In which forsythia forsythia forsythia!

 

Bright yellow love from my favorite bush in town.

In which the weather gets ahead of itself.

I apologize in advance for this post to all of those frozen in the vortexing snowpolarocalyptus that is winter in the majority of the USA. If the choice had been mine, I would have had it otherwise. If only my vacuum cleaner were more powerful, I would have loved to suck a great many snowdrifts across the Big Blue to sprinkle upon my own, snowless city. You see, with the exception of about one chilly week in January, winter seems to have ditched us completely this year.

The light dusting of snow we had soon gave up after falling, and the inappropriately warm temperatures that followed tricked nature into thinking it was two+ months ahead of itself. By mid-February, buds were popping out on twiglets everywhere and green shoots were springing up amongst last season’s leaves, the air smelling most distinctly of mud and hope. By the third week of February, the daffodils that usually wrap the Binnenalster in mid-April were already halfway up and the crocuses were preparing to pop.

Lunchtime conversations with my coworkers usually contained a delighted exclamation or two about the early spring, which I couldn’t help but oppose at only 6 weeks into the new year. But snow is so lovely! And how are we supposed to truly appreciate the ecstasy that spring can bring without first enjoying, tolerating, and eventually suffering through and surviving the cold and bleak and dark? Maybe growing up in the Great Frozen North gave me the mindset that spring is something you have to earn. Something like, if you shovel out the walkway ten times and walk the dogs at the crack of dawn up to the camp road eight times, to the top of the trail six times, and all the way to the lake at least twice (ten Hail Marys...), that’ll get you about four days of beautiful weather before the blackflies descend.

Now that March has come, however, my winter cravings have ceased and I, too, can enjoy this abnormally excessive sunshine without guilt. The month opened with a glorious, blue sky weekend that sent me out to take part in the springtime migration of shorts-sporting runners, couples dreamleaning on one another, a Kiwi with an incredible bubble-making system, tongue-flapping puppies and adorable baby after adorable baby drooling happily in their strollers, all making their way around the Alster.

A few days later I was walking down the forest-lined path to the U-Bahn after work in the late afternoon sun, buds exploding in lime green poofs, birds working up some real operatics and, I kid you not, a fuzzy liddow bunny hopped out in front of me. These experiences taught me that you don’t necessarily need to suffer through winter to appreciate the ecstasy of spring, although the happiness felt is energized more by disbelief than by gratitude. I am a little peeved that I wasn’t once able to wear the winter boots I lugged back from the States, but am optimistic about next winter.    

This past weekend was even lovelier than the last and broke the Hamburg record for March temperatures, or so they say. Deciding to steer clear of the mass exoduses to the Alster, Elbe or Stadtpark, a friend and I went on an exploratory adventure in the neighborhoods around my new apartment instead. I’d noticed an intriguing-looking island amidst the industry-packed canals directly south on the map. It was green and dotted with teeny-weeny little plots, which in Germany could only mean one thing: Schrebergärten!

Indeed, t’was a mini-mecca of mini-gardens – a city dweller’s dream. The prime real estate plots were right on the water, almost all of which with a little boat tied to the dock. Every little Häuschen/cottage was unique, each quirkier than the last. Some were adorned with little glass bobbles and brightly colored trinkets dangling from trees, others housed pirates and motorcycles, at least three cottages had German flags painted on an outer wall, penguins were sighted (and a headless dog), and the gnomes, the gnomes, everywhere the gnomes. The air was still and sparkling in the late morning, despite the fair amount of people tinkering about on their plots – working in the garden, setting up the long picnic table by the water for lunch, painting the shed door green. We heard a jingling while going down one quiet, empty street, which made me instantly/pavlovianly want ice cream. At that point, Friend said, “Hey, an ice cream truck!”. I chuckled at the well-timed funny joke until realizing that the big white van driving towards us had a big red EIS painted on the front. The driver pulled into an empty lot to serve us up some deliciousness and, jingle jingle slurp slurp, I was as happy as could be. That is, happy as could be until encountering a sweet beagle with a waggly tail and a soft, friendly tongue. A little over the top? I think yes, but happily so.

The adventure continued through residential neighborhoods, culminated at a bakery with photogenic baked goods, and eventually came to a close via the local park that I’ve frequented so eagerly for the last three years or so, now overflowing purple in some places.

'Course it then has to drop down to near freezing temperatures at night, because after all, it's March. Stay warm, friends.

In which we peruse the balcony views.

The room I lived in for the majority of my time in the old apartment had a balcony, which turned out to be an ideal place to observe the passing of time. And for getting fresh air, housing plants, polishing boots, etc.