Seasonally Indifferent?

I’m now celebrating my sixth month in Los Angeles. It really doesn’t feel that long. Although I’m not looking forward to the hotter days, I’m sure it won’t be as bad as the coldest days of any Chicago winter or the muggiest dog days of a New York summer.

I’ve had people tell me that I’ll start to miss the seasons. These folks are of course transplants from four-season climates. They say it doesn’t kick in for a few years. They tell me I’ll get sick of the sun always shining... that I’ll beg for cloudy days and the muddy smell of spring and the musty air of autumn. They tell me I’ll even miss the stillness of three feet of fresh snow.

Bah, humbug. I prefer the shoes-optional policy of maritime temperateness.

My lifestyle hasn’t changed much since moving here. I still keep "gallerist hours"... sleeping until ten in the morning and working until eight or so. I work at home and rarely see anyone throughout the day apart from the neighbors and the people at the grocery store. I stagger small grocery runs, walking almost every day. I might be going to bars less. I’m riding the motorcycle more.

The major change is that I enjoy waking up when I have to. Sleeping is a far superior pastime when faced with cold hardwood floors or sidewalks of frozen city slush, but I’ll spring out of bed to watch a hummingbird browse the perpetually green, leafy hedge outside my bathroom window.

I was in San Francisco for a couple of days over the Memorial Day weekend. It was cloudy and cold. I needed to get as far away from it as possible. I was missing LA. Lucky it was only a six-hour drive home (and a twenty-minute drive out of SF’s insidious micro-climate).