It’s hard to really capture with a camera, but you know it’s summer here when the fog starts to roll in at night. It sweeps in really quickly around dusk, and then all the sudden a perfectly clear, warm day turns grey and chilly (they call it June gloom). But the crispness in the air and the way the clouds sit on the hills like they’re just resting there — it’s a little bit magical.
There is an incredibly consistent rhythm to summers here. Cloudy in the morning, clear by noon, and then grey by 7. Karl the Fog is so notorious, he has his own Twitter account.
Having spent so many summers in Kansas and Iowa, I feel like this is a different season altogether. To me, summer is blasting heat and drenching humidity. It’s bare feet on hot pavement and shaved ice stands opening in empty parking lots. It’s intense, violent even, with all the thunderstorms and tornado warnings.
I definitely miss the familiarity of 90 degrees at 9 p.m. and crickets chirping outside an open window. But I don’t miss being miserably hot, not at all. It still makes me shake my head, but I’m kind of enjoying getting out my sweaters and teacups. Because that’s what you do when it’s summer in San Francisco.