Musings

We Miss You, Karl

There are Californians who waiver in their allegiance to the climate of California. Sometimes the climate of San Francisco has made me cross. Sometimes I have thought that the winds in summer were too cold, that the fogs in summer were too thick. But whenever I have crossed the continent—when I have emerged from New York at ninety-five degrees, and entered Chicago at one hundred degrees—when I have been breathing the dust of alkali deserts and the fiery air of sagebrush plains—these are the times when I have always been buoyed up by the anticipation of inhaling the salt air of San Francisco Bay.
If ever a summer wanderer is glad to get back to his native land, it is I, returning to my native fog. Like the prodigal youth who returned to his home and filled himself with husks, so I always yearn in summer to return to mine, and fill myself up with fog. Not a thin, insignificant mist, but a fog—a thick fog—one of those rich pea-soup August fogs that blow in from the Pacific Ocean over San Francisco.
— Jerome Alfred Hart

The last two days have been EXCRUCIATING. Karl the Fog has left us sweating and cursing, his evil laugh trailing behind as he goes off to cool down some other city, who will no doubt complain about his presence the way we San Franciscan's NEVER would. Come back Karl!!!! I can't sleep without you here. 

(I know it's only 78 degrees, but I can't do it. HELP.)

Captured: the lovely seaside town of Pacifica, or Cinque Terre, Italy if you squint really hard.