I grew up in Southern California where we had long hot summers, walked slowly in the heat, and spent endless days at the beach with friends. I first moved to San Francisco in April 2000 and spent the first few months crying every day. I couldn't believe that "summer" here was sixty-degree weather, fog, long pants, and jackets. My shorts and skirts went into the back of the closet and didn't come out all summer. "Wait until September and October," locals would tell me. "That's when we have our summer." I was scared to hope, but they were right. After a cold, cold summer the calendar page turned to September and the weather was beautiful. Eight years later I...
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