One of Heinlein's early novels – back when they were relatively short, amusing adventures, and before his testosterone-driven narcissism and paranoia drove him to write the sprawling, ranting novels of his late demented phase – was The Door into Summer (1956 – the year I was born). The pleasant conceit of the title was that the narrator had a cat who, in winter, would go from door to door in his house and miaow to be let out; but that cat was convinced that one of those doors led to summer and warm weather – when the door opened onto snow and ice the cat would retreat in disappointment, to try the next door.
The windows on the west side of my sunny, airy apartment (at least compared to other British row houses – I was really very lucky, given their usual design) open onto spring and the beginnings of warm weather; but those on the east side, on the side that gets a wind from the not-so-distant North Sea, open onto late winter and chilly air. It's a strange balancing act to open windows and not get a clash in weather. This also makes me more aware of the classic European symbols of east and west winds, cold and warm – after years in California, such distinctions seemed blurry....
And across the street on the east side, the other houses – for all of which, of course, that is their west side – have animals in the windows: a black and white cat upstairs, then two doors down a young Irish setter, and a gray cat in the next window. All the animals are expectant, excited, even the demure cats: they pace up and down, eager brown eyes wide open, and keep looking out to the west at the warmer weather, and at the approaching spring....
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