Spring is un-American. At least the places I’ve lived in America don’t really have spring. When I was living in Paris I started to understand what the big deal was for the first time. There spring comes on like cognac, first a few sharp pricks of color and smell, which slowly broaden and soften into a warm haze. Even northern China has some encouraging touches of pink from the cherry blossoms by the end of March, although they turn into little pollution blossoms within a month. But no doubt that kind of two-month seduction of humanity so early in the year is a little too sinful for our culture. Here the trees and flowers are like the Christian girls wearing their chastity bracelets, waiting to burst into bloom until we can enjoy them within the bounds of summer, when the crops really start growing. Because the earth doesn’t flower for our decadent pleasure, but to produce food so we can survive, right? So the winter wind keeps sodomizing the land until about May, and then all of a sudden the earth seems to get sprung and bursts into a compensatory sweaty orgy of green all at once.