Northern folk just don’t get it…

Hello, my fellow Sunshine Staters and Lone Stars and California Girls (and Guys -- I don’t discriminate) and people from generally hot regions of the world. (I’m sorry I couldn’t think of a nickname for you. I will try harder next time, I promise!) I see you all, hiding beneath your scarves and multiple wool sweaters and ski jackets, shivering around New Haven, clasping your Blue State coffee like it’s your last salvation, all the while thinking…

Wait…there are four seasons in a year?

Yup. We’ve all been there. We are the people who, before moving here, had only seen snow fall in A Christmas Story; the people who ventured outside our houses in shorts and tank tops in January because that’s all we needed; the people who pulled out our Ugg boots and ear muffs from the back of our closets as soon as the thermometer read anything below 70° (21° Celsius, for our brethren from Brazil or Australia or Egypt or any other sweltering country). Trust me, I feel your pain.

I come from the sunny, South Florida town of Jupiter. Population: beach bums, pelicans, and your frequent snowbird. My town is (a tiny bit more) famous thanks to Ryan Murphy and his American Horror Story: Freak Show spinoff. Because of him, there is approximately a 30% chance someone will recognize the name of my town and not accuse me of interplanetary space travel.

There are some strange people out there…thanks, Murph!

Anyway, allow me to paint a visual of my locale: Imagine yourself biking on a sidewalk, the sea breeze blowing through you hair, palm trees on either side of you, and a Starbucks, Walgreens, or beachy hotel greeting you every block or so. You’re obviously wearing the standard matching Vineyard Vines T-Shirt and preppy short combo—because what else is there in your closet? (oh, wait…the Uggs in the back)—paired with either leather flip-flops or tan Sperry’s (if you’re feeling extra classy that day). 

At any location in the town, you are never more than 12 miles from the Atlantic Ocean. You can smell the salt water as you step out of Annie’s Italian Ice with your chic, overpriced snow cone in your right hand and sunglasses in your left. To say you live in a quasi paradise would be an understatement.

So why ever leave this oasis, you ask? Well, we have exactly two seasons: summer and might-as-well-be-summer. And when I say “summer,” I’m talking heat like you wouldn’t believe. And it’s not just the temperature. It’s the humidity. Any time you step outside—even to get your mail—the steam of the sauna at the Gaylord Palms Resort and Spa smacks you right in the face. I didn’t realize that Floridians are actually an amphibious subspecies of human before moving to New Haven. You mean to tell me you can’t drink the air here?

If you couldn’t tell yet, I wanted to get out. Fast. I told myself I would not go to a college in Florida because I’ll be damned if I drown in a 75°F bath of mugginess another January of my life.

Now fast-forward to around October. My days consist of walking to class, and my nights consist of walking to 305 Crown Street. Six. Days. A. Week. I’m wearing my dance clothes, ignorant of the fact that it is FREEZING outside!!! (Okay, not literally freezing…but, keep in mind, back home I’d still be at the beach this time of year.) My fingers are crying for shelter from the cold, but I am at a loss for pockets. My face is pinched, trying to conserve what little heat it has left. I am power walking as fast as the stubby legs of my 5’5” frame will allow me (I have a long torso, I found out yesterday). I look at the Weather app on my phone and see that it is a frigid 55°F.

FIFTY-FIVE DEGREES?!

This is absurd! Why is it so cold so soon? Fall has barely begun! I haven’t had any time to dig out my winter stock yet (which has since grown tremendously, thank goodness). Back home, it is a balmy 82°F. I almost begin to miss it.

I have no filter between my mind and my mouth, so naturally, I make all these exclamations out loud, everywhere I go. In return, I receive pitiful chuckles and phrases along the lines of “Ya better get used to it.” There is this feeling like I have taken a step back to elementary school and am being talked down to. Some people are more helpful than others. (But, before this sounds like a rant, I’m going to change the tone…)

One day, in the Pierson Dining Hall, I was complaining about the weather to one of my classmates, and she did the unexpected. She AGREED. Gasp! I was dumbfounded. She was the first person who had not ridiculed me or tried to offer me unsolicited advice. After asking her where she was from, it turns out she was a California baby. It was then I realized that we Northern Newbies have a duty to one another. 

Let’s face it: a majority of the people at this school are already used to the cold. They grew up with this stuff. I get it. But there are those of us who are not. It is our job, our task, our mission to bond together and wallow in our self-pity at the loss of feeling in our hands and noses and unapologetically play in the snow and share horror stories of our first (few) winter(s).

So the next time you’re trekking across campus thinking, “I have never worn so much clothing in my life, and I am still cold…” and you spot a fellow sun-lover, give them a smile or a wave or a simple nod of the head. Ask them to join you for an impromptu snowball fight. Serenade them with your favorite song from Frozen. They are your comrades. They get you.

Now go and build yourself a snowman.

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Up Next—Floridian vs. Winter: Part 2 (The First Snow….)