game on Sunday mornings starting somewhere between 6 am and 8 am. I am the usually the designated parent. Nothing makes me happier than waking up at 4.45 am on a weekend and heading downtown to freeze to death watching eight and nine year old children attracted to a puck, following it around the ice, as if it were a magnet.

This past weekend I was blessed with the fact that the practice didn't start until 8 am. Compared to the very early starts this had a feel of a lunchtime session. My alarm went off at 6.15. I showered and got dressed and then awoke Bradley at about 6.45. His clothes had been taken out the night before and he is very adapt in getting dressed and leaving the apartment in about ten minutes. We were car pooling that morning, picking up his friend and co hockey player with his father, a little further North than our street.

The logical thing to have done would have been to head North on First Avenue and cross 87th street to pick up his friend and father. This sensible straightforward plan was put on hold by the demands of my son in sticking exactly to tradition and habit in what we always did, when not car pooling. Instead we had to drive southwards to Dunkin Donuts at 75th street, park up and go get his two chocolate frosted donuts and me my coffee with skim milk. Bradley was quite perturbed that the server who knows Bradley's order off by heart wasn't there . Bradley informed me that this was a really bad sign. I of course ignored his superstitious thoughts and told him that his notion was not only wrong but ridiculous. The fact that the usual donut server had a day off had no bearing whatsoever on anything that could happen going forward. Bradley ordered an extra donut for his friend, we returned to the car and set out on our slightly changed route.

We picked up our car pooling party outside their building and then continued on straight until we couldn't go any further. I took a left onto Fifth Avenue to the sound of donut munching coming from the middle row. The boys were scoffing their faces full of the deep fried dough covered in chocolate sugar and little sprinklings of cholesterol. Most of the frosting missed both of their mouths completely and instead extended horizontally across from their face bi-passing their enticing lips. They both looked like The Joker from Batman, similarly foaming at their mouths and laughing in a slightly evil way. It was clear that operation cleanup would have to commence before either boy could take to the ice.

We reached 85th and Fifth Avenue, a major artery in Manhattan and a point in the journey worthy of at least a mini discussion between the two grown men in the front seats. We were heading for Chelsea piers at 23rd and the River on the West side. We needed to go West but had a choice of either taking the West Side Highway and crossing now or continuing on Fifth Avenue and crossing later or until we reached 23rd street. So I posed the question. "What should we do here?" Logic told me to take the West Side Highway. Not many lights, a faster speed limit and four lanes. My navigator did not express a preference either way so I went with my gut and turned right and headed across town.

Ten minutes later we were turning around and heading back East. The West Side highway was closed for no apparent reason. We had not noticed any of the portable signs telling us so, because we were all either engrossed in deep discussion or knee deep in donuts and had continued along our preferred route until a police car told us to do a 180. The West Side Highway is perhaps the most important road in New York, particularly for those heading downtown from the Upper West Side, West Harlem, Riverdale and the surrounding Bronx areas and Westchester-Connecticut commuters. It is one of the most direct routes in Manhattan. If you want to get anywhere substantial from North to South then this highway normally features in your plans. We were therefore forced to use local avenues en lieu of speedier options. With the closure of this main artery, Western Manhattan came to a complete stand still. We didn't move for ages on West End Avenue. We stood motionless on 9th Avenue for what seemed an eternity and instead of arriving in time to lace the boys up we were now staring at the prospect of being late for practice.

We arrived in Chelsea some forty minutes later. And yes we were running a little tardy. We couldn't even get near the Piers since a half marathon was taking place on the actual highway preventing us from parking at the rink; and hence the road closure. The two thousand participants were doing their best to keep their veins pumping with blood and stay healthy . In the process they had clogged one of Manhattan's main arteries causing a huge blockage and heart failure for residents looking to move around freely on a Sunday morning. I had to park half a mile away from the ice rink and walk in the somewhat cold temperatures and was visibly upset by this whole ordeal. The boys were caked in chocolate and were stuffed, unable to walk fast, as a result of consuming a full dose of heart attack inducing nourishment. I muttered how insane New York City was for staging these types of events when Bradley informed me whilst giving me a 'I told you so kind of look', that it would have been different had the normal server been there at the donut store.

A THROWBACK TO THE 1920's.

It's not often you get transported back in time but that is exactly what happened to me last night. At a fashionably late time of night, Janet and I headed West to pick up our close friends and drive South to the outskirts of the West Village to eat at a restaurant no one had ever heard of. It was one of the best evenings I have had in a long time and I have had many good ones.

We were eating at a new restaurant called The Darby. We had a reservation for 8.30pm. We decided to drive as one of us, ( not me) wasn't going to drink. We had the address and the cross street reference. You would think the restaurant should be easy to find when one is armed with all the correct information of its whereabouts? So we dropped the girls off where we thought the restaurant should be and drove off in search of a parking space. The aim was to find somewhere to park, preferably free, within walking distance of where we were going. I am not a fan of parking a long ways off and then having to get a taxi to the restaurant because what is the point of bringing the car then? You might as well leave it at home.

We started the first of what we perceived to be many circles that we would have to make and were frantically searching for the golden parking spot when my cell phone rang. It was my wife. She informed me that they needed to be picked up and that we should immediately return to whence we had dropped them off. Certain things came to mind. The restaurant has never existed and was a figment of my wife's imagination; the restaurant was so dirty that even the placing of one foot inside could risk contamination and weeks of isolation at the Hospital for Exotic diseases and so they had refused to enter; or we had the wrong address.

I was so deep in thought that I didn't hear the wife mumbling about not being able to find The Darby. This is a summary of her conversation with me. " Hold on , come get us, it's on the East Side, wait a second, what's this? Yuk it can't be this place. Maybe it's here. It's next to the subway. Found it. It's not next to The subway , its next to a Subway store." And then she hung up. I hadn't said a word. My friend in the passenger seat was still looking up the address when I suddenly found a parking space. Mission accomplished. I could now go home. And then I remembered that I was going out for dinner.

My friend and I walked to the restaurant and opened the entrance doors that were heavy and wooden. When we entered I was taken aback by two things. The dining room was spectacular, a complete throw back to the Supper Clubs of the 1920's that combine musical entertainment with an evening meal. There was a stage with a five piece jazz band playing, including clarinet, bass, keyboards, percussion and a vocalist. I was quite mesmerized. I had no idea that there would be live music. What a treat!
The second thing that I observed was that my wife and friend were not looking too happy. They had not been seated since the party of four wasn't complete, due to the parking search, and a request for a booth was turned down by the rather aloof staff who then chose to ignore the two women until we arrived. It wasn't the best of starts.
I never understand eating establishments that don't provide excellent service. It just doesn't make sense. I am sure those who invested heavily in recently getting this venture off the ground would not appreciate unfriendly, unhelpful staff with an attitude. However, that is exactly who greeted half our party on arrival.

The evening did improve somewhat because of the delicious food, fine beverages and tremendous live entertainment. The female vocalist had on one of those tasseled dresses that oozed 1920's style and the music, though loud, was a mixture of throw backs to bygone years and contemporary songs that raised smiles of recognition from most seated in the dining room. This was how it must have been at one of the many supper clubs that used to be dotted around the City before costs and lack of demand drove them all away. I am so happy that one has emerged out of the ashes of the combination of live music mixed with sumptuous food. They are onto something good here. I never lived in the 1920's although some will argue that I look like I have , but this is the closest I will ever get to reliving the golden era of nightlife in major cities in America. If only The Darby could rid itself of its snooty attitude because when we finally got up to leave at 11.30pm , the last thing we noticed were the two unoccupied booths that we fought hard to be seated at , that we were denied and that hadn't been used the whole time we were there. I will go back but only if I have it in writing and notorized that one of those booths will be mine at any future soiree i chose to spend there .

A SEA OF GREEN

To all my Irish friends and those of Irish decent I wish you all a Happy St Patrick's day. It is a fabulous celebration of a tremendous nation that has survived famine, war and oppression. Today, for the Irish, it is a day to celebrate, and they are the best in the world at doing just that. The most incredible statistic I saw about the Irish population of the Tri-State area is that there are more of them here than there are in the whole of the Emerald Island. That's a lot of partying people out on the streets and in the pubs, particularly in the City.

Many at work consider themselves Irish. A few are Immigrants straight off the boat having been raised formitavely in Ireland. A smaller group have Irish parents who came over in the 1970's when the whole of Northern Europe was pretty grim and the troubles in Northern Ireland prevented their economy from growing. Some have one Irish Grandparent making them 1/8th Irish. One of them claims to have an Aunt who once visited Ireland twenty years ago and came back with a Shamrock covered tea cozy on display in her dining room. If you take into account all of the above, then everyone in New York is sort of Irish. On St Patrick's day the Irish connection is measured similar to the game of the nth degrees away from Kevin Bacon ( who is of Irish decent).

I have no Irish in me at all. I used to live opposite millions of Irish, across the Irish sea when in England. There is a large Irish population in London and they are an important and vibrant section of the cosmopolitan nature of the city. The big difference between the London Irish and their New York cousins is their visibility. On St Patrick's day most of the celebrations take place behind closed doors in the Irish neighborhoods of London. The party is generally not open to the general public but behind these doors, festivities are wild and boisterous. In New York it is customary to not only celebrate in style but also to do so openly for others to see. Showing off a heritage is part and parcel of New York life. Citizens of this great country are American of course but they always put their real Nationality first. They are Irish American, Italian American, Hispanic American and many others.. This is not a divided loyalty issue at all because we all unite under the American flag but in such a vast country made up of mostly immigrants and descendants thereof, it is so important not to forget where we came from and what makes us who we are.

I am not wearing green today. I don't need to. I won't be drinking and celebrating either. It isn't my holiday and I don't feel the need to jump on the band wagon. That hasn't stopped me from wishing strangers clad in various shades of green a Happy St Patrick's day and hoping that they have as much harmless fun as is feasibly possible. Being an English American it is difficult to try and pretend to be anything else and for those trying to connect me to the largest community in New York via the Kevin Bacon game good luck with that one!

WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE RAIN THAT NEW YORKERS ARE SO AFRAID OF?

Maybe it's because I grew up in London where it rains 250 days a year, that makes me a little different from the average New Yorker regarding how to deal with the skies opening up. Since I have moved to New York City it seems that every year we get more rainy days and a greater amount of total rainfall.

In reality May and July are the rainiest months as measured by the 4.7 inches on average that New York City gets during those months. In total New York City receives about 50 inches of rain a year. Mobile, Alabama witnesses on average 60 inches a year and that is the most for any city in this Country, using data going back 30 years. London gets around the same rainfall a year as New York but it rains on twice as many days in London meaning we get downpours here.

Rain is good. Yes New Yorkers. Rain is a good thing. We need rain in the Tri State area and we need rain in New York City. It beautifies the parks and makes them luscious and green in the spring, summer and fall. It helps the trees sprout stunning floral blossoms in spring that line its famous avenues. It washes the sidewalks of all the dirt, dog excrement, chewing gum and spit that are deposited in bulk on our streets every day.
It brings a fresher yet different kind of smell to the city in contrast to the humid, and let's face it quite dreadful odor of the garbage that sometimes sits outside in the baking sun , rotting beneath the flimsy bags that hold it all in.

I bless the rain every time it falls. For me it represents life. It allows New York to continue to flourish and prosper. It is the earth's sustenance and we should react positively like the farmers do whenever they witness rain. New Yorkers hate the rain. They are afraid of the rain. They plan their days around not having to be outside when it falls. They huddle under awnings, waiting until it passes and they never leave home without an umbrella if there is more than a one in ten chance of precipitation.

This morning I didn't even check the weather forecast before I left my apartment. My doorman had posted a pretty picture of an umbrella inside the elevator implying that it was raining outside so that the petrified New Yorker, on seeing the sign, would head back to fetch an umbrella. I thought nothing of it. I arrived in the lobby and was handed my daily newspaper after an exchange of morning greetings. I wished the doorman a good day and tried to head outside. My path was blocked by the doorman, refusing to open the door. He told me it was raining. I acknowledged his climatic observation and again tried to pass him but with no avail. He asked me if I had an umbrella on me and I replied that I did not. He then suggested that it was raining quite heavily outside. I swayed a bit to the right and peered outwards and confirmed this with him. Eventually after this stand off had gone on for way too long I told him that I hardly ever carry an umbrella. I calmly explained to him that my coat, which was waterproof had a hood that protected me from the wetness and that I didn't mind the rain at all. He stood aside ,shaking his head, not fully comprehending how anyone could venture outside during what he determined to be a monsoon.

Once outside I felt the patter patter of the refreshing cold rain against my cheeks. It wasn't falling that heavily but it was definitely umbrella weather for those who fear water. I was smiling, reminiscing about my wonderful childhood days in London which I always associated with this kind of weather. I was standing next to Third Avenue, awaiting a light change to cross, when a truck came hurtling by at great speed trying to make the light. It rode over a crevice in the road sending a whole spray of water into the air , landing exactly on my pants where I had no protection. An umbrella wouldn't have saved me either. I was soaked through to the skin. I turned around and walked home. The doorman opened the door and said, "have you come back for an umbrella?" I looked at him and replied that I was fetching my wet suit. He looked confused. I went home and changed and left again via the underground garage