Word: fogged
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...every leaper, there are scores of San Franciscans who believe they have found the heavenly city. The reasons are unusually plain. There is the rich, Hopperesque sunlight. There is the cooling fog. And the sea breezes skittering up and down the hills. And the abounding good will. If San Francisco insists on delighting in itself, and even showing off - with the All-Star Game this week, the Democrats next and the Super Bowl come winter - 1984 is the year it deserves to be indulged...
Reddi-Wip Fog. Though July is one of the hottest months of the year for most of California, temperatures in San Francisco reach an average high of only 64° and fall to a dank and chilly low of 53°. Mark Twain, who lived in the city in the 1860s, is said to have remarked that "the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." The reason is a stratum of fog that blankets the city for part of nearly every day, dropping temperatures as much as 15°. Many San Franciscans dress in layers...
...fog is caused by the collision of warm winds and cold water along the Pacific coastline, resulting in the formation of huge, low banks of moisture. Then, as temperatures rise and the atmospheric pressure falls in the Central Valley to the east of the city, these formations are sucked inland. Since San Francisco Bay is the only sea-level passage through Northern California's coastal mountain chain, the cool ocean air carrying the fog funnels into the city en route to the valley. The fog's swirls and twirls produce "microclimates," neighborhood-to-neighborhood variations in sunlight...
...work and his taste in other art. There are, for instance, two majestic Satsuma-ware sake flasks, with a glaze the color and texture of old, cracked ivory, adorned with faint blue landscape paintings by Tangen, whose ghostly suggestiveness, mere scribbles wreathing out of the whiteness as though through fog, is exactly like Whistler's own images of twilit landscape...
...biggest influence was on writing. Poets Stéphane Mallarmé found their own cult of the indeterminate, the penumbra of experience, confirmed in his work. The Whistlerian landscape of Thames kept turning up in English poetry for another generation-not least in The Waste Land, with its "brown fog of a winter dawn" lying on London Bridge. Marcel Proust so adored him that he purloined one of his gloves, as a souvenir, at a reception. Meanwhile, the paintings have beautifully survived: strict in taste, limited in range, precise in key, and never, ever, cloying...