Yes there are seasons in LA. They’re just … confused

They say there are no seasons in L.A. That’s just wrong. There are, it’s just they don’t make any sense. In the U.K., where I’m from, the seasons are pretty predictable. A period of lots of rain (winter), then a little less rain (spring), rain when you don’t want it (summer) and back to lots of rain (autumn). And yes, as far as I’m concerned, it’s autumn. Not fall. Fall is a verb, not a noun.

But here in L.A., as I look up at a tree with maroon leaves next to a palm tree, it’s like someone picked up all the seasons and threw them up in the air and let them fall as they will. (See what I did there?)

So yes, in winter the air is cold, but the sun is hot. There’s hot chocolate and iced latte, sometimes at the same time. There’s woodfire smoke in the evening and lunchtime outdoor dining. Sit inside or out? Um, can we do both? Like my top half is in the sun, but my bottom half is in the shade, and then I flip like a burger?

A palm tree in downtown L.A.

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Julia Wick

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LAist

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Newcomer confusion

It’s certainly confusing for new arrivals. We got here in January some years ago, leaving a cold rainy East Coast behind. I spent the first Sunday sitting at a beachfront cafe as the sun shone gorgeously down from the heavens.

But as we went down to the ocean, my then-5-year-old daughter looked about, panicking, and said, “Mommy, we mustn’t be here, there’s nobody here!”

I looked about and realized she was right. There was no one on the beach, even though it was pretty warm. Definitely as warm as I remember summer vacations being in the U.K., where you’d put up wind breaks on the sand and huddle next to them as the North wind blew across the beach and the sun apathetically glanced down every now and then.

“No,” I said soundlng like the love child of Mary Popppins and Steven Fry. “Come on! I’d have given anything to be on a beach like this as a kid! Lovely weather!”

So we walked along on the deserted sand as I shook my head at the waste of it all. These wide, wide beaches...and no one on them? These Californians need to build character. Make them go on beach walks when it’s below 70 degrees! It’s a shame, I said, shame.

Lying thermostats

Now I’ve been here over a decade and have acclimatized. I think going to the beach past November is the mark of a mad person, and I feel the cold in my bones. Not from the swirling snow outside, or from the freezing winds hurtling down a city block, but in my home. Yes .... it’s often colder inside than out. At least it feels that way. The thermostat cheerfully tells me it’s 71 degrees and I want to yell at it: “You’re lying! How is this 71 degrees when my feet at my desk are iceblocks and I’m burrowing my nose in the scarf that apparently I’m wearing indoors even though it’s blazing sunshine outside?”

Sometimes I need to sit in my puffer coat on top of a heater just to keep my body temperature higher than a reptile.

Look, I know it’s because they didn’t put insulation in most L.A. houses last century, and my feet are resting on a few inches of wooden floor and then nothing — just a massive hole in the ground — but it just seems odd. I go outside to warm up in the middle of the day, and turn my face up to the sky to absorb the liquid gold, and all is good .... until I go inside again and scream at the thermostat.

But a confused California winter season is still better than most other places. The air doesn’t attack you when you’re outside, like New York or Chicago. And snow is for mountains only. There’s no scraping ice off windshields, only a mild condensation. It doesn’t take 30 minutes to dress your kids when you’re about to go out, and you can get wonderfully sweet strawberries, freshly picked, at the farmers market. Or a persimmon. Or a plum. In December.

So as I head out in a fleece, shorts and flip flops to get wood for my fireplace while picking up more sun tan lotion, let’s hear it for SoCal’s crazy seasons, confused as hell and making it up as they go along — like most of us.