Summer in Brighton

I made one of AC’s colleagues laugh today when I said that I wasn’t sure that we’d come back to the same city. Brighton at the end of 2008 was chilly, rainy, windy, and dark, dark, dark. This week in April Brighton is positively blooming. Sunny, mild, breezy at times, festive, flowery. In fact it’s rather like typical Bay Area summer weather. When I noted this, AC’s colleague furrowed his brow and said rather anxiously, “But you did bring your raincoats, yes?”

We did.

It’s not just the weather that’s different this time around, though. Although it could be that all of the changes I notice stem from the weather. There are more bodies about– on the beach and on the streets. I hear a greater variety of tongues– Spanish, French, Russian (LOTS of Russian) and even occasionally American (gasp! we’re not the only Yanks here). The beachfront is more colorful. There are carousels, trampolines, and inflatable slides for children. Tiny, funky art galleries have popped up all over. Live music drifts out of smokey windows. Perhaps these are early signs of the Brighton Festival, which starts in a week or so. Or maybe it’s just spring, pushing everything out into the fresh air… fresh air that reeks less of cigarettes and more of fried fish, chips, and vinegar.

I love the smell of fried fish, chips, and vinegar. As Sam and I strolled past the entrance to the Palace Pier the other day, we saw tourists and frolickers licking their ice cream cones, sucking on lollies, and munching on greasy chips. It could have been any seaside resort in America except for the smell of vinegar that soaked the air.

Love that vinegary smell. That’s how I know I’m in the UK.

But there’s one other way I know I’m in the UK and not in Florida or the Jersey shore or Northern California: that’s the way people dress in this sunny, springy Brighton.

They dress as though it were 80 or 90 degrees out. They dress for a Florida summer. An East coast August. Texas. Altoona in July when you’re pregnant and there’s no a/c in the house.

Sandals, flip flops, short sleeves, short pants, sundresses, spaghetti straps. Lots of bare skin. People are dressed for summer.

And it’s 60 degrees out. Today the high was 63.

In my book that’s long pants. That’s a jacket. A light one, but a jacket nonetheless.

Of course I do understand that if this is as warm as it gets, if this is your only summer, if you’ve just survived an English winter, then yes by Jove you get out the tank top and the shorts and slather yourself with sunscreen.

It’s such a stark contrast to the way people dress back home in the Bay Area in nearly identical weather.

60 degrees, sunny, breezy. It could be March. It could be April. It could be October. It could be July. And we see folks in woolen caps. Winter jackets. Turtle neck sweaters.

During our first year in the Bay Area AC and I used to laugh about that. We were hearty Easterners. We’d lived two winters in Altoona. We might as well get rid of our winter coats, we’d say.

But here when I shiver and make Sam put on another layer at the park while the Brightonians cavort in their summer finery, I think I’ve lost my claim to heartiness.

And the forecast for the weekend is rain. Friday could very well be the last day of summer!

I guess I’ll wear a short-sleeve shirt tomorrow.