The weather has turned.

As with the striking of the hour, the sun came out the day that the clocks went forward here in Berlin. There are no coincidences in this world, my friends. A warm blanket spread itself over the air, the temperature tipped the extra degree into hatlessness, and the roads were suddenly peopled again. I expect I would have noticed the birds singing, if I gave a fuck about birds.

Christy has been out touring the parks on his stolen Czech bike, and he has noticed people smiling. He attributes this to the sudden sweet wave of spring too. But then, he was riding his bike, and the Berliners may have been smirking at his unruly figure bombing past them with the relentless spirit of Conan the Barbarian – the most indicative of his heroes. Christy, being the full-blooded Pittsburgh gridiron that he is, has yet to stop standing out here in Berlin. There are other, paler Americans with skinny arms and stupid hairstyles who blend in within a week, but not Christy. “Ach, noch ein Kunststudent,” they mutter. Christy is mainly received with consternation here. What to make of this undefeatable mass of enthusiasm and imagination? Germany has not yet proved itself worthy of his leadership.

It’s not the stars on a winter night, it’s the towering clouds on a summer day that make me think of infinity.