Spring is here in New York, but it already feels like summer. The past few days have seen rain and humidity wipe away the balmy side of the softest season, offering a rough prelude to the hot one. The change of season, of course, is part of what makes New York tick. People swear they can’t live without these distinct phases of the year, and there’s no question that four markedly different seasons—you choose the one you prefer—are part of what makes New York so compelling.

Being in Manhattan when the first true day of spring descends is like catching a whiff of slightly heady perfume; the air really does change, and it translates into a palpable feeling on the streets. There is a hum of sorts, and being outdoors is no longer a task. Excuses are made in the afternoon to run out for coffee, to buy a lotto ticket, or to hit the bank. Women seem more prepared for this inaugural day than men. It seems almost sacred to them as dresses and sandals fly out of the closet at the first hint of warmth. Men, while not disputing the charm of all this, aren’t quite ready to leave their coats at home; by cocktail hour, they’re carrying them over their arms. But within short order that too will change. The onset of fall is no less glorious, with leaves turning and fireplaces burning. Summer and winter are more extreme, of course, though they have their partisans as well.

San Francisco, New Yorkers tend to say, is a beautiful place—but how unfortunate that it doesn’t have seasons. Yes, they know it gets sunny; it’s California, after all. Some may also know about the fog (most have heard Mark Twain’s comment about the coldest winter he ever spent being summer in San Francisco). Nonetheless, they’ll say, mere sun and fog can’t compete with a December snowstorm seen from lower Fifth Avenue or summer days on the Great Lawn in Central Park. And there is some truth to this: Certain aspects of New York are unbeatable, and can’t really be matched anywhere else. But that doesn’t mean San Francisco doesn’t have seasons—even seasons as beautiful as New York—just that they are less obvious. In fact, they’re basically what I’d call micro-seasons.

Everyone in San Francisco knows what this means. After enjoying a balmy morning breeze on the way to getting your coffee in the morning, you head out in the afternoon to get some lunch—a great burrito in the Mission or a focaccia sandwich North Beach—have a few beers at a pub, or just stroll around. It’s getting hot, the sun is overhead, and a light breeze breaks things up now and again. You meet some friends, decide to plan dinner. But you’re too far from home, so you stay out before hitting the restaurant. Only by now, that light breeze cuts a little more, and the fog hovering over the hills has stepped down to pay a visit. It’s chilly by dinner time, but you’re alright. A hearty meal, a nice bottle of wine, and you feel good. It’s time for a nightcap. Only now a chill is clinging to you, and you can’t quite shake it. You power through, but head home feeling like you just took a

stroll in the Arctic—and the two shots of Scotch you downed did little to warm you up. The city has gone through spring, summer, fall, and winter in the course of less than 24 hours. Every day isn’t like this, of course, but plenty are.

Living in New York now I look forward to hot summers, the beauty of leaves changing in fall, and snow at Christmas. But I also miss the all-in-one-day seasons of San Francisco. And on my trip back home this summer, I’ll be soaking up as many as I can.