I’ve never really known spring before. Having two homes that primarily know summer makes spring a foreign concept.
London, however, has a more beautiful spring than I could have ever imagined. There’s this lilting joie de vivre in the air, and it’s hard to be unhappy or blue when you’re outdoors. I see more people holding hands and exchanging kisses than I did before. Distantly polite foreigners are now encouraging you to coo&squeal over their happy babies. Flowers are determinedly pushing themselves out of the earth. The tulips might be wilting, but baby daffodils and daisies are growing in bloomful yayness.
Then there’s the love thing. Spring has always been the season of love. Something about the flowery balminess does wonders for hormones. It’s true. I may not be in love, but I find my affections for the S.O growing deeply in the glowingness of almost-springtime. Whether its huddling together under a big boy umbrella or sitting on my lawn gazing at a blurry moon – it’s a beautiful almost-spring, and I’m painfully glad I have a beautifuller him.
Spring also means a change of residence. My semi-home away from home has now become the riverside and one of its cafes. If you live on the River Thames, you’re a fool if you don’t take advantage of it. BD (the most recent acquisition to my Close Friends list) and I discovered the best coffee in London there, beating Starbucks&Costa hollow. We are now getting to know it intimately, this tiny cafe, while scribbling in notebooks – taking breaks to gossip, smoke and swan/people watch.
It’s my happy place now. I frequent it on an almost daily basis. I’m usually the first customer of the day, and LindaTheOwner & I stand in the spring sunshine, watch the swans and light each others cigarettes with her creme brulee blowtorch. Then I sit at our window table and scribble solo. Till BD’s arrival and then we scribble together in creative bonhomie. While LindaTheOwner plies us with her perfect coffee, and we watch the world go by.
It’s easy to understand now. Why poetry, novels, music and film have dedicated so much to spring. I have a cynical tendency to think everything, yes, even seasons, are overrated. But not this. Never this.
I was made for Spring. Even the almost-kind.