I had never known until I moved here that San Francisco only has two seasons: wet and dry. Since the temperature here only works its way through about a 15 degree range, it’s easy to get confused about time, or, at least, it is for me and my vagueness. Whereas in other places you might have to stop and think “Is this Tuesday or Thursday?” in SF, sometimes I have to really bend my thought towards “Is this June or November?” The weather is not giving up any clues. If it wasn’t for Macy’s putting up Christmas decorations, I would never know the season.
Ocotber through March, it rains. April through September, no rain. By that I mean NO RAIN. Not a little or sporadically or not enough to count; it never rains during those months. This evening we had our first rain of the wet. I’m always delighted with the novelty of these early, timid showers. Usually, I’m over it by about February (if I notice in the paper that that’s what month it is) but until then, how sweet.
I was so excited, I went out and took a picture of the rain on our patio. That may seem excessive, but chances are, this three minute long drizzle will be news in the paper tomorrow.
I do love San Francisco.