On the night of Nov. 10-11, we did not run the air conditioner in the hotel apartment for the first time in nearly a month of living here. (And this is the Northern Hemisphere, remember.)

When the public beach hasn’t yet opened for the … winter?

When you open an espn.com story on U.S. soccer player Charlie Davies and one of the ads on the page is a service purporting to “get you a Green card” if you answer yes to the question, “Want to live in America?”

One of the handful of English-language TV stations is running “The Terminal” tonight, and you’re looking forward to hearing Tom Hanks do some fake accent for two hours. No. Really.

When the stuff coming out of your tap is desalinated sea water.

When you are farther east from London than the city of Tehran.

When you are closer to Mumbai than Athens. And far closer to Moscow than New York.

When it is much easier to find lamb vindaloo than a burger.

When you work for a newspaper that has this sentence in a sports story: “With the tourists reaching an imposing total of 350 for four from 50 overs, Trendulkar replied with a magnificent 175, his 45th ODI century, and Suresh Raina made an impressive 59, as India looked on course to reach the second-highest run chase in ODI history.”

When you pretty much understand the previous sentence.

When that same sports section has a story about the NBA with a headline reading, “Rose exploits ensure Bulls pip Cavaliers by one point” … and when “Kings ruin Penguins’ happy trot” runs over a hockey story. And where the Yankees and Phillies got just done playing a six “match” World Series.

When you see stories about two carpet-baggers making a boatload of money off the fans, and then flinging in the fans’ face their financial excess when the divorce papers become public. (Oh, wait. That’s the McCourts, and that’s  the Dodgers.)

When you get nostaligic for the free and easy driving on the 110 southbound from the L.A. Civic Center on a Friday afternoon.

When your groceries are loaded into the trunk (uh, make that the “boot”) of a taxi by a “trolley boy.” And how do we know he’s a trolley boy? It says so on the back of his shirt.