November isn’t usually Indian summer, and in fact, I don’t even know if we’re still allowed to say Indian summer anymore, but somehow “Native American hot weather” just doesn’t roll quite so trippingly off the tongue.

Regardless, the last week or so has been a glorious reminder of why it’s nice to live with weather. These days of Indigenous Peoples’ Warmth offset the potential for November malaise; it’s the only time of year when I don’t think fondly about living in LA. (Although, as Husband reminds me, there are lots of ways to live in LA: there’s living in Laurel Canyon, or Beechwood, or West Hollywood, or Silverlake. And then there’s just about everywhere else. We, he says, would probably live in those everywhere else places.)

Fine. I live in Manhattan and in these days of searingly gold gingkos and russet-leaved plane trees and dappled sycamores, who needs LA. Here in NYC, everyone gets into the Indian Summer lounge-about:

Everyone. Even if you’re made entirely of Saran Wrap.

It’s a great city.