ask for an Ocean view archives

maintenance

2010-02-27T08:42:00.001-08:00

I'm making blog improvements. Forgive the posts for the next hours -- they are merely trial runs.

maintenance

2010-02-27T08:42:00.000-08:00

I'm making blog improvements. Forgive the posts for the next hours -- they are merely trial runs.

store hours

2010-02-26T21:56:00.001-08:00

It’s quiet in the shop on cold evenings. Occasionally someone will stop by, purchase our most soothing item, chat a little, and reluctantly push the door to the bitter cold again.

For the second night in a row, I’ve had friends stop by. That’s always exceptionally pleasant. A chance to exchange a few words before they, too, push the door and head out.

Late, just before closing, an unlikely customer stops by. In retail, you have to expect this – the person who looks like no customer you’ve ever helped. This guy is young, bearded, with dreadlocks reaching way past the shoulder blades. A winter cap is pulled low over his head. I would have readily bet my paycheck that he was here to get warm and not to buy. And so, after brief introductions, I let him browse.

He asks questions – pointed questions about product X or Y. And eventually, after I open jar of this and point to a jar of that , we settle in on one item, I mumble the price, thinking for sure that would be the end of it.

The visitor tells me -- I'll take it. And I wrap it for him to take home.

store hours

2010-02-26T21:56:00.000-08:00

spinach

2010-02-25T21:56:00.001-08:00

Absolutely the best spinach on the planet is grown right here, in Wisconsin, in the dead of winter. In fact, the colder it is, the more magnificent the flavor of the spinach. (Go figure.)

This year we signed up to be regulars: all winter, every two weeks, the farmer hands us a pound of crisp, washed, best on the planet spinach. (He actually leaves it at a store. Paid by us in advance.)

Someone has to pick up the spinach within a day or else it gets passed on to someone else. I like the idea of helping others, but I’ve always been rather anemic and so I move mountains to get there in time. I need my spinach!

Ed is with his cats today. I dare not tear him away. It’s up to me.

But how? It’s not on my bus route. And it’s cold outside. Well below freezing. DOn't even mention the bicycle.

Within moments I have a plan:

I’ll ride the bus, then walk partway, then, spinach in hand, I’ll ride the remainder to campus.

Fine plan. The sun’s out. The late February birds make their pre-spring appearance on my condo balcony.

Twenty minutes into the walk I think maybe it’s time to switch to the bus. It’s nippy. The wind’s gusting a punch. I dig into my pack for my bus pass.

Oops.

Left the bugger at home. Now what? Some would pay the bus fares. But what a waste!

Resolve: walk. Walk to spinach store. Walk to office. Walk home. Walk, damn it, Put in some steps already. Zip up the jacket, give a firm twist to the scarf (it really is cold!) and walk. It can’t be more than 8 miles total. Walk already!

And so I do.

spinach

2010-02-25T21:56:00.000-08:00

fresh perspective

2010-02-24T21:51:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, little do you know when you wake up that it’s going to be that kind of day. Charged. Raw. Emotional.

Not that you could have done things differently. It’s almost as if some force put you on a track with emotional charges along the way and all you can do is sit back and watch the hits happen. Bang! And again! And again!

By early afternoon much of the ride was over and done. I had just one more class and then I could exhale.

In my office, I turn off the lights (or, the switch that allows the lights to come on as I move around) and look out.

There is a sudden squall of snow. Big, wet snow – the kind that’s very very pretty to watch and less fun if you’re outside in it, unprotected. Call it emotional snow.

Maybe it can wash off the debris from the day...

I continue to work. I have a dinner meeting later on State Street and there is no reason to rush in the hours before it. Dusk morphs into evening time. I am indifferent to it. I'm spent by the earlier hours.

Outside, the air is colder than I would have wanted for an evening walk.

So what. It’s the tail end of the day. The tail end of winter. The tail end of an uncomfortable season.

I walk up the stairs to Fresco, the place of the dinner meeting and I look out on one of the most interesting views in Madison: the intersection of streets makes it appear as if you are on the crossroads of some great event about to happen.

Maybe you could say that the great event was the delicious, fresh and honest food at Fresco. On the other hand, maybe you could say that the great event was that there would be no more great events, no great swishes of emotion for the remainder of the day.

fresh perspective

2010-02-24T21:51:00.000-08:00

rough rides

2010-02-23T19:45:00.001-08:00

I’m chasing my shadow this week. Running in circles, attempting to do a great push forward, trying to keep spirits up as so many around me are having rough rides.

Not the roughest, but rough enough has been the ride of my occasional travel buddy, who has come down with something so benign and yet so perversely irritating as a sore tooth. To look at his face when his soul is crushed under the weight of pain is not easy. What can I say, pain is pain and I watch with pity, alternating with a tiny bit of a smile, as he works his way through an entire prescription of pain medication from early evening until the wee hours of the morning. Luckily, he is seen and treated by the time the little container is shaken dry and tossed aside.

Afterwards, he is without memory about what transpired. Pain? Eh, not a big deal. (Meaning: all gone!)

As between Ed and me, I would say I spend perhaps thirty times as much time in doctors’ offices and twenty times as many hours in dentists’ chairs as he does, but this only makes me understand how terrible it is to go through the ordeal of waiting rooms and scheduled meetings with people in white cloaks who are there to make you feel better. In the long run. So I sympathize.

But only so much. I am in the mad rush of another busy week with not one, not two, not three, but four nights of work ahead and that’s in addition to the work that envelopes the daytime hours.

What can I say. These are challenging times. At least I don’t force myself to sport it out on my commute to and from campus. Others do.

bare shin?

Come to think of it, maybe I should...

rough rides

2010-02-23T19:45:00.000-08:00

trespass

2010-02-22T17:55:00.001-08:00

You should never reach for the camera when three deer jump the road just in front of your car. (Even when you’re not driving.) I mean, what are you thinking – that they’ll pause, look back and smile? Or that there will be a fourth one?

Well there was a fourth one. And by then I had my camera in hand. And I wasn’t driving. And I looked to see her sprint through the view finder. And I then remembered that I had the lens cap on to protect the lens. And no, there was not a fifth one.

This was yesterday. We were driving back from Cedarburg the back-road way and we detoured toward Pike Lake State Forest. Not that we intended to hike there. It was nearly noon and I had to be at work within two hours.

Maybe we should have come here earlier? I ask Ed.
I liked the walk we took this morning, he answered. Sincerely.

He didn’t mean through town, although that stroll was plenty nice. We stopped at the bakery to try their baguette and their chocolate pear croissant. (Any bakery in Madison interested in taking on this combination? It’s a wonderful blend of flavors!)

He was refering to the one after: the one that left us driving, searching for a path, an entrance – anything! -- over at the Cedar Bog, some ten miles north of town. The B&B owners told us we’d find trails there. We found none.

Or maybe we did? There was a wood chip road of sorts, blocked off, but maybe it was meant for visitors? Maybe? Maybe the No Trespassing sign, rusted and bent, was for vehicles? The map indicated this was Nature Conservancy land. I support the Nature Conservancy! As does Ed! We are them and they are us!

We followed the wood chip path through the utter quiet of a forest and a snow-covered marshland. Huge bird prints made us think the wild turkeys preceded us. Hoof marks told us for sure deer had been here too. But we saw neither. I’d like to think we did not disturb them, even as they certainly did not disturb us.

The path ended at a lake – Mud Lake maybe? One of the thousands of Mud Lakes in our state.

Not a soul around. Just three lonely ducks making their way to the island. And us watching. Not even photographing, just watching. Loving every minute of the stillness, the emptiness in this quietest of all seasons.

trespass

2010-02-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

snow stories

2010-02-21T17:29:00.001-08:00

It was the kind of snow that made the roads wet, but not in a pretty way. With the thermometer hovering just a breath above freezing, it’s as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether to stick or disappear in a puddle.

We took the back road east out of Madison.

But the landscape remained relentlessly misty wet and understated and so we rejoined the highway, speeding all the way to Milwaukee, where we turned north, leaving the wet blocks of a city that looks especially dispirited on a tail end of winter kind of day.

I was feeling apologetic. The trip was my idea. We hadn’t done enough of Wisconsin winter exploring, what with my moonlighting at the shop and my incessant case reading. It was supposed to have been sunny, so I had reason to push us out.

But it wasn’t sunny.

As we approached Cedarburg (just 20 miles north of Milwaukee, and a few miles inland from Lake Michigan), I was thinking that we’ll likely not leave the b&b much. It was that wet outside.

Cedarburg is an old milling town and it is probably one of the best preserved such towns in Wisconsin. Money hasn’ flown to the peripheries like in so many places with quasi abandoned main streets. Along Cedarburg's main drag, I counted no fewer than four bustling cafés, a boulangerie, three chocolate shops – in addition to the bars, crafts stores, barber shops and a funky rebuilt retro movie house (where the live person behind the window shouted out hello to passersby).

But I couldn’t shake the thought that this 24 hour get away (I have to work Sunday) was ill-planned. We’ve got some wet weather here – was Ed’s comment as he got out of the Geo.

Our b&b was on the Main Street – a dangerous choice if you’re traveling with Ed as he regards street noise as something to run from. But I had liked the looks of this simple but solid old structure, and its good prices (even on a week-end, $85 for two, with breakfast).

Once inside, I relaxed. The place is quiet. The kind where you expect to hear a clock tick. Ed nodded – it’s nice , he tells me.

The late afternoon. It’s a “last chance” time of day. We decide to ignore the wet thin flakes and to head out for the Lion’s Den Gorge Nature Preserve on the shores of Lake Michigan.

It’s funny how the same wet flakes that fall over the paved roads and stubby cornfields look entirely different in a forest.

The air is still and at the top of the bluff we can hear the soft ripple of lake waters moving over the pebbles by the shore.

Not frozen this year, not even at the edges.

We follow the Bluff Trail to the gorge and it is so completely quiet that even a whispered comment seems too much. Ed's hair and beard become magnets for the flakes. They hold on for a minute, then melt away.

As we descend the bluff, the forest looks pretty enough to be on a holiday card. Season's Greetings from Wisconsin!

The air is wet with mist and the shoreline quickly disappears somewhere into the same horizon that hides the edges of the Great Lake.

It’s a beautiful walk. Up the hill now and around the loop. We encounter a man and a lively dog. A real jumper he is. Yes, I’m training him. He’s getting better. Leap, wag, leap – who can blame him. The snow, the wet end of winter air, the red dogwood branches – it’s all rather inspiring. Leap, bark – I could see joining him in this.

But we move on. Birches, cedar, so completely still that not a single flake is blown off..

In Cedarburg we abandon the car and poke around Main Street. Breads, pastries, chocolate, coffee. Life's essentials. Someone has figured it out. We stuff our pockets for the critical moment when we just may need a pecan caramel cluster.

The lights are on now. At the curb, ice sculptures from some former winter event are barely surviving in the 35 degree weather.

We walk out on the old rail bridge that crosses the river here. It’s part of the Interurban rail connection that once linked Sheboygan and Milwaukee.

We eat dinner at Morton’s – a local pub. At least we’re told that this is where the locals eat. As so many travelers, we like to eat foods geared for local tastes, even if up and down Wisconsin, those tastes don’t change much – the menu will have the burgers and steaks and fried fish and cobb salads -- all that any good Midwesterner would like to see on a night out. But there’s always a twist that’ll make a pub stand apart. Here, I read we can have a fried cheesecake or Cajun friend shrimp or friend artichoke.

I stay with a good little steak and Ed puts together his own Cobb salad and we watch the Olympics on a big screen that for once grabs no one’s attention except my own. The colors and noises of a pub are such a contrast to the silence of the afternoon! But I'm not complaining. It has been such a good day.

snow stories

2010-02-21T17:29:00.000-08:00

escape

2010-02-20T20:22:00.001-08:00

Two days ago, on a break from case reading, I looked up the weather for the week-end. Sunny! -- weather.com announced.

It seemed right to give winter a final moment in the spotlight. Sorry, -- in the sun. To get in the car, head out into the countryside, and then dive into a snowbank or two, all the while reveling in glorious light of a February afternoon.

What I appreciate about my occasional traveling companion is this: when nothing turns out to be as it had been planned, he appears not to notice.

(Today, he appeared not to notice.)

The details are for tomorrow. Though let me leave you with a hint of where we are at the moment:

No no, not the Gulf of Mexico. Here, let me add another hopeful to help sort things properly.

Tomorrow I’ll explain. For now, let me say this much: Wisconsin can offer up splendid days even in February, even when the sun stays well hidden behind puffy clouds of gray.

escape

2010-02-20T20:22:00.000-08:00

a wild ride

2010-02-19T20:59:00.001-08:00

Not many obsess about the IRS in mid-February.

This year, I did.

It started a week ago, when I received a friendly note from my state benefits office informing me that for reason X, Y & Z, and don’t forget about Q, they will, for a year, impute income to me. Income that I will never see or touch, but that the IRS will be very happy to tax. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Then, today, I Turbo-taxed my way to a wee refund for 2009. Mind you, hardly even a splash of coins, but it could well have been a seizure rather than a splash (moonlighting messes with proper withholding) and so I breathed a sigh of relief.

Also today, I received a letter from the IRS (always a fright), the much dreaded final word on my audited, challenged, appealed deduction, taken back in 2007 (when I was very young and optimistic). I shredded the envelope, looked inside and discovered that the IRS ruled in my favor. I do not need to go to debtor’s prison after all.

I belong to a small minority of Americans who do not despise taxation. But I deeply dislike unpredictability and confusion and so I have to say that the governing bodies who wrangle over additions, deductions, and in general, modifications to the Code (thus exacerbating confusion in my already confused head) do not have my “thumbs up.”

It seems that this month I have traversed some pretty rough IRS terrain. Can you please relax it a bit for the remainder of the year? Please?

a wild ride

2010-02-19T20:59:00.000-08:00

quiet

2010-02-18T19:14:00.001-08:00

The week is done. Food served, lecture delivered, every last email answered. One more apartment inspected, one more conversation ended.

It’s Thursday night. I’ve switched hours and so I don’t even have shop work to fill my evening.

I know – this is just one person’s blog, one writer’s story, but tonight my story is that I only want to revel in the quietness of the moment. Nothing more to add to that.

(Photo from the afternoon -- a quick glance at Bascom Hill, still very much under a winter cover of snow.)

quiet

2010-02-18T19:14:00.000-08:00

running for rosé

2010-02-17T22:19:00.001-08:00

At the noon hour I walked briskly up State Street, then back down again (meeting accomplished). I didn’t have to speed along. But I had been properly labeled as over some abstract hill when a student-type offered me a seat on the crowded morning bus (second time in a month!) and so I thought that maybe I should strive for a quicker pace during the day. To make up for my perceived slowness. (I really do not mind being older. I do mind being regarded as older.)

I hurried, too, because it’s winter still and winter does not invite leisurely steps. In four months, this storefront will dump the mittens and put out sundresses, but that’s not for four months and in any case, we rush seasons here.

It could be that running from A to B is good for the mind as much as it’s good for the body. It could be. But at the moment, my mind is concentrating so wholeheartedly on other things (work) that I cannot imagine a quick sprint would do it much good. Now, maybe if it was to be followed by a carafe of rosé, preferably with bread and cheese... None were in the offering. Not at the noon hour anyway.

running for rosé

2010-02-17T22:19:00.000-08:00

keeping things neat

2010-02-16T18:00:00.001-08:00

Ed and I looked at apartments this afternoon. No, not for us. As a favor for a person considering a move to Madison.

It was instructive.

I have two comments on the experience: first, I am not surprised, but still just a little discouraged that rentals in this country, or at least in this town, continue to be of a transitional kind. These are not places where you move to and you stay way past when your kids are grown and gone. They’re places where you stay before you buy something.

And that’s a shame, for any number of reasons.

Secondly, I notice a great deal of disrespect (therefore?) for the premises that people inhabit in this transitional time (however long it may last). Messy, filthy -- these are words that come to mind. And mind you, I am looking at places that are meant for the young professional set. Why spend money on a good place if you’re going to treat it so poorly?

I wonder, is this born of privilege? Because in my years of growing up in Poland, I never quite saw anything like it. Poland does not have a reputation for cleanliness, but I never saw the slovenliness there that I see here.

Ed tells me – this is the way people live. (Meaning: this would be his preference as well.) He tells me I’m the outlier in my constant tidying and polishing.

Am I?

I’ll leave you with the flip side of this – an aesthetically pleasing, lovely bouquet of flowers from the bride and groom of last week's wedding. The buds are a comfort to me. Beauty matters. It doesn’t have to be complicated or extravagant. Indeed, I prefer it simple. And breathtakingly lovely.

keeping things neat

2010-02-16T18:00:00.000-08:00

sun strokes

2010-02-15T17:50:00.001-08:00

The sun has value beyond simple aesthetics – so opined a court in a decision I discussed in class today.

Of course, the dissenting opinion strongly disagreed. That’s the nature of the game: you can always find a naysayer in court.

I’m with the majority here. Indeed, I’ll go so far as to offer up a whole week of spring days if only I can have a guarantee of one week of sunny days in late February.

Five years ago, I discovered a café that would be my café of choice for several years – until I left the downtown in favor of condo living. (Was it a good decision? Probably not, in hindsight, but few of us are born with eyes that can look beyond the moment.)

Early this morning, I find myself close by and so I stop for breakfast coffee. The sun strokes the Tuscan colors on the wall. Nice, I think. Nice.

Maybe I should have never left, I say to the café owner.

She laughs. Hindsight games.

Heading back to my office, I walk up toward the Square. The sun is gone now. Prickly snow flakes appearing out of nowhere are a poor substitute. Color? Oh, you can always find color. Earlier, I saw it in a store window. Hiding behind strips of film.

Now it's evident in a church door, and on the square itself.

But one hour into the cloudy morning, I sure as hell miss the sun.

P.S. I appreciate comments, I do, and I know that the clutter in the sidebar keeps this message well-hidden for the casual reader, but, just so you know – I’ll only publish a comment that has a name attached to it. Silly rule, considering. But I do stick with it.

sun strokes

2010-02-15T17:50:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T19:13:00.001-08:00

Perhaps no other day highlights the difference in the temperament between myself and my occasional traveling companion, Ed, than this February 14th.

Or, you could say that this day offers an opportunity to find common ground.

Valentine’s Day. You can’t get Ed to say one good word about it. And before you swear allegiance to this anti-Hallmarkian stance, let me throw in that there are no kind words offered by him toward Christmas or Thanksgiving or even birthdays.

Oh, wouldn’t it be simple and grand if I disliked all the above as well! But I don’t.

We wake up to a beautiful day. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Working on matters of budget and taxes I come to a critical point where I realize that a wrench has been thrown into my calculations, terribly upsetting budget projections for the year ahead.

This day is not looking happy.

And yet...

I flush out my options and I have a sympathetic ear in my traveling buddy.

In the end, I'm able to put it aside. The sun is piercing. I want to head out. I haven’t much time – there’s so much to read, so much to absorb for work – and yet I feel that a few outdoor hours would be a wise investment.

Loving yesterday’s hike along Lake Mendota, I suggest we give the other lake (Lake Monona) equal time.

We start out at the edge, where the fishermen hang out.

...Where little boys follow their dads, finding pleasure in just scooping out snow and ice from the drilled holes.

Why are they all leaving now, at the height of the afternoon? – Ed asks.
Probably heading home, with roses for the women.

We make our way across Lake Monona in brilliant sunshine. It’s quiet here. The city is removed.

This is what Ed and I do well: we walk through snow in the quiet of a day. Even as I know that once off the lake, I'll have to take stock of what's around me.

Or, maybe I'll forget the rough edges. Maybe all will feel beautifully serene.

The hike back is straight into the wind. I’m okay with that. Wind wipes out angst.

Later, we stop at Barrique’s for a coffee and perhaps this should be my Valentine’s moment. Because it has a heart, delivered.

At Trader Joe’s Ed asks – do you want Cava for tonight? (Cava is inexpensive bubbly.)

In the afternoon, Ed goes back to care for his cats and I work on my law classes.

The day is nearly done. I take a moment to make soup for us and pour the Cava. The Winter Olympics are on, but Ed tunes out, as I follow my longstanding love affair with these games.

Love. Not even I can find solace in a Valentine’s insistence on it. But looking back, I find no fault with this day. Which is a good thing.

Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

winter!

2010-02-13T21:33:00.001-08:00

I wake up to a zesty day – well below freezing. But oh, the sunshine!

Saturday. Work? No. Not today. I may pay for this later, I may scream then at the intensity of work pressures, but when I see a glorious blue against a glittering winter landscape, I put away thoughts of a bookish day and head out.

My occasional traveling companion is on board. Today, we are travelers alright, even as we don’t really go anywhere. We are fully in vacation mode.

Which, to me, means that we give ourselves no easy breaks, no indulgences. Sure, as I watch the races and runs of the Winter Olympics, I have to think that my own push is the equivalent to another’s naptime. But hey, my typical winter hours have books and computer screens in them. Though not today. Today, we do what the northerner must do to stay happy: embrace winter.

I have a plan.

Let’s walk down to campus and see what the Hoofers are up to.

If you take the pretty route, that’s a five mile hike. But the Hoofers (UW’s lakeside sports club) are holding a series of winter events on Lake Mendota and driving down seems so terribly wrong. You want to hang with sporty types, you better work your own leg muscles. Cold temperatures notwithstanding.

At the lake, we abandon the path and take to the frozen waters.

It’s safe, right?
I know the answer, but I have to ask. What do I know about soft spots and cracking ice. (Later, an ice fisherman tells me: you need two inches to walk on it and eight inches to drive across it. Where are we at now? - I ask. Sixteen inches.)

The walk is slow. The lake has a lovely if a bit soft layer of snow.

Ed, my traveling buddy, hasn’t the footwear for this, but he never acknowledges the cold and so we stumble forward.

We come up to a pair of fisher guys.

A good fishing day? I ask
Yes, very good.
What fish?
Oh, northern pike, of course.
Of course. So you’re taking a lot home?
No, none. We can only take back fish that are more than 40 inches. Still, it’s been a good day. We took in and threw back some six or seven.
So nothing for the dinner table?
Oh, if you do catch a 40 incher, you don’t eat it! It’s entirely for the mantel!

There you have it, a definition of a good day: sitting on the ice until sunset, waiting for a fish.

He shows us how he sets the lines in drilled holes. And miraculously, at that moment he gets a bite.
They’re nasty fish. Big teeth. I’ve been bitten raw in the last couple of days.

This one’s no different. The live fish bait is still half way into the mouth of the trapped catch. They struggle to get it out. It seems a little like pulling out a piece of steak from an alligator’s mouth.

We leave the happy fishermen. Only to encounter the truly happy kite guy, Jason.

His brother tells me that since he started with the kite hobby, Jason cannot let it go.
Want to try? Jason asks.

Of course I do. But it’s not easy.
It’s like dancing with a partner. It feels great, doesn’t it?
Sure, yes, of course. But it’s delicate work and I don’t want to crash this man’s kite into the ice. How much does the kite cost – I ask, just in case.
This one, Nirvana, is French. $450.
My God. I hand back the reigns and watch Jason do an expert run at the dance.

Just off the Union Terrace (remember: we are on the lake) we come across the "submerged" Liberty.

It’s all a tad surreal: the statue, bikers taking a spin on the lake, aerial skydivers, zeroing in toward us.

I’m enthralled.

We find a Hoofer with a traction kite and he gives us a lesson on how to work the powerful wind sail.
Don’t ever let anyone come between you and the kite. It can wrap itself around the neck of an interloper very quickly.

We know to pull down the kites when the jumpers come at us.

A skydiver asks if I want to sign up for a lesson in the air.

No. Absolutely positively no.

Back on the shore, we watch a sculptor chisel away at Bucky.

The terrace is the place of the orange, yellow and green summer tables and chairs. Today, kids are pushing a puck around on a miniature ice rink.

The sun is low now and I’m feeling the cold. The walk home is a long four mile trek. We take a five minute break at the Rathskellar...

...and pick up the lake path toward home.

We heap sweet potatoes with leftover slices of smoked salmon and creme fraiche and settle in to watch the Winter Games. Or I do. My occasional traveling companion burrows deeply under a quilt. He claims he doesn't really dream, but watching him, I think his mind is running over the vectors of the kite's path.

winter!

2010-02-13T21:33:00.000-08:00

winter wedding

2010-02-12T21:49:00.001-08:00

People marry. More often than not, actually. And remarry. And think about marrying. (Though I know a number who would not include themselves in this group.) And then eventually, they go ahead and do it. Tie the knot. Lives linked. Voila! This is my husband. Not boyfriend anymore. This is my wife. We are privileged, legally privileged to care for each other. You are!

When I see a wedding, I think that this is so precious – this celebrated vision of toddling along in life next to your loved one.

Where there are weddings, there are, of course, rituals and traditions.

But sometimes, not so many.

Take the wedding I attended this morning. I learned of it recently. Very recently.
Hey, we’re getting married!
At last! When?!
Two weeks maybe... If we can get a date.

They got a date. For today.

When a wedding is terrifically modest and simple, it is no less enchanting. A knot is a knot. And the small things – a hand movement, a touch on the shoulder – are noticed. Appreciated.

And then onto the important eating. My Polish blood boils enough in my veins that I think of weddings as great eating opportunities.

And then it is over. But not really. We stay and we talk grandiose talk of dreams and goals and projects and it seems to me that there's worth in these kinds of statements, because if you say something out loud, it sounds more serious and therefore likely to really take sprout. Someday.

She smiles, he smiles, and then we are not part of their smiles anymore because at a wedding, at some point you have to allow the just marrieds to take off. To their married life. As it should be.

winter wedding

2010-02-12T21:49:00.000-08:00

in the heat of the night

2010-02-11T21:58:00.001-08:00

First of all, when Madison skies are this blue in February, you know it's a cold day.

When the only booth on Library Mall is one where a vendor sells fleece wraps, and those fleece wraps are flying as if they were kites gone wild -- it's really really cold.

When Bascom Hill looks enchanting and a little remote, Canadian almost -- I'm reminded that we're still in deep winter.

And when the bus stop is deserted, but for a brave lass with a very furry hood and her ever loyal, no matter what the weather, boy, perhaps friend, it has to be a a sign. Of something. Maybe a sign that I should get home already.

Home. Such a pleasant idea at the end of the week. And it's unusually pleasant in a challenging sort of way as I have a lunch to prepare for tomorrow. For twelve people. At my house. At noon. And I cannot be home just before the first guests arrive. So that the entire meal has to be cooked in advance. I am, at the moment grilling things. At midnight.

I think it's still cold outside, but I wouldn't know. The stove has been working overtime.

in the heat of the night

2010-02-11T21:58:00.000-08:00

les Demoiselles at the bus stop

2010-02-10T22:01:00.001-08:00

There are, during winter, these fabulously decadent moments when you close your eyes and put your face to the sun and it feels sooooooo luxurious, because the warmth on your skin is so rare now, and because this is something that you imagine happens more in the Alpine regions, among ski bunnies. Not on a Wednesday afternoon in downtown Madison. Just off of Park Street.

But, on days that I can, I have been snatching a few seconds of just this: sunshine, hitting a small corner of the sidewalk, at the Park Street bus stop.

Today, I am not the only one.

Their eyes are not closed, but they have that radiant winter look that comes to those who love, love, love the cold outdoors (or those who wear make-up that gives such an impression). Especially today, on this sumptuous day in the Alps... well, actually at the bus stop.

les Demoiselles at the bus stop

2010-02-10T22:01:00.000-08:00

wheels

2010-02-09T18:44:00.001-08:00

In the morning, I see the snow. It isn’t beautiful – not in the downward fall. It’s rather skimpy, even as I learn that it will be a significant accumulation. But it’s my big storm of the season (I was out of town the previous two) and fact is, you can’t count on there being a repeat performance. Not this year anyway.

Which leads me to say this:

We are fifty days away from the darkest point of the year. That means 100 of the dark days of the year are behind us.

Interesting, no?

And here’s another point – we are wheeling into the good season. And some of us begin wheeling even before the tire grips the road.

And that hope, that optimism is really inspiring. Or at the very least amusing.

I can’t say that I am there, counting the days ‘til March 20th (just four weeks away! That’s 28 days!) – the calendar Spring day that belongs to... well, mostly calendars (because my mother tells me that in California, it is now spring, and I can retort, were I into making retorts, that here, in Wisconsin, we may still be months away from daffodils). But I can say this much: things are looking good!

wheels

2010-02-09T18:44:00.000-08:00

snapshots

2010-02-08T17:51:00.001-08:00

Love. I know, it’s too early to be posting about love. That’s Sunday talk. Valentine’s Day "nonsense."

Still, as I stop at a café to pick up a morning espresso and I see it – the love of the person who has seen it all, and still he likes best what he sees next to him – her. Leaning now so completely on his shoulder.

My instant thought is that I’ve been hanging around State Street too long. (For non-Wisconsin people, State Street is our campus-to-Capitol street, and at my end of it, there are more students per lamppost than anywhere else in town.) The cafés there are laptop places where people drink coffee to buy themselves a spot where they can work.

My second thought is more generous: because really, why does anyone choose to open a laptop at Barrique’s or Espresso Royale or Ancora? Surely for the love of being among people.

Warm flesh, or just someone to look up at every once in a while. To love at a distance. Secretly.

The flush of warmth that comes from being with bundled, busy, preoccupied, wonderful people. Such a reward after a walk alone.

snapshots

2010-02-08T17:51:00.000-08:00

a band of blue

2010-02-07T20:43:00.001-08:00

It has been such a long time since I’ve been drunk or giddy or irresponsible. Or on a bike, making my way to Ed’s farmette, or on a train, or on skates, or on skis.

Work, like the gluttonous vulture that it is, has torn my days to shreds and left not a whole lot behind. Bones, with a few pieces of skin.

Typically, on Super Bowl Sunday, I think of ways to amuse myself in the emptiness of a world turned inward (toward the flat screened TV). Not this year. One day looks no different than the next. Every day is Super Bowl Sunday!

I look out. It’s winter. So they say. I haven’t really felt overwhelmed by the cold, I haven’t felt overwhelmed by much of anything in fact. Except for words scrawled on pages of dense books.

One day, and another, and the next. February days of steely gray. For a brief second invaded by a brave ribbon of blue.

But not for long. Such a narrow ribbon! A limp, trivial nothing, soon pushed aside. The good did not prevail. Hope, stabbed and sent flying.

You can't help but think tragic thoughts on days like today. Though even tragedy is a luxury. And I cannot afford luxury at this second.

Work. Devilishly aggressive and domineering. Like the worst kind of life's partner. Sigh...

a band of blue

2010-02-07T20:43:00.000-08:00

forest

2010-02-06T21:38:00.001-08:00

We hiked the ridge (Blackhawk Ridge, west of Madison), up, then into the forest...

...where views, hidden at full foliage time, trickled in between the trunks of young trees.

The path was empty, and then it was not, as a team of dogs (they seemed teamed in spirit) and two owners scampered past. And then it was empty again.

The sun was finicky. Most often hidden, sometimes throwing delicate sparks on the clean snow.

We lost the trail. Maybe it ended. Who can tell. We climbed hills following animal tracks. We found no animals, but we found the quiet that they must enjoy on the afternoons when no strangers come this way, breaking dry twigs along the forest floor.

forest

2010-02-06T21:38:00.000-08:00

carvers and scrapers

2010-02-05T21:07:00.001-08:00

Six years ago I had my neck poked and dissected in a search for some pernicious disease. I remember it because I blogged about it. No one found anything and I went home, sore but victorious.

Yesterday, I had a rerun of this. I’ll hand it to them – they do try very hard to find a problem, but so far, this has eluded them. I escape.

And so I was let off the hook (what an awful image, considering) yet again. Darn, we found nothing that warrants a carving job. Not this time anyway. Yawn... You may as well go home.

In the afternoon today, I present a lecture to my class of 71 (though 4 are absent, so that makes it 66) and it feels quite raw back there in the neck area. And I think – well, that’s okay, good in fact: I beat the carvers and scrapers and here I am standing in front of all the students – why, this is just fine!

But as I walk, late in the evening to the shop, the mood changes. I feel defeated.

It’s the weather: I cannot like it. Too bitter, too gray, too prickly, too dreary.

February, you have done worse things to the psyche than the butcher team down at the clinic. Change your tone already.

carvers and scrapers

2010-02-05T21:07:00.000-08:00

finding squirrels

2010-02-04T17:53:00.001-08:00

My friend in St Paul wrote a post that reminded me of squirrels.

More accurately, it reminded me that I need to slow down.

Ed (always good about hearing the latest in terms of Ocean author ideas), we need to bowl again.
Bowl? You want to go bowling?
We used to bowl.
Now? You want to bowl now?
No, of course not. I can't.

(later)
We used to meet up for coffee between classes, at the Lake Street café.
You want to meet up for coffee at the Lake Street café?
The point is I no longer make time for it.
So you don’t want to meet up for coffee at the Lake Street café?
But I do!

At the café, I take out my laptop, and Ed takes out his. I work, but occasionally I do look out at the squirrels. The café is a great spot for squirrel watching.

finding squirrels

2010-02-04T17:53:00.000-08:00

no exit

2010-02-03T20:59:00.001-08:00

I read in the NYTimes earlier this week that a person’s irrational fear of driving on highways (irrational because it turns out that highways cause fewer deaths than, say, taking your car for spin to the store down the block) may be triggered by the driver's lack of control over when to exit that endless ribbon. The sign telling you the next exit is in twelve miles? Informative to you and me, a trigger for a panic attack in a phobic driver.

Lack of control. Hmmm.

This morning, up early: long class in the morning, shorter class in the afternoon. Both still need touches. Clock moves dangerously close to 9. Run to catch the 9:03.

Out. Up hill, in doors, in office, briefly, oh so briefly, seconds only. Lipstick on, hair brushed, seating chart under one arm notes and book under other.

This is the day when there is no time for an espresso run.

Late. Bus home. Walk to condo.

For a second. Change garb, put on lipstick, walk down the hill to the shop.

Doesn’t it seem to you that this is a highway with too few exits? Sure, I know, the destination is wonderful, the scenery is mind boggling, fantastic.

But where are the damn exits already?

no exit

2010-02-03T20:59:00.000-08:00

February notes

2010-02-02T18:27:00.001-08:00

My copy of Bon Appetit showed up in the mailbox today. (Lonely without its Gourmet companion.) I read the editor’s page on the elevator trip up. Reaction? The column was too upbeat. All about how great February is – a month of celebrations, a party month, according to her.

I’m not surprised. She comes from a family where the mom made cherry pies to celebrate the honesty of George (who, it appears, did not deserve this particular commemoration).

Perhaps the problem is not with February, but with me. I regard Super Bowl as a nonevent. Valentine’s Day? Every day is Valentine’s Day, I’m told. No, not cherry pies either. There are twenty-eight days of bad weather in the middle of a busy semester. That’s February for you.

Still, I do love the prettiness of a fresh snow. Winter, as viewed from my office window can be lovely.

...and even lovelier from the safe, bookish warmth of the Law School library.

But February, once you engage in it, once you step out for whatever reason...

...chances are great you’ll wind up on your rear end.

February notes

2010-02-02T18:27:00.000-08:00

definitions

2010-02-01T18:25:00.001-08:00

A routine has been established. Not a great one, not during this cold month anyway, but it’s there: after class on Mondays, I take the bus to Whole Foods, buy groceries for dinners into the midweek, and walk home.

If fingers of a cold hand would freeze curved around the handles of a grocery bag, then I could make the trip without pause. But I have noticed that cold fingers that lose their sensitivity also lose their curved, hook-like shape. And so every now and then, I have to stop, put the bags down and do some wiggle activity to keep a grip on the bags.

In my final approach, I pause and prepare to wiggle. A young man, getting into his car sees me and asks – may I please help you?

Now, the good interpretation is that this young man is genuinely compassionate toward all, regardless. Seeing a person with heavy bags brings out that desire to assist, even though an assist here would be somewhat illogical. Would he walk with me? Drive me home?

But I think he was responding to something else: age.

Maybe his glasses clouded because of the cold. Maybe my jacket and scarf hid a kinder portrait. Or maybe I just am looking old this winter.

In Poland, there are two uncomfortable points when an age determination has to be made: first, at late adolescence, when you switch from the informal to the formal address. Gone is the first name for all but the privileged few. You are now a Ms and Mr and you will remain thus until your last breath.

The second point of transition is more subtle. It plagues those who use public transportation: at what point do you stand up and offer your seat? In Poland, young people will stand up for you if you’re, well, older. I expect that if I were riding a bus or tram in Warsaw, young people would scurry to give me their seat.

But when do the not so young get up? I mean, quite recently, I would rise for someone a tad (or several tads) older. What if, these days, someone would use the same calculus on me?

definitions

2010-02-01T18:25:00.000-08:00

return

2010-01-31T17:59:00.001-08:00

It’s a good thing that my occasional traveling companion is such a sketchy reader of Ocean (like a kid reading a boring book, he concentrates on the pictures) or else I’d have to write this story with greater caution.

As it is, I can say bluntly that the ride from Minneapolis to Madison today sucked.

But I wont apportion blame. It depends on your perspective: do you hate backseat drivers who tell you to slow it down just as you’re revving up to overtake the FedEx truck yet again? Or do you like going the speed limit or less and prefer to avoid the thrill of always driving at the cusp of tragedy?

We left Minnesota early. Ed drove, I worked. Until I could not be the quiet passenger anymore (less than an hour into the trip) and then I drove and Ed slept, read magazines and twiddled his thumbs.

It was that kind of a return.

But, I was on time for my shop duty and I had a handful of good customer conversations and I even enjoyed returning to the condo late at night and finding... nothing wrong at any front.

I miss thinking that life is funny.

return

2010-01-31T17:59:00.000-08:00

from Minnesota

2010-01-30T20:39:00.001-08:00

It is inevitable that when you get together with a friend who has tracked your life for nearly 30 years, you’ll find yourself reminiscing.

It’s funny that one of the first recollections that came to mind during this spin through the past was of a time not so long ago, when she and I were in Normandy and we sat down to a late lunch at a café. I coaxed her into joining me in a little pitcher of rosé wine. For some reason, one that I will never understand, the wine hit us solid. Even a strong espresso could not (immediately) undo the buzz.

We went for a walk on the beach and we took pictures, and in that walk was the comfortable pleasure of being with a friend who would listen to anything you told her.

And here’s another flash: some five years earlier, she and I found ourselves in Brittany. Always happy to join me on a romp to this place or another, she took the leap and flew down to be with me to this God forsaken village, where even the closest bread bakery was miles away.

After an evening of the usual wonderful food, we drive back to the village. I park the rental car and we sit there under green willows in the silence of a country evening in France and I tell her all the ways I had messed up my life. Ever the good person, she listens as if I were recounting the days of the week, nothing more than that and then she says – well, I can see why that would have been a problem.

The world should be full of people like her.

I thought about all this in the morning as Ed and I made our way from the Residence Inn in Edina Minnesaota to the next door and adjacent Edinburgh Park. In the Twin Cities, most everything is reached by glassed passageways. To me, it all seems slightly bizarre and unreal. But I understand the premise: it's bitter cold outside.

The park is an indoor park, and there are tots playing inside and grownups swimming laps at the lap pool and I choose to run laps, just to see if I still can. (I haven’t jogged since September 11, 2001 as a result of a combination of knee issues and other distractions from that day onwards.)

I do 51 laps and that’s equal to three miles, the sign tells me, and then I have to stop so that I can meet up with my friend, but in the 51 laps I spend a lot of time thinking and remembering.

In the early afternoon I take my texts and notes to a Starbucks and I try so very hard to make progress on work, but a little Minnesota girl distracts me no end and I imagine again what it is like to have a child that tumbles and scrambles all over.

My friend’s daughter was once a tumbler and scrambler. I remember an afternoon two dozen years ago, in England, when my own girl watched in amazement as my friend’s little girl scampered into places with ten years' worth of grime and soot. She came out grinning and I had to think that maybe grime and soot had their beneficial uses.

And now here we are – my friend, her daughter and I, moving through grown up spaces in Minneapolis, as if it had always been thus. As if life never catapulted us forward, as if we lived just around the corner and dropped in for a quick walk through, as if...

We spend a good 36 minutes at the museum (The Weisman Art Museum at the University of Minnesota) and I know this because we had no more quarters for the meter beyond that. It is a wonderful 36 minutes.

After, I note again that in Minnesota, life stays green in unusual ways. I order a lunch of eggs and greens and I driznk a Pellegrino, thinking that this is not the time and place for a risky lunchtime rosé.

Finally it is evening. Her girl stirs up a wickedly good dinner and Ed opens up the rosé wine that I had purchased for my friend back in France.

And then the night moves us forward and it's time for us to head out. Tomorrow morning Ed and I will drive back to Madison.

from Minnesota

2010-01-30T20:39:00.000-08:00

north and west

2010-01-29T21:25:00.001-08:00

Like a child plucked out of a life of hardship and thrown into unknown riches, Ed investigates all that the suite offers. He doesn’t need nor want any of it, but he is delighted that $70 per night buys all this and breakfast too.

The man loves a good deal.

It has been a crazy ride up north, and I say crazy with a smirk, because the last time we drove north to St Paul Minnesota was exactly a year ago. It was the coldest day of the year then and it is the coldest day of the year today. It's as if I want another chance at frostbite.

We leave Madison after my class ends. Late afternoon. We're not two minutes into the trip when I ask that we stop. Coffee, okay?

Ridiculous, but no more so than when Ed speaks up. Custard?

She looks intimidated, I know. Something about Ed's height, or my camera, or maybe the way we banter about whether it should be a dish or a cone...

It’s about a five hour trip from Madison to St Paul. We fall into our usual routine: I start out driving. I get sleepy. Ed takes over. Which completely jolts me into wakefulness, as I feel I really have to keep an eye on the road, now that I am not driving.

The sun sets, the old snow glows, the trees throw shadows. The moon is out. Beautiful and perfect.

It's precisely at these moments of deep appreciation for the small details that you look up and notice police lights flashing.

You know why? – the officer asks us.
Clueless, I want to say.
When I stand in my car at the side of the road with lights flashing, the law says you, driving by, must move into the left lane.

It’s been a while since someone authoritatively glared down and told me what “the law says.” As always, it makes me cower. I want to say "yes sir." I want neither Ed nor I to go to jail. I remember why driving is frightening. Why I want fast speed train service to replace all highway traffic in the Midwest.

Though truthfully, not Ed, nor I knew this rule of the road. The officer didn’t believe our ignorance, I know, even as it is completely genuine. I did not explain to him that I am a mere immigrant and that Ed never really took a driver’s test (it’s a long story having to do with motorcycles).

$267 next time. A warning this time.

What does a warning mean? I ask Ed.
It means you get to drive away.
How lucky is that...

We arrive at my friend’s place in St Paul and it is as it always is – warm and wonderful, made even more wonderful by the presence of her daughter. It is one of those evenings when you want to jot down the details... Because surely this is better than evenings of putting down a dense text, reaching for Kashi's frozen Mayan bake and telling yourself -- they say on the box this is dinner.

Late, very late, we pull into the super discounted Residence Inn in Edina, where men wear sweats in the elevator so they can pick up their food orders at the front desk, where Ed does his delighted dance at the idea that we should have both a fridge, an oven and a dishwasher during our stay here. As if we’ll ever dirty a single plate this week-end. Still, $70 and clean dishes too. Amazing.

north and west

2010-01-29T21:25:00.000-08:00

by the lake

2010-01-28T21:58:00.001-08:00

Outside my office, I listen to the conversation between my colleagues and a visiting scholar from South Africa. The visitor is traumatized by the blast of cold air that we’re experiencing this week.

February will be better, you’ll see – they tell her.

Will it? And is it a good idea to just wait for those better days? Because here, in the upper Midwest, those better days are too rare during the cold seasons.

And in any event, why would we, hearty Midwesterners complain? We, who can afford to pay our heating bills and whose jackets can ostensibly protect against –500 degrees (never to be tested, thank God).

I say to our visitor – you’ll talk about your visit for the rest of your life. We, on the other hand, we have to live with this many months each year.

Thinking of this again at the close of the day, I decide to walk home. An hour and a half should do it.

I haven’t walked this way since I locked away the bike for the season.

The path is empty now. The perfect coldest day of the year. 5 degrees F outside, last I checked.

I make sure the scarf leaves no space for the wind.

Beautiful. Yes, that. Worth remembering on those days when I shoot straight home on the bus.

My legs are so cold that I no longer feel their brush against the fabric of my pants. Not important. I think. Not important.

Still, I pick up the pace.

Did I say this? It really is a beautiful day.

by the lake

2010-01-28T21:58:00.000-08:00

biking

2010-01-27T19:06:00.001-08:00

I have not biked to work in 2010. I cannot take the cold, the sudden ice patch, the clumsiness of pedaling in many layers of wraps.

But with what consequence? I use the buses, I walk, I freeze in other ways.

And this makes me think, as I stumble along through this incredible semester of work and then more work, that perhaps I should not shy away from the really difficult. Perhaps in reaching for the (even more) ridiculously impossible, I’ll actually find that I have improved my days. Perhaps.

With that in mind, I’m packing my bags and leaving for St Paul this Friday. To see a friend who faces some tough times at the moment. If you had asked me last week if I could do this, I would have said – no. School work, shop work, the cold – no.

My new thinking is – maybe in some ways I need to gain perspective. Maybe work has to be placed in the context of life. And maybe life needs to take on the challenge of a very cold and very slippery winter.

biking

2010-01-27T19:06:00.000-08:00

quiet space

2010-01-26T18:53:00.001-08:00

A student finds a quiet corner in the hallway. Sunlight is streaming in but I doubt he notices. Computer, a coffee, music. Effective barriers.

For my own coffee break I stroll down to the lake. I don't walk this way much during the winter. Too cold. But today, finally, the sun's out. I look at the frozen ripples. Rough going for anyone wanting to skate across. No one does though. It's an empty sea of stillness.

The bus is crowded on the ride home. It always is in the early evening. People come to campus at various hours, but they all want to leave now. Who can blame them.

I sit behind a young man (young, by my estimation: a student type) and I notice that he is reading a long, handwritten letter. Who these days writes letters? By hand?

Just a quick glance tells me that it is indeed a letter. A love note. No, more of a note pleading for love written by a person in love.

He seems unmoved, though who can tell. I imagine her to be wanting so much to jolt him into whatever it is that she finds lacking. And I wonder if anyone has ever written a letter that had an impact, that shook someone into love, that cajoled and ultimately convinced another person to continue. Or return. Or respond in kind.

He stuffs it in his pack and gets off.

Meanwhile the old man next to me starts grunting. Or singing. Of sorts. I know now why this one seat next to him was still empty when I got on.

I don’t mind riding the bus. It’s good for me, it's good for my budget, the environment. But today, I miss having a car. A Smart car maybe, with comfy seats, streaks of sun poking through a sunroof, and without the disquieting presence of fellow travelers whose burdens and issues I cannot correct, repair or even make just a touch lighter.

quiet space

2010-01-26T18:53:00.000-08:00

Lara’s theme

2010-01-25T19:38:00.001-08:00

Hum it to yourself as you read. (It’s from Dr. Zhivago, at the point where he reaches his sweetie'e place, in the dead of a Siberian winter.)

I get off the bus halfway home, because I have a shopping list for Whole Foods. Mostly produce, and also a rotisserie chicken – a cheater’s fast way to make homemade chicken soup.

Wow. Two bag’s worth. Nothing fits in the backpack – too many textbooks there.

It’s cold. I hadn’t noticed that earlier, but now that I am walking into the evening wind, I feel the slap, right in the face. My eyes start to tear. Could it be that little ice particles are forming around the wet lashes? It feels awfully brittle up there...

I move forward.

Past one gas station, another. I have my camera, but I have no interest in stopping. And for what, anyway? So that you can see that I have both a Shell and a Mobil within walking distance of home?

I walk by Mr. Monetti’s tailor shop. I like passing his store. You always see either Mr. or Mrs. Monetti at the machines, repairing items of clothing that basically don’t look well on us. We give them to the Monettis in the hope that suddenly a transformation will take place and we’ll look fabulous. And if anyone can do it, they can, for the Monettis themselves look fabulous: he always wears pressed slacks and a pressed shirt, she looks like she is on her way to an opening night at the opera.

I hesitate. If I put my bags down, I may take out my camera and get a bad photo with reflections of traffic in their windows. Not worth it. I take a step forward. Oh-oh. The handle on the grocery bag tears. And now it’s like the old days: carrying the bags as if they were two naughty toddlers, as I grind my teeth, wanting to wipe the near frozen eyelids, but not having the hands to do it.

Life is so full of small challenges.

At home, I make soup. Madame Defarge knitted, the Monettis sew, I make soup. Chicken tortilla. Without the tortillas (I forgot to buy some).

Lara’s theme

2010-01-25T19:38:00.000-08:00

café bar

2010-01-24T18:21:00.001-08:00

One good side to a busy schedule is that once you’ve stepped on the treadmill of the day, you don’t have to think about what’s next. And so there is no guilt. No wondering how you may have better spent, say, a week-end. It’s set for you. Like a child, you dutifully take on the next task and the next, as if a parental figure is pulling you along.

Hours pass. At some point you notice that the woman in the apartment across the lot – the woman who sits in the same spot by the window every single day until late at night – is not there anymore. You know then that it’s past midnight and that you must stop.

Earlier, on my way to the shop, I stop for a double shot at the café-bar just down the hill. I like to call it the café-bar even though, of course, in our usual segregation of drinking spaces, the coffee people are in one corner and the “other” drinkers are elsewhere. My double shot is of espresso and so I sit in my proper spot, watching employees take lunch breaks at the table next to mine. The bar corner is empty.

It is, I suppose, commendable that no one is out drinking at 2 in the afternoon, but I miss feeling the liveliness of a mixed crowd. In my state of utter busy-ness, I would enjoy seeing people who are less busy. Animated. Exchanging stories. It would remind me of better moments, when I actually do have choices: espresso, or a glass of wine? To write? Or to read? Or to hike and think idle thoughts?

The employees at the café-bar finish their lunch. It’s time for me to move on. I take a last swig of my double, pack my bag and head toward the shop.

café bar

2010-01-24T18:21:00.000-08:00

defiant

2010-01-23T21:17:00.001-08:00

A wet, foggy January Saturday.

Hand picked by me for a brief excursion. Just outside city limits, to a place that is silent and beautiful. Saturday is far enough from Monday that I can ignore work demands. And the shop gave me the day off.

The air is dense with drizzle.

Want to go to Indian Lake anyway? Ed asks. He’s not typically bothered by weather. Any weather.
I agree.

The phone rings. I’m needed at the shop after all. But not until evening! We can still hike! I’ll weave school work magically between the hike and the shop and... oh! This was the day I was to make soup!

That’s fine, I’ll weave that in as well. Pay bills, hike, make soup, work, shop, eat soup, work – it can be done!

But the fog...

Eh, so it's wet. At least you can’t say that it’s too cold to go out.

We drive the familiar road north. How many times have I escaped to Indian Lake in my years in Madison? Maybe two dozen? More, I'm sure of it.

We miss the turn.

On a foggy day, the world seems different.

At Indian Lake now.

We take the long trail that circumnavigates the edge. It’s a lovely, forested walk.

The quiet is interrupted by a pair of disagreeable skiers. She’s having a hard time on the narrow trail and the hilly terrain. He shouts back at her, telling her what she’s doing wrong. She protests. He’s adamant: I’ll video record it and you’ll see for yourself! – he tells her.

I’m longing for the quiet. And I’m thinking, why is it that when someone is struggling, all that it triggers in another is the thought to find fault? You may say that the impulse is ultimately a generous one. He’s helping her in the long run. Tough love! But here, in the stillness of the forest, his advice seems cold and drizzled with criticism.

We wait until they pass. And then we wait some more. I want great distance between them and me, even as I feel there is a part of them in me, in all of us.

The trail continues. I glance back at Ed and see that he is well matched with the forest. He is white and gray and black, as if he was born of these winter woods. Tall, defiant, quiet.

There is a small rusted plaque by the trail. With a poem. Oh, sure, I remember. An ode to leisure.

I’m okay with that sentiment. I’m not a workaholic.

Except that this winter I am.

It's time to go home.

There, I make the soup (mushroom spinach)...

... after, I head out for the shop. I leave the text book open, ready for me when I get home.

defiant

2010-01-23T21:17:00.000-08:00

ghosts

2010-01-22T21:11:00.001-08:00

An email landed in my inbox today. If you travel and if you make many of your arrangements through the Internet, you will get these occasionally – emails reminding you of your past inclinations. For example, I get a Joyeux Noel message from a place in France that I once wrote to asking for room rates. The rates were too high and I never went there, but each year, they send me greetings.

Today’s message was from Paul over at francebikerentals.com. Ed and I had biked with Paul’s bikes once -- from one town to the next, with nothing but a change of clothing and a laptop strapped to the rear.

I wondered if I would ever do that again.

Walking home at night after closing the shop, I saw a woman unlock her bike. It’s cold, just at the wet freezing level that I find so disheartening. Warsaw weather. Does she bike by choice? Yes, in this town, it’s usually that.

At the shop, just before closing, I hear a customer ask me – aren’t you Nina Camic? It turns out that our paths had crossed before. Twenty-nine years ago. He had been my attorney then – (for a will? The purchase of that first home?) We talk now about law and about bike trips through France. He and his wife had done one. Their hills seemed steeper than my hills. But my load was bigger. For one thing, I pedaled with my laptop.

Earlier in the day I watched students play Frisbee outside my office window. They’re regulars. When I see them, I know it’s late afternoon and I know that I am at least one generation removed, as the very last thing I would want to do at the end of the day is to toss a plastic disc on Bascom Hill.

Especially in January.

ghosts

2010-01-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

pencils

2010-01-21T20:49:00.001-08:00

I’m in a rush. I shove books, marked by pencils sticking out of them into my backpack. I stab myself by accident with a fine point.

Maybe that should be my wake up call. The moment that screams -- enough! You have got to slow down!

No, no wake up. I rub the spot on my hand and remember childhood days when we used to scare ourselves mad with pencil jabs. Ooooh, you’re gonna get led in your blood... you’ll DIE!!

I remember one sleepover night where my friend and I looked through the Medical Encyclopedia to find out if we would, indeed, die. The answer, I have to believe now wrongly interpreted, left us sobbing.

In these drab days of a pathetically unlovely January (Madison, you can disappoint!), I welcome signs of color. Not blood on a finger, no, not that. So what else is there? The one lonely food hut on Library Mall...

Africana! From a continent where the people wear clothes of searing colors and eat foods doused with exotic spices. Or something.

Later, I put on my blackest of black slacks, shirt, sweater and head for the little shop.

The walk adds no color. Of course it doesn’t.

pencils

2010-01-21T20:49:00.000-08:00

hunched

2010-01-20T18:37:00.001-08:00

Here’s the thing: work has to take precedence over all else in the next 9 weeks. It’s not only a priority, it is the top priority. My European leanings toward a more balanced life simply cannot find shelter on this side of the ocean.

What does this mean for Ocean? Well, given that I have no free time, none whatsoever, Ocean would have to retreat into an abyss of nothingness.

But that’s not going to happen.

What may happen is that on some days (today?) Ocean will be brief and to the point. A photo. Just one thought. Unelaborated. There you have it, there is my life, in that isolated snapshot of... a hunched soul, retreating home.

hunched

2010-01-20T18:37:00.000-08:00

on this date

2010-01-19T04:55:00.001-08:00

She tells me that once, I called her an asshole. I think back. Maybe. Don’t be such an asshole! An uncontrolled moment. She can needle me with that memory, sure, but she knows better. I love her more than roses.

It’s the birthday of my younger one – she’s a quarter of a century old and it’s been a long long time since I have had the pleasure of being near enough to at least have a birthday moment with her. She has to make do with a phone call and my blog notes.

And they’re hasty at that. My semester starts today, her intersession is nearing an end – it’s the usual winter mix of stuff that comes down at this time of the year.

But she’s no wintry personality, no ice princess, no, not at all! So much love in that young little girl! (Oh! -- not so young today...)

I miss her.

Happy Birthday, you, with the delicate fabric of art and beauty and intellect. The commonplace things I share with you. The best parts are your own.

In other news:

Yes -- the Spring Semester begins today. The skies are blue, I noted that on my coffee break...

...and on my walk to the bus stop.

For me, it hardly matters. On that first day of a semester, regardless of what's outside, the Law School feels like the richest and most abundant of marketplaces, pulsating with energy. The time of year when no one can possibly feel tired. Yet.

Of course, it is nice to walk home in sunshine. To unzip the jacket and unwrap the scarf because it's just so warm in the sunny spaces. Yes, in Madison, in January. Twenty-five years ago on this day, when my daughter was born, the winds kicked in a blast of sub-zero weather.

Not today. No, not at all.

on this date

2010-01-19T04:55:00.000-08:00

finally

2010-01-18T18:35:00.001-08:00

Well it’s about time! Morning mist burns away, the skies clear, my oh my, it is one gorgeous day!

Ed, we need to get out and go!
Where to?
No matter. Pick a destination! It’s winter’s best! The day you hope for on all other miserable days up here! We’re out!
Where to?
Let’s rent skis and do a long spin around Blue Mounds! Or let’s drive up to Bayfield and hike along Lake Superior! Let’s go!
Really?

Maybe not. I have more than a fair share of work to do. We stay home.

In the afternoon, I can’t take it anymore. Ed, look at that sky – it’s deep blue! It’s been such a long time!

We do what I have done over the years when there has been no time to do much of anything: we head for Owen Woods. It’s a fine park just a quarter mile from here, and it has hiking trails and I know it inside out, and on a day like this, you can take a photo or two that really highlight how brilliant a Madison day can be, come January.

Except – the park is sort of small.

We hike every bit of trail, every loop, and I look at the time and note that only 45 minutes have come and gone since we set out.

Do you want to do it all over again, only in reverse? -- This from Ed. Things look different from the other side...

No.

We climb into his rusty Geo with the pink stripes on the side and head back home. To work.

finally

2010-01-18T18:35:00.000-08:00

and so it continues

2010-01-17T22:46:00.001-08:00

I am pretty adept at recognizing when something is killing me (my work habits right now) even as I am less adept at understanding how best to survive the circumstances.

The skies remain gray. I suggest to Ed that we get some outdoor movement going while the temps remain above insane levels. At the same time, I understand that I have no time to do anything right now. It is the way things are.

We go to Picnic Point because it’s close and it’s really quite the wonderful retreat: you walk to the tip of the point and back, and you never feel guilty for walking too little because that’s all there, is - take it or leave it: there and back.

A few dogs, walkers, fishermen.

But no sunshine. No brilliantly clear skies, no crisp air – none of that. Just a frozen scape.

And a familiar skyline. With the capitol there, if you know to look for it.

In the evening I am with my corner shop associates, at our store manager’s home for a celebration of the year gone by and, I suppose more importantly, of the one ahead.

These things stand out for me. Colors on a gray day. Everything else is a blur.

and so it continues

2010-01-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

missing blue

2010-01-16T20:34:00.001-08:00

Mood dictates color preference. Such an obvious thing, so easily forgotten. In Mexico, aqua blues last week were a delight. Then, when we went inland, I could not get enough of crimson. A commenter noted after one Valladolid post that all my photos that day were yellow-themed. I never noticed! I was ablaze!

There are times and places where black and white feel poignant and just right. Sharp with contrast or muted in dreamy tones of gray. You can pick up the sultry romance of it -- the Parisian insinuations, the scorched Badlands of South Dakota...

But I have to say this: I have not seen any color since I stepped off the plane from Atlanta on Wednesday; my overall appreciation for black & white is waning.

It has to do with the mindset, of course.I get up at 5, hit the books and pause only to go with Ed to Woodman’s (Woodman’s!). I noticed that some of the trees have a delicate white coating of frozen mist. At another time I might regard that as actually quite pretty. Today, I see it for what it is: bare branches, failing to hide the strip mall (and another) behind.

Finally, around the bend, I see something worth pausing for: a tree, two trees actually, coated in white delicateness, with nothing but sky behind.

You’d think I’d find it just too perfect. Hell no! I think instead -- how dreary. Not a spot of color. Almost like Warsaw in December.

In that kind of a mood, you may as well retreat inside and resume working. Which I did.

missing blue

2010-01-16T20:34:00.000-08:00

words

2010-01-15T17:22:00.001-08:00

There have been times when I have worried that I am without skills. I mean the kind of skills that allow you to build houses and make wheels that can propel something forward. Yes, I can cook and sew – real womanly tasks, aren’t they – but mostly, my life’s work has always been in moving words around on a piece of paper. (Or teaching others to do so.)

At no time am I more reminded of this than at the beginning of a new semester when I stay up late arranging new syllabi (there you have it – moving words around), leafing through texts, poring over sentences and then, in that final preparation, going to my office to purge scores of sheets of useless words – exams from past years, syllabi without a purpose.

But there’s the flip side to this: my training in word play makes me, like everyone with training in anything, anxious to use what I can to help those who might benefit from it. I’ve heard that doctors are feeling a need to be in Haiti to mend limbs and save lives right now. I cannot do that. But, believe it or not, I feel the same pull, even if all that I can even imagine providing are words. To describe, to help with the ordering of chaos, anything! Words can help, no?

No. Words are for the long haul. For governance, for art. They don’t replace limbs and stop infection. They don’t even provide water.

Sigh...

words

2010-01-15T17:22:00.000-08:00

leaving Mexico

2010-01-14T18:27:00.001-08:00

Return travel is like clicking the switch on a measuring tape and watching it all roll back to its original position, except that it happens very very slowly.

And so yesterday’s return journey was a rerun of steps taken, except now we were going backwards. Slowly. The walk on Cozumel Island back to the ferry station, past the waterfront (am I truly leaving behind sunshine?)...

Then, boarding the ferry, hoping for calmer waters (and sun; come on, lay on the sun -- I need to staockpile).

The ferry ride to Playa del Carmen: first sunny (thanks!), lovely, warm, then, halfway through – windy, with sprinkles (oh well) and rougher waters...

From there, a bus ride to the airport, a flight to Atlanta (oh! one last look at the Mexican coast, just one more!)...

...a flight to Milwaukee (working all the hours of all the flying time and downtime and actually all the time now) and a bus ride to the distant parking lot, where we find Ed’s car. Dead as any battery would be, if subjected to neglect in the bitter cold.

He gives it a jolt with the help of the shuttle driver (does this happen often? yes...) and we make our way to Madison.

...where today the skies are gray, and I know that I should put a good spin on things – after all, it is in the thirties, which actually is not that far off from the Mexican sixties if you think about it, but still, I miss the sunshine, or even clouds that promise that any minute they will part and show me a smidgen of blue.

But, I live in Wisconsin and it is far far too early in the season to gripe about the weather.

Especially on a January day when the temperatures are, well, in heat wave range, by our standards.

leaving Mexico

2010-01-14T18:27:00.000-08:00

Insert

2010-01-13T21:29:00.001-08:00

Do please give, even in very small amounts, to help with relief efforts in Haiti. My link at the sidebar (or here) will direct you to an organizational effort to provide health services for the people of this Caribbean nation. Now, more than ever, Partners in Health is in need of our dollars.

(If you’re not familiar with PIH, note this article by Tracy Kidder in today’s NYT.)

Insert

2010-01-13T21:29:00.000-08:00

Cozumel notes

2010-01-13T09:04:00.001-08:00

The last day in Mexico. It’s unusual in any number of ways. I notice myself, for example, increasingly thinking about work. It's clear that I’m transitioning into that northern continental mindset where you cannot easily shake off pressure.

But there are other twists to this day as well. The weather still gives us blustery winds and various levels of cloudiness. The kind where you first over-dress then under-dress, never getting it quite right. Of course, it is positively tropical compared to what awaits back home.

Our lunch cook tells us – I would die if I had to live where you live.

We’re eating a late midday meal at a house a block up from our hotel. (Our hotel proprietor is a regular here.) It’s a small place – literally someone’s front room and back yard. A standard dish will be maybe $4.

We make good chicken mole, the lady of the house tells us.

It is indeed quite excellent. And the flan is in the best ever range.

Food in Mexico has been a delight for us. We’ve not had trouble finding small, fresh and honest places. Most of our dinners have been in neighborhoods where we were living. Very local.

Okay. The food is good on this day as well. How else might I describe our brief fling with Cozumel? Well, varied.

We want to explore the island, but it’s a large island (maybe 50 kilometers by 15) and it has no public transportation. Your option is to walk along the roads, take taxis, or hire something that moves. We rent a motorbike. We’ve listened to scare stories about how many people die here on the roads in biking accidents, but I'm okay with this mode of transport – Ed is a genius on a motorbike.

(Except when he misses a red light and gets pulled over by the police. I want to pipe up from the back seat that maybe clearing the tree branches around the light would help future motorists notice that there is a light, but I stay silent and after some hesitation, we’re waved on.)

We cross the island to the Caribbean east shore, where the waves are pretty and the coast stretches in either direction with strips of fine white sand.

The sea and landscape are a study in blues and greens.

We walk along a path that more or less hugs the shore and it is so empty that Ed can dunk in for a swim and not be noticed.

The path is fragrant from the essence of a plant that flowers and attracts bees and the sun comes out occasionally to mark this day as only cool at the edges.

Later, as we motor to the southern tip, I note how pretty and serene this part of the island is. You could learn to love Cozumel if you only make your way here and keep away from the ferry landing.

The only noise comes from the waves. And the hiss of the spray from the blowholes in the rocks jutting out over the water.

But returning up the western shore, the perception changes. The coast here is cut off in most places by hotels that stake out turf and turn away visitors with gates worthy of palatial grounds. The traffic is heavier and we soon understand why. As we drive closer to Cozumel (the town), we see the cruise ships. Three in one port, two in another. I'm smiling, but it's a forced smile.

Monster boats. And if Playa del Carmen was a zoo, the place where the people disembark at Cozumel is a riot of pop music, margarita bars and souvenir stores. With Starbucks, for the truly addicted. [I am not a Starbucks dretractor and I like margaritas, but not like this – not with whistles and bells and circus noises.] Truly, this side of the island has nothing in common with the other.

I do have to admit though that I also have a higher tolerance for shopping than Ed does. So it does not surprise him nor me that I find myself later in the day admiring yet again the embroidered garments that are so ubiquitous in this country. The ones that catch my eye now are from Oaxaca. The woman who sells them tells me that’s a hefty 24 hour drive by truck from here.

Outside the store, her little girl is playing with the daughter of the neighboring shopkeeper. I buy one small flowered shirt thinking all the time how there isn’t a place on earth where combining work with childcare doesn’t present a challenge.

Okay. Predictable. I love children, I love the colors of women’s dresses and shirts.

Less predictable is our last Mexican vacation moment. The WiFi at the hotel can be spotty in the afternoons. I decide to stroll over to the Internet shop a few blocks down. But on the way there, I take note of the restaurant/café just at the corner. With working WiFi. And one of the best coffees that I have had this past week. And breezes moving from one door to the next. It feels not unlike the café on the Isla Mujeres. How symmetrical is that! Our first stop of this trip and our last are at island café-restaurants with open spaces, good coffee, promoting a sense of well being that comes when you are not in a hurry, when you're not forced to think ahead to the next minute or even the next hour.

Sipping a coffee, then, later, a margarita, I suspend myself in the airy calm. I catch up on email, check headlines and, taking my cues from the cat, sit back and engage in the serious business of looking out at the world.

Cozumel notes

2010-01-13T09:04:00.000-08:00

en Cozumel

2010-01-12T07:21:00.001-08:00

We must return the car today: noon, bus station, Playa del Carmen. Two hours away from where we are. Some say three hours, depending on how you take the bumps on the road.

One last morning walk to the center of Valladolid. One last respectfully admiring glance at the women, who bring such beautiful hues to a town that’s already rich in color.

[Men, with vaquero (cowboy) hats are here as well; but the women catch my eye with their splash of pink, blue, purple.]

Moving solo, sometimes in groups, sometimes with an infant slung over the shoulder. Not so much with the entire family. That was yesterday. Today is a workday, a school day.

Last poke into a store for that last purchase: vanilla beans, cocoa, a belt... Reminders of the Yucatan.

One last look at the courtyard of our b&b...

We are on the road toward the coast. A modern, new road to Tulum. It was built to draw the coastal crowds inland. It’s almost empty today.

There are so many places where it’s tempting to leave the road. Side trips that could be taken. Things missed. Cenotes (underground watering holes), other Mayan ruins, other villages.

Next time.

As we approach Tulum – toward the southern end of the “Mayan Caribbean,” we readjust ourselves to this different world of mega-resorts, eco adventure parks and big signs advertising everything that’s glossy and contrived.

We enter Playa del Carmen. Ed draws a deep breath. He’d been here some decades back, when it was just one quiet main street with a ferry dock at the end. Today, it is an outdoor mall with a traffic jam and a Sam’s Club and a Pizza Hut and a million souvenir stalls. And four persons dressed in some form of nothing, dancing at the ferry landing in the hope of a few pesos.

None of this is photographable to me. I focus instead on the beach separating commercial chaos from the sea.

We hand over the automobile (the odometer indication is that it’s a newer car, but we know better: the seats are threadbare, the clutch malfunctions and it reeks of gas when you roll down the window; on the upside, it was very very cheap!) and set out toward the ferry. The goal is to get to the largest of all Mexican islands – Cozumel.

The ferry schedule on the Internet does not match the ferry schedule that’s here today and so we have a couple of hours in town. We search for that café away from noise and we do find it. I get Ed to shed the scowl. At least for the photo. The (wooden) parrot looks on.

And now I have to remind myself why exactly we are going to Cozumel. It is said to be a diver’s paradise, but I don’t dive. So why?

I want a taste of this corner of Mexico (with the exception of Cancun). Cazumel has its fans. And, its possible to get to the airport from here on Wednesday morning without a car. And so now, there we are, on a ferry to the island.

And what a ride it is! The waters are choppy enough to make a sailor belch. (Ed would, of course, call this only moderately rough seas.) The boat is fast, but from my perch, it appears to mainly heave from one side to the next. I count the seconds, reminding myself that at the end of this half hour journey, there will be ground.

On the island, the first impressions continue to make Ed recoil. So many stores, so many vendors beseeching us to buy! I am less bothered. It is how tourism develops. And, of course, there are places where aggressive selling far surpasses what we see here, on the coast of Mexico. You need only travel in China to know this.

As we walk to our b&b and move into the more residential blocks of Cozumel’s port town, Ed relaxes. Once you leave the shore, the neighborhood becomes the familiar mix of small houses and corner mini markets. It’s a place of barking dogs and yes, crowing roosters.

The b&b (Mi Casa en Cozumel) has nine rooms, stacked in a modernistic way, one almost on top of the next, making it, at four levels, by far the tallest building in the neighborhood.

From our top of the heap perch, you have the view of the area.

It is a lovely place! Our room has no window panes, just wooden slat doors leading to patios and wooden slat windows on all sides. By opening them, you get all the island breezes careening through your room.

Again, the price ($72 with breakfast and taxes) is a fraction of what you would expect across the border or at the beachfront properties.

Ed needs to “decompress” on the hammock. I take a brief stroll.

We are hungry early. Somewhere in the day, we lost our breakfast and lunch. Bakery rolls have been keeping us satisfied, but I am ready for a warm meal. (The shifting weather patterns are still messing with the Yucatan peninsula; the skies are blue or gray, depending on where you look, and the winds gust up a coolness that is unnatural to the area.)

We walk back to the square, look at one place, then another. Too big, too impersonal. We stop at a bakery off to the side, buy more sweet rolls...

...and ask the man at the counter where he likes to eat. Denis. Go to Casa Denis.

We do and it’s a lovely recommendation. The tables are outside, but in this quiet alley, the air is calm, warm even.

I order a Margarita and I laugh (not without pleasure) at the size.

The waiter tells me – that’s the small one. You want to see our large version? Here’s the glass for that one!

Next time.

I am still one foot in the Mayan world and without much hesitation, I order the fresh fish of the day (grouper) in a Mayan spinach sauce. It is absolutely delicious.

At Mi Casa, I open the slats and throw a warm blanket over the bed. The wind sweeps through the room, a dog barks.

In the morning, I wake up to the rooster. And a rainbow somewhere over the sea, off the coast of Cozumel.

en Cozumel

2010-01-12T07:21:00.000-08:00

taking flight

2010-01-11T11:28:00.001-08:00

Diego shivers. This is the coldest it gets, he tells us. But, I have a friend up in Milwaukee. He tells me I don’t know what cold is!

Indeed.

The clouds are threatening, but I know we’re done with the rains. That was yesterday. Today we have gusty winds – the tail end of a storm system that came down from the north. Up on the Gulf coast of the Yucatan, the wind makes me think it’s a lot colder than the posted 60.

We're in Rio Lagartos – a small fishing village some 100 miles due north from Valladolid (our home these days).

We’re here because of the Reserva de la Biosfera. It’s not the best season for viewing this, but the lagoon is home to numerous species of water fowl. Including the flamingo.

A year ago, the age of the Internet came to Rio Lagartos and the ever enterprising Diego set up a link to his boat trips out on the lagoon. The man knows birds and he knows these waters well (having lived here all his life).

It’s a family operation. His wife runs a small waterfront restaurant in this sleepy hamlet. His brother-in-law takes people out on the lagoon as well. His son is even now wiping down the small motor boat.

I brought my fleecy jacket, but I’m thinking it’s not enough. Do you have an extra wrap? Diego, ever the good person (and knowing that a happy customer is a warm customer), brings a warm jacket for me. Ed looks wistful. Diego runs to his house and comes up with a windbreaker big enough to fit Ed. The man can perform magic.

We set out over the shallow waters.

At times, Diego moves slowly, especially as we approach a bird. They’re timid and quick to fly away.

...and they are, for that reason, difficult to photograph.

But, the hefty winds and muscular gray clouds notwithstanding, the birds are spectacular to behold. Ibis, white pelicans, egrets, cormorants and of course, the flamingo.

The flamingo is orange from the shrimp it harvests in the shallow waters. The plumes, alternating with white ones, are truly magnificent.

Diego works the boat into tight waterways and occasionally, a winged creature takes flight in front of our nose. But mostly it is quiet, interrupted by an occasional screech or whistle.

You see the deadwood? That’s from the hurricane that came through in 2002. The worst one in fifty years.

At other times, we move in more open waters – all the way to the opening of the lagoon.
That’s the Gulf behind us! Diego shouts against the wind.

The birds are unruffled. Wind, no wind, does it matter?

In September, the flamingos come out by the hundreds. Now, you have to follow them far into the heart of the lagoon. That’s for another time. I feel grateful for the chance to come this close to their natural habitat.

Diego turns the boat toward the village.

Under a large awning by the water, Matilde, his wife, serves us hot bowls of shrimp soup. Diego joins us (preferring a Tequilla over my cold beer – to warm the insides!).

Are there a lot of people who come up? We ask.
It’s getting better. Last year was hard. The economy, the flu... Today, the weather is the hard part!

Funny -- to me, the weather is appropriate. The wild lagoon seems more hands off with the clouds hovering over us. Don’t get too close! Take a look, yes, study us, but only for a minute!

A bird taking flight is indeed a beautiful thing, but Ed and I are fully aware that they are fleeing from us. We are the intruders. We should not overstay.

Oh, but it has been such a fine day!

Earlier, in the morning, as we head into the center of Valladolid, we are struck how crowded it is on this cool Sunday. Shops are open, vendors are out. People from surrounding villages have come in to sell, to buy. Some cover themselves protectively against the wind.

But to me, the colors are so warm that the grayness of a cloud or two is hardly perceptible.

We visit another store that sells not only embroidered dresses, but threads for those who practice this craft.

Aida (and her brother? cousin?) sells the threads and patterns, and her family, too, is engaged in sewing. Back in the village -- here it is: She shows us a business card with the family name.

I am struck how much the work of a family stays concentrated around a single craft. There are sewing families, there are water-tour families, there are families engaged in the manufacture of leather goods.

Valladolid is crowded on this day and between the cars, bicycles, motorbikes and the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, the few minutes that I have for taking photos becomes a mere grain of time needed to capture the movement, the family life, the culture of food, of spices, of color: it spills out on the curb, or remains quite hidden in a doorway.

Our last evening here. I feel the pang of having to leave. We aren’t really hungry, but we want one more Yucatan meal. I have the soup with chicken, rice, chick peas, avocado and cilantro. It’s warm and comforting and I make a note to occasionally throw in chunks of avocado into a chicken soup, to bring out the flavor of Valladolid.

Even though it wont really bring out its flavor. We come, we leave and we take just little bits of memories. If we’re lucky, they'll have made a mark.

taking flight

2010-01-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

thoughts on roosters, rain and the Yucatan

2010-01-10T07:13:00.001-08:00

Do you sometimes read Ocean and think I gloss over the unattractive parts of travel? I don’t, really. In truth, those just do not stand out for me. The delightful details rush to the surface, most everything else stays to the periphery.

But I decided that today I’ll give equal time to the other side. The day was drizzly, for one thing – a natural setting in which to sprinkle in a frown or two.

Let me start with the rooster. I have to note here that I don’t know much about American roosters since not many people I know own one. But I know Polish roosters very very well. They have a marvelous sounding cockadoodledoo. It warbles in the high notes and continues, like an aria, in a prolonged treble, fading into the distance with a pathos that could only be described as beautiful.

There are a number of roosters in close proximity to my b&b and so I have a range to listen to here. And they don’t wait til dawn to start their chant. I have to say that their cockadoodledoo is stifled – cut off in mid-flight, if you will. Not nearly melodic enough. As if they’re saying – hey, I’m magnificent enough without the noise (for they are magnificent looking). Take me for what I am.

They crow from 3 to 7 and then they grow mostly silent. Why? I can only imagine what pleasures befell them after the hours spent marking their turf and telling others to stay away from their cackling hens.

On to my next theme: coffee. Mexico has some of the finest coffees in the world. I do admit to liking good coffee. With a bit of milk in the morning. Mostly, I’ve had decent to very good coffee here. But the great stuff remains hidden.

It could be that we eat in simple places. Still, if a nation has a taste for good coffee, then it typically trickles down to even the humblest eating venue. But here’s my experience with coffee, just this last morning: we go to a simple eatery on the square. I order huevos mexicana and café con leche. My cup of coffee appears. Very milky, I’m thinking. Very very milky. I ask if there’s a possibility that he could add more coffee to the very very very milky cup. Sure, he answers. He brings a jar of Instant Nesca with a spoon and encourages me to add a few morsels.

Ed, understanding my love of good coffee (he has heard me reflect on just about every cup I have ever had in life) offers to take me to the one swanky café in town. I drink a cappuccino. Still very milky, but the taste is right. But the price for the cup is more than all of dinner last night.

Now onto the weather.

As I said, it drizzled on and off all day Saturday. The temperatures stayed close to 60 and people were cold. I put on clothes I had worn from Wisconsin and felt comfortable, if somewhat grungy. (Apologies to all the beautiful women around me who, in spite of the temperatures, in spite of a busy shopping day, still managed to look beautiful in their embroidered dresses and skirts.)

Okay – nothing else negative stands out. And that’s good, because I feel I've already burdened the reader with trivial observations. You deserve to know about what really mattered. Let me roll out the day for you backwards, starting with dinner around a lovely courtyard. A wonderful meal where the waiter made guacamole at the table and the Mayan chicken was smothered in a gravy touched by tomatoes, raisins and capers.

The waitress was concerned, as we were eating outdoors and Ed was in his short sleeved t-shirt (everyone else was bundled). I assured her Ed never gets cold. She looked at him with something between awe and fear.

Just before that, I looked at the embroidered frocks at the markets again. After all, many of the stalls change vendors daily. Perhaps I missed something.

We came to a stall where, due to some adjustments that were being made to one frock, we stayed around for quite a while.

Maria, the seamstress and vendor explained something to me that I hadn’t quite appreciated. I knew that the dresses and shirts were handmade or machine-made, and that the handmade ones were out of my price range.

But what I hadn’t realized is that the so called machine-made were not a simple act of a peasant girl deftly sewing on a band of factory produced flowers. Machine-made meant that her mother drew the design on paper, transferred it onto the fabric and that Maria then took out a little machine and flower by flower, machine stitched it onto the fabric. A “machine-made” dress that you might bargain for at the market – to feel good about the buck you may have saved – will have taken her five days to complete.

Maria works in a village not too far from Valladolid. Her whole family sews, including her brother (who hung out at the shop with us). He does the hand stitching and it takes him close to 15 days to finish a garment.

And such beautiful garments they are.

Still earlier, we made an excursion to the Mayan ruins. I deliberated for a long time which ruins to explore. We are reasonably close to the spectacular, world-renowned Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza. Everyone goes there. Busloads of Cancun visitors make the trip. Moreover, this is a week-end. Surely there will be crowds.

I chose, instead, to visit the recently unearthed ruins at Ek Balam.

Nearly empty in the late afternoon, set against a moody, gray day, the stone walls, arches and steps pulled you into the little understood Mayan world.

The restored figure heads left you guessing. Because even if you hired a guide, there is too little that he could tell you. What meaning does it have, the gesture, the positioning of the hand? Why the facial expression? Of what importance are the wings on some, the head dress on another?

We climbed the steps to the highest of the Mayan pyramids (or at least higher than the largest at Chichen Itza) and looked out on the flat Yucatan landscape.

On a clear day, you can see the pyramids of the sites forty miles away. On this day, you can only admire the densely green land that hides everything in its foliage.

On the drive back, we came across a farm of... something. Yucca? Ed wonders. No, actually it’s the Blue Agave – a plant used for the production of tecquilla.

Much of the farmlands are hidden from the road. I read that this is cattle and ranch country, but the ranches are hidden from view. Signs tells us that we are passing the bougainvillea ranch or the mariposa ranch, but I can’t tell what’s down the dirt road behind the sign.

So passed a lovely Saturday. Of course, it goes without saying that some of the finest moments were spent merely people watching, in and around town.

...or buying a day’s supply of bakery sweet rools.

Or listening to the birds – from our b&b courtyard (at some point, the roosters grow silent and the birds begin), from the paths weaving around the pyramids, or just passing by a densely foliaged tree, or someone’s garden.

thoughts on roosters, rain and the Yucatan

2010-01-10T07:13:00.000-08:00