One thing I did not expect in Arizona (well, I didn’t expect much, in that I didn’t really know what to expect or anticipate, but that’s another complaint) was the cold, cold winter nights. Growing up in the east, on the shore, my only exposure to a desert clime was edited weekend broadcast television viewings of Lawrence of Arabia and various Warner Bros. cartoons. I felt smug in my knowledge of towering sand dunes, mirages, and oases; camels crossing wide expanses of pale sand, nary a plant in sight; sheiks armed with slingshots and guns, protecting their hidden wells to the death.

In case you are suffering from the same naive illusion as I, let me tell you now: the southwestern desert is nothing like that.

It gets cold in the winter; the big mountains that surround us are sometimes covered in granite-like gray-white dustings of snow. It gets really cold at night, down in the teens and twenties. I’ve taken to turning the heat off at night because it’s so expensive, so when we finally roll out of bed in the morning, around seven, when it’s still dark and the sun is just dusting the sky with some pink and yellow blushes, the bedroom feels somewhat like the inside of a refrigerator. It’s so cold inside that frequently the dog and cat will reconcile so they can both bask in the warmth of our bodies snug in the flannel sheets. (Have you ever slept in a double bed with another person, a fifty-pound puppy, and a needy five-year-old cat with razor-sharp claws?)

But during the day, anytime after about 8 AM, the sun shines white and hot, requiring visored caps and sunglasses (I have taken to looking like a Brooklyn hipster, circa 1999) along with scarves and sweatshirts, because outside of the sun it’s cold, cold, cold.