Springtime
I miss a real spring. Before I moved to Boston I couldn't figure out what the big deal about Spring was. I would read all those poems about the thrill's of the season, but the real meaning of them would elude me. You see, in Madrid we don't really have much of a spring or an autumn. In most of Spain we only have two defined seasons: Summer and Winter. Fall and Spring sort of meld together into a muddy and indefinite period. Not settling on winter gray nor summer light, Autumn and Spring go back and forth from grey to colour like a flickering television set. And so my madrilenian springtime is a bit of a tease. It is a tricky time of year, with mornings that suggest that you will need a jacket only to then blast you with heat as soon as you are too far to take it back; or often the opposite, promising sun and delivering rain.
That is why I miss my Boston springtime. I remember the rhapsodic elation that filled in the air as the snow finally melted away and the bruised grass began to regain its bounce. Coats would be off and we would form a pasty-skinned welcome party for the warm sun. Copious amounts of schoolwork would be neglected as things heated up. Classes would be skipped in favor of beaches. And then the plants would join in the party with their explosions of colourful floral confetti. In New England Springtime was a transformation of both the landscape and the general atmosphere.
Oxford's springtime was different but also wonderful. Because it didn't have such a strong winter, its transition wasn't as dramatic as in Boston. It was slower, more gradual, sneaking up on you quietly and whispering with a warm breeze. Flowers were also everywhere, especially on trees. Spring was also filled with rain; refreshing English rain that mingled with sunshine. Quick moving clouds often sprinkled the landscape with shimmering drops. Then, leaving as quickly as they appeared, the clouds would go, leaving the Oxford's spires to daydream in the warm sunlight.
Madrid, dripping with irony and grey rain, does little to remind me that Summer is coming. A land known for its sun is hazy and gray. But I know that the Summer is coming, it is still napping. It needs its beauty sleep.
That is why I miss my Boston springtime. I remember the rhapsodic elation that filled in the air as the snow finally melted away and the bruised grass began to regain its bounce. Coats would be off and we would form a pasty-skinned welcome party for the warm sun. Copious amounts of schoolwork would be neglected as things heated up. Classes would be skipped in favor of beaches. And then the plants would join in the party with their explosions of colourful floral confetti. In New England Springtime was a transformation of both the landscape and the general atmosphere.
Oxford's springtime was different but also wonderful. Because it didn't have such a strong winter, its transition wasn't as dramatic as in Boston. It was slower, more gradual, sneaking up on you quietly and whispering with a warm breeze. Flowers were also everywhere, especially on trees. Spring was also filled with rain; refreshing English rain that mingled with sunshine. Quick moving clouds often sprinkled the landscape with shimmering drops. Then, leaving as quickly as they appeared, the clouds would go, leaving the Oxford's spires to daydream in the warm sunlight.
Madrid, dripping with irony and grey rain, does little to remind me that Summer is coming. A land known for its sun is hazy and gray. But I know that the Summer is coming, it is still napping. It needs its beauty sleep.
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