I’ve had the good fortune to take a trip to a galaxy far, far away – otherwise known as San Diego – to visit my son.

It annoys my neighbors when I go away in the winter, because every time I leave town, there is a weather catastrophe. Wednesday was no different, as while I was already at Logan Airport at 4 a.m., icy roads were causing terrible accidents at home.

Then I saw that San Diego had been declared a state of emergency due to flooding; the news showed cars underwater and people swimming to escape. Maybe my bad weather juju follows me wherever I go!

My son assured me I would not need the puffy coat, waterproof boots, mittens and four layers of long underwear I have worn every day since probably Halloween, so I reluctantly left all the winter clothes out of my suitcase. Arriving in San Diego, all the Boston passengers happily took off their jackets, as it was in the 60s, with palm trees swaying in the breeze under the airport overpasses.

We were definitely not in New England anymore.

On the shuttle bus to the rental car lot, the driver announced that she was going to lead a “Welcome to California” sing-along. She started by singing six verses of “Wheels on the Bus,” very loudly, over the intercom, including tooting the horn and making the windshield wipers go “swish-swish-swish.”

There were no children present on the bus, only a lot of tired people from my Boston flight, many of whom did not feel like taking part in a community sing-along on the way to the rental car lot, although we appreciated the driver’s efforts to be cheerful.

Luckily, there were some nice people in the front of the bus from Ohio who sang all the verses and even made animal noises when the driver got to “Old MacDonald.” Just as I was wondering if the driver was on some kind of legalized substance that made her hyperactive, we arrived safely at the car lot.

In the car lot, I had just put my bags in the back of a car when a guy in a Maine Black Bears sweatshirt said, “You know that’s an EV? These are all EVs!”

I looked more carefully and saw that the car I had picked was a fully electric Chevy Bolt.

“Huh,” I said.

“I know,” the man from Maine said in disgust. “They’re all EVs! The whole section!”

He opened what looked like gas cap on a nearby car, and, surely enough, it was a plug-in. After almost no sleep the night before followed by seven hours on a plane, I could not wrap my head around an EV rental car.

Where were the plug-ins? Was it a hybrid? Would the friends I was staying with have a charging station? I remembered renting an all-electric car in England a few years ago and failing miserably; we kept coming out of the AirBnb to find our car happily running, all by itself.

I thanked the man from Maine, who set off in another direction, muttering angrily. Hopefully, I would have noticed getting into the car, but who knows? I snagged the regular fossil-fuel-burning car next to the Bolt. When I told my son about EVs in the rental car lot, he pointed out the electric charging stations all over the place: at gas stations, the grocery store, on the streets. Next time, I will give it a shot!

At the store, I noticed locals wearing knee-length down parkas and gloves to fight off the brutal 63-degree air. My son, who spent five years at school in North Dakota, just shook his head.

“I know,” he said. “California.”

Then we headed to the beach.

Jesseca Timmons is always looking for ideas for The Greenfield Beat. Send email to jesstimm17@gmail.com.