The title of today's entry is, like much of what I write, a lie. I can stand the rain. Almost anyone can, and anyway, here in southern California it's rare enough that anyone complaining about the rain will likely complain about anything.

I bought myself a bunch of tulips yesterday on my way home, a touch of spring to fool myself into thinking it's winter. Or rather, that it feels like winter.

I looked for anemones at the market, and hyacinths, but found none--just flashy Gerberas and some morose-looking roses. On my way to the store, I was reminded--maybe by the color of the sky, or a passing face, I'm not sure--of a conversation I had years ago on the subway in Boston. It took place on the Green Line. I sat next to a neatly dressed older woman and opened a gardening catalogue I was carrying. My apartment had no outdoor space to plant in, but I enjoyed looking at the pictures and imagining the garden I might have one day. After I'd turned a few pages, I noticed that my seat companion was looking at a picture of some irises with me.

"Are you planting a garden?" she asked me, and I said no, but that I thought I might get some irises for my mother. "I love their scent," I said.

"Oh, those irises," she said, lifting a hand to wave them away. "My friend Mabel loves them, but they're such a bother. Bloom once and then it's nothing but leaves, leaves, leaves." I laughed and said yes, but I liked them anyway.

"I prefer tuberous begonias," she offered, "and marigolds. They're supposed to be sacred, you know: Mary's gold." I did not know, but made a polite noise of comprehension. We fell silent for a moment, and I continued leafing through the pictures of bright daisies and flowering trees.

"Ah, well," said my seat companion, "they're a delight, all of them." I nodded and said they were. The train reached Park Street station, and I gathered my belongings to depart. "I dearly love anemones," she said by way of farewell, smiling up at me. "They say they grow wild in France."

I stepped down from the train and into the grey evening, holding tight to my catalogue, each page a promise of hope and bright futures.

Star of the day. . .Cate Blanchett