I moved from New England to San Francisco - here are the 7 things that surprised me most

Before I left New England, I sold my warm, polypropylene long underwear. I have regretted that ever since. Though San Francisco rarely freezes in the winter, the dank cold seeps into your bones. That’s especially true if you live in a Victorian flat with loose windows, no insulation, and very little heat.

Summer, it turns out, it not much warmer. I moved west with my lightweight summer clothes. Within a week, I called my old roommate and asked her to send my winter wardrobe because I was freezing.

The warmest month in San Francisco is October, where it can occasionally reach 100 degrees. But summer weather is more often foggy and cool.

I’m acclimated now. I complain if the thermometer goes below 65 or above 80. But, when I first moved west, I found a climate that was different from the rest of the country in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

During a snowy childhood on the East Coast, I got enough of the snow and cold for a lifetime. Spring is my favorite season, because it means the end of winter.

In San Francisco, to my delight, spring comes early. By February, the winter rains have brought lush greenery and gorgeous blooms to the city’s hills and valleys. The days are still short, and the weather can be bleak, but a riot of color brightens winter in the Bay Area.

Summer, on the other hand, is a season of brown, dried grass. It rarely rains during the summer months and living things shrivel and dry up. Summer in the Bay Area is nothing like the lush, green of East Coast summers. On the positive side, the Bay Area doesn’t suffer through the biting bugs that come with warm weather.

I like to think I’m funny. I developed a wry sense of humor that made my East Coast friends laugh. When I moved to San Francisco, my new friends just thought my jokes were mean.

I’ve learned to temper my snarky humor after 30 years in California. But I still feel a sense of relief when I visit New York City, where I can be blunt and slightly rude (by Bay Area standards) and no one will take offense.

When I lived in Connecticut, if I wanted to drive somewhere, I got in my car and drove. Other than New York City, I drove everywhere when I lived on the East Coast.

In San Francisco, parking is so tight that any trip by car is a calculation. Will I be able to park at my destination? Will I be able to find a spot when I return home again? In most cases, the answers were no and no. When I lived in the Castro and had to park on the street, a parking spot was so precious, I usually took the bus.

San Francisco is a star in its own right, and after I moved west, I became starstruck. Every time I passed Waverly Place in Chinatown, I got chills. I was a huge fan of Amy Tan’s novel "The Joy Luck Club," and that was the alley that Waverly Jong was named after. It was a real place!

I found a favorite Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem at City Lights Bookstore, which was not a surprise since he is part owner of the storied bookstore. I walked the same streets as characters from a favorite movie, "What’s Up Doc?"

A few years later, I was puzzled by the strange graffiti that had appeared on Church Street until a friend told me it was for a movie. So, I went back that night and stood with the other gawkers while Whoopi Goldberg filmed "Sister Act."

I'm more blasé about the star power of the amazing Bay Area. But I still get a thrill from movies that were filmed in neighborhoods I know, like 2018’s "Blindspotting" and "Sorry to Bother You."

On a crowded sidewalk in San Francisco's Financial District, people quietly waited for their light to turn green before crossing, even when no cars were coming. It was insanity! I pushed my way through the crowd to cross against the light, barely able to hide my disgust at their sheep-like refusal to jaywalk.

On the East Coast, we crossed when it made sense. Traffic lights were merely suggestions.

A few years later, on a visit to New York, I needed to cross Second Avenue. While I waited for the light to change, the other pedestrians at the corner crossed the street, one by one. When the walk signal came on, I was the only one left who hadn’t crossed against the light. That’s when I realized I’d become a true Californian.