The Scent of Nerantzia: A Love Letter to Spring in Athens

Spring in Athens: The Scent of Bitter Oranges and Warm Breezes

The Awakening of the City

Spring arrives quietly in Athens, slipping in between the last cold rains of February and the first true warmth of March. It’s not an abrupt transformation but a slow, deliberate unfurling—the kind that feels almost imperceptible until one day, you realize the city has changed.

Winter’s muted tones—gray skies, damp stone, the sharp scent of woodsmoke curling from hidden chimneys—begin to soften. The streets, once washed in the cool scent of rain, are now tinged with something sweeter, something wilder: the heady perfume of bitter orange blossoms, or nerantzia, spilling from the gnarled trees that line Athens’ boulevards and hidden courtyards.

These trees, remnants of an older Greece, are often overlooked in the harsher months. Their fruit, small and unyielding, is too bitter to eat raw, (I’ve tried.  Also too bitter to juice) their knotted branches blending into the urban sprawl. But in March, they become the city’s breath.

The scent is intoxicating. Sweet, but not cloying. Floral, but with a sharp edge. It settles in the air, lingers in the folds of scarves and the fibers of jackets still worn against the chill of the evenings. It mingles with the aroma of strong coffee and fresh bread from bakeries that spill their warmth onto the sidewalks in the early morning hours.

One morning, I found myself at Dexameni Square, seated at an outdoor café table that had been hidden under heaters all winter. Now, it stretched toward the sunlight, its metal chair still cool beneath me. The air was thick with the scent of nerantzia, folding itself around the first freddo espresso of the season. The usual mix of artists, writers, and elderly philosophers sipped their coffees unhurriedly, their voices like the murmur of a stream. I leaned back against the warm marble steps, letting the city exhale winter, its breath full of orange blossoms and the promise of longer days.

Sunlight and the Slow Unraveling of Winter

Spring in Athens is not an overnight affair. Unlike the full-throated bloom of summer, which arrives unapologetically with its searing sun and cicada chorus, spring seduces slowly. The shift is most noticeable in the light.

Winter light in Athens is cold, distant—an elegant kind of austerity. But spring’s light is different. Softer, richer, honeyed. It doesn’t just illuminate; it touches. By early March, the sun hangs in the sky a little longer, gilding the city’s limestone ruins, turning the Acropolis into a beacon at golden hour.

With the return of the light, the city begins to stir. Sidewalk cafés expand outward, their chairs spilling into the streets, inviting passersby to linger. The people follow suit. Athenians, who had been brisk and purposeful in the cold, now slow their pace, pausing to chat in doorways, sipping their freddo espressos in the sun.

Walking down boutique shops and pedestrian alleys I noticed the shift most clearly. The boutique windows reflected new energy—vivid spring fashion, the soft glint of fresh jewelry in the sunlight. Perfume spilled from the doorways of Voukourestiou’s high-end shops, mixing with the natural citrus scent in the air. Vetiver, jasmine, bergamot—scents as carefully curated as the elegant women who strolled past in linen coats, their pace unhurried. There is an ease to Kolonaki in spring, a kind of languid sophistication that feels effortless.

The Changing Sounds of Spring

Athens has a soundscape, one that shifts with the seasons.

In winter, the city is muffled. The hum of traffic is dampened by rain, the chatter of pedestrians swallowed by closed doors and thick coats. But in spring, the sound returns.  We walk hunched from the wind, the walk through the city is mechanical, boxy and staccato.

By night, the city hums with a different kind of electricity. The clinking of glasses, the rise of voices in warm debates, the unmistakable sound of flirtation in the air. Walking down the Street at dusk, I caught fragments of conversations floating through open doors. The air smelled of dark chocolate from Aristokratikon, mixing with the traces of nerantzia. The cool marble storefronts contrasted against the warmth of my skin as I brushed against them. I passed a small bookshop, its owner leaning in the doorway, lost in the golden-hour light. Spring, I realized, is not just a season—it’s a feeling.

A Feast of the Senses

Spring doesn’t just arrive in the air or the light—it arrives on the tongue.

The markets, which had been filled with the sturdy staples of winter—root vegetables, dark greens, citrus—begin to blush with color. The farmers at the markets are even more generous with their compliments and smiles.  Piles of fresh strawberries appear overnight, their scent so ripe it curls through the narrow streets before you even see them.

Greengrocers display tender wild greens, χόρτα, still damp from the soil, their leaves waiting to be braised in olive oil and lemon. Artichokes—spiky and full of attitude—begin to appear, ready to be drenched in butter and stuffed with herbs.

In a quiet courtyard café in Kolonaki, I let the season unfold in slow sips. The sharp kiss of an olive. The contrast of warm bread and cool tzatziki. The rustling of a newspaper, the hum of a distant radio. It was the kind of moment spring offers in abundance—the kind that feels like a secret between me and the city.

The Promise of What’s to Come

Spring in Athens is a season of transition—a moment suspended between the introspection of winter and the unabashed hedonism of summer.

Early mornings the dog and I climb a local hill  just as the sky opens to dawn. The path smelled of wild thyme and warm stone, a sharp contrast to the sweet orange blossoms below. The city lay before me in layers of light and shadow—spring’s first golden mornings stretching across marble and sea. Even up here, where Athens feels almost weightless, the scent of the season lingered. The promise of warmth, of pleasure, of something still unfolding.

Locals call this early spring.  They still wear scarves, though the hats, mittens and puff jackets have been put away.  

For now, the heat of summer still lingers on the horizon, but there is no rush to reach it. Athens, in its own time, is waking up.

Spring in Athens is not just a shift in temperature or scenery. It is an experience of the senses—a city uncoiling from winter’s grip, stretching into the light, and breathing deeply. And as the scent of bitter orange lingers in the air, carried on the first warm breezes of the year, you understand that this season is a gift.

A fleeting moment.
A whispered promise.
A love letter to the city in bloom.