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[emelbe]

This hill is always windy. Even when it’s beautiful and clear and blue and warm, there are a couple places on this hill that are always blustery and cold, populated with trees bent and bare on one side. It can snarl hair and disarrange clothes and—when it’s really, really strong—stop your breath for a second or two. It is literally breathtaking. The other side of the hill is different, calmer, usually covered in tourists taking pictures. I don’t know which direction I prefer to experience them.

Hills and high rises all over the city conspire to create wind tunnels and microclimates. There’s a joke, “Don’t like the weather? Wait a minute.” It can be foggy and frigid in the morning and by afternoon it might be warm. Or much, much colder. A mid-morning at the beach may require a heavy jacket and scarf and gloves while that same moment across town might find people in t-shirts and shorts.

You get to know the quirks. You learn how to layer, how much to layer. You come up with strategies to deal with the rain and the wind and the fog. You learn which blocks to walk down and which corner of two main arteries to avoid if you’re worried about wind raising your skirt while you wait for a light change during rush hour.

Or maybe you make strategic use of shorts.

Possibly both.