California, even in November, still has spring-like qualities, though April always makes me a little nervous. All that new green showing itself. Flowers. Plants. Reveling in an ecstasy of self-indulgence. For a Canadian, such excess seems suspect. But California, northern California that is, doesn’t care. It just keeps making these spring-like gestures, warming up one day. Cooling the next.
Am I complaining? No. It’s a stunning place to live. I have no complaints. Only compliments.
It was spring when I moved here from Canada in 1963—May. My friend Barb and I took a train from Vancouver that landed us in Oakland. A short bus ride planted us in ‘Frisco’ as we called it then, thinking we were sophisticated to call it that.
I’ve never left.
I love this city more than any other in the world, except for Istanbul. It has a 
similar setting, surrounded by the Bosphorous and the Sea of Marmara, a body of water that connects the Mediterranean Ocean to the Black Sea. The city seduced us with its minarets and multiple layers of history. The haunting calls at 4:30 AM from the mosques. Streets filled with Europeans, Muslims, Americans, Canadians, and more. It was and still is the crossroads of the world, much like Venice. And it has a similar effect on me as Venice did: I feel transported when I’m in either place to another time.
But I’m always eager to return to the Bay Area. Though I may not hear the call to prayer, I do hear something else. A siren’s voice, not unlike what Odysseus must have heard, welcoming me back, offering not only the city but the variety of opportunities to explore its surroundings.