Climes are different

I live in Central Massachusetts most of the time.  We're in some kind of magnetic field for snow, which means that when Boston gets an inch (and gets mightily peeved about it), we get four feet.  It's not a lake effect thing.  I believe the area's under an ancient weather curse.  Thus,  in addition to the arctic temps and charcoal-colored skies, we're buried under great mounds of dirty snow.  The main wildlife is mice trying to move into the house where it's marginally warmer.

As you might expect, we don't get a lot of wading birds in my neck of the woods.  Or palm trees.  So these things are terrifically exciting to me.  It's February!  There are palm trees, some of them growing coconuts. A pelican stands so close I could touch him or her.  A heron loiters in my back yard!  Little lizards lurk under the doorstep and try to scurry into the kitchen when I'm not looking.  They seem not to realize that people live inside—people, those giant Godzilla things they normally run away from at the speed of light.

For all those fortunate people who normally spend their winters in a warm climate, this is no big deal, I daresay.  For me, it's like moving to another planet.  A kinder, gentler planet.

And then I get to go back to New England before the giant insects come out.