I was in London when I first realized I was solar-powered. It was a curious sensation. Daylight was as rare as a tasteful meal there (except for Indian food). The gray skies drained my batteries, leaving me sluggish and unenthusiastic. It probably dried my humor too.

Whenever spots of sunlight struck the city, scores of Londoners flocked into those warm spheres like moths. If God put a people-zapper in the middle of those crowds, he could have gotten rid of many pests.

It was not a pleasant sensation, this feeling of being drained. I once dreamed of living in London for about two years; I only lasted half a year. Six months was more than enough gray in my life.

San Francisco, unfortunately, isn't without its gray as well. There are parts of the city that exist in semi-perpetual fog. I almost expect the residents there to look like pod people with pale skin and black eyeballs.

When the fog creeps into the city, it does so like an opaque glacier. Everything in its path is drained of color and turned to gray. If you like Casablanca and other films before the blessing of Technicolor, you'll probably like the San Francisco fog.

When I first moved to San Francisco, I was immediately drawn to the sunny side. I didn't realize I was solar powered back then; I just knew I wanted to be where the colors were crisp and saturated.

Before you mistake me, I'm not the kind of person who abhors bad weather. I love thunderstorms. Watching a snowstorm while in a pair of warm pajamas is awesome. Even driving through a syrupy fog can be pretty cool.

Although I'm not looking forward to my next hurricane, I have fond childhood memories of building a fort out of the kitchen table and pillows while the taped-up windows rattled. There's a strange romantic tension in seeing bolts of lightning bounce between the earth and the sky. Maybe it's because similar bolts of lightning can bounce between lovers.

Nor am I a sun worshipper. Admittedly I've gone to the beach to get a tan before, but I don't obsess over achieving the bronze of a French fry or hash browns. There's no temperature gauge in my butt to tell me how much I should cook.

The contrast of sun and gray was sharpest in London. Like other Londoners, I followed the sun spots. When I returned to San Francisco, it all made sense. Being in the sun was energizing, exhilarating, exciting, and any other positive e-word your thesaurus can give you.

I can totally empathize with plants that lean toward the sun now. If you stuck my feet in mud, I'd probably lean toward the sun too. Please don't plant my feet in the mud though; I give you my word that I'll lean toward the sun.

Maybe this means I have chlorophyll in my blood? Or maybe there are tiny solar panel crystals on my skin? Who knows. It would be cool to be part plant and part cyborg though. I could shoot laser beams from my eyes and release, um, pollen-sperm during the spring. Okay, maybe not.

Another strong indicator of my solar-powered nature is the car I drive: a convertible. While the alternator charges the batteries, the sun charges me. It's a delight to drive, especially under clear blue skies. Even on a warm cloudless night, it's fun; you can see straight into the Heavens.

A buddy of mine lives in Denver, a city that's 98% sunny all year round. What a glorious statistic. It's like Bizarro London. Hawaii is similarly bright and cheery too. And it's not just because of the scantily clad hula dancers. In between random spring showers are showers of warm sunlight.

While in those cities, I soaked up as much energy as I could. They kept my solar-powered batteries charged for a good long time.

That's what it's like to be solar-powered. The energizing ability of the sun and the sluggifying ability of the gray. Who knew that people could be so much like plants or cyborgs?