Buena Vista

Source: etsy.com via Shannon on Pinterest

Folks, we are now almost a week into a new month, and I am somehow still grappling with it. I have never been so surprised to see June on the calendar. And you know why? It's not because I don't keep track of days and weeks (I might not if it weren't for work), and it's not because I've been so busy I failed to notice the passing of time (I am busy, but that's not it).

It's because the weather has hardly changed since January. 

People in most other parts of the world (hell, of the Bay Area) recognize the start of summer with sandals, corn on the cob and sticky sun screen skin, but here in San Francisco, we have to double check our iPhones to make sure we're reading the calendar straight. The sun sets later, sure, but the average temperature in June is 66 degrees. Never in my life has a temperature so low been cause for celebration, impetus to run and skip in the street because you only have to wear a light jacket. I keep hearing, "Oh, this is your first summer in San Francisco?" followed by an evil knowing grin as the fog settles in for a long stay.

I suppose I shouldn't complain, (not considering the weather my friend Stacy in Seattle has been having), but I've learned that complaining about the weather is just something people do here, like eating organic produce or wearing pants. Maybe I'm just trying to fit in. Maybe I'll turn out to be one of the folks 7X7 is talking about who like the weather more than they're willing to admit. (See Jay O'Lear's bit on Why San Francisco Weather Isn't That Bad.)

Because really, if dreary weather means having a weekend like I've just had, it can't be all bad. I'm sure it will wear me down come August, but this weekend it meant staying in bed till noon, drifting in and out of sleep with the soft tap of rain on the window, a cool gray light suffusing through the curtains. It meant sitting in a cafe all day with good company and a good book. It meant taking advantage of a break in the rain with a stroll through Buena Vista Park, a block from my house on Haight Street, and in an instant feeling totally removed from the city. The park is like a little forest, and the weather left it wet and humid. We found edible plants, little onions growing in the ground, wild flowers. The air smelled like nature, like clean wet dirt and photosynthesis.

We went up to the top and stood over the city, over the pastel Victorians, the trees and the churches, the tall buildings downtown, over the hills and the Bay and the bridges; and whatever the sky was doing, we felt, fully and unequivocally, happy to call it home.