Then the city shuts down because we don't know how to drive in it and Seattle has maybe two snowplows. Rose and rosemary bushes reach the size of elk because the climate lets them grow year-round. Upon returning from winter break at home, you step out of the airport, sniff the Northwest air, and discover things are growing here in the thick of winter. Watch the mist slide through the campus forest and decide it's not truly "rain." We get less annual rainfall than New York, after all. You can play sports, walk your dog, hit the trails between classes to breathe the deep fertile scent of ferns and firs and cedars and lichens. Cyclists still cycle, in hilarious outfits. It stays in the mid 40s for most of the winter. You discover to your delight that you can still do almost anything in this mild weather. Your classmates will love to talk about them. Or try kombucha, tea, mate, or other plant drinks that awaken you more gently than coffee. Learn to appreciate a well-pulled espresso (don't muck it up with syrup). It rarely rains so hard you want an umbrella, except when it does. We're in the thick of wet season now - not so much rain as drizzle and mist. But no, it's just the ceaseless motion of the Northwest sky, always worth pausing to gaze upon, no matter how many midterms you have. If you're from a place that has thunderstorms, you might mistake these tumblings for the early signs of a storm. They roll, heave, tumble in on themselves, dissipating and reuniting. Clouds gather against the mountainsides but never stand still. You're absorbed in your studies and the clouds are back, gliding northward between our two fair mountain ranges, Cascade and Olympic. For a few days the campus trails are so thick with massive golden leaves of bigleaf maples that you lose sight of your ankles. We don't get the blazing red leaves of autumn elsewhere, but our deciduous trees turn a dignified yellow before bidding adieu to their evergreen cousins. This is often our third summery month to make up for June. Stretches of mild sunny heaven, which are even more poignant because they won't last forever. Time for fantastic study trips to places like Cascade mountains. (When it does reach the 80s for a few days, you know it, because few of us have air conditioners.) There's a festival somewhere every weekend, and inviting beaches (the water stays icy, though), and hikes with clear mountain lakes at the top. You go out cavorting and enjoy yourself and thank the skies you don't have to huddle by an air conditioner. JulyĪ week or so of chilly, dismal taunting, and then the clouds vanish and the Northwest leaps into its glorious true summer. When the sun bursts forth, the populace rushes to every park, trail, grill, lake, beach and playing field in sight, savoring every warm ray, knowing it's precious. While the rest of this great nation flings off clothing and slathers sunscreen and fires up the grill, the Northwest wet season casts its final lingering shadow over the region. June will break your heart, especially if you're from the East Coast, the Midwest, or - bless your heart - the South. What's it really like? Let's take it by season, starting with now: June This is the land of angry, light-deprived grunge music, where rain slickers are couture fashion, where we need espresso by the gallon to stay awake, where old-timers are called "mossbacks" because if you stop moving long enough, the damp green understory swallows you whole. Let's have some real talk: You've heard about Seattle weather.
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