Fickle temperatures a fact of life in our city

In San Francisco, it’s cold in the summer and warm in the fall, and it rains all winter. Except for the past four years when it hasn’t.

For tourists and newcomers, it can be a little confusing. “What can we expect on a typical day?” they wonder. And even veterans may have a little trouble making the call.

But this week, we had the perfect answer: Thursday.

Wednesday night was uncomfortably warm. Those of us without air conditioning opened windows and cranked up fans, but it was still a difficult night to sleep.

When Thursday morning dawned clear and balmy, we knew it was going to be the second hot day in a row. My theory is that most San Franciscans have one serviceable hot weather outfit in the closet. When we get to the second day, we start throwing together random items with short sleeves, often including — men and women alike — floral prints. It may not be our best look.

We went to work, school or for a walk Thursday morning and made jokes about “How can people live in this heat?” Of course, for most of the country, this warm stretch would be a welcome break from an actual hot spell, but we act as if we are about to

succumb to heat stroke.

Griping about the heat is a long-standing tradition. There’s a story, perhaps apocryphal, at The Chronicle that we once ran a headline: “Temperature Reaches 83 Degrees; No Relief in Sight.”

Still, we marveled at the pleasant warm weather and perhaps hit a sidewalk cafe for lunch. The nice part was there was hardly any wind. The regular sea breeze held off and the beaches, from Baker to China to Ocean, were crowded with Frisbeetossing, dog-walking sun worshipers.

And that was how the day went — up until about 5 p.m. That’s when Karl the Fog rolled in on great gusts of sea air. A lot of us were inside at the time, so the first step out the door was a jolt.

Women in sundresses clapped their hands to the top of their floppy beach hats to keep them from sailing off into traffic. Men jammed their hands in their pants, hunched their shoulders and leaned into the gale. It felt legitimately cold.

The Giants played Thursday and I saw fans getting off at the Caltrain Station on King Street, heading for the game wearing shorts and short-sleeved jerseys. I wondered, the next morning, how that worked out. The Sporting Green’s Scott Ostler reported that it was the coldest game of the season.

And here’s the amusing part. It’s not that cold. Even weatherman Ostler’s call was only for 55 degrees. Granted, with the wind that can seem chilly. But I’ve been to baseball games in Colorado when it snowed and the temperature was in the 30s.

On many days when we curse the frigid temperatures in the city, the thermometer shows 61 degrees. It’s all about perspective.

A member of our family, who lived in Washington, D.C., for six years, refuses to listen to complaints about the San Francisco heat. “Try 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity,” he says. “Don’t talk to me about the heat.”

And don’t get started on the crazy, unpredictable changes in the San Francisco ecosystem either.

A friend, who’s lived all over the country, once told me that everywhere he went people would say, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes.” And, he said, in every place they thought it was original to them.

We may have to face the unfortunate truth that we’re weather wimps. We live in a lovely, mild climate and act as if we’re facing the weather storms of the planet Venus.

But what are you going to do? Weather’s the constant, unpredictable mystery of every day. There’s only one enduring truth about it in San Francisco:

If you’re going out, take a coat. Always.