I complain endlessly about the weather. Bitterly. In detail. I spend much of my time on wetter.de tracking the day’s meteorological developments and barking them at whoever is near enough and strong enough to withstand my constant wittering. Most of my German friends tune out when I slip a weather comment into conversation, or go to a happier place when I launch into a diatribe about what constitutes summer and how dare Northern Europe think it acceptable to deliver boatloads of snow through Winter and then barely crack the 20s during the summer months. Are you people mad? How do you stand for this? It isn’t right.
I am such a spoilt Australian weather-brat, my decision to return to Santorini for the summer had many of its larger, stronger roots, in the knowledge the sun would shine everyday, no matter what. That I could wear thongs 24/7 and long pants wouldn’t have to enter the equation for 3 months. And I watched daily weather reports – I didn’t seek them out, per se, the TV was just always on at work – keeping abreast of the summer Germany and everywhere north of it, just wasn’t having.
As I type – from my bed, to which I returned upon brewing a cup of tea – it is blowing a crisp mini-gale outside. The sky is mottled, patches of blue trying to muscle out the overwhelming grey, and the threat of rain is omnipresent. It has to be said – and I will say this once – there is a certain romance contained in rain, and the way it dresses old European cities in lace and diamonds.