This morning I woke up at 5:40 because the sun was pouring onto my face and my all-seasons down comforter was downright unseasonable. I left the house not wearing tights for the second day in a row (hallelujah!) to the promise of 84 degrees and CALM winds. The morning air smelled tangy, faintly floral, and dare I say it? It smelled like summer. I skipped down the hill, sweated while waiting for the bus, and sang a little song that sounded a lot like Lionel Richie but sung in the voice of summer.
Then it was time to go home, and it felt just like…going home every day. The wind threatened to whip up my skirt (an above-the-knee, dusty rose circle skirt I have never worn in San Francisco for this very reason), my trench coat threatened not to keep me warm, and the fog bank was menacing Twin Peaks.
It brought back memories, namely of last year’s summer solstice picnic in Dolores Park where we shivered through our chilled Lambrusco, took turns hugging the warm pizza boxes, and insisted on huddling in line at Bi-Rite for ice cream as S ran to get the car. When he brought it around, the heat was gloriously on.
This evening, I heated up some tea to go with my dessert cookie (instead of the popsicle I had my eye on earlier) and emailed E to remind him. “E,” I reported. “Fog sticking to the hills like Halloween spiderwebs. Glad we didn’t tempt fate by restaging last year’s glacial picnic.”
“S,” he replied. “It’s really pretty in the Mission. Fog hanging on the hills and long lines at Bi-Rite.”
Happy solstice, everyone.