The first night we got to San Francisco it was really beautiful. I think even when the sun went down it was 45 degrees. Earlier in the day the temperature had been near 60. While everyone around us was complaining about the chill, we were shedding our coats and putting on short sleeves. Mike even turned on the air conditioning in our room. (This is of particular note since we spend a lot of time at home wrestling the thermostat up and down. I turn it to 66 and he turns it to 72.) I tried to explain to someone that when you spend winter in Chicago, 45 degrees in December is an absolute heat wave.
It was just so strange and unnatural to see Christmas trees everywhere when its warm outside. I just couldnt get used to it. I thought it was some kind of Christmas in July marketing ploy.
. . .and from the glorious picture of Mike and his cousins in front of what I still believe to be some insincere attempt to create Christmas in a place where Christmas cannot possibly happen. I mean, where is the frozen rain? (As I sit close enough to my kitchen window to hear and see it pelting the glass.) Where are the sodden mittens and frostbitten ears? (As a kid, I played outside so long past the time I was supposed to come in that I ended up with frostbitten ears a lot.) Where for Santa Claus' sake is the SNOW?! Forget it. I could never move to California for that reason alone. Well, that and the property taxes, the high cost of living, the inflated property values and the natural disasters. Actually, the tree is quite beautiful even though the photographer didn't quite center the shot. If I titled this one, I would call it, "The Cones of San Francisco".