Growing up, the house was always cold. Or at least I would like to think that my parents, being Asian and all, would never use a money-wasting thing as the heater.
But I think that I am wrong. My parents didn’t want to see my sister and I suffer. So they used the heater and the AC. But I never recalled those things ever long for very long. They were on in order to get the home to a certain comfort level and then it was off.
In doing so, I learned the value of the comfort. Every time I hear the rush of air—the air that would make my room comfortable, I was already trained to feel the cents, bills disappearing into the abyss. Comfort equaled money. Money equaled privilege.
So being conditioned, I prefer cold temperatures. And hated absolutely hated summers. There was little that I could do during the summers except whine and complain and hope that the AC could help. So that led directly to my love of San Francisco weather. I love the 50s and 60s temperature here in the city. The brisk wind that touched my face and hands. It is wakeful.
And I chose an apartment that is naturally like a freezer due its lack of great insulation. Even with large tall ceilings, rarely does the apartment ever heat up with the sun. Instead, it stays cool. Just the way I like it. But the bad thing about it is even with central heating, the apartment takes forever to heat up. Or even when it does, the tall rooms heat slower than the small rooms. And so here I am in a small room thinking, thermostat, you have done your work already and I don’t need you. But my roommates always do.
What I always find ironic is that the roommates, especially the roommates who grew up in snowy areas like Wisconsin and New York, they want the temperature to be at a nice 70°F. I like mine at 60°F. The brisk chill reminding me that I am still alive. In San Francisco.