Things have gotten a little snowy around here, over the past few days. In the blink of an eye, we’ve done from blue skies overhead to squeaky white snow underfoot.
Saturday night brought with it buffering arctic blasts shooting straight down from Scandinavia. Our little group – four of us teachers from cities afar – bowled into restaurant after restaurant until we found one that’s greeting wasn’t ‘tut mir leid, alles reserviert’ where we could hang out snowy hats and hit some wine.
Sunday rolled around with thick sheets of ice covering the windows and the occasional grating noise of blocks of snow sliding off the red tiled roof and down into the gutter. Overnight Kiel had disappeared.
We put on boots and coats and hats and scarves and walked to Peaberries around the corner to get coffee, hot cups that quickly went cold as we headed through the slush to the park. The park is this beautiful, big thing near us, with a bird-filled lake and wooden bridge, surrounded by restored, turn-of-the-century apartment buildings. You know the ones, in shades of cream with lace balconies and big windows.
It was pretty quiet in the park, the snow muffles everything. There weren’t too many people out and about anyway, the snowflakes were face-prickly and the wind gusty. It was us, some keen Nordic walkers, dogs having the time of their lives in the fresh snow and a gaggle of snowsuit clad children with their sleds. Oh and the geese. And ducks. And gulls. Most of the male birds were in full preening mode, chasing their more dully feathered love interests. Hatchling season is a’coming.
We made it home just before a little snow storm hit and watched it whirl down furiously, beating tiny little fists against our windows. Now Kiel has disappeared even more.