Seeing as the Germans don't believe in working on Good Friday or Easter Monday, the majority of the working population scored a four-day weekend to spend as pleased, usually involving family and perhaps one's Sunday Best. My pleasing was a triple train route to my Detmold family a few hours southwest. I had happy memories of Easter there four years ago and was ready for some family recoup time in general (sadly sans Bruder unit), as well as a new couch after having spent the last couple weeks of fighting an unfortunate cold on mine.
It had been a while since I last went a-training and was looking forward to the gently zooming, soporific rhythms and flashes of canola fields, freshly coming into blossom. Every now and again the sun would restrict its shine to the yellow flowers, which in turn made the fields seem to float in their fluorescence, no matter the distance. The effect diminished somewhat once the clouds took over, but only in the sense that the fields no longer looked radioactive.
Ill- and weariness made for a low-key weekend, but traditions were not to be stopped. My favorite of these is that of the Osterfeuer, which involves bonfires of all sizes popping up on vigil eve all over this part of Europe. (The best display of this I've experienced thus far was hands down two years ago on the hamburgian shores of the Elbe.) This year was more familiar at the home of friends, fur-sprawled benches encircling the not-quite-petite blaze, potluck a-plenty, branches whittled at the tips for skewering sausages (no marshmallows here -- this is Germany, y'all) and around which to wrap handfuls of bread dough for flame roasting. The wind had its fun whisking the smoke this way and that, waiting until the benches on one side had moved out of the line of fire before blowing the hot ash in another direction. Eventually the game got old, however, and we all sat with warm faces and watched sparks and flame licks spiral up up up into the blackness above.
Other little pleasures involved great cooking/company, seeing some of the eggs I'd decorated eight years ago still intact and dangling from budding branches, and stroking the soft ears of the old family dog, eyebrows and muzzle now white on her chocolate labby face. Being in her gentle, arthritic, canine presence was a comfort after our own Ber's passing a couple weeks before, in sleep and thousands of miles away.
The main Sunday event (after a rousing round of "Jesus Christ ist auferstanden" and other churchings, and a whole lot of tasty white asparagus) was delving into the beautiful weather with a hike through a sun-dappled forest, quiet villages filled with fuzzy ponies and wobbly foals, and a wee mountaintop tower resembling a UFO.
Later, at the magical hotel restaurant that appeared at the end of the trail, I acted on my somewhat wonky stomach and ordered a ginger ale, hoping to ease the quease (hee hee). The charming young waiter who served the beverages later (probably about 15 and on his first summer job) then asked who had ordered the "Ginger Allee" (pronounced "ah-LAY" with a German translation of a big street; boulevard-like). Everyone chuckled and then I got a bonus chuckle when I saw that it was emphatically labeled as AMERICAN. (Although if it were really AMERICAN, it would have come in a bigger bottle. A plastic one.)
The sun deepened as we practiced poor posture and marveled at the joys of sitting. I caught up on better-than-reality-TV by spying on the doggie and kiddies at a table across the way.
Beers, Schorles and boulevards imbibed, we hopped back into the car and traversed more cute villages and hotyellow canola fields back home, each blossom equipped with its personal LED, set to evening glow, maximum pow-pow power.
The next morning had me slowly waking to rain, vivid REMing interspersed with the gentle splatting on the window. One delicious brunchfest later and I was training back to Hamburg, having to stand a good part of the way after refusing to pay the newly ridiculoused fee to reserve a seat, despite knowing that Easter Monday was probably one of the busiest travel days of the year. T'was alright, though. I snagged a Stehplatz near the nose of the train where I had a view out both sides as well as behind the conductor. Zwoosh! T'was also then that I overheard a little boy looking out the window and saying "Ach ja, die Rapsfelder sind echt schön" in an adorable little boy voice. Ah, yes, the canola fields are quite lovely. Stimmt wohl.
A wonderful nap awaited me in my apartment, as well as more silly slanted bunny surprises later that evening. Sleeping with the window open for the first time this year and off to work the next morning, post-holiday lackluster thwarted with strong tea and a drawer full of eggs from a chocolate chicken.
