a sunday walk in the snow
How is it that nations seem to have this somewhat collective affection for a way to spend their Sunday afternoons? As much as baseball is the „American pastime“, Canadians go crazy over watching curling, and the British ponder over a cup of tea, Germans love their Sunday walks. Picture a sunny winter day, it’s not particularly cold, a few birds are chirping towards the sun, the lawns in Wetspark are still muddy from a rainy week, but here and there the first blossoms of the witch hazel are sprouting. And then there’s us. Hoards of city dwellers push into the park to get their weekly dose of „nature“ and some fresh air. And by hoards I mean that there’s barely enough space for the runners to weasel their way along the winding paved paths. There’s couples with strollers lead by toddlers on their running bikes; groups of mid-thirtyers discussing politics as they wander side by side; elderly couples resting on their Rollator, faces peacefully turned to the light; a gang of young Halbstarke cruising on their fancy mountain bikes with saddles riding low; sporty runners decked out in functional running attire determined to navigate the crowds.
I’m glad we spent a few days over christmas out in Ing. When the snow finally started falling the night before Zweiter Weihnachtsfeiertag, we combatted the feeling of continued overindulgence with a walk – like hundreds of other Germans probably did, too. Only we didn’t meet them. No strollers or runners. No hoards.
Only bits of our family.
Trees bending heavily under the nightly snow fall.
Branches covered in tiny ice crystals.
Footprints along the path. Peoples’, dogs’, rabbits’, deer’s.
And that sign that Dub finds so amusing (as many other spawns of German practicality and literalness)