The trouble with California is that it’s always so goddamn sunny.
And when you’ve grown up on the East Coast, and especially in a big city like New York, all that good weather is oppressive. It makes you feel guilty about just lingering in bed to watch TV or read books on a weekend day when you could be out hiking, or sailing, or doing some other ridiculous California thing like that.
I had many days like that in New York City: bed, book, takeout. I can hardly think of any in San Francisco. Is it because one is home and the other is not?
I flew out to Boston early, even though the conference doesn’t start until Monday. I thought I would spend the day wondering charming streets, kicking up leaves, and shopping on Newbury Street. But instead, I’m in bed in my room, watching the Joan Didion documentary.
Without the tyrannically blue skies, and parks, and beaches, and forests half an hour away by car, I don’t even feel guilty about it.