On my daily dog walks, San Francisco’s subtleties reveal their quiet seasons. Conifers push through with yellow-green new growth. Cherry blossoms blow in the wind, signifying the start of a dragon dancers’ parade sometime very soon. The yellow trees San Franciscan’s affectionately refer to as "golden showers" bloom everywhere and make me sneeze. It's all a subtle shift from our already-crocus-and-daffodil-blooming landscape.
I forget how much less environmental drama this city holds in comparison to my home state of Michigan. It's hard to mythologize the weather and the seasons here the way the Midwest can lay claim. There are no vituperative thunderstorms to side with you (or against you) during a break-up. There are no snowstorms justifying the wish for a lazy Wednesday morning (and just that one extra day to study for an exam). San Francisco, I give you this, your ability to hide hills is like none other. Your fog can make my Volvo’s safety features a fumbling teen at a middle school dance trying to show off its best-practiced moves only to be ignored.
While my friends’ yards in Michigan melt and recede, their sump pumps overfill, and their driveways get even the most ambitious rear wheel drive sedans stuck in the mud, I pop a meek umbrella in my purse with a change of socks.