I grew up in the South West. I don't miss hundred-plus degree summers, burning my hands on steering wheels and the backs of my legs on car seats. I don't miss the asphalt being tacky because of the heat, or the sandy, sticky, salt-encrusted feeling after spending a day running errands, alternating between air conditioned interiors and sun-baked exteriors.

I certainly understand why other people might not enjoy the perpetual cold, damp, and fog of San Francsico. But every time I need to add another blanket at night, or put on a jacket during the day, or close the window against a chilly July evening, I give a happy, contented, slightly chilly sigh.