In which Easter is fire, canola, and a dappled wood.

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.

 

 

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.