I traveled 50 hours each way by bus to visit the family of my grandmother's sister for Easter in Cochabamba. We drove through the jungle of Bolivia, one of the most gorgeous sights I've ever experienced.
I bought artesanias, ate street food, made a chocolate cake, found out the "spaghetti and meatballs" they eat in Bolivia is spaghetti with roasted boned chicken with tomato sauce, gorged myself on leftover chocolate buttercream and ganache, listened to Abba practically nonstop and still have "Dancing Queen" in my head, played a ton of Uno, tried a fermented grape drink (not wine) called guarapo that tasted like juice, drank white wine with freshly blended ice-cold peach juice, and hung out with my cousins.
As I'm sitting here in my bed in Buenos Aires, I recall my childhood. No, not childhood, really, but my youth, the time in Pulaski. I recall spring-like memories, when I would wear summer clothes in spring and freeze my way through the day, but never change because outside the sky was blue and the yellow daffodils were standing tall.
I would pick through the clothes thrown in a gigantic jumble in my bathroom closet to find the most colorful outfits that made me feel innocent and young and sweet. I would go outside and take in the fresh sunshine in the air that still had a nip of cold, enough to make your cheeks rosy and hurrying to get inside if you weren't sufficiently covered up. I'd play with Rascal and be so happy and free.
Primavera is when all things are yellow and young and innocent and daisy fresh.