Day after day, as I hurried into and out of my dorm building, I came to notice that the cherry blossoms were holding out for longer than expected. Last year, they had bloomed and then fallen in what felt like the blink of an eye, but this time, the pink petals held on stubbornly, even though green shoots were already jostling them for space. It looked like spring was here to stay for Boston. So, on the long weekend granted by Easter, I managed to slow myself down and have a cheerful thought. I called up my friend Lucas and asked if he'd like to take a walk to the Boston Public Garden. We're both busy students, and this spring semester had particularly swamped us, so simply wandering the streets was always a special opportunity. He agreed excitedly.

The journey began after lunch. We must have seemed an interesting pair; we had both promised to wear a fun piece of clothing. On Lucas’ head was balanced a beret-looking thing, and I had wrapped myself in a billowing black cloak. Preparations for the Boston Marathon were also in full swing that day, what with the daffodils-to-be-planted lined up along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall and frequent runners-in-training breezing past us—hence, we felt quite the opposite of looking strange. We were but two of countless souls awakened by the warm day, out and about in the city.

The Mall is a delight to walk down. That day, I chose to notice all the buildings, with special attention paid to the elegant engravings on windowsills, the soaring heights of archways, the metal chairs sitting out in the warming sun, and so on. I commented on how I would love to have some knowledge of architecture, so that I could analyze and think about all the designs and shapes and patterns and colors that we saw, instead of walking slowly, head raised, looking around goofily like a tourist. Surely, the names and symbols attached to these walls and buildings would reveal some sort of truth, some sort of secret about my surroundings to me. I ought, I thought, to be able to relish my environment better. If only I could understand everything in it.

Lucas agreed that identifying the architecture would be cool, being also of that breed of physicist-mathematician-logical thinker, but he then gently invited my attention to savor the other half of the street's beauty: the flowers. They were, of course, everywhere. Perhaps they were even more prominent than the human-wrought patterns I had been gazing at. After all, the clever design of a garden is no good if there aren’t any flowers in it, so I warmed up (the sun definitely helped) and began to savor the patchwork of color around us. We made small anxious noises as we passed by a house whose multicolored hyacinths were toppling under their own weight. Sometimes, I would point out low-hanging magnolia branches to Lucas. I meant to let him know that he ought to dodge them (as he is taller than I am), but he always ended up standing up straighter in order to sniff the young blossoms. (Magnolia trees are his favorite.)

Commonwealth Avenue eventually runs into and ends at the Public Garden—our goal. It was a good day for people-watching; everyone had had the same idea as I did. Couples and families  were spread all over the green lawns, some even so prepared as to bring a picnic blanket. We meandered a circle around the lake, observing flower petals coming to rest upon the water after their windy journey. Rounding a corner of the footpath, we heard before we saw a one-man band. A kindly old man sat upon a contraption of countless metal bowls, bells, and children's percussion instruments, furiously pedaling the whole thing while hitting a bowl with a stick and singing at the same time. We laughed with the rest of the audience as he whipped out a plastic hand clapper, shaking it as expertly as he might a tambourine. I struggled a bit to hear his voice, never mind the words, over the din, but soon I found that that was the last thing on anyone’s minds. Afterwards, of course, we tipped him for the sheer chaotic joy he manifested with his music.

With a flourish of a cloak and a doff of a hat, we settled under the shade of a tall tree—I don’t recall what kind—a little way from the lake. We each cracked open a book, carefully chosen to resonate with the warmth and brightness of the day: a collection of Japanese poems (translated into English) for Lucas, and an anthology of Chinese mythology (in the original language, here) for me. Now, if only for a little while, we allowed the merry scene of the park to fall away from around us. Lucas was visiting somewhere with even more cherry blossoms, with the winds carrying even more secrets of nature: a crystallized ideal of spring, polished by the master poets of old and handed down through reams of history. Meanwhile, I frisked between the equally-ancient heavens and earth, watching the saga of the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl (牛郎织女). Now, the genesis of the Milky Way as a gash torn through the skies with a flick of the enraged Queen Mother's hairpin sets a much more dramatic backdrop to the night view whenever I look up at the stars. It was certainly quite dramatic then: the cold lights glimmering in the darkness of the story’s setting placed in total juxtaposition with the cheery spring day that was my world.

At some point, it started getting chilly, and we could ignore the outer world no longer. Back in the present, we gathered our thoughts and books and returned down Commonwealth Avenue. There was still a whole other side of the street we hadn't explored. I pointed out that since Commonwealth Avenue runs approximately west to east, the trees on the northern side got more sun, and so seemed to bloom bigger and have greener leaves than the one on the south side; Lucas pointed out that that only made the trees on the south side grow and reach taller for the sunlight. Maybe there's a metaphor for something in there, but at that moment I had suddenly become hooked on the aspects of urban design, rambling about how much more sun a north-south main street would admit...

I had acknowledged then, as I explain so now, that such ramblings were the product of an excellent class on urban design I had taken during my first semester. It surprised me that, over a year later, I continued to see Boston through those eyes, peering through tree pollen and white petals to seek greater structures. But perhaps I’d missed out on that day? Perhaps I’d missed out on the very pollen and petals themselves, those harbingers of spring we set out to savor. I’d wished to step outside of the classroom, but ended up bringing it with me.

By any measure, there was an attempt. And as all students would agree, any break is, at least, a break. So I will try to remember what of the flowers that I am able and revisit those sunny moments whenever the hustle becomes a little too much once more.