Weather

“We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed with the windows open and the stars bright.” – Ernest Hemingway

My two closest friends in medical school went to Stanford for undergrad, and all they could talk about upon moving to Boston was how perfect Bay Area weather was, all the time. It became the launching point for explications on all the perfections of California, and after listening to this ad nauseum for years, I’ll admit I became a bit contrarian. I told myself I’d rather be shivering in my down coat in muddy snow under endingly gray skies than raving on arrogantly about the meteorologic supremacy of some state.

Naturally, I married a guy from California and became potentially the first person to move here predisposed to dislike the weather. I like rain (at least the sound of rain as I’m sitting indoors); I love snow (at least fresh snow); I don’t mind the cold. I knew I would miss the vibrant, crisp autumns of the East, and I do. Autumn here feels slightly fabricated—we’re all still going about in our sleeveless shirts in sunny seventy-degree weather in the middle of October, but oh, it must be fall because Trader Joe’s has come out with pumpkin stuff again!

What I’ve grudgingly realized, though, is that the perfection of the weather here really must be experienced to be understood. There’s the 70-degree sunny days, of course. But there’s also the lack of humidity—at resting heart rates, one never sweats here. There are no mosquitos to speak of. There’s the surreal consistency of it all—months and months and months of predictably perfect climes. It’s not a matter of comfort as much as lifestyle. It has done nothing less than transform our existence. We’re outside all the time, bicycling down the streets or visiting the numerous parks that exist every few blocks. It’s easier to exercise; we can grow all kinds of fruits and vegetables; we leave toys outside and open windows and plan outdoor gatherings without a second thought.

But my favorite thing about the weather happens in the evenings, when a bit of East-coast fall descends every day. It turns a bit cooler; you can slip on a cardigan or shawl, sometimes even a cozy sweater. It turns crisp, a bit breezy. There’s nothing quite so pleasant as opening our bedroom windows or lying in a hammock in the dusk.

I think there’s something about humid green landscapes, brilliantly fiery leaves, blankets of snow, and cherry blossoms in the spring, that I will always miss amid this almost foreign perfection. But well, the weather here truly is a radical blessing. It must be lived in to be understood, as I suppose applies to most truths in life. Somehow I have finally come to a point where I can embrace it without losing who I was. I hope I never lose the wonder of living in it.