I now know why the tuition at East Coast colleges is so much higher than California colleges. It’s the heating bill.

Do you know how cold 33 degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill factor feels? Neither did I. I do now. It will get your attention and that was the temperature when we landed in Boston in March. Never mind Passover. Never mind Easter and the optimistically named Spring Break. The party calendar was roundly ignored by Mother Nature. Winter was still firmly in residence. I know it was sometimes drizzly and gray here, but believe me when I tell you, you still got the best weather deal.

As I dressed for my first day in Boston, I thought I was bundled up in a wool sweater and turtlenecks. I even had my son’s snowboarding jacket. But until I decided to take a short walk to the subway station, I didn’t realize how many extremities I possessed. I had also conveniently forgotten how quickly those same extremities ice over. Even after I donned earmuffs and gloves, that wind crept through every possible pinhole.

Still we soldiered on, taking short tourist jaunts. Boston is overflowing with wonderful things to see, but this trip, the most amazing sights of all were the people. We saw some either insane or well-acclimated native Easterners, in shorts or in shoes with no socks, bareheaded and gloveless. This was not the majority, but that they were to be seen at all was a wonder to me as my teeth chattered and my lips grew numb. Only after I had to peel off all my cold-weather gear for the thousandth time, did I gain some understanding of their willingness to suffer.

The worst offender of all was my son, who rolled his eyes and told me to relax. The most he would put on was a hooded sweatshirt. As I went into full-blown, overprotective mother-shock, he announced he was a “city boy” now. Sunday morning as we met him at the gorgeous old Trinity Church in downtown Boston for Easter services, he strolled off the subway in nothing but a dress shirt. Absolutely beside myself with thwarted motherly instincts, I nearly self-combusted, except I was too cold. Pity. We all would have enjoyed the warmth.

Yes, I admit it now. I’m a ridiculous, pathetic Californian who whimpers when it falls below 50. I make no excuses for my thin blood. In just three days, I gained a far better understanding why spring, whenever it deigns to finally arrive back East, is celebrated with such excessive glee. I have faint memories of snow in April in ColoradSprings and chilly Easters in other places I have lived, but I have been away too long. I will never, ever, ever again utter the foolish phrase, “I’d really like to live where there are four seasons” or “I wish we could wear those beautiful wool clothes.”

Henceforth, I will be supremely content with our semi, sort of, half-baked seasons. I will be happy if one tree in the neighborhood turns colors in the autumn. I will no longer pout when I have to dig around for a short-sleeved shirt to wear on Christmas Day. I will skip the wool, the Thinsulate, the down and the fleece.

Had our founding fathers landed in California, instead of “Give me liberty or give me death,” it might have been “Give me linen and sandals and the weather to wear them in. Oh, and some iced tea would be nice.”