the end of the road

Here, we’re nearing our destination. Take a photo, will you?
You’re switching lanes! There are bumps in the road! There are splattered bugs all over the windshield!
Shoot! Waste photos! Or else I’ll do it!
You’re driving, hand me the camera and tell me what you want!
You know: traffic, skyline, construction, all that I think of when coming up on Chicago.






So this is it, the drop off point – the end of the 1000 miles. Thursday, I drive the remaining paltry 150 alone to Madison.

…where I will not sleep for three days straight so that I can finish all that I need to finish before taking off for a long stretch across the ocean.

One-sentence posts, coming up. Until Monday.

the end of the road

Here, we’re nearing our destination. Take a photo, will you?
You’re switching lanes! There are bumps in the road! There are splattered bugs all over the windshield!
Shoot! Waste photos! Or else I’ll do it!
You’re driving, hand me the camera and tell me what you want!
You know: traffic, skyline, construction, all that I think of when coming up on Chicago.






So this is it, the drop off point – the end of the 1000 miles. Thursday, I drive the remaining paltry 150 alone to Madison.

…where I will not sleep for three days straight so that I can finish all that I need to finish before taking off for a long stretch across the ocean.

One-sentence posts, coming up. Until Monday.

Highway notes

There is something brutal about this hugely democratic movement of people across America’s highways. It’s morning, I am at a Holiday Inn in Batavia, New York. Not one of my readers will have heard of Batavia. Or maybe they will have been here, for it is well represented by a clump of motels at the foot of an entrance ramp onto Highway 90.

The Holiday Inn has a lobby that smells of swimming pools. They all do. When I was young, motels had outdoor pools and you drove up to the door of your room in most every roadside inn (for the handful of years that I lived in the States then, my family was big on road trips). I’m thinking that the pools should have stayed outside because chlorine is only slightly better in smell than stale tobacco. (Thank God for nonsmoking rooms.)

We are looking to have a Bob Evans breakfast. Me, I have been won over by Starbucks counters with great coffee and boring but serviceable baked goods, but there isn’t one here in Batavia and so we are likely to order the traditional Bob Evans plateful of foods that do well with maple syrup (pancakes, French toast, etc). With weak coffee on the side. In thick mugs.

Then we will enter the stream of traffic. Pick up a ticket for the thruway, point the nose of the monster car west and push the pedal down. And I will stay in that position for hours, watching the sun move from behind me to in front of me.

My eyes will focus on truckers whose vans ask me to call random places to report on their highway behavior and on highway patrol cars that chase random sinners in the speed lane. I will count down miles to the next service area and then the next one. We will not stop at hardly any, by they are markers of progress. Nothing else gives me the feeling of movement. I am stuck on a highway that looks the same in Batavia as it does will in Toledo and Elkhorn.

Like millions others, we are off, ready to be sucked into the westbound lanes. To be spit out tonight, in Chicago.

Highway notes

There is something brutal about this hugely democratic movement of people across America’s highways. It’s morning, I am at a Holiday Inn in Batavia, New York. Not one of my readers will have heard of Batavia. Or maybe they will have been here, for it is well represented by a clump of motels at the foot of an entrance ramp onto Highway 90.

The Holiday Inn has a lobby that smells of swimming pools. They all do. When I was young, motels had outdoor pools and you drove up to the door of your room in most every roadside inn (for the handful of years that I lived in the States then, my family was big on road trips). I’m thinking that the pools should have stayed outside because chlorine is only slightly better in smell than stale tobacco. (Thank God for nonsmoking rooms.)

We are looking to have a Bob Evans breakfast. Me, I have been won over by Starbucks counters with great coffee and boring but serviceable baked goods, but there isn’t one here in Batavia and so we are likely to order the traditional Bob Evans plateful of foods that do well with maple syrup (pancakes, French toast, etc). With weak coffee on the side. In thick mugs.

Then we will enter the stream of traffic. Pick up a ticket for the thruway, point the nose of the monster car west and push the pedal down. And I will stay in that position for hours, watching the sun move from behind me to in front of me.

My eyes will focus on truckers whose vans ask me to call random places to report on their highway behavior and on highway patrol cars that chase random sinners in the speed lane. I will count down miles to the next service area and then the next one. We will not stop at hardly any, by they are markers of progress. Nothing else gives me the feeling of movement. I am stuck on a highway that looks the same in Batavia as it does will in Toledo and Elkhorn.

Like millions others, we are off, ready to be sucked into the westbound lanes. To be spit out tonight, in Chicago.

from New Haven: overheard, one last time

Come on, put on a cap so we can take a photo of you – it’s your school, your celebration as well! It’s your JD &MA!
No, I’m here for my little sister’s college graduation.

One has logged in four, the other - eight years of a New Haven life

All the details, the opening hours, the short cuts, the foods, the habits of this city are suddenly immaterial to us! It all no longer matters! So sad.

We disperse. One stuck on a broken Amtrak train, somewhere between Baltimore and DC. One waiting for a flight back to Chicago. And two for the road. Car packed with books, a stack of tapes to listen to, hitting America’s great (and oh so boring) highways back to the Midwest.

from New Haven: overheard, one last time

Come on, put on a cap so we can take a photo of you – it’s your school, your celebration as well! It’s your JD &MA!
No, I’m here for my little sister’s college graduation.

One has logged in four, the other - eight years of a New Haven life

All the details, the opening hours, the short cuts, the foods, the habits of this city are suddenly immaterial to us! It all no longer matters! So sad.

We disperse. One stuck on a broken Amtrak train, somewhere between Baltimore and DC. One waiting for a flight back to Chicago. And two for the road. Car packed with books, a stack of tapes to listen to, hitting America’s great (and oh so boring) highways back to the Midwest.

from New Haven: overheard

(toddler’s voice) Mama? Mama?
Mamma is getting her degree. You’ll see her in a while.

(elsewhere:)

My son took seven years. Toward the end of his senior year he had a meltdown and wanted time off (to ski). All the relatives had to get refunds for their airfares for his graduation. Today they’re all here. He finished! Seven years later, he finished!

(elsewhere:)

Uncle! Uncle! Climb over here, can you? You can see him walk by here!

So, how do you photograph it all? (See here? I'm not the only one with trepidations.)

...Me, I'm just just biding time, waiting for the right person (out of oh so many) to walk by with a content grin...





Overwhelming? yes, though if I wait long enough, there will always be the food to help me regain my composure.

from New Haven: overheard

(toddler’s voice) Mama? Mama?
Mamma is getting her degree. You’ll see her in a while.

(elsewhere:)

My son took seven years. Toward the end of his senior year he had a meltdown and wanted time off (to ski). All the relatives had to get refunds for their airfares for his graduation. Today they’re all here. He finished! Seven years later, he finished!

(elsewhere:)

Uncle! Uncle! Climb over here, can you? You can see him walk by here!

So, how do you photograph it all? (See here? I'm not the only one with trepidations.)

...Me, I'm just just biding time, waiting for the right person (out of oh so many) to walk by with a content grin...





Overwhelming? yes, though if I wait long enough, there will always be the food to help me regain my composure.

from New Haven: hats off

It’s a week-end thing, this graduation stuff. And that’s good. Some of us travel far to see the square hats on our kids’ heads. May as well roll out the carpet for the grads all week-end long.

In the morning, when the streets are still not peppered with black robes, a sole grad takes the time to walk her puppy. Did the puppy come to her with a card saying – good luck! This is your future! He is yours now!?

The Baccalaureate. They gather in their robes and they listen to speeches about their time here in college. A (known to me) young woman gives one last look up toward the gallery, where her family is sitting, beaming…

But solemnity be damned. Today is the fun day. Where black hats are tossed aside for more creative options.

Wait, is someone importing emblems of my home state?

I listen to it all, I sing the songs that over the years you pick up at these events:

Bright college years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life…

Mine weren’t that. But things are different now – with pleasure rife – for my kids.

Spoken like a true immigrant, no?

from New Haven: hats off

It’s a week-end thing, this graduation stuff. And that’s good. Some of us travel far to see the square hats on our kids’ heads. May as well roll out the carpet for the grads all week-end long.

In the morning, when the streets are still not peppered with black robes, a sole grad takes the time to walk her puppy. Did the puppy come to her with a card saying – good luck! This is your future! He is yours now!?

The Baccalaureate. They gather in their robes and they listen to speeches about their time here in college. A (known to me) young woman gives one last look up toward the gallery, where her family is sitting, beaming…

But solemnity be damned. Today is the fun day. Where black hats are tossed aside for more creative options.

Wait, is someone importing emblems of my home state?

I listen to it all, I sing the songs that over the years you pick up at these events:

Bright college years, with pleasure rife,
The shortest, gladdest years of life…

Mine weren’t that. But things are different now – with pleasure rife – for my kids.

Spoken like a true immigrant, no?

from New Haven: art

A reader commented – doctors practice medicine; artists do not practice art.

Makes sense. But I do support the practice of supporting art. And I would very much like to be supported for finding art.

All that as a backdrop to my walk through the campus this morning. So much of what is here shouts ART!

If you take pictures of art, are you contributing to its creation? Or just supporting it?

The last photo is from the newly renovated Yale University Art Gallery (a modernist building that is as old as I am). The permanent collection here is mind boggling.

A warm warm day, much of it spent walking through art, thinking about art, wishing there was more time for participating actively in its creation.

from New Haven: art

A reader commented – doctors practice medicine; artists do not practice art.

Makes sense. But I do support the practice of supporting art. And I would very much like to be supported for finding art.

All that as a backdrop to my walk through the campus this morning. So much of what is here shouts ART!

If you take pictures of art, are you contributing to its creation? Or just supporting it?

The last photo is from the newly renovated Yale University Art Gallery (a modernist building that is as old as I am). The permanent collection here is mind boggling.

A warm warm day, much of it spent walking through art, thinking about art, wishing there was more time for participating actively in its creation.

from New Haven: done

I would say an eight-year relationship is pretty hefty, wouldn’t you? It gives you time to make friends and get bored a little. You develop a history.

My relationship with New Haven has been eight years and now it’s time to call it quits. I’m bowing out.

I hated you when I first saw you. Drab, I thought. But you wooed me. That dinner on the cold rainy March day! I still remember it.

I’m into ratings. I rate your food as awesome. From the pizza to the ethnic beauties – I’ve eaten Ethiopian, South American, North American, Indian, Malaysian, Spanish -- ohhh, I’m having regrets! This is not good!

The reality is that I came here only because my daughters made this their home. Good old daughters. Quirky daughters. New Haven??? It wasn’t meant to last. Now, one has chosen DC, the other is heading west to PA in CA – stay put already, so I can get bored again!

Okay, I haven’t always been bored in New Haven. I have cried here at the various events that I have attended. I have cried when I have left daughters behind and headed home.

And, I have acted stupidly here. Never more stupidly than on the night of September 1st, 2005. The Hot Tomato's bar. Those in the know will nod their heads sagely. Yep, she was an ass then. You are right. I cannot sing je ne regrette rien since that day.

But mostly, it has been a place where my family assembles every now and then. Solid love. And, memories of physical toil (the moving in, the moving out). And mental anguish (did anyone read the New Yorker bit this week about college being one big ride on the anxiety train?).

So, it’s my final visit here.

New Haven. Such a place. Wonderful to be back, this one last time. [I’m staying away from Hot Tomato's.]

from New Haven: done

I would say an eight-year relationship is pretty hefty, wouldn’t you? It gives you time to make friends and get bored a little. You develop a history.

My relationship with New Haven has been eight years and now it’s time to call it quits. I’m bowing out.

I hated you when I first saw you. Drab, I thought. But you wooed me. That dinner on the cold rainy March day! I still remember it.

I’m into ratings. I rate your food as awesome. From the pizza to the ethnic beauties – I’ve eaten Ethiopian, South American, North American, Indian, Malaysian, Spanish -- ohhh, I’m having regrets! This is not good!

The reality is that I came here only because my daughters made this their home. Good old daughters. Quirky daughters. New Haven??? It wasn’t meant to last. Now, one has chosen DC, the other is heading west to PA in CA – stay put already, so I can get bored again!

Okay, I haven’t always been bored in New Haven. I have cried here at the various events that I have attended. I have cried when I have left daughters behind and headed home.

And, I have acted stupidly here. Never more stupidly than on the night of September 1st, 2005. The Hot Tomato's bar. Those in the know will nod their heads sagely. Yep, she was an ass then. You are right. I cannot sing je ne regrette rien since that day.

But mostly, it has been a place where my family assembles every now and then. Solid love. And, memories of physical toil (the moving in, the moving out). And mental anguish (did anyone read the New Yorker bit this week about college being one big ride on the anxiety train?).

So, it’s my final visit here.

New Haven. Such a place. Wonderful to be back, this one last time. [I’m staying away from Hot Tomato's.]

a birth, a graduation and errands

Tomorrow, I’m off to watch a college graduation. Of the youngest one. Yep, I’m that old.

I can’t pay attention to age implications. I am just so… dazed. A college graduation of your youngest is one of those moments you cannot even imagine as you’re trying to get her out of the womb.

Kid, you made it out. You’re good now.

A sudden reconfiguration of schedules has created absolute chaos here, on Ocean. Our family will be there, cheering her, yes, that was set four years ago. We assumed she would graduate. [And guess, what, we will be celebrating law and grad degrees for her sister, same time, same place. Oh, the champagne that all this warrants!] But after the celebrations? We have decided on a road trip of sorts, as she and I will rumble along from the east to the Midwest and then, later in the summer, from the Midwest to the Pacific coast.

In the months between, there’s much ocean and continent crossing and, let’s not forget, there’s teaching, grading and all the other incidentals of work.

And a move.

Am I crazy?


And yet, if you hung with me today, you’d think this was just one of those ordinary, laid-back, late spring days.

I called my traveling companion of the velo trip.

Ed, I have a million errands to run and I am leaving tomorrow and, well, I could use some company.
Motorbike okay?
Yes, of course, just hurry up because I have a million errands to run.
I’ll be there in a few.
(later)
Where to?
The AAA on the far far west side. I need maps for my road trip!
(halfway there)
Don’t you have an AAA across the street from where you live?
I do??? I never noticed! Why didn’t you let me know earlier??
I figured you knew what you were doing.

I’m not sure Ed ever believes I know what I am doing, but it’s a good line.

(later)

We’re at the mall. I am canvassing endless stores for, well, for stuff. Stuff does not interest Ed. He falls asleep sprawled out on a bench at Banana Republic. Three young things stand nearby, chatting as if he wasn’t there. And they are right. Ed is snoring.

We are outside now.

It is about to rain!
We will get wet.
Is it okay to be wet on a motorbike?
Only a little worse than being wet on a regular bike.

We get wet. He’s wrong. Being wet on a bike sucks more than this. The rain is warm, the sky changes patterns, all is okay.



I'm flying east tomorrow.

All is okay. All is okay.

a birth, a graduation and errands

Tomorrow, I’m off to watch a college graduation. Of the youngest one. Yep, I’m that old.

I can’t pay attention to age implications. I am just so… dazed. A college graduation of your youngest is one of those moments you cannot even imagine as you’re trying to get her out of the womb.

Kid, you made it out. You’re good now.

A sudden reconfiguration of schedules has created absolute chaos here, on Ocean. Our family will be there, cheering her, yes, that was set four years ago. We assumed she would graduate. [And guess, what, we will be celebrating law and grad degrees for her sister, same time, same place. Oh, the champagne that all this warrants!] But after the celebrations? We have decided on a road trip of sorts, as she and I will rumble along from the east to the Midwest and then, later in the summer, from the Midwest to the Pacific coast.

In the months between, there’s much ocean and continent crossing and, let’s not forget, there’s teaching, grading and all the other incidentals of work.

And a move.

Am I crazy?


And yet, if you hung with me today, you’d think this was just one of those ordinary, laid-back, late spring days.

I called my traveling companion of the velo trip.

Ed, I have a million errands to run and I am leaving tomorrow and, well, I could use some company.
Motorbike okay?
Yes, of course, just hurry up because I have a million errands to run.
I’ll be there in a few.
(later)
Where to?
The AAA on the far far west side. I need maps for my road trip!
(halfway there)
Don’t you have an AAA across the street from where you live?
I do??? I never noticed! Why didn’t you let me know earlier??
I figured you knew what you were doing.

I’m not sure Ed ever believes I know what I am doing, but it’s a good line.

(later)

We’re at the mall. I am canvassing endless stores for, well, for stuff. Stuff does not interest Ed. He falls asleep sprawled out on a bench at Banana Republic. Three young things stand nearby, chatting as if he wasn’t there. And they are right. Ed is snoring.

We are outside now.

It is about to rain!
We will get wet.
Is it okay to be wet on a motorbike?
Only a little worse than being wet on a regular bike.

We get wet. He’s wrong. Being wet on a bike sucks more than this. The rain is warm, the sky changes patterns, all is okay.



I'm flying east tomorrow.

All is okay. All is okay.

empty

One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss. Isn’t it always like that.

I biked up to the Law School and was immediately reminded how it feels on Bascom Mall during the summer.

Where is everyone?

A small group takes to the green space and plays croquet. Croquet?? One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss…





The day was so beautiful and it was so lost on me. Preoccupied, busy, call it what you want. I was not outside except to bike to and from my office.

Until, finally, just before sunset, I went outside just to look and smell. There’s only a parking lot there, before my loft. But at the side, there are small lilacs.

The butterfly and I chased each other for while. Until finally he relented and let me take a photo.





After, he laughed and flew away and I went back to an empty-feeling loft.

empty

One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss. Isn’t it always like that.

I biked up to the Law School and was immediately reminded how it feels on Bascom Mall during the summer.

Where is everyone?

A small group takes to the green space and plays croquet. Croquet?? One person’s emptiness is another’s bliss…





The day was so beautiful and it was so lost on me. Preoccupied, busy, call it what you want. I was not outside except to bike to and from my office.

Until, finally, just before sunset, I went outside just to look and smell. There’s only a parking lot there, before my loft. But at the side, there are small lilacs.

The butterfly and I chased each other for while. Until finally he relented and let me take a photo.





After, he laughed and flew away and I went back to an empty-feeling loft.

feeling free

I am waiting for someone at an outdoor café on State Street. A young man, sitting on a bench nearby, looks at Isthmus want ads, then makes a cell call.

Hi, I’m selling my laptop. I’m done with school and so I don’t need it any more. I’d rather have the cash.
(pause while other party speaks)
It’s a Dell Latitude. It’s got the usual stuff – Internet, word processing…




After the call, he strums some more on the guitar. He sings, too, but not very well.



Earlier in the day I asked Ed, my traveling companion of a few weeks back, if he would help me clean up the tiny Sony laptop I was returning.

Can we take off the email program?
Sure. Let’s empty out the messages there first.

Click, click.

Ed, my Inbox on my (clunky) home computer is alerting me I have exceeded capacity!
Oh, I must be trashing things from the server, not from the Sony.

7842 messages have been inadvertently moved to the trash bin.

Hmm, let’s delete those that are both in “Trash” and in your “Sent” box – they’re overloading your capacity.

Click, click.

Ed, my mailboxes on the server are now almost entirely empty! What happened to the 7842 messages that a while ago where in the "Sent" box?
Oh my gosh (actually, shockingly, stronger words were used here)! I think we deleted all of them, from both places!
You mean all the email I have ever written is all gone?

Dial tech support at UW.

Sorry, you’re right, it’s all gone. Forever.

All gone?

Tech support at the Law School laughs along with me when I tell them what happened.

It’s kind of liberating, isn’t it? – they say.

Sure. I’m feeling free.

Like a retired person with suddenly too much time on their hands, I am a person with suddenly too much available space on her server.

Now if I wanted to feel really free, I’d call the ads and sell off the rest of my technology, like the young man on the bench on State Street.

I can’t do that. I was raised in Commie Poland. I never thought personal freedom was as important as connectedness.

feeling free

I am waiting for someone at an outdoor café on State Street. A young man, sitting on a bench nearby, looks at Isthmus want ads, then makes a cell call.

Hi, I’m selling my laptop. I’m done with school and so I don’t need it any more. I’d rather have the cash.
(pause while other party speaks)
It’s a Dell Latitude. It’s got the usual stuff – Internet, word processing…




After the call, he strums some more on the guitar. He sings, too, but not very well.



Earlier in the day I asked Ed, my traveling companion of a few weeks back, if he would help me clean up the tiny Sony laptop I was returning.

Can we take off the email program?
Sure. Let’s empty out the messages there first.

Click, click.

Ed, my Inbox on my (clunky) home computer is alerting me I have exceeded capacity!
Oh, I must be trashing things from the server, not from the Sony.

7842 messages have been inadvertently moved to the trash bin.

Hmm, let’s delete those that are both in “Trash” and in your “Sent” box – they’re overloading your capacity.

Click, click.

Ed, my mailboxes on the server are now almost entirely empty! What happened to the 7842 messages that a while ago where in the "Sent" box?
Oh my gosh (actually, shockingly, stronger words were used here)! I think we deleted all of them, from both places!
You mean all the email I have ever written is all gone?

Dial tech support at UW.

Sorry, you’re right, it’s all gone. Forever.

All gone?

Tech support at the Law School laughs along with me when I tell them what happened.

It’s kind of liberating, isn’t it? – they say.

Sure. I’m feeling free.

Like a retired person with suddenly too much time on their hands, I am a person with suddenly too much available space on her server.

Now if I wanted to feel really free, I’d call the ads and sell off the rest of my technology, like the young man on the bench on State Street.

I can’t do that. I was raised in Commie Poland. I never thought personal freedom was as important as connectedness.

geeslings

Please don not correct me. I know that baby geese are not called geeslings. [They're goslings, aren't they?] But geeslings sounds so perfect.

The children of geese. They appear to hover near their mother goose...





...but really, don’t you think that it is only a rouse? When you look deeply into their souls, can you see the independence? From both parents? Sure you can.




My day, in great measure, was made up of geesling thoughts.

geeslings

Please don not correct me. I know that baby geese are not called geeslings. [They're goslings, aren't they?] But geeslings sounds so perfect.

The children of geese. They appear to hover near their mother goose...





...but really, don’t you think that it is only a rouse? When you look deeply into their souls, can you see the independence? From both parents? Sure you can.




My day, in great measure, was made up of geesling thoughts.

week-end notes

Today is the kind of day you’re glad not to be hiking. Or biking. Cold rain, gray skies.

But yesterday, now that was a day!

Perfect for the market. And for buying lillies of the valley.




… and for reaching for a chestnut bloom





…for tossing a ball around at a graduation celebration





…for planting things





… for pausing on the ride in to admire a view of the city






Really, a perfect spring day. A shame spring weather is so damn fickle.

week-end notes

Today is the kind of day you’re glad not to be hiking. Or biking. Cold rain, gray skies.

But yesterday, now that was a day!

Perfect for the market. And for buying lillies of the valley.




… and for reaching for a chestnut bloom





…for tossing a ball around at a graduation celebration





…for planting things





… for pausing on the ride in to admire a view of the city






Really, a perfect spring day. A shame spring weather is so damn fickle.