Ever since I got here, they’ve been predicting an end to the good weather. And every day has been nicer than the last; upper 70s, breezy, partly cloudy, not too humid. People are out on the Mall playing softball, families are having picnics, and if I hadn’t talked to some natives on the subject the other night, I’d have thought this was normal summer weather here. Apparently, it’s supposed to be miserable. I managed to be here during the best summer weather in years.

I haven’t experienced summer like the rest of the world knows it for years now. To me, summer is a blasted wasteland, a time in which to avoid the outdoors, to learn to love air conditioning, to appreciate being at work and to anticipate the coming of fall. Here, it’s the time to be outside, it’s evenings wandering around, it’s fresh-cut grass and softball games. I’d almost forgotten.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back in Tucson, just as the monsoons are hitting. Over a hundred degrees, over seventy percent humidity, a wall of heat just outside every door. The realities of life are coming back to me, too; I’ll need to talk to my landlord about a few things, pay bills, answer mail, all the things I’ve successfully avoided for a couple of weeks now. I’ve wandered the museums in a daze, doing nothing but absorbing beauty for eight or ten hours a day every day, and now I get to find out what I’ve learned.

Will this time end up inspiring me the way that I think it will? Will I be more relaxed with my life than I have? What has this done to my perspective, and what will that influence do?

As I leave for the airport, it’s scorching outside, and muggy. The normal summer weather is back. And in a few hours, or actually twelve hours or so, I’ll be back in Tucson.

What’s next?