In Pennsylvania, spring is a long, arduous stretch of weeks where the weather bounces around like a pinball between snow showers, heavy rains and 80-degree days with endless sunshine tormenting us with glimmers of hope only to be diminished once again. On the first warm day, coats and boots are tossed aside in exchange for flip flops and tank tops revealing stark white shoulders and arms. Tiny red buds emerge, spotting barren trees with hints of color. Snows banks begin to recede and brave green stems slither out from beneath damp, vacant flower beds. But just as quickly as the sweaters were filed away and the grills were dusted off, another snow storm blazes through whiting out the early colors of spring. The cycle continues, a war pitting white vs. green until finally green prevails, normally around the end of April. Little bit little spring creeps in, each advancement and victory over the signs of winter celebrated.
In San Francisco, spring seemed to arrive over night. The trees flanking Bay Street seemed to catch fire with leaves overnight. It was as if a spring arsonist crept out in the dead of night sometime in mid April, coated the leaves with kerosene and lit a match igniting the season. While spring does mean longer days, some warmer temperatures and more tourists, spring in San Francisco happened without notice; the city inhaled and sneezed, and spewed spring everywhere.
But today, I saw the first "sign of summer" for San Francisco: fog. The menacing cloud of damp air was enveloping the hills of Daly City along highway 101 this morning. I shudder to think that soon my evening runs along Chrissy Field with a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge will soon be gone as Summer arrives.