life, in pink

If it is nearly freezing outside and you come across a rose bush still in bloom, you pause and marvel at the mere incongruity of it, of that tattered flower, and you think (even if it is about to be the dreariest of months) – there will be blooms in the days ahead. Surely there will be blooms!



Only, they’ll be few and far between.

People seem tired in November (with the exception of the first of the month, when they are post-Halloween hyper.)

I’m not especially heading into it tired, but I am a little discouraged at how quicky I'm finding it to be unpleasantly cold and dark out there. These, to me, are the most unpleasant aspects of the early winter months.

But I am remembering a valuable lesson from last winter. On the coldest of February week-ends, I found myself up north, in Quebec. There, I could observe firsthand how the Quebecois embrace their unrelenting cold climate. Instead of hiding from an Arctic blast, they are out there jumping off cliffs on gliders, climbing up ice walls and lacing up skates. Forget the indoor arena: take out your blades and glide in the icy winds!

So this year I am vowing to embrace the dreary dark months of early winter. That’ll be me, extending my walk to and from work, flying out the door in spite of, nay, because of the piercing cold wetness that hits your skin then quickly finds the shortest route to the bone.

And because immersing myself in even more dreariness will only work to overcome my antipathy to it, I’ll head out toward places that are even drearier, darker and colder than Madison at this time of the year. Imagine, there are such places.

Welcome, November, December… God, you are such a challenge.

life, in pink

If it is nearly freezing outside and you come across a rose bush still in bloom, you pause and marvel at the mere incongruity of it, of that tattered flower, and you think (even if it is about to be the dreariest of months) – there will be blooms in the days ahead. Surely there will be blooms!



Only, they’ll be few and far between.

People seem tired in November (with the exception of the first of the month, when they are post-Halloween hyper.)

I’m not especially heading into it tired, but I am a little discouraged at how quicky I'm finding it to be unpleasantly cold and dark out there. These, to me, are the most unpleasant aspects of the early winter months.

But I am remembering a valuable lesson from last winter. On the coldest of February week-ends, I found myself up north, in Quebec. There, I could observe firsthand how the Quebecois embrace their unrelenting cold climate. Instead of hiding from an Arctic blast, they are out there jumping off cliffs on gliders, climbing up ice walls and lacing up skates. Forget the indoor arena: take out your blades and glide in the icy winds!

So this year I am vowing to embrace the dreary dark months of early winter. That’ll be me, extending my walk to and from work, flying out the door in spite of, nay, because of the piercing cold wetness that hits your skin then quickly finds the shortest route to the bone.

And because immersing myself in even more dreariness will only work to overcome my antipathy to it, I’ll head out toward places that are even drearier, darker and colder than Madison at this time of the year. Imagine, there are such places.

Welcome, November, December… God, you are such a challenge.

october warmth

You wont believe me, not any number of you, but this afternoon, looking up to see my red bike resting there against the frame of the local café was completely satisfying. Something about having a late October day reach warm temperatures…




True, five minutes later I was retrieving my mail and it set me onto a spin and (not unpleasant) turmoil (the result of which appears on the sidebar to this blog). But for the minute that I looked over and saw my bike, waiting for me, I was at peace.

october warmth

You wont believe me, not any number of you, but this afternoon, looking up to see my red bike resting there against the frame of the local café was completely satisfying. Something about having a late October day reach warm temperatures…




True, five minutes later I was retrieving my mail and it set me onto a spin and (not unpleasant) turmoil (the result of which appears on the sidebar to this blog). But for the minute that I looked over and saw my bike, waiting for me, I was at peace.

halloween notes

I don’t think our climate up here in Wisconsin is well suited to all-night outdoor partying, especially if you’re determined to do it in some state of undress. And yet, each year people drive for miles just to hang out on State Street until wee hours on the last Saturday of October. How is it that we sold this night as a Madison must?

At some point, too many came and businesses balked. Something about having a drunken brawl on their doorstep, with 100,000 attending was off-putting.

And so this year, the city took precautions: even more police officers. Roped off access, with attendance limited to those who were willing to pay $5. And a nice dose of windy, cold air.

I live a mere handful of blocks away and so, wind and entrance fees notwithstanding, I convinced the ever affable Ed to come out and we paraded up and down State Street until I was simply too cold to continue.

I would have written that it was a tame night. The biggest fiasco on State Street seemed to be the occasional mummy whose costume would tear at the perforation.



So many of the costumes were just so…cheerful.




…And so many men joyfully padded their shirts and grew out hair overnight. Predictable stuff.




The street was calm. There was even room for a romantic spin with your sweetie.




All under the watchful eye of the police…





In all, a kickass event…





All was well until we left State Street. Closer to my home, we nearly tripped on a young man convulsed in a heap by the sidewalk. The tort prof in me says – walk away walk away. The uman being in me says it’s too cold to pass out on the street like that.

But the stupor was not caused by alcohol. Or at least not directly. The man had an ugly bloody gash in his head. When he came to, he was somewhere between nonsensical and mildly incoherent.

A police person had to be dragged in from watching the fun stuff on State Street to provide a service off off State. I’m not sure whether the victim’s rendition of what happened was altogether credible. You believe a mugging when the mugged has at least a wallet stolen and does not admit to partial intoxication. Regardless, it was a sad sight.

Eventually we left, grateful to the young college kids who had been partying in the house next door and helped us deal with this guy. Calling the police was not something they would have otherwise welcomed, given the nature of their party, the ages of some of the participants (I'm guessing here), and other irksome considerations of legality.

Blood on faces looks a lot better when it’s fake.

halloween notes

I don’t think our climate up here in Wisconsin is well suited to all-night outdoor partying, especially if you’re determined to do it in some state of undress. And yet, each year people drive for miles just to hang out on State Street until wee hours on the last Saturday of October. How is it that we sold this night as a Madison must?

At some point, too many came and businesses balked. Something about having a drunken brawl on their doorstep, with 100,000 attending was off-putting.

And so this year, the city took precautions: even more police officers. Roped off access, with attendance limited to those who were willing to pay $5. And a nice dose of windy, cold air.

I live a mere handful of blocks away and so, wind and entrance fees notwithstanding, I convinced the ever affable Ed to come out and we paraded up and down State Street until I was simply too cold to continue.

I would have written that it was a tame night. The biggest fiasco on State Street seemed to be the occasional mummy whose costume would tear at the perforation.



So many of the costumes were just so…cheerful.




…And so many men joyfully padded their shirts and grew out hair overnight. Predictable stuff.




The street was calm. There was even room for a romantic spin with your sweetie.




All under the watchful eye of the police…





In all, a kickass event…





All was well until we left State Street. Closer to my home, we nearly tripped on a young man convulsed in a heap by the sidewalk. The tort prof in me says – walk away walk away. The uman being in me says it’s too cold to pass out on the street like that.

But the stupor was not caused by alcohol. Or at least not directly. The man had an ugly bloody gash in his head. When he came to, he was somewhere between nonsensical and mildly incoherent.

A police person had to be dragged in from watching the fun stuff on State Street to provide a service off off State. I’m not sure whether the victim’s rendition of what happened was altogether credible. You believe a mugging when the mugged has at least a wallet stolen and does not admit to partial intoxication. Regardless, it was a sad sight.

Eventually we left, grateful to the young college kids who had been partying in the house next door and helped us deal with this guy. Calling the police was not something they would have otherwise welcomed, given the nature of their party, the ages of some of the participants (I'm guessing here), and other irksome considerations of legality.

Blood on faces looks a lot better when it’s fake.

regional seasonal

This isn't really a comment about food. It's on weather issues. What happened to the too-warm days of mid October? What happened to the Halloween where we sent out kids trick-or-treating without forcing them into mittens and caps?

Or is it me?

This morning at the market – the next to last one of the year, the farmers were one foot out already in their mindset. Ms. Bee-Charmer-who-also-sells-pumpkins tells me – why is today’s market dragging so much? Then: come on, don’t you want one of my pumpkins? They’re French, like you. Alright, load my French market basket with yout heavy ball of goodness. Sweet pumpkin soup made from the very French piece of squash, by the not very French Ocean blogger.




I fill out the order form for a Blue Valley Thanksgiving turkey. The farmer asks -- can you stick around for a few minutes? I want to get a warm cup of coffee from l’Etoile.

It’s not just me.

At the tomato stand, a young girl helps her dad. She is protected from the wind. Sort of.





There are shoppers, but not too many. The end of October. Red wagons are loaded down with pumpkins. Are they going to be peeled and seeded and roasted and served as soup? Too big. Little pumpkins taste better. These are doorstep material.

But the sun is there and everything is riper, brighter, better, more photogenic in its warmth.





After the market, I drive briefly out of town just to see if the sun improves what little is out there at this time of the year. It does.

regional seasonal

This isn't really a comment about food. It's on weather issues. What happened to the too-warm days of mid October? What happened to the Halloween where we sent out kids trick-or-treating without forcing them into mittens and caps?

Or is it me?

This morning at the market – the next to last one of the year, the farmers were one foot out already in their mindset. Ms. Bee-Charmer-who-also-sells-pumpkins tells me – why is today’s market dragging so much? Then: come on, don’t you want one of my pumpkins? They’re French, like you. Alright, load my French market basket with yout heavy ball of goodness. Sweet pumpkin soup made from the very French piece of squash, by the not very French Ocean blogger.




I fill out the order form for a Blue Valley Thanksgiving turkey. The farmer asks -- can you stick around for a few minutes? I want to get a warm cup of coffee from l’Etoile.

It’s not just me.

At the tomato stand, a young girl helps her dad. She is protected from the wind. Sort of.





There are shoppers, but not too many. The end of October. Red wagons are loaded down with pumpkins. Are they going to be peeled and seeded and roasted and served as soup? Too big. Little pumpkins taste better. These are doorstep material.

But the sun is there and everything is riper, brighter, better, more photogenic in its warmth.





After the market, I drive briefly out of town just to see if the sun improves what little is out there at this time of the year. It does.

advice

Some weeks back, a friend asked where he and his partner should stay in Paris. I have known him for years and still this question was a tough one. He is one of those people who does not hide behind politeness. If I recommend something that he does not like, he tells me so the next time I see him. Which is as it should be, of course. The deeper issue is that I did not want to steer him wrong. First time to Paris, an entire week in the city, with a boyfriend who is a serious, artsy photographer – tricky stuff here.

I told him my newest favorite place on the left bank, they checked it out on the Net, liked the photos and booked their stay.

Yesterday I ran into him for the first time since his return.

Well?? Did you like it? What was the worst part of the trip? (the hope here is that he wont say straight off – the hotel.)
The worst was the food. Not breakfast, but the real meals. Too many snails and guts and stomach parts on your plate. Once we found the ethnic eateries, we were fine.
And the best?
Of course, everywhere, the desserts were fantastic. And the wine! Every glass we had was way better than what we have here. Oh and I loved the hot chocolate in the morning – poured melted in your cup with a steaming pitcher of milk… incredible.

So did you like the city?
Yes, of course. ..don’t know why people complain about the French. Everyone was fine. Busy, hurried, in the way people are in big cities, but just fine. You know, we really liked some of the touristy stuff. It was thrilling to be standing underneath the Eiffel Tower. We did the boat thing, we went to Notre Dame, the Arc and I thought the (newly reopened!) Orangerie was magnificent. Not as good as MoMA in New York, but still incredible…

(ah, my Paris. I love this town. God, I love this town! Why am I not there?)

And how is it for a gay couple? Did you feel you could be publicly affectionate?
Yes, though often times we were not. It’s very much as the mood strikes. In Paris, like in big cities here, the gay scene is pretty sedate. You know, we’re in the decade where gay men are trying very much to blend into the straight world and straight guys are doing the metrosexual thing.
So did you do the gay bar scene?
We checked out a number of places. Weird, they’re playing the same gay music there that we have here. You want to ask – why are you doing this? But we did go to a concert and it was fun – people dance more there than they do over here.

It’s a long flight back, isn’t it?
What was worse was the customs inspection in Detroit. I got flagged. Don’t know why. They examined every piece of underwear, accused me of buying it there and not admitting to it, asked me three times why I had two medicines… on and on. It was so strange, I felt I had to go along and not challenge them, but they got hostile and in the end, left my suitcase unzipped, so that when I picked it up, everything spilled. I wanted to retrieve a shoe and a hat that went under the counter and they said no, absolutely not. So I came back with one shoe.

I read that these hostile encounters with our immigration and customs people at the border are one reason why so many foreigners will not travel here.
Definitely the low point of our return.

So… the hotel in Paris?
Good rooms! We liked it.

A sigh of relief.

advice

Some weeks back, a friend asked where he and his partner should stay in Paris. I have known him for years and still this question was a tough one. He is one of those people who does not hide behind politeness. If I recommend something that he does not like, he tells me so the next time I see him. Which is as it should be, of course. The deeper issue is that I did not want to steer him wrong. First time to Paris, an entire week in the city, with a boyfriend who is a serious, artsy photographer – tricky stuff here.

I told him my newest favorite place on the left bank, they checked it out on the Net, liked the photos and booked their stay.

Yesterday I ran into him for the first time since his return.

Well?? Did you like it? What was the worst part of the trip? (the hope here is that he wont say straight off – the hotel.)
The worst was the food. Not breakfast, but the real meals. Too many snails and guts and stomach parts on your plate. Once we found the ethnic eateries, we were fine.
And the best?
Of course, everywhere, the desserts were fantastic. And the wine! Every glass we had was way better than what we have here. Oh and I loved the hot chocolate in the morning – poured melted in your cup with a steaming pitcher of milk… incredible.

So did you like the city?
Yes, of course. ..don’t know why people complain about the French. Everyone was fine. Busy, hurried, in the way people are in big cities, but just fine. You know, we really liked some of the touristy stuff. It was thrilling to be standing underneath the Eiffel Tower. We did the boat thing, we went to Notre Dame, the Arc and I thought the (newly reopened!) Orangerie was magnificent. Not as good as MoMA in New York, but still incredible…

(ah, my Paris. I love this town. God, I love this town! Why am I not there?)

And how is it for a gay couple? Did you feel you could be publicly affectionate?
Yes, though often times we were not. It’s very much as the mood strikes. In Paris, like in big cities here, the gay scene is pretty sedate. You know, we’re in the decade where gay men are trying very much to blend into the straight world and straight guys are doing the metrosexual thing.
So did you do the gay bar scene?
We checked out a number of places. Weird, they’re playing the same gay music there that we have here. You want to ask – why are you doing this? But we did go to a concert and it was fun – people dance more there than they do over here.

It’s a long flight back, isn’t it?
What was worse was the customs inspection in Detroit. I got flagged. Don’t know why. They examined every piece of underwear, accused me of buying it there and not admitting to it, asked me three times why I had two medicines… on and on. It was so strange, I felt I had to go along and not challenge them, but they got hostile and in the end, left my suitcase unzipped, so that when I picked it up, everything spilled. I wanted to retrieve a shoe and a hat that went under the counter and they said no, absolutely not. So I came back with one shoe.

I read that these hostile encounters with our immigration and customs people at the border are one reason why so many foreigners will not travel here.
Definitely the low point of our return.

So… the hotel in Paris?
Good rooms! We liked it.

A sigh of relief.

running

One of those days. So tight, so packed with obligations and commitments that nothing more could be made of it. Full, the day was full.

As I cycled from one appointment to the next I thought – yessss! I can make my muscles push the bike past other more lackadaisical riders and, ultimately, I can have understanding Ocean readers not question a late post about nothing.

A few hours of rest and I will resume. But I need those few hours of rest. Thank you!

running

One of those days. So tight, so packed with obligations and commitments that nothing more could be made of it. Full, the day was full.

As I cycled from one appointment to the next I thought – yessss! I can make my muscles push the bike past other more lackadaisical riders and, ultimately, I can have understanding Ocean readers not question a late post about nothing.

A few hours of rest and I will resume. But I need those few hours of rest. Thank you!

about food…

I wrote those words in a comment to the previous post. I am sitting here now thinking about them while I eat. I have just finished an hour’s discussion with a neighbor about being a foodie. Today, a foodie is one who knows it all – not only how to fix a plate of edamame, but also one who can fire off in a second the nickname of the newest field-to-table chef in town. It’s a burden.
Ultimately, a person who cares deeply about breakfast, lunch, dinner (as I do), who thinks about waking up to the next meal and the next, is more than a foodie. Us types are obsessed.

And one has to wonder why and from whence it came. My mother was an awful cook. My grandmother was okay. Am I pushing family buttons here?

Or, is it that I learned from people out there in very far away places, that all important events can be lived and relived around a table? So that I, too would want to create a table, an enticement, a facilitating device?

Let's just say that I care that people eat well.

Tonight I booked a 21-course meal for Thanksgiving week-end and I thought nothing of it. After, I took out ten pots and pans and cooked up a classic for my daughter who is in town. Excess? No. Simply a never ending curiosity about… food.

The dishes are finally cleared, the pots scrubbed. Only now can I retire to post.



for the risotto

about food…

I wrote those words in a comment to the previous post. I am sitting here now thinking about them while I eat. I have just finished an hour’s discussion with a neighbor about being a foodie. Today, a foodie is one who knows it all – not only how to fix a plate of edamame, but also one who can fire off in a second the nickname of the newest field-to-table chef in town. It’s a burden.
Ultimately, a person who cares deeply about breakfast, lunch, dinner (as I do), who thinks about waking up to the next meal and the next, is more than a foodie. Us types are obsessed.

And one has to wonder why and from whence it came. My mother was an awful cook. My grandmother was okay. Am I pushing family buttons here?

Or, is it that I learned from people out there in very far away places, that all important events can be lived and relived around a table? So that I, too would want to create a table, an enticement, a facilitating device?

Let's just say that I care that people eat well.

Tonight I booked a 21-course meal for Thanksgiving week-end and I thought nothing of it. After, I took out ten pots and pans and cooked up a classic for my daughter who is in town. Excess? No. Simply a never ending curiosity about… food.

The dishes are finally cleared, the pots scrubbed. Only now can I retire to post.



for the risotto

covered with plastic

It’s the significant commercial event of the decade: Trader Joe’s has opened a store in Madison. And maybe it’s a great match: so much organic at such minimal prices. It suits us Madisonians in all ways. We are all about the fresh and the frugal. [We care, we care, it’s just that so many of us are state employees. Our salaries rarely go up much and when they do, they just barely catch up to the inflation index of ten years back. On a personal note, Trader Joe’s seems especially well suited for a state employee who counts the hours and the Euros ‘til her next trip across the ocean.]

And yet…

This morning I get an email from the president of the board of our local food cooperative, the Mifflin Street Co-op. Food for the people! -- reads their slogan. I am a member, though a reluctant one. I cannot get myself to spend good money on wilted produce and their produce is more than just mildly wilted. No matter. After so many years of service, they are shutting down. Something about unpaid taxes, mismanagement, etc etc. The usual.

And so I go to Trader Joe’s. Might it become my neighborhood store? I do love shopping at Whole Foods, prices notwithstanding, I do! Will I love shopping at TJ’s?

No, probably not. I walk back to the loft with two heavy bags filled with various foods. Thirty minutes along the most ugly and boring stretch of Madison roadway and I think: buying food has to be beautiful. Returning home with it along the ugliness that is Regent Street (or, in the alternative, that ugly snippet of the bike path) takes much beauty out of the expedition.

And the plastic. For decades, we have suffered a disassociation from out food sources. Plastic has separated us from the meats and produce that we eat, so that we have conveniently permitted outselves to forget about tending to our gardens, our herds. And here we go again: most everything at Trader Joe’s is bagged and wrapped. I bought eight roma tomatoes even though I only needed four. I picked up chocolate covered banana chips, neatly wrapped and ready to throw into my cart, even though I needed none.

Oh, I appreciated the prices. If I am going to buy mediocre wine, I am happy to spend only $2.99 for it.

Still… I walked home from Trader Joe’s thinking how passive we are about navigating ugly scapes and indifferently presented foods. My best visuals for the day? A clump of seed pods and, further down the block, the reflection of the sky in the windows of the Kohl’s Center. I wish there was more to say about it all, but there really isn’t. Sigh...

covered with plastic

It’s the significant commercial event of the decade: Trader Joe’s has opened a store in Madison. And maybe it’s a great match: so much organic at such minimal prices. It suits us Madisonians in all ways. We are all about the fresh and the frugal. [We care, we care, it’s just that so many of us are state employees. Our salaries rarely go up much and when they do, they just barely catch up to the inflation index of ten years back. On a personal note, Trader Joe’s seems especially well suited for a state employee who counts the hours and the Euros ‘til her next trip across the ocean.]

And yet…

This morning I get an email from the president of the board of our local food cooperative, the Mifflin Street Co-op. Food for the people! -- reads their slogan. I am a member, though a reluctant one. I cannot get myself to spend good money on wilted produce and their produce is more than just mildly wilted. No matter. After so many years of service, they are shutting down. Something about unpaid taxes, mismanagement, etc etc. The usual.

And so I go to Trader Joe’s. Might it become my neighborhood store? I do love shopping at Whole Foods, prices notwithstanding, I do! Will I love shopping at TJ’s?

No, probably not. I walk back to the loft with two heavy bags filled with various foods. Thirty minutes along the most ugly and boring stretch of Madison roadway and I think: buying food has to be beautiful. Returning home with it along the ugliness that is Regent Street (or, in the alternative, that ugly snippet of the bike path) takes much beauty out of the expedition.

And the plastic. For decades, we have suffered a disassociation from out food sources. Plastic has separated us from the meats and produce that we eat, so that we have conveniently permitted outselves to forget about tending to our gardens, our herds. And here we go again: most everything at Trader Joe’s is bagged and wrapped. I bought eight roma tomatoes even though I only needed four. I picked up chocolate covered banana chips, neatly wrapped and ready to throw into my cart, even though I needed none.

Oh, I appreciated the prices. If I am going to buy mediocre wine, I am happy to spend only $2.99 for it.

Still… I walked home from Trader Joe’s thinking how passive we are about navigating ugly scapes and indifferently presented foods. My best visuals for the day? A clump of seed pods and, further down the block, the reflection of the sky in the windows of the Kohl’s Center. I wish there was more to say about it all, but there really isn’t. Sigh...

back in the west of the midwest

At a certain point in time, things that once look gorgeous and sublime begin to show their cracks. Red leaves, once they hit the pavement, often look... brown. And that’s okay. Cracks are normal. Crevices are to be expected. Brown is a variant of red.

My older daughter is visiting this week and I took her to the old neighborhood, the place of her childhood.

I have been back in recent weeks a number of times. For no good reason. I don’t stop, I do not talk to friends and neighbors, I just drive by and, well, marvel at the way wheels spin.

Tonight we note that this west side spot has a microclimate – it hangs on to the cold. Sure enough, the fallen leaves haven’t the glory of Connecticut’s blushing bunch. Brown, wilted, they rest in heaps at the curb. The amazing thing is that here, not anywhere else in town, just here, they are covered with snow.

back in the west of the midwest

At a certain point in time, things that once look gorgeous and sublime begin to show their cracks. Red leaves, once they hit the pavement, often look... brown. And that’s okay. Cracks are normal. Crevices are to be expected. Brown is a variant of red.

My older daughter is visiting this week and I took her to the old neighborhood, the place of her childhood.

I have been back in recent weeks a number of times. For no good reason. I don’t stop, I do not talk to friends and neighbors, I just drive by and, well, marvel at the way wheels spin.

Tonight we note that this west side spot has a microclimate – it hangs on to the cold. Sure enough, the fallen leaves haven’t the glory of Connecticut’s blushing bunch. Brown, wilted, they rest in heaps at the curb. The amazing thing is that here, not anywhere else in town, just here, they are covered with snow.

from new haven: blushing red

It would be impossible not to notice the presence of Fall in Connecticut. The winds are strong but the skies are clear. Sparkle and glitter on the ocean waters, a splash of vibrant red and a Halloween orange elsewhere.















I am noting all our references to autumn as a season of old age. The brittle, spent leaves, the creviced faces of old people. Why is one worth a premium and the other passed over? The beautiful autumnal display. Maps, telling you where you should be on each day to see the leaves at their greatest brilliance.

Fall, the exhilarating, spirited season. And why not? It follows sultry days of heat and nights of impassioned storms. Not unlike the heated tumult and excess of younger years. Where are the maps urging us toward the beautifully textured faces, with each line in place, the best ones that are both delicate and wise?

The blushing, stunning look of Fall.







daughters

from new haven: blushing red

It would be impossible not to notice the presence of Fall in Connecticut. The winds are strong but the skies are clear. Sparkle and glitter on the ocean waters, a splash of vibrant red and a Halloween orange elsewhere.















I am noting all our references to autumn as a season of old age. The brittle, spent leaves, the creviced faces of old people. Why is one worth a premium and the other passed over? The beautiful autumnal display. Maps, telling you where you should be on each day to see the leaves at their greatest brilliance.

Fall, the exhilarating, spirited season. And why not? It follows sultry days of heat and nights of impassioned storms. Not unlike the heated tumult and excess of younger years. Where are the maps urging us toward the beautifully textured faces, with each line in place, the best ones that are both delicate and wise?

The blushing, stunning look of Fall.







daughters

from new haven: impossible

I cannot post right now. Imagine: I am spinning with topics, issues, I am full… yet, I cannot post.

See you tomorrow.

from new haven: impossible

I cannot post right now. Imagine: I am spinning with topics, issues, I am full… yet, I cannot post.

See you tomorrow.

from new haven: rambling

For the eighth (and final) time, I am making an October pilgrimage to New Haven to check in on a daughter in college (no, she did not take eight years to finish; there are two daughters with two consecutive college experiences).

Fall, 1973, my own last semester in college, my last autumn in New York. I'm thinking: I have to get out. My parents are suddenly a presence. They have packed their trunks, closed their eyes to Warsaw (for the time being) and returned to New York. The U.N. is their turf again. And so I must switch from being an au pair for strangers, to once more being a daughter. The Fall daughter. The fall-from-grace (eventually) daughter.

Take me away!

Last semester in college... I fill out applications to graduate school. I bypass New York universities. I apply to schools in Berkeley, in Chicago, in Ottawa for God’s sake. Who ever applies to study sociology in Ottawa? I do. I pick my schools in terms of distance from New York. And then I recoil. Berkeley is too far from Europe. Dear Berkeley: I do not wish to go there after all. Dear Nina: Call us right away. We’re not sure we understand your reason for this. In the alternative, we think you’re crazy.

I will be spending next fall in Chicago.

Thanksgiving, they say, is the best New York holiday. We, in my family are too Polish to know what to do with it. I’m not sure my parents ever learned how to do anything proper with this or any other holiday. Oh, eventually they find their gig. Movies. Proclamation: henceforth we will walk to the moviehouse, briskly, for the exercise, up second avenue, down third, on each and every holiday, laying to rest fears that Christmas, New Year’s and Thanksgiving will not be properly celebrated.

I need to leave, I do not want to see turkey and pilgrim images. Shouldn’t there be snow up in northern New England? There is no snow. No white capped firs, no fireplace for defrosting cold limbs, no frost, bare trees, restless limbs.

Shouldn’t I rush to the arms of my man of the season -- Chris, the artist, the one I met at college because he crashed a college party? He has a dog and paints ugly canvases and he drives around Manhattan in a truck. I do not especially like Chris – he is my third choice. But my first choice, a music professor, is married. (This was before the days when the first part of that phrase, the fact of his professorship over me would have laid to rest any hopes of forming a meaningful connection.) Indeed, I suffer. I sit in the music class and take copious notes on Mahler – a bigger punishment than the previous semester spent on Bach.

My second choice? He is available only when his real girlfriend is out of town. He, too, teaches and he has years on his side. I am just twenty and years are an asset.

I do not want to spend Thanksgiving with Chris. I never want to see Chris again. Good bye Chris.

It strikes me that even though I attend college for two years in New York, I never date a college boy. American college boys don’t get me, of that I am sure, although I am uncertain as to why I prove to be so difficult for them, their young eyes looking past me, in the same way that I look past them.

A long Thanksgiving week-end at home? No, I cannot. I fly to an island far north, in the middle of the ocean and watch day turn to night all in the space of one hour.

And here I am, boarding a flight, chasing my daughters to New England. Can’t even wait until Thanksgiving. No snow in New England, just apples and trees and walks past covered bridges. Tired limbs, outstretched arms, long meals, listening to stories of what it’s like to spend a last Fall in college. Because her days, their years are so refreshingly different than mine.

from new haven: rambling

For the eighth (and final) time, I am making an October pilgrimage to New Haven to check in on a daughter in college (no, she did not take eight years to finish; there are two daughters with two consecutive college experiences).

Fall, 1973, my own last semester in college, my last autumn in New York. I'm thinking: I have to get out. My parents are suddenly a presence. They have packed their trunks, closed their eyes to Warsaw (for the time being) and returned to New York. The U.N. is their turf again. And so I must switch from being an au pair for strangers, to once more being a daughter. The Fall daughter. The fall-from-grace (eventually) daughter.

Take me away!

Last semester in college... I fill out applications to graduate school. I bypass New York universities. I apply to schools in Berkeley, in Chicago, in Ottawa for God’s sake. Who ever applies to study sociology in Ottawa? I do. I pick my schools in terms of distance from New York. And then I recoil. Berkeley is too far from Europe. Dear Berkeley: I do not wish to go there after all. Dear Nina: Call us right away. We’re not sure we understand your reason for this. In the alternative, we think you’re crazy.

I will be spending next fall in Chicago.

Thanksgiving, they say, is the best New York holiday. We, in my family are too Polish to know what to do with it. I’m not sure my parents ever learned how to do anything proper with this or any other holiday. Oh, eventually they find their gig. Movies. Proclamation: henceforth we will walk to the moviehouse, briskly, for the exercise, up second avenue, down third, on each and every holiday, laying to rest fears that Christmas, New Year’s and Thanksgiving will not be properly celebrated.

I need to leave, I do not want to see turkey and pilgrim images. Shouldn’t there be snow up in northern New England? There is no snow. No white capped firs, no fireplace for defrosting cold limbs, no frost, bare trees, restless limbs.

Shouldn’t I rush to the arms of my man of the season -- Chris, the artist, the one I met at college because he crashed a college party? He has a dog and paints ugly canvases and he drives around Manhattan in a truck. I do not especially like Chris – he is my third choice. But my first choice, a music professor, is married. (This was before the days when the first part of that phrase, the fact of his professorship over me would have laid to rest any hopes of forming a meaningful connection.) Indeed, I suffer. I sit in the music class and take copious notes on Mahler – a bigger punishment than the previous semester spent on Bach.

My second choice? He is available only when his real girlfriend is out of town. He, too, teaches and he has years on his side. I am just twenty and years are an asset.

I do not want to spend Thanksgiving with Chris. I never want to see Chris again. Good bye Chris.

It strikes me that even though I attend college for two years in New York, I never date a college boy. American college boys don’t get me, of that I am sure, although I am uncertain as to why I prove to be so difficult for them, their young eyes looking past me, in the same way that I look past them.

A long Thanksgiving week-end at home? No, I cannot. I fly to an island far north, in the middle of the ocean and watch day turn to night all in the space of one hour.

And here I am, boarding a flight, chasing my daughters to New England. Can’t even wait until Thanksgiving. No snow in New England, just apples and trees and walks past covered bridges. Tired limbs, outstretched arms, long meals, listening to stories of what it’s like to spend a last Fall in college. Because her days, their years are so refreshingly different than mine.

time will tell

I am watching sappy movies and packing for a trip out east tomorrow.

See you there and then.

time will tell

I am watching sappy movies and packing for a trip out east tomorrow.

See you there and then.

more on travel…

(Tuesday)
Others pop quantities of mood-altering meds, or pray for better days. I am not criticizing their choices. Me, I'm elsewhere. For example, I spent four hours this evening searching for a perfect place to stay in Istanbul on the night of June 4th, 2007.

If you know me, I mean really really know me, then this will come as no surprise to you. I can indeed lose myself in this kind of task. Were there no real constraints to my days, I could easily disappear into web comparisons of the finer points of hotel linen thread counts. For days. Weeks even.

It is not that I deeply care where it is that I reside on June 4th. Were I to spend a night at the Istanbul airport, stretched over three chairs, covered over by a sweater with my nifty red purse serving as pillow, I would not mind.

But when I need a distraction, thinking about firm mattresses, good showers and spiffy lobbies elsewhere does wonders.

(p.s. I do expect to be in Istanbul for one night and one night only on June 4th, so this search is not a complete fiction or fantasy. But it is, I admit, ridiculous. Unless you know me and then you will know that I am capable of doing just this, in exactly these circumstances.)

(Wednesday)
Do you want to go to Waukesha this evening and check out a very specialized metal supplier?
Normally I would say no. Waukesha holds no promise for me. Besides, I have an email request for a few Paris tips. Weigh this, please: stay home, listen to French music and write about Paris, or go to Waukesha.

I pick Waukesha, but only after I am promised a laptop connection for the (90 minute) drive there and a boom-box plugged into the old wreck of a car, so that I can listen to Patrick Bruel. Oh, and a dinner in one of Milwaukee’s western suburbs. And WiFi somewhere along the way. And back in time for the finale of Project Runway. And a discussion of my great Paris idea for 2007.

I’ve had a rough week after all.

The metal supplier’s warehouse is visually fascinating. Shelves of metal, in every configuration.






looks like NYC to me -- or, am I city deprived?

The WiFi is right there in the parking lot. I while away the time writing about Paris, right there in back of a specialized metals warehouse.

But I have an idea that is percolating – something new and different for 2007 and I gain energy from it, because it is freaky strong and it involves Paris.

Late in the evening, our business with the metal guys over, Ed and I head toward the town of Hartland. Sounds Midwestern. It is Midwestern. A Milwaukee paper recommended a restaurant there (the Bark River Bistro).

I order the surf and turf. I have not had a surf and turf in decades. It’s the all American dish, no? It is okay surf and turf, not great, but very very good. And the waitress, half my age, calls me hon and the fried mushrooms actually have the flavor of mushrooms rather than of grease.



'shrooms

Having a vision for the year ahead is so important.