simple?

No. Not for me, anyway.

I took my daughters’ car all the way to the west side and back again. Plenty of time to think about all the mistakes that can be made, not so much in life, but in a very brief expanse of time.

You could say that taking a photo through a dirty windshield while speeding on Campus Drive is just such a foolish act, but actually the traffic was moving very very slowly at the time. And the moon was out. And it seemed right.

I wish I could conclude that most decisions I make appear right months, or worse, years from their making.

Truth is, some do, some do not.

simple?

No. Not for me, anyway.

I took my daughters’ car all the way to the west side and back again. Plenty of time to think about all the mistakes that can be made, not so much in life, but in a very brief expanse of time.

You could say that taking a photo through a dirty windshield while speeding on Campus Drive is just such a foolish act, but actually the traffic was moving very very slowly at the time. And the moon was out. And it seemed right.

I wish I could conclude that most decisions I make appear right months, or worse, years from their making.

Truth is, some do, some do not.

feathers

If I go through a day and I ruffle no feathers, I consider that a success.

On balance, I would say that half of the days of the week I do and half I do not.

The worst is when the feathers I ruffle are my own.

Walking home, I encountered this little guy. Stern, don’t you think? He is asking me – why do you do it? I can only shrug my shoulders. How do I know?...

feathers

If I go through a day and I ruffle no feathers, I consider that a success.

On balance, I would say that half of the days of the week I do and half I do not.

The worst is when the feathers I ruffle are my own.

Walking home, I encountered this little guy. Stern, don’t you think? He is asking me – why do you do it? I can only shrug my shoulders. How do I know?...

shivering

Many shirts, a sweater and a wooly scarf – all for naught. It is cold. It isn’t as if I am hoisting the last scrap of wood into the fireplace. I live in a comfortable loft that has a thermostat and even though the forced warm air gets slightly tepid by the time it reaches the space occupied by me, if I keep the fan blowing long enough, it eventually does warm up the place.

I am cold in the way that one is cold when it all just isn’t enough.

I’m sitting at Borders, working away (some people work in offices; how boring is that) and my hand reaches toward my nose. It could serve as the cube that chills a summer beverage, it is that ice-like.

Earlier, I had done a brisk sprint through Shorewood, the neighborhood behind Borders. Not cold then, no, not at all (thank you, walking companion, for distracting me from the ice, the snow, the nip in the air).



That was then. Cold now. Really cold.

shivering

Many shirts, a sweater and a wooly scarf – all for naught. It is cold. It isn’t as if I am hoisting the last scrap of wood into the fireplace. I live in a comfortable loft that has a thermostat and even though the forced warm air gets slightly tepid by the time it reaches the space occupied by me, if I keep the fan blowing long enough, it eventually does warm up the place.

I am cold in the way that one is cold when it all just isn’t enough.

I’m sitting at Borders, working away (some people work in offices; how boring is that) and my hand reaches toward my nose. It could serve as the cube that chills a summer beverage, it is that ice-like.

Earlier, I had done a brisk sprint through Shorewood, the neighborhood behind Borders. Not cold then, no, not at all (thank you, walking companion, for distracting me from the ice, the snow, the nip in the air).



That was then. Cold now. Really cold.

twisted

In the early morning, when the wind was beyond cold, I went out for a stroll. Yes, that’s right – a walk, up the Picnic Point path and back again.

Snow, wind, the cold tentacles of winter – I take them in stride. The twisted gnarled branches of life – now that’s another thing.

twisted

In the early morning, when the wind was beyond cold, I went out for a stroll. Yes, that’s right – a walk, up the Picnic Point path and back again.

Snow, wind, the cold tentacles of winter – I take them in stride. The twisted gnarled branches of life – now that’s another thing.

winter

There are maybe two days in the year when the weather in Madison is perfect for cross-country skiing. Maybe one will fall on a day when you actually have time to hit a trail or two.

You wake up, have your granola, do some light stuff around the loft and then someone says to you – nice day out there… you want to go cross country skiing?

Damn. It’s almost noon. Who can be bothered with the effort of getting out and swishing around on boards.

You look up the weather for the week, hoping to put off this very outdoorsy project for the next day, but, that Arctic blast that hasn’t yet hit Madison? It’s about to hit Madison.

So you go to Fontana Sports, you purchase things that you think are fitting for an afternoon in the forest (but you keep tags on, just in case), you tell yourself the forest green cap is exactly right for any number of occasions (isn’t it?), you rent the skis and you set out.

And then you remember how much you love skiing. The trail (Blue Mounds State Park, make a note of it!) is groomed – five miles of hills and dips and curves and you are just in heaven. You even take a shot at parallel turns down especially precipitous dips in the path, even though cross country skiers are supposed to commune with nature rather than speed down for the thrill of it.

Winter. Not so bad, not today anyway.


yes, there's a tag on the cap



forest and farms



not out of the woods yet

winter

There are maybe two days in the year when the weather in Madison is perfect for cross-country skiing. Maybe one will fall on a day when you actually have time to hit a trail or two.

You wake up, have your granola, do some light stuff around the loft and then someone says to you – nice day out there… you want to go cross country skiing?

Damn. It’s almost noon. Who can be bothered with the effort of getting out and swishing around on boards.

You look up the weather for the week, hoping to put off this very outdoorsy project for the next day, but, that Arctic blast that hasn’t yet hit Madison? It’s about to hit Madison.

So you go to Fontana Sports, you purchase things that you think are fitting for an afternoon in the forest (but you keep tags on, just in case), you tell yourself the forest green cap is exactly right for any number of occasions (isn’t it?), you rent the skis and you set out.

And then you remember how much you love skiing. The trail (Blue Mounds State Park, make a note of it!) is groomed – five miles of hills and dips and curves and you are just in heaven. You even take a shot at parallel turns down especially precipitous dips in the path, even though cross country skiers are supposed to commune with nature rather than speed down for the thrill of it.

Winter. Not so bad, not today anyway.


yes, there's a tag on the cap



forest and farms



not out of the woods yet

ice and snow and blueberry pancakes

Tight days mean little time for a leisurely stroll to and from work. I biked. With wet hair and a scarf flying in the winter wind.

And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)



But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.

ice and snow and blueberry pancakes

Tight days mean little time for a leisurely stroll to and from work. I biked. With wet hair and a scarf flying in the winter wind.

And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)



But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.

waiting

…for the big thaw. It is of little significance that the big lakes haven’t been frozen for more than a handful of days. In my mind, frozen water is a poor substitute for the spray and splash of the warm summer stuff, bedazzling at sunset, probably splendid at sunrise for the odd types who are drawn to watching that sort of thing.

Still, there are people who consider walking along the snow topped ice a pleasant, romantic little adventure.



I applaud them. I am happy for them and they are happier with the date on the calendar than I am. (In truth, it is unreasonable to speak of thaws in Wisconsin in January).

Me, I wait for the Terrace chairs to be out again, not piled against a wall, pushed away, irrelevant, undesirable, cold.



The best thing about biting, crisp days like this is that you’re glad when they are done with.

waiting

…for the big thaw. It is of little significance that the big lakes haven’t been frozen for more than a handful of days. In my mind, frozen water is a poor substitute for the spray and splash of the warm summer stuff, bedazzling at sunset, probably splendid at sunrise for the odd types who are drawn to watching that sort of thing.

Still, there are people who consider walking along the snow topped ice a pleasant, romantic little adventure.



I applaud them. I am happy for them and they are happier with the date on the calendar than I am. (In truth, it is unreasonable to speak of thaws in Wisconsin in January).

Me, I wait for the Terrace chairs to be out again, not piled against a wall, pushed away, irrelevant, undesirable, cold.



The best thing about biting, crisp days like this is that you’re glad when they are done with.

wednesday woes

I may as well set this up as a regular Ocean feature for this semester. Because, fact is, I do not have the required minutes (and therefore the creative spirit) to make much of anything of this midweek day. It is, and will be for weeks on end, too busy (with work) for words.

But maybe not for photos. As long as one wakes up and gets out of bed, there is never no room for grabbing your digital and taking a shot of the world.

So there you have it. My day ends with a walk along the lake. I have to give support to a fundraiser at the Monona Terrace convention center. Within walking distance for me.



Once there, I am lost amidst swarms of unknown people. What do I do? Consider hitting the dessert tray. Worth it? You tell me.

wednesday woes

I may as well set this up as a regular Ocean feature for this semester. Because, fact is, I do not have the required minutes (and therefore the creative spirit) to make much of anything of this midweek day. It is, and will be for weeks on end, too busy (with work) for words.

But maybe not for photos. As long as one wakes up and gets out of bed, there is never no room for grabbing your digital and taking a shot of the world.

So there you have it. My day ends with a walk along the lake. I have to give support to a fundraiser at the Monona Terrace convention center. Within walking distance for me.



Once there, I am lost amidst swarms of unknown people. What do I do? Consider hitting the dessert tray. Worth it? You tell me.

signs

What greater evidence is there of the beginning of a semester than the appearance of posts here, on Ocean, that are short, but not so crisp, and certainly not always to the point?

Walking home from work, with my camera dangling as usual in the hope that something wonderfully amusing or, in the alternative, fantastically clever will strike me, thereby forming the backbone of an evening story, I almost reached the loft before taking a single shot. And I chose to photograph this:



Why? Not for the cleverness nor amusement value, but for exactly what it is: the incongruous pairing of a sunshine motif with the reality of snow piled around bicycles.

Again, why is this of interest to me? I’m still contemplating my own March madness. Assume I have earned a week-end of downtime. Should it be in warm places (where oranges grow)? Oddly, I think it will be in a place that’s both cold (encased in snow) and warm (kissed by the sun) at the same time.

So many days between now and March. So many chances to change my mind.

signs

What greater evidence is there of the beginning of a semester than the appearance of posts here, on Ocean, that are short, but not so crisp, and certainly not always to the point?

Walking home from work, with my camera dangling as usual in the hope that something wonderfully amusing or, in the alternative, fantastically clever will strike me, thereby forming the backbone of an evening story, I almost reached the loft before taking a single shot. And I chose to photograph this:



Why? Not for the cleverness nor amusement value, but for exactly what it is: the incongruous pairing of a sunshine motif with the reality of snow piled around bicycles.

Again, why is this of interest to me? I’m still contemplating my own March madness. Assume I have earned a week-end of downtime. Should it be in warm places (where oranges grow)? Oddly, I think it will be in a place that’s both cold (encased in snow) and warm (kissed by the sun) at the same time.

So many days between now and March. So many chances to change my mind.

mammoth thoughts about mammoth people, plus a photo of a mammoth tree

It seems that sometimes, people just take charge. Of a conversation, of a life, of a problematic set of circumstances. They seize the reigns, grab the bull’s horn (or is it tail?), they jump in and suddenly, they are towering and omnipresent, and their inclinations, proclivities, ideas and belief systems are ferociously palpable.

You might think that I would regard this as a bad thing. It smells of an aggressive, domineering stance. Most unwelcome, right?

No. Over the years, I have felt the strength of people who can do this effectively and it is incredible to behold. They tower over you, they appear to strike against your most pernicious fears and worries and then, miraculously, they step back and let the free-wheeling, independent spirits roam again.

It doesn’t happen very often (not the seizing the reigns, not the stepping back), but in my mind at least there are the rare types who can do it, have done it, are willing to do it. Heroes, to me.

mammoth thoughts about mammoth people, plus a photo of a mammoth tree

It seems that sometimes, people just take charge. Of a conversation, of a life, of a problematic set of circumstances. They seize the reigns, grab the bull’s horn (or is it tail?), they jump in and suddenly, they are towering and omnipresent, and their inclinations, proclivities, ideas and belief systems are ferociously palpable.

You might think that I would regard this as a bad thing. It smells of an aggressive, domineering stance. Most unwelcome, right?

No. Over the years, I have felt the strength of people who can do this effectively and it is incredible to behold. They tower over you, they appear to strike against your most pernicious fears and worries and then, miraculously, they step back and let the free-wheeling, independent spirits roam again.

It doesn’t happen very often (not the seizing the reigns, not the stepping back), but in my mind at least there are the rare types who can do it, have done it, are willing to do it. Heroes, to me.

buried

If, looking outside today, you leapt out of bed, downed a hefty bowl of granola, with a steaming latte on the side, slid into your warmies and your winter boots and dashed outside to play in the immensely beautiful snow – you were not me. Or even remotely like me.

But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.

I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.

A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.



But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.

buried

If, looking outside today, you leapt out of bed, downed a hefty bowl of granola, with a steaming latte on the side, slid into your warmies and your winter boots and dashed outside to play in the immensely beautiful snow – you were not me. Or even remotely like me.

But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.

I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.

A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.



But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.

week-end redirect

Looking for a story tonight? Ocean View (Save & Travel tab) has an update. What about? Oh, on this kind of journey:



It is far, far better to direct you there than to have me write about this cold, cold, work-filled day.

week-end redirect

Looking for a story tonight? Ocean View (Save & Travel tab) has an update. What about? Oh, on this kind of journey:



It is far, far better to direct you there than to have me write about this cold, cold, work-filled day.

dear little one,

I didn’t mean it. When I told you that you were stubborn (back when you were only a week old), I didn’t mean it. Or, I meant it then, but I think now you were just communicating your willfulness. And desire. For food, for life, for the winter season. Making a statement.

That photo? You look so little, there in that field, with a bunch of flowers in your hair and sporting a New York t-shirt. A successful parent is one who can make you appreciate both – nature and New York (and Istanbul and Buenos Aires). And so in this way, I have not failed.



We toddled along, you and I. You, more patiently than I, of that I am certain. I forgave you your long hours at work and play, I forgave you your way of scorning the vegetables on your plate. And you forgave me my insistence that there be room for everything in your life (even the vegetables). And you tested and tasted life and made up your own mind and the one minute we were not watching, there you were, holding onto a plateful of good things.

Bold steps, one after another -- an early start, you walked before anyone on the planet. No one has your concentration, your attention to the finer details of life. Thank you for not dwelling on the imperfections that are all around us, even as I try to get a handle on it all, realizing that one never does fully get a handle on it all.

You fit in. In life, you fit in. You are that flexible, that curious, that tolerant of those with strong convictions (yes, I have food convictions, I admit it – and you humor me and work next to me as we pile food onto plates and trays, side by side, you and I in the kitchen – thank you for this).

Twenty-two is like two twos, two terrible twos only you were never terrible. It’s as if you skipped from being one, to a confluence of ages and years so that you have always been a child and an adult and you worried along with me when I worried about you because you understood that sometimes one needs to worry.

But mostly, your face has been a barrelful of expressions. You can make lizards dance with that mouth down pout. You have made us laugh hard.

Your sister adores you, your dad does too, and your friends, but move over, people, there is room for me! I adore you so much, my little one!

Happy birthday!

…with so much love…
~muz

dear little one,

I didn’t mean it. When I told you that you were stubborn (back when you were only a week old), I didn’t mean it. Or, I meant it then, but I think now you were just communicating your willfulness. And desire. For food, for life, for the winter season. Making a statement.

That photo? You look so little, there in that field, with a bunch of flowers in your hair and sporting a New York t-shirt. A successful parent is one who can make you appreciate both – nature and New York (and Istanbul and Buenos Aires). And so in this way, I have not failed.



We toddled along, you and I. You, more patiently than I, of that I am certain. I forgave you your long hours at work and play, I forgave you your way of scorning the vegetables on your plate. And you forgave me my insistence that there be room for everything in your life (even the vegetables). And you tested and tasted life and made up your own mind and the one minute we were not watching, there you were, holding onto a plateful of good things.

Bold steps, one after another -- an early start, you walked before anyone on the planet. No one has your concentration, your attention to the finer details of life. Thank you for not dwelling on the imperfections that are all around us, even as I try to get a handle on it all, realizing that one never does fully get a handle on it all.

You fit in. In life, you fit in. You are that flexible, that curious, that tolerant of those with strong convictions (yes, I have food convictions, I admit it – and you humor me and work next to me as we pile food onto plates and trays, side by side, you and I in the kitchen – thank you for this).

Twenty-two is like two twos, two terrible twos only you were never terrible. It’s as if you skipped from being one, to a confluence of ages and years so that you have always been a child and an adult and you worried along with me when I worried about you because you understood that sometimes one needs to worry.

But mostly, your face has been a barrelful of expressions. You can make lizards dance with that mouth down pout. You have made us laugh hard.

Your sister adores you, your dad does too, and your friends, but move over, people, there is room for me! I adore you so much, my little one!

Happy birthday!

…with so much love…
~muz

PR

What’s in a word… Or in letters? What images do those two bring forth?

POLAR?

An obvious choice today. Light snow flurries, gray skies.

I need a break! It cannot be all work, I need a break! I meander. Just a handful of blocks, to Vilas Park, the zoo, empty now. No little children with cups of fizzy soda… So cold… Are there beings who do not mind this grayness, this utter chill?




PR... Public Relations?

In my days (are my days no more?), I heard a lot about PR. We need to do some PR work, our image is at an all time low. Do people still worry about Public Relations? Elected officials? Firms and corporations? Universities? Professors?

I do. Bloggers who use their real names have to worry about this. What image do you project when you write frivolously?

Whatever it is, it’s better than posting about the nonfrivolous: work. I love my job to death, but I rarely write about it. I am a photographer who does not turn on the power of the camera (I speak figuratively here) until the door of work slams behind me.

Thoughts like that come up as I sit immersed in materials, preparing for the next semester (which starts next week).


Puerto Rico

Of course! It had to be! An addendum to the post below:

What are you saying, that people should not go all the way to Puerto Rico for long week-ends? You’re kidding, right? It is the norm! That is why prices are so elevated Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Working people go away for week-ends. Self employed people do whatever they please. You are self-employed. I am not.
Puerto Rico is too far for a short trip. Five hours on the flight, each way…

I feel I am listening to my mother.

Too far…
No, I cannot listen to another too. I booked a room. Come or not, I’m off. A week-end in early March. So that I can smell the salt and listen to the steady ripple of waves.
Camping, would you consider camping? Hiking maybe?
No.

Some may consider a few days of warming one's toes in golden sands boring.



Not me.

PR

What’s in a word… Or in letters? What images do those two bring forth?

POLAR?

An obvious choice today. Light snow flurries, gray skies.

I need a break! It cannot be all work, I need a break! I meander. Just a handful of blocks, to Vilas Park, the zoo, empty now. No little children with cups of fizzy soda… So cold… Are there beings who do not mind this grayness, this utter chill?




PR... Public Relations?

In my days (are my days no more?), I heard a lot about PR. We need to do some PR work, our image is at an all time low. Do people still worry about Public Relations? Elected officials? Firms and corporations? Universities? Professors?

I do. Bloggers who use their real names have to worry about this. What image do you project when you write frivolously?

Whatever it is, it’s better than posting about the nonfrivolous: work. I love my job to death, but I rarely write about it. I am a photographer who does not turn on the power of the camera (I speak figuratively here) until the door of work slams behind me.

Thoughts like that come up as I sit immersed in materials, preparing for the next semester (which starts next week).


Puerto Rico

Of course! It had to be! An addendum to the post below:

What are you saying, that people should not go all the way to Puerto Rico for long week-ends? You’re kidding, right? It is the norm! That is why prices are so elevated Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Working people go away for week-ends. Self employed people do whatever they please. You are self-employed. I am not.
Puerto Rico is too far for a short trip. Five hours on the flight, each way…

I feel I am listening to my mother.

Too far…
No, I cannot listen to another too. I booked a room. Come or not, I’m off. A week-end in early March. So that I can smell the salt and listen to the steady ripple of waves.
Camping, would you consider camping? Hiking maybe?
No.

Some may consider a few days of warming one's toes in golden sands boring.



Not me.

fleeing the darker side of winter

Looks like the March sailing week-end is off. No boat to be had down there on the Keyes.
What?? (a sigh of relief… boats on choppy waters… go this way and that way, go this way and that)
But what I really say is – a week-end at a southern shore is what I long for on the cold dark days of January, February… What now?
What now… we’ll see… something will come up.

My occasional traveling companion just erased an image of boat decks and shorefront bars where sailors drink whiskey and smoke cigars. It’s what stories are made of. Gone.

Can we forget about the sailing bit and find a beach for the week-end? I have built my life around the image of the Caribbean blue waters in March.
Reluctantly: There are cheap fares to the Bahamas. People go there to gamble. Beach during the day, casino at night. You want to gamble?
No.
I don’t either… But that’s what you do down there…

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a cheap airfare and gambling.)

I’ll look up some fun and funky places to stay, where fans spin in tile-floor rooms and locals sit on bar stools in the lounge and sip on whiskey and rum…
Can you keep it under $65 per night?
That wipes out the vast majority of winter Caribbean destinations!
How about Puerto Rico?
I’m surfing the Net as we speak…
So, cheap places. Have you found any?

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a constant search for the very cheapest room to be had on whatever side of the ocean you may find yourself.)

Who needs a beach anyway… It’s pretty, here, in sunny cold Wisconsin. True, the picnic tables will stand empty for another six months or so…



…but one needs to look on the upside of a January day.

Driving home late in the evening I focus on the upside of a January day. I try not to pay attention to the smoke suspended from chimneys, never seeming to go anywhere at all, held back by the cold. I try not to see that.



I bring back my now polluted daydream of hammocks suspended between palm trees and bars filled with sailors and locals, drinking whiskey and rum. The remains of an image. They’ll get me through a day or two.

fleeing the darker side of winter

Looks like the March sailing week-end is off. No boat to be had down there on the Keyes.
What?? (a sigh of relief… boats on choppy waters… go this way and that way, go this way and that)
But what I really say is – a week-end at a southern shore is what I long for on the cold dark days of January, February… What now?
What now… we’ll see… something will come up.

My occasional traveling companion just erased an image of boat decks and shorefront bars where sailors drink whiskey and smoke cigars. It’s what stories are made of. Gone.

Can we forget about the sailing bit and find a beach for the week-end? I have built my life around the image of the Caribbean blue waters in March.
Reluctantly: There are cheap fares to the Bahamas. People go there to gamble. Beach during the day, casino at night. You want to gamble?
No.
I don’t either… But that’s what you do down there…

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a cheap airfare and gambling.)

I’ll look up some fun and funky places to stay, where fans spin in tile-floor rooms and locals sit on bar stools in the lounge and sip on whiskey and rum…
Can you keep it under $65 per night?
That wipes out the vast majority of winter Caribbean destinations!
How about Puerto Rico?
I’m surfing the Net as we speak…
So, cheap places. Have you found any?

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a constant search for the very cheapest room to be had on whatever side of the ocean you may find yourself.)

Who needs a beach anyway… It’s pretty, here, in sunny cold Wisconsin. True, the picnic tables will stand empty for another six months or so…



…but one needs to look on the upside of a January day.

Driving home late in the evening I focus on the upside of a January day. I try not to pay attention to the smoke suspended from chimneys, never seeming to go anywhere at all, held back by the cold. I try not to see that.



I bring back my now polluted daydream of hammocks suspended between palm trees and bars filled with sailors and locals, drinking whiskey and rum. The remains of an image. They’ll get me through a day or two.

when did I become an American?

Truth is, I don’t know. There was no defining moment, not at the level of awareness nor at the level of government bureaucracy.

Some two dozen years ago, I switched my status from that of a resident alien to a US citizen, but I really don’t remember exactly when it happened. I was never naturalized. At some point, during the looser times of the eighties, I requested a passport and, based on my familial history, too complicated to explain here, I was granted it.

So maybe, technically, I had always been an American, even though I was born and raised in Poland, was eligible to vote in Poland, left the country as a Pole and returned to it as a Pole?

In those early decades of my life, I was so Polish that the idea of a different identity would be shocking. Sort of like finding out that you were adopted. Guess what, you are an American!

When my first American passport came in the mail (when? when?? 1985? later?) I did not relinquish my Polish passport and so I am technically a Pole as well. Technically? I feel my formative mush inside is composed of more Polish identifiers than American ones. Even though, right now, I really have more in common with the folks on this side of the ocean.

Today I wanted to file for a new American passport. I had lost my “real one” back in Italy (or Switzerland?), in May and time was running out: replacement passports obtained abroad have to be switched over to the real thing within a year. I called the US Passport people and asked what it is that I need for filing purposes (it isn’t clear on the web for losers like me. Losers of passports. Losers of identities, maybe).

Easy! I am told. Submit form XXX, two photos, your temporary replacement passport, a copy a drivers license and, you know, because we are going through tough times, proof of citizenship: your birth certificate or naturalization papers.

But I have neither! I am a child of Poland, an adult of America, maybe I was always American, but I certainly didn’t know it until I was close to forty and if not, I do not know when I became an American.

No birth certificate?
A Polish one.
No naturalization papers?
No.

Hmmm. Do you have an old passport? An invalid one? That would do.

Notice to the general public of Switzerland and Italy: somewhere on your soil lies my true identity. I left it there. Could you help me locate it please? It bears testament to the fact that I am an American! (I am American, aren’t I?)

You don’t have any old passports at all, do you?

I remember getting rid of clutter as I moved to the loft a little over a year ago. Does an old passport constitute clutter? And if I trashed it, what now? Where is there proof that I am indeed an American?

Nowhere.

I think about how I have made travel my life (or so it sometimes seems). I think how ironic that my traveling days may be over. How can I leave the country if I have no papers giving me permission to return?

I drive around Madison, looking at the land that is suddenly not my homeland or at least not if I leave it, if I can leave it. Snow-covered, blue and yellow land, my favorite colors, snow is blue, sunlight is yellow, am I a Swede?



Of this I am certain: I am not a Swede.

Driving west, driving east, east meets west – I live in downtown Madison now where indeed the east meets the west. In the same way that my eastern roots met my western identity? Am I a median of the two? The halfway point to each? Is that why I like France? Or the ocean?

I pass my old neighborhood where I lived until recently. Until the time I threw out old papers. The snow looks clean and fresh here. It is a child’s neighborhood. A place to grow up, a place to be an American.





Wait, one more drawer of papers and mementos. I can check one more drawer. At the loft, I open it, a drawer that holds my identity. An envelope with a letter written just two years ago. It tells me to protect and take care of my new passport (I failed! I lost it in Italy or Switzerland or in crossing from one to the other!). The letter accompanies an old, canceled, dated passport.

I am American after all. I am, aren’t I? A cancelled identity, broken, rebuilt, resubmitted for a stamp of approval. You're one of us! Am I? You almost didn't claim me. No matter. Confusion is the story of my life. On either side of the ocean.

when did I become an American?

Truth is, I don’t know. There was no defining moment, not at the level of awareness nor at the level of government bureaucracy.

Some two dozen years ago, I switched my status from that of a resident alien to a US citizen, but I really don’t remember exactly when it happened. I was never naturalized. At some point, during the looser times of the eighties, I requested a passport and, based on my familial history, too complicated to explain here, I was granted it.

So maybe, technically, I had always been an American, even though I was born and raised in Poland, was eligible to vote in Poland, left the country as a Pole and returned to it as a Pole?

In those early decades of my life, I was so Polish that the idea of a different identity would be shocking. Sort of like finding out that you were adopted. Guess what, you are an American!

When my first American passport came in the mail (when? when?? 1985? later?) I did not relinquish my Polish passport and so I am technically a Pole as well. Technically? I feel my formative mush inside is composed of more Polish identifiers than American ones. Even though, right now, I really have more in common with the folks on this side of the ocean.

Today I wanted to file for a new American passport. I had lost my “real one” back in Italy (or Switzerland?), in May and time was running out: replacement passports obtained abroad have to be switched over to the real thing within a year. I called the US Passport people and asked what it is that I need for filing purposes (it isn’t clear on the web for losers like me. Losers of passports. Losers of identities, maybe).

Easy! I am told. Submit form XXX, two photos, your temporary replacement passport, a copy a drivers license and, you know, because we are going through tough times, proof of citizenship: your birth certificate or naturalization papers.

But I have neither! I am a child of Poland, an adult of America, maybe I was always American, but I certainly didn’t know it until I was close to forty and if not, I do not know when I became an American.

No birth certificate?
A Polish one.
No naturalization papers?
No.

Hmmm. Do you have an old passport? An invalid one? That would do.

Notice to the general public of Switzerland and Italy: somewhere on your soil lies my true identity. I left it there. Could you help me locate it please? It bears testament to the fact that I am an American! (I am American, aren’t I?)

You don’t have any old passports at all, do you?

I remember getting rid of clutter as I moved to the loft a little over a year ago. Does an old passport constitute clutter? And if I trashed it, what now? Where is there proof that I am indeed an American?

Nowhere.

I think about how I have made travel my life (or so it sometimes seems). I think how ironic that my traveling days may be over. How can I leave the country if I have no papers giving me permission to return?

I drive around Madison, looking at the land that is suddenly not my homeland or at least not if I leave it, if I can leave it. Snow-covered, blue and yellow land, my favorite colors, snow is blue, sunlight is yellow, am I a Swede?



Of this I am certain: I am not a Swede.

Driving west, driving east, east meets west – I live in downtown Madison now where indeed the east meets the west. In the same way that my eastern roots met my western identity? Am I a median of the two? The halfway point to each? Is that why I like France? Or the ocean?

I pass my old neighborhood where I lived until recently. Until the time I threw out old papers. The snow looks clean and fresh here. It is a child’s neighborhood. A place to grow up, a place to be an American.





Wait, one more drawer of papers and mementos. I can check one more drawer. At the loft, I open it, a drawer that holds my identity. An envelope with a letter written just two years ago. It tells me to protect and take care of my new passport (I failed! I lost it in Italy or Switzerland or in crossing from one to the other!). The letter accompanies an old, canceled, dated passport.

I am American after all. I am, aren’t I? A cancelled identity, broken, rebuilt, resubmitted for a stamp of approval. You're one of us! Am I? You almost didn't claim me. No matter. Confusion is the story of my life. On either side of the ocean.

think travel, read Ocean View

Two new stories for you on the Ask For an Ocean View website: one on how to pick a restaurant in Paris without really trying and another on flying free and rubbing shoulders with the business class.

It’s a snowy day here in the Midwest. Finally, winter. I can’t believe I was singing its seasonal virtues just a few days back. Damn cold out there. Time to think about getting away.

think travel, read Ocean View

Two new stories for you on the Ask For an Ocean View website: one on how to pick a restaurant in Paris without really trying and another on flying free and rubbing shoulders with the business class.

It’s a snowy day here in the Midwest. Finally, winter. I can’t believe I was singing its seasonal virtues just a few days back. Damn cold out there. Time to think about getting away.