Sweet Springtime is My Time is Your Time

I was out of town for much of this Memorial Day weekend for my friend Nic's wedding (about which I'm trying to compose some thoughts, though they're running a bit long) but I fear that in my absence the D.C. area has officially moved past the sweet spot of spring, after the pollen count is too low to savage the inside of my head but before the weather becomes oppressively muggy. By my usual standard -- my car's air conditioner no longer being able to cool the cabin down to a comfortable level at full blast when I'm stuck in highway traffic at midday -- then yesterday's drive back from BWI tells me that the swampy, heavy part of the year is upon us. Nonetheless I'm happy just not to see my car covered in an allergenic green-yellow dust every morning, be pelted on windy evenings by high-velocity winged seedpods from the ash trees standing in front of my apartment, or otherwise be made to feel like nature is waging a war of unprovoked aggression against me.

A side benefit of being away for the bulk of the weekend has been not hearing much of the constant rumble of bikers flowing into, and then out of, D.C., as happens over the Memorial Day weekend every year. One of my apartment's windows is about 25 feet from U.S. Route 50 and while seeing and hearing the steady influx of motorcycle traffic is neat at first it does get old long before America runs out of bikers.