Cali Baby: A series of observations from a recovering New Yorker

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain…

I moved to San Francisco in July, which is what I’m told is the equivalent of moving to Minnesota in January. July was cold. Making new friends was tough when it was 55 and foggy and the wind was ripping down Chestnut Street at 15 miles an hour (yes, like every other recent transplant, I live in the Marina.) After needing a post-drinks hot shower any time I went out with a potential new friend, I started bringing a backpack full of jackets and scarves everywhere I went and ordering hot tea instead of a cocktail.

New York has made me strong in so many ways: I’ve dealt with rats, roaches, blizzards, hurricanes, and physically fought my way onto the 4 train at rush hour, but I’ve got nothing on Marina Girls. They do not fear the cold or wind. They will sit on an unheated patio in 50-degree weather wearing a sleeveless top, ripped jeans, and drinking a frozen margarita. The wind may literally blow away their kale salad at which point they may lightly rest a vegan leather jacket across their bare shoulders. 

I was reassured over and over that August would be better. And then the fires came.

Bay Area locals will never understand the fear a normal person experiences during their first fire season. Why no, I did not feel comfortable about the fact that an uncontained wildfire was less than fifty miles from where I was currently anxiety scrolling. 

I took to glancing at the smoke-filled sky during zoom meetings, waiting for the moment that the flames would materialize. At one point on FaceTime, my observant grandmother asked why I couldn’t stop looking out the window. At night I would lay awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I should pack for an evacuation. If you’re from California and reading this, judge away. I don’t care.

At the same time, my partner was cooking and serving lunches up at a ranch in Sonoma County. When the fires were less than 20 miles away, they contacted guests to reschedule and were met with incredulity. “Reschedule? Why?” At one point, approaching clouds turned black, it was announced that Sonoma was evacuating and diners were invited to take their desserts to-go. Not one table left. 

July, August, September and October had led me to believe that Californians fear nothing. Not cold, not wind, not fog, not even the flames of hell. 

And then the rains came. 

Friends who had rolled their eyes when I expressed concern over hiking close to a massive wildfire suddenly canceled plans, citing a 30% chance of rain. The moment a small drizzle began, the streets would empty faster than a case of White Claw at Crissy Field. People forced to leave their dry homes in order to walk their Covid puppies had the same huddled, miserable expression that I equate with waiting for a bus in a blizzard. 

Thus, I have drawn the conclusion: Californians fear the rain. Perhaps they even melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. In the meantime, I’ll continue to fear death by fire like a normal mammal, and bask in the peace of an empty Safeway the moment clouds appear on the horizon.