What Rain Taught Me About Advertising
About bad weather, good stories & the power of perspective
Ad legend and Be-Sci fan Rory Sutherland tells a story that has given me much joy since I heard it.
It’s the story of an airplane that lands in Heathrow and turns off its engines still far from the gate.
A collective sigh sounds among the passengers as they all know what’s next: The bus.
The pilot’s voice rings out through the speakers:
“I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that the gate is currently occupied by another airplane.
The good news is that the bus will take you straight to passport control and much closer to your luggage.”
Like most people, I had always disliked being crammed into the funny little airport bus with no seats, shaken like a cocktail for a very lo-fi conclusion to my journey.
The shift in status from being slung across the sky in a technological wonder with a warm blanket on your legs to standing on a small bus with no heating is psychologically impactful in its contrast.
Now I remember the benefit of the bus and have a much better user experience — simply because someone told me a story about it.
A few years ago I was gifted an expensive umbrella that I didn’t like nor use — until I remembered Rory Sutherland and a bus ride of my own that made me think differently about life.
Now the umbrella is a magic wand that makes bad weather better.
Good advertising is about the power of perspective to make the human experience bigger.
Here’s how you can turn rain into sunshine with a nice umbrella and a little trick of the mind.
Writing on the Bus
Sleiman Nasal was a Palestinian poet who rode the same bus as me when I was 19 and certain I was quite the poet myself.
We lived in the same formation of concrete blocks that by Danish standards was considered a ghetto.
Though during my 10 months there I only heard gunshots once — so take it for what you will.
Sleiman only knew a few Danish words but wrote circles around almost anyone.
Born a few years before Palestine became Israel, he had worked as a journalist until he fled oppression to Cuba, then fled different oppression to Denmark and now took the bus every morning to language school.
He was concise as he was wise — and a good role model for any 19-year-old prone to too many big words about all their big feelings.
I suppose he enjoyed my company in return as I gave him a bit of lost youth and innocence that was otherwise lacking on the bus. At least I think it’s why he called me his “Little Prince”.
A few years later I would end up working for a small publishing house that released his poems. But at this point, we just rode the bus together.
One autumn morning it had been raining since dawn and I was complaining about the weather at the bus stop.
Sleiman smiled and forever changed my perspective on rain.
“No, Little Prince.
The rain is gentle.
The rain is calming.
The rain is… not bombs.”
And that’s how you quiet down an over-privileged snot-nosed teenager whose biggest problem is getting a little wet.
Stupid Umbrella
It’s been more than 20 years and Sleiman’s words still stay with me.
But time makes you hard and repeating a maxim makes it lose its meaning.
Now I have an unnecessarily expensive umbrella to help me remember.
It can seem profane to compare a profound moment in a young person’s life with an overly costly utility item — or at best an accessory that that’s never really essential to your outfit.
Why would you even pay more than €300 for an umbrella if you’re a freelance copywriter?
I didn’t. I dated an absolutely insane Russian heiress who bought me one.
But that’s a story for another essay.
Suffice to say I still own a stupidly expensive umbrella.
Fun fact: James Joyce loved umbrellas. Maybe RiRi is the Ulysses of our time.
At first I didn’t enjoy the overly lavish gift.
It was handmade from the oldest umbrella maker in the world with a beautiful wooden handle, gold details, and all the subtleness of the Russian nouveau riche.
I had never held on to an umbrella more than a few months and lived 37 years in rainy Denmark with… well, quite a few umbrellas.
An expensive accessory that’s easy to forget on the train seems like a bad idea for someone who’d forget their head if it wasn’t attached.
The result was that I didn’t use it at all — afraid of losing or destroying it.
Until I thought of Rory Sutherland, Sleiman Nasal, and the bus.
Magic Umbrella
Remembering Sleiman’s words — “the rain is not bombs” — I felt ashamed of my privilege.
And even though my time with the Russian oligarchy was brief and spent as a working class-tourist fulfilling a Titanic-like fantasy, it just made the contrast more ridiculous.
In pleasant Denmark, with only rain and snow falling from the sky, my symbol of unnecessary excess was even more wasteful when unused.
Remembering Sutherland’s bus — how a low-status experience became significantly better by re-framing the benefits — I could use the umbrella as a magic wand and turn bad weather into a beautiful trick of the mind — and enjoy the item more by doing so.
I now unfold my umbrella — sometimes worth more than everything I’m wearing combined — and appreciate that for a brief moment I get to use something irrationally costly that distracts me from the rain and makes me a little more grateful for my privileged Copenhagen life.
Even if I’m sure this will be the time when I forget or break the damn thing.
“The way to love anything is to realise that it may be lost.”
I already lost everything I owned in a fire which probably should have taught me something.
And I suppose it did.
Because now I use every rainy day as an excuse to add a little luxury to my life and take the silly umbrella for a spin.
Sleiman knew that rain is better than bombs.
Sutherland knows that the right perspective is everything.
And I should know that my possessions are temporary.
The umbrella is no longer an unused object on the coat rack to remind me of a bad relationship.
It’s a trick that can turn meteorological low-pressure into a psychological high-status experience.
And I’ve owned it for five years and somehow, as if by magic, not lost it.
Change Your Mind
If you’re logically inclined, you’re right to point out that a €300 umbrella doesn’t protect against the rain any better than the one you got for €50.
But it does give it an entirely different perspective.
If you live in a rainy part of the world, you can make the weather a little better by splurging on an expensive umbrella— and realize that you will sooner or later lose it. Realize that you are lucky to get to use it because the rain isn’t bombs.
People don’t buy Dysons because they want better vacuum cleaners. They buy them to make the sucky experience of cleaning more enjoyable.
Luxury items can be a way to re-frame something otherwise less pleasant. Costly objects hold more symbolic and ritualistic value than bargains.
And compared to a Dyson, a €300 umbrella is a pretty cheap way to conjure imaginary sunshine in your life.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this.
Because the umbrella maker should.
Advertising is about finding the right perspectives to make not only the purchase journey but the user experience better.
Like you can make bad weather better with a stupidly expensive umbrella.
Or simply take the bus with a different mindset.
Changing minds can change the world.
Why do less?
