I saw it snowing for the first time in years last week when I went to a work retreat near Tahoe City. Snow for me always means quiet; I have never seen city snow, only in and around quiet wilderness peaks. The floating, surreal quality of a gentle snowfall. Because I have seen it so rarely, it always seems unreal, a dream-interpretation of stories/books/movies and their snow.

But living this close to the ocean, fog is familiar, a wet wall in the distance, something you can never quite touch except with your eyes. Walk into it and it just seems the same distance away. This city is fog. Night fog, early morning fog, midday fog, it is all this city that creeps from warm(ish) sunny winter day to foggy wet in minutes. Weather defines a place like its smells, builds frames for memories to square into. Fog is home.