My day is that. Immersed in the quiet of work. And then, a ride home, by the lake.
[oh, by the way, Madisonians: you need no longer say that you have to travel to France to get a good steak frites; but shhhhh! I want to be able to get a table when the fancy strikes me; you can go there, but only on the weekends, when I’m likely to be elsewhere. You want the name? Okay, okay, Brasserie V. On Monroe. Damn close to perfect. And get the endive salad. And the rosé. What a place. But shhhh!]