I never wish for winter. I can’t avoid it, and I’ll enjoy those crisp clear days as best I can but nothing beats early summer time for me.
Like today, when it’s 21 degrees and sunny. And the town is packed out with people in their shirt sleeves, everybody smiling, the accordion-playing busker making the most he’s made all year, the sound of my flip flops slapping against my heels, the scent of sunscreen on a warm shoulder, the urge to bury my face in a huge slice of watermelon.
Every year it hits us, sometime in May, this window of continental life. Every year I get burnt, start dreaming of a BBQ summer and wind up shocked, disappointed and cold for the next three months. I’m not burnt (yet) and I’m not keeping my hopes up. And I’m not wishing for winter.