When I was growing up, I didn’t understand the concept of seasons. Each month blended into the next without a definitive change in temperatures. I grew up in San Francisco, a place where the climate is mild and consistent. It’s 60-something degrees with some wind. That’s what you get.

But the downside to having pleasant climate is missing out on the weather that shakes you up, throws you around and at times, makes you curse at it. You wish certain seasons would end as soon as possible so you can transition to a new one and start fresh.

When I lived in NYC for four years, it was the first time I had ever been assaulted by the weather. I was often slapped by the “wind chill factor” and the frigid cold caused tears to stream down my face. During the time I lived there, I experienced weather scenarios that I had never felt in San Francisco; extreme heat, humidity, thundershowers, summer storms, lightening, to name a few.

I visited Jay in NY last weekend. The weather was hot and humid. My hair was frizzing up and sweat beaded on the back of my neck. I was hot from walking around Manhattan all day. But I didn’t care how sticky I felt. I didn’t care that my jeans stuck to my legs from the sweat. I wanted to take in every bit of NY, of Jay, of the summer weather before I flew back home.

It’s never enough time when we visit one another. And time seems to run away from us. And when we’re apart, time shifts slowly, methodically, painfully.

I think about one day when I’m with Jay and time will slow down for us. Like when I was a kid, during summer break, the days would slowly ease into the night. There was always a lot of time left to play with.

I wish for a time when neither one of us has to pack up our suitcase, hustle to the airport, to catch the long flight back to our respective homes. Instead, I long for the day we can call one place home.

Photo taken with FujiFilm FinePix X100. Washington Square Park. 


Categories: Other Trips

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  1. Regarding the seasons: Growing up in Phoenix, I had much the same problem. A grade-school classmate made fun of me one-time (at least) for thinking the seasons went Jan-Mar [Spring], Apr-Jun [Summer], Jul-Sep [Fall], Oct-Dec [Winter]. Looking at my backpack with the seasons hand-painted in four square quadrants [thanks Mom] … and rationalizing internally that seasons worked just like a clock. In theory. Of course, I had never experienced snow, or seen the trees change color [the ones that had proper leaves just went brown and died.]

    Going to university in Flagstaff, was an eye-opener: 7000 foot elevation with a nearby backdrop of The San Francisco Peaks topping out just under double that, the glory of aspens covering them in gold, and typically as much snow as Chicago gets in a winter season. These are time markers, calendar indicators. The year marches on and there are these delightful-hateful, hurry-up-and-get-past-this-awfulness, slow-down-and-enjoy-the-wonder-of-this-moment signifiers. Just like a clockwork palette — made of color, temperature, and atmospherics.

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