Growing up in New York, I never questioned the weather. I hated having numb fingers and stinging cheeks as I walked down the icy canyons of Manhattan in February and was equally uncomfortable with my clothes plastered to my sweaty body after a subway ride in August. But I accepted bitter, cold winters and hot, humid summers. What else did I know? Later, when I traveled beyond New York — to England in the winter and India in the summer — I can't say the weather enhanced my experience. But I wanted to see the world, and I took it as I found it.
I went to law school in Chicago, not a good choice for a hothouse flower. Nine months of frigid and windy, three months of sticky and humid, with three weeks of spring sprinkled in.
At the end of three years in Chicago, I announced to my friends: “I’m driving to the end of the Indiana Tollway and flipping a coin. East Coast, West Coast, I don’t care. Just get me out of the middle!”
But I remembered the sticky heat of New York, the roaches in my apartment, life in the mines of a Wall Street firm. “I’m moving to San Francisco,” I revised my announcement. Temperate enough for a hothouse flower, who is happiest in a four-degree temperature range, 68 to 72. And that was just the icebreaker for my love affair with the Bay Area.