Springtime in Washington

With the mercury hitting 70, today marks the unofficial start to springtime in Washington, DC. Soon the suit-wearing politicos and their khaki-wearing slaves will emerge blinking into the sunlight, rubbing the flourescent haze from their bloodshot eyes to engage in some earnest, if awkward, frisbee on the Mall during lunch time. Even sooner (as in next weekend), hoardes of tourists will descend on our fair city for the second time this calendar year (Change-bama really threw off our citywide social calendar) to stand around in their own earnest, if awkward way, and generally clog up the finely meshed gears that make our city run semi-smoothly.

The draw next weekend will be the cherry blossom festival, one Washington event that is actually worth the hype. The blooming trees that surround the Tidal Basin are a sight to behold.

Sign of Spring #2 – fun outdoor(ish) events. This weekend was the book sale at the local library – Jared and I waged war on it, and came away with one couchful of books (new unit of measurement) for less than $10.

Sign of Spring #3 – unpredictable rainstorms. Last Thursday I decided to stick to my bicycle commute despite the promised rain. As anyone who has biked through the rain will understand, I was soaked by mile two. When I walked into my office, dripping wet and with a dopey grin plastered onto my face, I drew a few looks. When one of my coworkers asked why I was smiling, I explained that the first thing any backpacker learns is how to be wet & happy.

That reminded me at once of one of the wettest and happiest times in my recent memory. It was summer of 2007, and I was hiking through New Hampshire’s White Mountains on my way to Maine. My dad had come out to join me for a stretch, and New England had kindly delivered a solid week of the kind of weather it specializes in – grey, foggy, rainy days. One day in particular was spent hiking through a persistent driving rain, catching occasional reprieve underneath shelter roofs as we pushed towards civilization. When we finally reached a road, we stuck out our thumbs and hitched a ride in the back of a pickup truck to the AMC’s beautiful Highland Center. I can still remember standing in our cramped bunkroom, soaked to the bone, the relief of a solid roof and dry clothes about the sweetest gift I had ever received.

That’s the thing about getting soaked – it teaches you to appreciate something as simple as being dry.