The smell of gunpowder has finally vanished, as a chilling rain (the only sort of rain I’ve encountered in Hamburg) swept clean the skies. Since New Year’s Eve — known as Silvester ‘round these parts — though, the spoor of firecrackers filled the city, as the snap, crackle and pop of explosives helped usher in 2002 some six hours before I’m used to seeing the New Year show up. A traditional German way to usher out the old year and bring in the new, the fireworks brought a sense of the change to all my sense: my ears and mouth filled with the aformentioned burning saltpeter, my ears startled by the boom of an exploding quarterstick, my eyes dazzeled by the lightshow barely glimpsed around downtown building, my sense of touch brought into play with the shock of contact running up my leg when I kick the little thug who just threw a frickin’ fire cracker at me.

You think I’m kidding …

Look, I understand the thrill of fireworks. Though at home I’d be more likely to see them on July 4th rather than Dec. 31st, I know enough pyromaniacs who figure any holiday’s a good reason to blow stuff up. But there’s something a little twisted about looking out the window and seeing somebody a few stories down trying to toss a cherry bomb in after you. And we’re not just talking kids; walking down the Reeperbahn to the club where I welcomed 2002 I saw grown woman tossing firecrackers at cars! Weird. And eerie.

But, for all that, it was a fun night … one of those times when telling people I’m an American seemed to make everyone my friend, when everybody just seemed happy to be celebrating.

Happy New Year, you all.