Normally, trips out to the Bay Area leave me with a severe case of climate chagrin. With New York drippingly humid, or frigidly icicled, Palo Alto weather mocks me with its comparative moderation.

But, this time of year, for a month (or, in good years, two), New York weather miraculously pulls ahead of Palo Alto’s, passes nearly through perfection.

Right now, back in NYC, leaves are turning, the air is cooling to a crisp, bright edge, a box full of wool knits waits to be unpacked from closet-top summer storage. And I can’t wait to head home.