Comfort on a rainy day
In autumn, when the fruits and berries of summer have been harvested and the nights grow longer, I am often overcome by a certain generosity, my usual impatience disappears, and I think about starting nature writing.
The big city is beautiful when life pulsates, when the birds chirp in the trees in front of the facades, when young people populate the streets, when children fill the squares, when the police drive around at night because there is too much and too loud partying everywhere, when people everywhere splatter themselves with ice cream and throw water balloons at each other, when concrete and asphalt glow with heat and the industry in the port steams.
But when autumn spreads its wings, the city grows quiet and, for my taste, a little too dreary. At this time of year, I long for loving details, for the vibrant colors of fallen leaves, for delicate branches reaching towards the lavender-gray sky, for reeds and dry grasses fluttering in the breeze, for soft, diffused light. I want to wander for hours in the countryside as if it were my own land, my own estates even; I feel like a noble spirit then, ready to share my inner riches, but only my inner ones. I daydream about the other side of the river, to cows, horses, and sheep. On some days, I'm even speechless when I think about autumn, and I finally fall silent and see myself standing still on a ship, surrounded by blurred outlines, twilight, and drifting clouds. The moment I catch myself stepping onto the balcony and melancholically waving after the garbage truck or rowdy drunks, I know that my kitsch-loving soul and I urgently need a trip to the countryside.
For Hamburg residents, the epitome of a "country getaway" is the stretch of Lower Saxony diagonally opposite the city and on the other side of the Elbe, especially the idyllic town of Jork – half-timbered houses behind the dike, apple trees in bloom in spring, and hearts in summer, because there's a small registry office where everyone always wants to get married. So I put on my all-weather coat and slip into my new, caramel-colored rubber boots, which I bought specifically for such excursions, but I realize as soon as I'm in the stairwell how uncomfortable they are; I can't even make it to the nearest drugstore in them. I suppose I have to accept that, and in my generous mood, I do, and head back up to the fourth floor to swap the rubber boots for a pair of sneakers. Unfortunately, I only own light-colored sneakers in pastel shades. And I live in Northern Germany, where it rains a lot in autumn, even now, and even over there in Jork. My generosity doesn't extend so far as to willingly ruin my shoes, and it is soon replaced by melancholy.
Melancholy can be combatted in the nearest bar, such as the "Walrus Bar" on my street, which has the added advantage that its drinks bear the names of the world's most beautiful melancholies: Call me by your name, Heartbreak, Will you still love me tomorrow. There was also once a "Rainy Day in Jork, " which has now miraculously (and why, I wonder?) become " Still Raining in Jork "—berry-flavored Gretchen gin, lavender blossom honey, lemon juice, Crémant, and a sprig of lavender floating in the middle of the glass. I sit down at the bar, contemplate the sprig with an immediate return of generosity, and the John Keats in me begins to write nature.
süeddeutsche
