Where I come from, weather connects everyone. Discussing the latest blizzard was an instant icebreaker – did you have to dig your car out today? How’s that burst pipe treating you? Can you believe we’ll be in the -30 deep freeze through the weekend? The slightest chinook brings about city-wide glee, and the summer thaw elicits ecstatic exclamations about patio season and finally being able to throw out your pantyhose.
Moving to SF, I assumed this sort of weather-centric conversation wouldn’t happen – what does one talk about in a mild climate? Oh no, another day of 60 degrees and partly cloudy skies? After a few months, however, I swiftly realized that talking about the weather is a sport here in Northern California, and every degree change or afternoon of fog can fuel many the post-work happy hour. To some, it’s always cold. To me, it’s always lovely, though the threat of precipitation and chill during June and July puts a damper on my over-enthusiasm.
Walking in to work today, I could smell the rain rolling in. The air smelled fresh and cold (growing up in Canada, one recognizes the scent of COLD), and the wind whipped down Lombard from over Russian Hill. Heavy and dark clouds hung above me, and my new purple rainboots waited to do their job.
Rain is falling now, but I had to capture that moment before the deluge, before the heavens open up and the streets are washed clean, the anticipation of change and cold and wet and cleansing.