It’s officially fall in San Francisco. Yesterday, I froze. I’ve been fighting off fall in terms of traditional garb because in San Francisco, fall comes a bit late. Summer isn’t summer and the beginning of fall is the warmest time of the year.
When I was younger, my dad would take my brother and me camping. We’d stay in tents, bring freeze-dried food (you know, like the food astronauts would eat), build a campfires, cook s’mores, and spend quality time together. Once we discovered that camping wasn’t my brother’s thing, it became a father/daughter tradition.
He picked me up at the bar I used to work at in Boulder. I sat in his gold Honda and as the heat blasted from the vents, I sighed. It was cold outside — the kind of cold that stings your legs.
