Fireflies

It's been raining for hours. A steady, mesmerizing rain, pounding against the windows, an enchanted song only understood by those who listen closely. Formations of puddles form on the streets and persistently soak up everything that dares to venture out on the streets.

You can hear the fireworks across town. Thunder alternates with another shower of rain pattering down, giving the spectacle a distinctive beat. You can't see it from my apartment but if you've witnessed it before you know exactly what you're missing out on. A thirty minute marathon of vibrant explosions coloring the sky like there's no tomorrow. Musically underscored by a perfect compilation of classical pieces of music. Bach. Beethoven. Tchaikowsky. Schubert. Haydn. A perfect performance. Fireworks as actors, presenting a play told by the music on a stage framed by baroque statues and artistically trimmed trees. Utterly surreal. Like being caught in a freaking fever dream of Louis XIV. What a spectacle it must be witnessed from a plane.

The Royal Gardens are just around the corner. The entire parking lot is filled with touring coaches from all over Europe.

Insane.

They queue to buy tickets, they queue to enter the gardens, they queue to enter the grotto, they queue to see the castle. Like cattle being driven by invisible sheepdogs, anxious to step out of line. Like bloody Brits each and every one of them follows the ongoing mantra of getting in line: queueing, queueing, queueing. Meanwhile clinging to their digital cameras, capturing every piece of unique architecture or floral arrangement displayed.

I get it. Somehow.

Sophia of Hannover must be spinning in her grave knowing that wagonloads of foreigners wearing Ed Hardy shirts and crocs are roaming the carefully arranged paths that frame the Great Garden. In fact, Crocs should be added to the No smoking, No food, No shirt no service sign. Period. People fly to the moon and discover the depths of the oceans but apparently don't have the skill to opt for decent, fashionable shoeware. Instead they hurry up to see the fountain, the corner pavilion, the grotto, maybe the Mountain Garden or the Orangery, impossible to see the forest for the trees.

Real beauty can be found outside the man-tall hedges though, just a stone's throw away. No aritifical arrangements, just ponds, trees, bushes and endless grassy plains that invite you to lay down, read a book, sunbath or simply set up your grill to have a BBQ in the park. We all do it as soon as we're blessed with some rare sunshine. Too long... Not only a green lung, but rather Hannover's green heart, a giant radiant hotspot to enjoy life's little pleasures.

The rain has finally stopped. My beer is empty. I head down to the kiosk to grab another one, it's midnight. But instead of ghosts only drunken first year students pass me by, euphorically realizing that the bar across the street has no official closing hour. Singing drunken lullabies not even the most sober one could decipher.

For a minute I just stand there, breathing, taking in the fresh scent of spring after the long hours of rain. What a lovely smell. Only this time of the year. And before I know it, the first drops of another rain shower start falling down on me. Too good to be true.