Winter

Today I left early from work. There was ice on the road, so the Federal Government shut down. As I was walking home, shivering beneath my standard, very Washington (though I have to say, I look good in it) black trench-coat, I met my two Serbian friends. They laughed when I told them Georgetown (where they were headed) would probably be closed. They said Serbia is like this all the time.

I moved to Florida when I was 13. I thought everyone was a wimp for pulling out the winter coats when it dropped under 70. Then they would cover their ferns with blankets. I imagined they put on their wool socks, snuggling under seventeen quilts and an electric blanket.

Of course, it took about three years for me to join them. I didn't realize it, though, until I moved to Germany. Before then, I nursed the idyllic picture of winter, sort of a combination of Christmas, ski vacations and staying home from school. That was there during the month of December. Every town in Germany, and Freiburg is no exception, hosts a Christmas market, where the entire town gathers to drink Gluehwein (a hot, spiced wine that is perfect for winter), eat Lebkuchen (cakey, chocolate-covered ginger bread) and buy trinkets, not to mention socialize. It's a nice way to pretend we still live in quaint, small village communities. I'm sure we had no problems back then.

Of course, then came January and February. And I started coughing a lot. I started coughing from November to April in Germany, and I'm happy to say I'm continuing the tradition. The idealism was gone and the reality that the decision to go hungry for the evening or go to the grocery store is a heck of a lot more difficult in the winter had set in. (I think I still have peanut butter and a spoon...) Winter was something long. Moreover, it was dark. I never noticed it during my Virginia childhood. Darkness and 5:00 is depressing. It certainly affected my mood.

However, there was one more thing I noticed, that I haven't noticed before. Spring. Spring is beautiful in Florida, but it's not that much different than winter. Spring in Freiburg was heavenly. One day in March, it was finally warm enough to open street cafes. Sunlight rested on the Cobblestone roads as delicately as it rested on my forehead. Arms were naked and ready to be darker again. Faces were brighter as well. It was as if someone was handing out smiles. It was that day I went to the banks of the Dreisam river to sit in the grass to read Les Miserables. It was there I read the part about Marius being so in love that he did not notice the magic of spring. It was the first time I noticed it. (I also noticed a naked man ride by on a bicycle, which was much less magical) I still don't know if it was worth the cold, dark winter.

That's the kind of question I ask God a lot.