I’ve long lamented the lack of seasons here in San Francisco – while most of you are trudging your hot, sweaty selves to the local pool for a break in the summer sweltering heat, we’re bundled up in our trusty cashmere sweaters shivering underneath our scarves. Yes. In the middle of July.
Come November, we enter into our form of winter; namely, constant rain. The type of rain that is so pervasive that at times you feel like even your soul is damp. The type of rain that causes people to be grouchy, short-tempered and all-around dour. I’m sure that the composer of many a dirge was inspired by winter in San Francisco. (Note that the only up-side of this nasty weather is that when it’s raining in San Francisco, it’s often snowing in Tahoe. YAY, ski house!)
Yet I must admit I too often get caught up in the negatives of the weather (this coming from a girl who grew up in Cleveland!) and don’t spend enough time regaling the beautiful days that we DO have. Namely, Fall.
Fall, for us in the City by the Bay, is often disguised as Indian Summer. Traditionally, our warmest months are August, September and October, to be followed by the aforementioned rainy season. It’s not unusual to have an 80-degree day in the beginning of October, and almost overnight it seems that we go from the heat to the rain with no traditional sense of Autumn interspersed. Yet when we do – wow. We may not have the glorious changing of the leaves, we may not get what I call “quintessential football weather” (again, I hail from the Midwest; this is how we gauge most of the seasons) but there are those days when the air turns brisk, the sun warms you only as much as the wind instantly blows it away, and the air just smells like Fall. Those are the nights when bundling up isn’t a chore, but a privilege; when warm cups of cider are the drink of choice and when the chilly wind blows through the open window, you’re really glad that you sprung for the extra-warm down comforter. Now if only I had someone to cuddle up with…