Breaking free from the desk in my hotel room after 4 1/2 hours, my sense of direction is addled. Up is down. Sliding down a ceiling instead of walking along the sidewalk. The Southerner in me is at home in the Midwest, where everybody says hello as you pass on the street. An extra 28 minutes to walk to The Ohio Statehouse seems like a good way to stretch my legs. I turn west and head towards the river, one of the things I always seek out if I have a short time in a new city.
A string of porch swing chairs line the Scioto Greenway, an urban strand of black iron pearls. The heat presses gently, like folding butter into biscuit bread, while the breeze trades one scent of Spring for another. Sitting here, I’m far less interested in the Statehouse or the North Market, which was my original, intended destination. I think about sleeping here, allowing a full Spring day to seep into my bones completely, filling my lungs, caressing my skin and eyes.
There is no weight to spring in California. The desert leeches everything from the air. In Ohio, there is a familiar haze breaking free from Winter and bursting towards Summer. A hug from an old friend.