Cold snap

The weather in San Francisco is 64 degress. Sunny, with a breeze -- entirely reasonable for Northern California.

The weather in the Sierra Nevadas (not the Sierra Nevada mountains, I've learned) is cold. So cold it hailed. Snowed. And dipped below freezing at night. Waaaay below freezing. Alpine Lake did not freeze, however, so I lost a bet.

Being from upstate NY, I am certain of one thing: it is my God-given right to complain. Besides, I'm good at it. Saturday, for instance, after I cleaned the breakfast dishes with my bare hands at an icy water spigot, I thought it only fair to share the feel of frozen flesh with each of my fellow campers.

Californians are not inclined to share in this way. To them, discomfort is something that must be borne silently, so they don't "harsh anyone's vibe", or "bring people down". All I know is, once I got done making everyone feel how cold my hands were, I felt a lot better.

"Complaining is an art on the verge of extinction," I told my friend M. "And it's my job to ensure it continues, for the benefit of future generations." M is from Albany, NY, so what can he say?

Actually, we had a great time. Yesterday we escaped the hail at a hot springs place in Nevada. My friends S and M just bought a new car, a Passat wagon, and it has heated seats. That was good. We ate burgers and fries and cookies and drank beer and made smores and generally consumed 4-5 times the calories needed to shiver through the night. Today we drove down 8000 feet, peeling off layers all the way.

BTW, my brother M is fine. The hurricane veered away from Mobile, so the paper sent him somewhere coastal, back in its path. He got dumped in the ocean, ruining cameras and cell phone, when a dock collapsed underneath him. He escaped with cuts and bruises, which, if I were him, I'd be complaining about. A lot.