Peak of Summer, in jackets and Scarves...

I witnessed a virtual run on the ice cream parlors because it was 20 degrees Celsius on Tuesday (68 Fahrenheit). I thought it only fitting, then, to revisit a post made previously on May 16, last year:

My God, Germans love ice cream. I mean, yeah, they love ice cream like any other culture of the world loves ice cream. But, there’s something about the Springtime coming, poking its head out of every crocus climbing with light speed out of the barely-thawed German ground, that practically forces Germans to buy a scoop just about every time they pass an ice cream stand.

And, you know, the Germans being the Germans, they have the whole thing down to a fine art. Ice cream here is not just ice cream…it is Italian ice cream, which I can vouch for—it’s some of the best I’ve ever tasted. Some of these little shops put Baskin Robbins to shame with their flavor choices. And, the secret? It’s made fresh, usually in the store, by the very guy who scoops it out for you. Or it could be his son. Or daughter. It’s a family business. (No, I don’t mean “family” like that…)

And then there are the ice cream parlors. That’s right, like the olden days. (I am just sorry that this being a foreign country, I can’t work the word “jerk” into a sentence and feel confident about its anachronistic harmlessness.) Can I get an “amen”? These places are decked out like some fancy restaurant, beautiful white leather, brass everywhere. The waiters, all Italian, of course, take your order from a menu that resembles the lexicon offered by the Cheesecake Factory, complete with glossy pictures of some of the frozen delights piled high with sprinkles, cookies, and chocolates of all kinds. No Sunday stroll would be complete here without a sundae that even the chintziest German can rationalize away as a reward for his weekly Spaziergang. He’ll fork out upwards of 3, 4, or 5 euros. I thought I was getting gypped the first time I considered what I had just ordered, until the moment the confection arrived at my table. If my normal indulgence of a scoop or two could be considered a bungalow, these 5€ crowning achievements must be at least the Chrysler Building. Well, just trust me, they are a sight to behold.

The weather has been in the 70s (F) for almost two weeks now. And, you can’t walk more than two steps without seeing someone with a cone in their hand. Perhaps the worst of them all is a fella named Christoph, who thinks that it is his droit de seigneur to have 3 scoops every time he steps out the door.

It’s just another weird German obsession, one which seems to be genetically imprinted, because I have yet to see a German who doesn’t celebrate the blossoms of Spring without the obligatory icy balls of sugar overload.

Maybe it’s their way of claiming victory over the dreary German winter. The winter is personified in balls of ice cream, in suspended animation, immobile and vulnerable with a bit of flavor added to not make the procedure seem so grotesque. The German looks at the hard winter sitting idly before him, he considers it, cradled by its little waffle friend, and takes that first bite, slowly gnawing away at that which gave him one grey day after another, slowly killing his spirit over months. This monster had tormented and even killed generations of other Krauts before him. Our proverbial German savors that bite, and thinks, “Vinter you are MINE. I detroy you!” Insert evil laugh here. (But, you know, the kind of laugh that only cackled inside his head, because, this is like a thought the guy is having, and not an actual like talking out loud moment. And stuff.)

Maybe they just like ice cream and it’s too damn cold to eat it when your nipples are so hard because of the cold that you come home to find your favorite blouse completely shredded above the midriff. I hate it when that happens.