The Other Side of the Ocean

I have a friend who is completely oblivious to trends. If a repair tool works, he’ll not upgrade it just because the market offers something sleeker. If a woman can chop cabbage by hand and let her mousy hair hang down her back – why would you want to improve on that?

Modern is not necessarily better. Cheaper is always better.

I ask my friend (okay, I’m talking about Ed, my occasional traveling companion) to help me put up a hook by the shower. He agrees. He brings this tool to get the job done:



What is that?

It works – he’ll tell you.

In the meantime, as he leisurely surveys the spot by the shower door, I am crazily making improvements on my lecture. I haven’t bothered to look decent. My mind is on the class ahead. Ed glances over, mumbles some nicety and snaps this photo.




To him, I looked nice and tussled.


In the late afternoon I visit my man Jason, the brilliant man of color. Hair color. Jason does magic. Jason scrunches his hand here, blows some air there and I leave feeling like I could face the world and hold my own.




Tonight, Ed is coming over for supper. He has professed an interest in recreating a Bittman recipe. He likes Bittman and I’m willing. We’ll be eating chopped cabbage and potatoes. He will dutifully look at Jason’s efforts and make some pleasant remark. Then he’ll pick up his repair tool and work on putting the hook up.

[All this to deflect from what really captured my attention tonight: the debate.]

Wednesday. The middle of the week. The middle of winter. And we're feeling it, here in Wisconsin. I leave the house in the late morning and it's only - 7 F.

Still, there is a charming beauty to it all, especially when a kind soul volunteers to drive me to work. The long way, past landscapes that are an impressionist's image of winter.





In my office, I have some more meetings, student meetings, and then a half hour of peace before my long class of the late afternoon.

I notice the phone is blinking. Funny, no one calls me here. They know better. They email.

A voice telling me I should call my credit card company. What now? I love my credit card company (it's there for me when I need to go places) and it loves me (it charges interest when I go places). I call.

We're just checking a purchase.
Oh that. I travel, I spend money in strange places, what can I say.
Did you make a purchase two hours ago in Laon, France? In an electronics store?
Did I? No, wait, in France, two hours ago? Electronics? No!
Our records indicate that someone swiped your card there.
I have my card here. In Madison.
Is there another?
There is no other.
Hmmm.

I love my credit card company for not believing that I would buy $1500 in electronics in Laon, France. Thank you, credit card company.

But who?
And how?

It is a tough world that we inhabit.

It’s all about The Storm, here in Madison. Monday? All balmy and foggy and March-like. Tuesday morning? All balmy and foggy and March-like. Forty-four outside. And a bleak view out my office window.




Then comes The Warning. Huge storm system WILL PASS THROUGH! Airport will close. Visibility will fall to zero. Temperatures plummeting at the rate of 10 degrees per hour. (Until what?)

Sounds scary.

So I pack my book bag and head home. Anxiously waiting at the ugly (so ugly) bus stop, worrying that the above will hit me straight in the face and send me flying into a freezing hell of sleet, wind, snow and horrific thunder. (They said!)




Home. I slam the door behind me. Safe. Cancel all appointments for the evening. No need to go out. I’ll watch from the inside.

Sure enough, by mid afternoon, the rain turns to this (from the safe haven of behind my window):





And then it stops. Just like that. No thunder, lightening, no zero visibility. None of it.

Except for the cold. We got the cold.

Say I had a friend who loved to fish. In the company of others. (I don’t have such a friend: no one close to me fishes with a passion. Or at all.) Would I agree to stand in rubber duds days on end with a pole and a line, waiting for a pull? Or, to sit in a hut on icy Lake Menona and watch my bucket fill with bluegills, crappies and perch (that’s what I’m told fills buckets here)?

Surely I would go along, so long as it wasn’t significantly uncomfortable. Maybe I would request a hut with some heating options, like this one:





And yet, there is this to consider: how far would you go to do something you regard as substantially boring with someone you cared for? Not very far. You are more likely to tolerate boredom when you are young. Very young.

Musings on a winter evening, while preparing fish for dinner.

It’s gone out of fashion – telling your kid “and if your friend jumped off a cliff, would you follow?” – in response to the standard kid plea of “but my friend does it!”, whatever the “it” may be. [In my case, it was biking the streets of New York (“no!”).]

It seems that following the herd is dumb, but ignoring cues from where the herd is grazing is even dumber.

So if my commenters tell me I should bowl, and I should wear a special bowling shirt and I should drink beer while bowling, who am I to ignore the green fertile lands of commenter experience?


Ed and I went bowling this Sunday morning. So full of hope…









Light ball. I need a light ball. I have weak wrists and weaker than weak thumbs.

A glance, to the left, a glance to the right. Oh, I see that there are others looking for light balls.





But the little guys get help!





And still, there are the gutter balls. And tears.




I so understand!



Ed and I start out with placing our balls straight in the gutters. Secretly, I am pleased. I am well matched!

But within four rolls, Ed gets a grip. The man is powerful. I am surprised that when he hits his pins, all pins in all lanes do not fall.





And he becomes accurate. Strike. Split. Shit. I mean, darn. Me, I’m getting weaker. He’s getting stronger.

My pickle shirt isn’t working. Hey, commenters, you told me to wear a shirt! Ed explained that you meant one with words. I have a pickle shirt. I'm wearing it! So what happened??

Oh! The beer. I forgot about the beer.

Do you sell beer before noon?
Of course!
What do you have on tap? (This is one bad question to ask in my home state: there’s too much choice.)
Blue Moon? That sounds cool. What’s it like?
Fruity.
Great! Like having Sunday brunch with a mimosa. Fruity!
(I have never in my entire life had a beer before noon. But, if this is what it takes…)

At first, my game (we’re on the second one now) falters. My wrists are protesting.

But soon, I get out of the gutter. And by the third game, I end with my best: 59!

On the phone with a close one later on, I say: guess what, I got more than half! Fifty nine!
Really? Just that? Hmm.
Wait, this is good, no? I mean, you told me you’re not so hot at this either.
Fifty nine, eh?

It’s a day for indoor work, yet again. But with breaks.

Movies, yes, of course. Winter movies. Depressing, excellent but horrible movies.

Ed, want to see another?
In a day or two…

Searching for alternatives, Ed proposes bowling. Now, some people do not like engaging in things they are not good at. They like to smell at least the possibility of success. I am one of them. And so I remain quiet.

Ed asks: How about if we just take a look.

We do.

It’s sweet. Saturday. Kids’s day.





So if these little tykes can do this, maybe you can do this?
Maybe.

I have bowled only a handful of times (bowling was an unknown in Poland) and even if there are bumper guards, you can count on my ball jumping lanes and finding a safe haven in an unguarded gutter. Still…Ed is so enthusiastic, so eager. I'm wondering if bowling is to Ed as France is to Nina.

Tomorrow. Let's bowl tomorrow.

To get through January and February (see post below), one has to, I have to, think broadly and acquiesce.

We drive through white fields in gray light. Nothing pulls me toward the outdoors now. Nothing.




Tomorrow, we bowl.

[*it’s a mind spin back to this title.]

A colleague one said to me – you should never make any important decisions in February. That month just messes with you.

Can we extend that idea to the end of January?

p.s. Snowscapes are magical. Sometimes. Other times, they are like this (title: “last steps home”):



(can we agree on the word "bleak"?)

Do understand that, in all essentials, I am a person who has had a fantastic amount of good fortune. And I know it.

Posts about cold weather and work? Take them in the context of, for the most part, a charmed existence. The hugely unfortunate things that happened to me, happened in ways that didn’t destroy anyone. That’s sheer luck!

I am aware of all this. It’s why I’m not really a good candidate for whiny blogging. It would not be authentic.

Still, it was a cold day, a long day of work, and a cold walk home.

My day. If yours was bigger, better, richer – go ahead, tell me about it.

For you, who do not live in an extreme, northern state. This post is for you. It’s about a morning ride in to work.

I check bus schedules. Good. Here’s one at 8:30. Not too far from my front door. The sun’s out, but we’re not in positive digits yet. Brrr.

Darn. The bus isn’t here. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Brrrr.

Cheeks are feeling it, of course. Mouth too.

Ah, there we go. Bus. But wait. It’s a different number. So what. It goes downtown. It’ll do.

Nice and warm inside. Cap removed, gloves off. I look around. Many foreign students. I live not too far from apartments that are favored by an international community of scholars. So many ipods!

I’m getting comfy, but darn, this is a snail’s pace. Exodus of passengers at hospital. Ah – I took the bus that first goes to the hospital. International community knows which bus is theirs. Smart people. As opposed to me. I am taking the long way into work.

Finally. Close to my stop. Oh oh. Bus is in a resting mode. An accident just in front. Seems a car slid into the bus before us. Driver nicely lets us out. But it’s a bit of a walk to the law school. At least ten, fifteen minutes. Up this way:





Finally, in, just minutes before class. Cutting it close? No! That ride was supposed to be 13 minutes long! It was more like 45. Adjustment needed for the future.

Defrost in office briefly, load mug with tea, proceed to class.


P.S. Trader Joe’s roses are a steal. Brighten up your sweetie’s table with these:




Only $7.99 a dozen. Worth it. Takes the mind off of what’s outside.

I had one, not too long ago. Bright red. I thought it would look bold. A woman on the move.

But, it was large and at the same time not commodious. So that my camera, for instance, could not be tossed inside.


I spent this day in my office going through mountains of papers, correspondence, etc, so that I could feel fresh and clean for the semester ahead. And I watched the snow fall and it was pretty, in a cold sort of way and because this was a holiday, I saw very few people on Bascom Mall.

Except the students with red bags. The sign of a new semester: red bags.




Not purses, mind you, but bags, filled with books for the classes they are about to take and I thought – red bags do make a statement and it was good that I had mine for the years that I did.




Even though at some point, you have to move beyond just appearing bold. You have to be bold, or else people will see through you.

My state is focused on the football game this evening. Men in green take the mind off of the bitter cold. I tune in for the last five minutes and watch my home state team lose. It is often like that: I don’t care at all about a game, I tune it, I send my vibes of indifference and the team loses.

I’m sorry, Wisconsin.

I didn’t mean it. I am tired from working all day and playing not at all. I watch the sun move from one end of the room to the other. This marks my day. Last week I was taking photos of bees in rosemary bushes. Today, you get this:




My flowering rosemary at home. No bees.

Just before sunset, I take a walk. Past empty chairs and empty tables just outside my building. Poignant, no?





Still, I am not oblivious to the sharp air, the crisp contours, the harsh beauty of it all. How could I be – it is a cold but beautiful evening.




But I am sorry about the Packers. I really do feel homestate loyalty, even if I do hate football.

The warmth must come from within, because, after a multi-hour, multi-stage day of travel, beginning, pleasantly enough, this way…



…and ending with the coldest O’Hare bus ride ever…

I thought to myself – welcome back to the Midwest, where outside temperatures can be extreme and inside temperatures are never warm enough. It does not help that we are in for a week-end of Arctic, sub-zero temps.

As I wiggled the key and pushed back my condo door, I could tell right away. The furnace was dead.

Luck would have it that space heaters, on loan from when the furnace was out the previous time (just before I left for Europe), are still here, ready to be plugged in, so that I never really saw icicles inside my unit.

And eventually, someone will come and the problem will be fixed, so that there can be one interior in all of Wisconsin that makes me feel warm. Maybe.

Back in Cassis (and in Paris as well, but in Cassis this was just so extreme, I had to smile), everyone bundled up in heavy sweaters, coats, scarves, always the scarves, men and women, wrapped in miles of wool, even when the temperature hovered near forty or fifty. When you would go in to a café, you’d be greeted with a heating unit right at the entrance (hello! welcome! we'll keep you warm!) and oftentimes a thick curtain to kept the gusty air from permeating the rest of the space inside.

But, I live in a place that's more hospitable to polar bears and arctic hares and a harp seal. Maybe not a harp seal. And where no one thinks about putting a thick curtain by a café door, and where it’s perfectly acceptable to skimp on heat but waste resources on chilling the air in the summer. A permafrost land of thick skinned and warm blooded people. People like me, with a blood composition that matured in less frosty conditions, shiver and hide and dream about Cassis or New Mexico (I’ve not been there, I imagine it to have a near perfect seasonal variations).

Green grass, easily imagined, elsewhere.

Ah, but truthfully, I am happy as anything to be back, on this side of the ocean. Because it is home. And, most importantly, because I can easily pick up the phone and tell my petite fille, the one who isn’t so petite anymore, happy birthday today. One tap of the finger and she is there and her voice sings with the joy of her special day and I sit back and listen, thrilled to be so close, even though really, she is a thousand miles away. (But only one time zone. It's all in the time zones.)

Happy birthday, little one. I love you more than lilies and roses!

There is a new love of the outdoors in France. Cafés, bars, restaurants have spent more on heating lamps and other warming paraphernalia.



People are filling every inch of sitting space out on the sidewalk. Cigarette butts are littering the curbside all evening long.

And inside? Sure, still crowded. It’s France, after all – people have to eat. But there is a huge change, a perceptible difference: as of January 1st, every eating and drinking establishment is smoke free.

If Paris felt alive and bustling before, now, more than ever, it is a January madness out there. A wonderful sea of faces, a friendliness and joviality, spilling out along the city streets.





I’m heading home today. Seems that we could use some of those blankets in Wisconsin. And the heating lamps. And furs and prtable radiators and woolies.

Still, it’s home. I’m hoping that my heating system is up and running.

So what would you do if you only had one day in Paris before returning home? (To a place where the forecast forebodes a high of 1 degree F on the day after your return?)

Toward evening, after a full day, even by my standards, I say to Ed – let’s get back. It’s getting cold. It is, after all, in the 40s, and there’s a misty drizzle of sorts. Not great for more walking. And we did walk. In fact, I say, as we get on the metro – we have twelve stops before we get back to our hotel stop.

Twelve stops? He asks. Did we really walk that far? Stops. Let me count them. We stopped first for breakfast, then at a store where you looked at clothes, then for an apple tart, then to look at the Thinker, then at the market, then at the Eiffel Tower, then across the river from the Eiffel Tower to look at the view back, then at another clothes store, then at the café for lunch, then at that Monet Museum. That’s only ten stops.

Than man thinks of unique ways. But, let it be his way. I wont post all ten – you don’t want to see me examining with longing the clothes at Maje or Et Vous and you certainly don’t want to see me yet again eating a chocolate croissant at Les Editeurs, where I nearly always have breakfast when I am in this city and nearly always post a picture of it. But the rest? Stroll along if you wish, after a brief introduction to Paris, recounting yesterday’s late arrival.

So, yesterday: we arrive. We’re cheap. No taxi for us, no. We want to walk to the Metro that will take us directly to our hotel area. Walk. With bottles of wine rattling around in Ed’s tote bag and in my suitcase. So we walk. From Gare de Lyons, across the bridge, to Gare d’Austerlitz. A mere nothing if you are unencumbered.

Pause for quick photo – there, in the distance is the familiar.





In the evening, we go back to a place I haven’t been to for years. It’s tiny, it’s good, it’s modestly priced and it has and always has had an appetizer that I love: endive tatin.





Okay, now let’s get on to Ed’s recollections of our stops today (with a couple of freebies – photos in transit from one stop to the next). Nothing extraordinary, or especially insightful, mind you. Paris for me is beautiful in the most prosaic, predictable places and happenings. It’s what I look for when I come here.

No. 3 for an apple tart on Rue du Bac.





No. 4 at the Rodin Museum




(after)




No. 5 at the market on Rue Cler (serious about cheese)





No. 6 at the Eiffel Tower. Because it’s on the way. And because it’s the Eiffel Tower.




(after: the boat, the car on the boat, and the metro above ground)




No. 7 on the other side of the river, looking back at the Eiffel Tower.




No. 9 for lunch. He told me to ask for ketchup. I obliged, but explained to the waiter that it was for him.




(after)





No. 10 at the Marmottan Museum – with all those Monets.





There you have it. A day in Paris.

Nino’s staff is already prepping lunch when we go to the dining room for breakfast. They leave us thermoses filled with coffee and hot chocolate and nod to our request for soft boiled eggs. We’re part of the morning wall-paper in their large work space.

The sun is out, of course, with a light dusting of cloud cover. The air is fresh, damp from yesterday’s rain (they’re still talking about it). Outside, the small cars roll up to the restaurants with deliveries. A cook turns heads of lettuce, inspects them, buys the whole lot. Sacks of baguettes rest on a chair.





I think I should always vacation over a restaurant. Working in one is too strenuous. Watching others fuss about food is deeply gratifying.

We set out again to find the wineries. With maps and instructions now. How tough can this be?

We pass by the port where a fisherman is selling sea urchins. I ask him how early he pulls in each morning. Sunrise, he says. What, six? He laughs. More like eight. Okay, I’ll watch for you tomorrow – I tell myself. Maybe.






Finally. We come to the first vineyard and Domaine on my list – Domaine Bagnol. It’s closed. Bummer. I thought I heard “open until noon.” It’s nowhere near that. And the next one is far. Double bummer.

We walk along the highway. How pathetic is that! But, we are car free and proud of it, so now we have to share space with speeding, belching motors.

After being rattled by trucks and cars, we approach the Domaine Fontcreuse. Truly an Ah! moment. It’s lovely here. I taste, I buy, just before Madame closes shop for lunch.
















The vineyard is mostly on the northern slope of the cliffs. Just below the mixed forest. So tempting to climb up and take it all in from above! And why not. Ed hides the box of wines in bushes and we climb up through wet branches, bramble and firs, in every conceivable shade of green, up a slippery, muddy trail until Ed tells me to give up. The summit is far, the climb is ridiculously hard.

I can’t I can’t – I say this now to express my desire to continue. He shrugs and waves me on. My boots are a mess, but it hardly matters. I should write here now that I was rewarded for my efforts with the most spectacular view, but life is not like that. I shout down “you were right!” to Ed and retreat.

Still, the forest scamper was worth it. I tell Ed – “inhale deeply!” “Why?” – he asks. “It’s good for you!” And I believe this. The scenery is pretty, but it is the fragrance here, in the forest, that makes your heart dance.

Through a combination of back lanes and some trespassing, we find a gentler way back to Cassis and even manage to locate someone at the first winery, where I purchase six, yes six bottles in radiant jubilation, just before their gates close for the day.





We pause for a snack at our favorite café – the little one, where you can spend many pleasant hours watching monsieur and madame fuss with coffees and chocolats while their dog keeps tabs on who is in, who is out.





Time, too, for one more trip to the pastry shop. A fraises des bois tart. Perfect.





And the circle is complete. We’re almost back at Nino’s. The port is dazzling in the evening light. Do you notice this if you live here?





At dinner, I pick all things local: a fish soup, a grilled scorpion (“the only Mediterranean fish on the menu!”), a crème brulée.













In the room above the restaurant, I think about making the various train connections to Paris the next day and I listen to the wind. It is wild again. Roaring in from the sea this time. I get up before dawn to watch the fishing boats come in, but I know there will be no boats to see. The waves are brutal.










It’s market day in Cassis and I go to the square to watch the sellers unload. My biggest envy may well be that they have this glorious market twice a week, year round.



















At Nino’s I pull Ed out of sleep so that we can have our last breakfast before the train takes us west, then north. Oh, and one more stroll. Just one more. We have time. You have to see the market and the pounding surf! – I say to him.


We watch moms take their little ones to the market and (mostly) men congregate at cafés, and I think this is the Cassis of everyday France.










When I asked Ed to come back with me for a return trip to France after the semester, he said – when you travel here, it’s like the same trip, over and over. But the regions – each time they’re different! New corners to explore! New hiking trails!

But he is right, to a degree. There is definitely a pattern. And predictability. And to a person who feels herself to be displaced and suspended, this is a welcome feeling.

We shake hands with Nino. We’ll see you again? I say this wistfully. We’ll always be here, he says. Yes, exactly. How wonderful.

My occasional traveling companion tells me to note this on Ocean and what better way to highlight it than to put his directive in the subject line!


Well, it rained.





I knew it would and so we moved slowly all morning long. Nino’s was on break and no one wanted to come in just to fix us breakfast, so we headed to a café in the heart of Cassis, where we ate the biggest pain au chocolat ever. And watched locals come in, take an espresso and demonstrate great incredulity that it should rain.





After, I worked and Ed rested. It’s not unusual for us to find ourselves proceeding in this way.

And of course, when you are physically inactive, lunch is a welcome diversion. We head for a place right by Nino’s and find more than a dozen tables occupied by chomping French men and women. We joined them in one big national chomp, fondly referred to as le grand dejeuner francais. Ed and I both have salads, but we’re talking salads that spill over in their abundance. Mine, with seafood, is superb.





The plan for the afternoon is to search out the magnificent Cassis wineries. I have a terrific map listing them all, but you really need a car to get near most and, the drizzle notwithstanding, we are bent on walking. (I also want to check out a b&b for future visits. Nino’s room is beautiful, but he knows how to charge for this pristine oasis with views to die for. Especially in high season.)

I find neither the b&b nor the wineries, so in that sense, Ed is completely correct: we spent the better part of the afternoon being utterly lost in the stunning but wet Cassis countryside.

Yes, of course, I do locate the vineyards. And they are lovely.











I find gnarled vines to be graciously beautiful, sometimes reminding me of sage thinkers, sometimes, in their younger stage, of so many acrobats and dancers.












But as is often the case, the wineries and caves are away from the fields. Our country walk is invigorating, the garrigues (those fantastic stunted oak forests, interspersed with dense rosemary, lavender and thyme bushes – a combination found only in the limestone soils of this area of France) are fragrant in their wet state, but we come back tired and empty handed.


In the evening, we return to our lunch place for dinner. It is Monday, a common restaurant closure day and at any rate, we are by now without imagination.

Next to our table I hear, for the first time since coming to Cassis, spoken English. The couple is welcomed and kissed by the owners and staff, a curiously affectionate gesture, given that the couple appears to be absolutely loony. And I’m not just focusing on his pajama bottoms. They are indisputably the town eccentrics. Or rich and famous. Or both.

As the evening winds down, the dog of one of the French diners gets up, wanders a little, and lifts his leg. No one notices. Should I tattle? Of course. Monsieur, excusez moi, mais le chien a fait un petit pee-pee.

Ah oui. The waiter removes himself and discreetly brings back a bucket.

It is late. And still new people come in. A very wet threesome, obviously after a day at sea. Would you like a table on the verandah? No no! As far from the outside as possible!

The door opens and closes constantly. This is only the second week of the complete ban on smoking in bars and restaurants and I feel like I am in a new world, especially when in the tight quarters of small cafés. And amazingly, the smokers are observing the new law. They go outside. Waiters, proprietors and clients, pacing the quay, taking a few puffs then returning to their place.

A piece (three pieces actually) of cake and I’m satisfied. Body and soul, fully recovered.

If yesterday’s ramble put the lyrics of Blowin’ in the Wind in my head, today, I was thinking how catchy Ella is, especially in one little ditty about clean hair*.

As my occasional traveling companion Ed and I sit on a cliff top contemplating what has to be one of the loveliest tracks of limestone jutting out of azure waters…




…I say, in a moment of pure rapture:

Isn’t this the best traveling moment?
To which the ever non-rhapsodic gentleman responds: it’s okay, it’s pretty enough...
What could be better ? – I ask incredulously.
Adventuring, he tells me.
Thinking that yesterday’s brush with mortality qualified, I prod him to give me an example.
Maybe hitchhiking in South America? Or taking a little tiny sailboat down along the coast of Honduras, sleeping on the beach – he answers.

* If you laugh at different comics,
If you root for different teams,
Waste no time, weep no more,
Show him what the door is for…
I’m gonna wash that man right out of my tangled-by-le-mistral hair…

A reflective moment there, on a limestone ledge, as I bite into my baguette with cheese and tomato, thinking who could not place France at the top of a list of best places to visit?

Still, songs are one thing and life is another and so we pack up the baguette wrappings and trudge forward.


But let me go back to the beginning of the day. Because it is Sunday and I am in France. And no one knows better how to take the day off after a long(ish) week of work than the French.

I step outside and I am enthralled. The sun is brilliant, the air is calm and everyone, everyone is pouring out to the port of Cassis, greeting friends with kisses for the new year. Humanity convenes and expresses joy at being alive.

(Nino is not so appreciative. Must be the Italian blood in him. Give me American work ethic anytime, he tells me. I want to keep my restaurant open this evening, but I can’t. I have to give my staff time off. Restauranteurs, thank God, can employ someone 42 hours a week, not the standard 35, but after that, it’s double pay! And, in addition to all the calendar holidays, I have to give them five weeks vacation!)

In the late morning, the cafes are packed and the restaurants are setting tables outside. It may be January, it definitely is a cool day by their standards (it is in the mid fifties and they are bundled as if it were a Wisconsin deep freeze), but it is Sunday, by God, a day for family and friends and food. A day to be outside.




Still, a calm (nonwindy) day is one to be used wisely. After yesterday’s encounter with le mistral, I’m thinking we should grab this day by its gentle strings and head out toward les Calanques.

They’re not fjords, really. But they look like them: narrow inlets of water carved into the limestone by raging sea waters. A six hour hiking trail weaves its way up and down and all around so that you can get the perfect views.

(Signs everywhere warn that proper hiking shoes are “obligatoire!” and so I leave my snazzy French-like boots at Nino’s.)

We set out. And still I am tempted to stay put and do nothing. At the little town beach, the protective back wall keeps the air so toasty warm that a number of people are sunbathing in all forms of undress.





A January moment on the beach… Bliss…

But, I am certain that idle sunning is not Ed’s thing, so we trudge on.

The three Calanques are indeed stunning. The first, de Port-Miou, is used to moor sailboats. An old quarry (limestone, used, they say, for the building the Suez Canal) but now a protected natural site, it snakes for a while and then deadends at the edge of Cassis.





The second, de Port Pin, is especially coveted by families, out for a day in the country. An hour’s hike and you can unload your picnic right at the water’s edge while the kids let the water wet their toes.


















The third, d’en Vau, is the toughest to get to. With dramatic vertical cliffs dropping precipitously into the waters of the sea it can scare the daylights out of people like me, who cannot stand being close to slippery edges. So you get one photo. And just barely that.







It is hard to remember that even here, at the edge of Provence, it is winter. The bees are finding the rosemary buds without a problem, as if we were in the middle of August.





But the shorter day gives it away. By four, the sun is very low. The boats are returning to their resting stations. It's time to head back.





Back at the port, no one is ready to call it a day. The waiters balance trays of hot drinks, beer and wine...





...the conversation is even louder after a day well spent.


Most restaurants, like Nino's, are closed for the evening. Nearly everyone eats their big meal at midday. But there are those, like us, who have spent the day out in the country, who now want a dinner of simple, hearty Provencal foods. In Cassis, it's impossible not to eat well. And the wine... ah, the wine! A rosé and white wine lover's paradise. As I said, how can you not love France?

Like anyone, I have my share of terrors, but until this day, I have never registered any significant concern about the wind. I mean, where’s the harm in a breeze gently playing with the leaves and pine needles on a sunny day?

Today, I found myself clinging with panic to pine branches, wondering if I could make it just a few steps to safety.

It was only the second time ever that I found myself repeating over and over to Ed – I can’t I can’t I can’t… (the other time was in the Canadian Rockies, where I was convinced that one step would send me plummeting down a mountain side of loose rock).


The day starts out magnificently! The mistral (a wind that comes to Provence and the Cote d’Azur every now and then) pushed away the clouds, creating that clear crisp air that gives this region its magical, bold colors.

We are having a leisurely breakfast downstairs, enjoying the bustle of the kitchen staff at Nino’s as it prepares for the noon and evening meals. Our big hike to the “fjords” is for tomorrow. Today is a day for meandering along the eastern shores of the town. We tell Nino of our plans. He frowns. Le mistral – he say with a shake. The flags are out. You can’t go anywhere. It’s le mistral. It’ll drive you mad.

That seems a tad dramatic. We decide to look for a second opinion.

At the tourist office, madame seemed less concerned.
Can we walk up to the cliffs at the edge of town?
Well, it’s a long walk. Maybe a taxi to the trail?

(I think people regard Americans, or Americans our age, or Americans my age and my gender as frail.)

But the wind, is it okay to walk?
They will close the roads in the mountains if it gets to be too strong.

We take a bottle of water and set out. But after a few steps I want to turn back. Not because of le mistral, mind you.

Ed, I need to change to boots. The new ones that I purchased for the trip.
He stares at me with a complete lack of comprehension.
Look around you! Every single woman is wearing strikingly beautiful boots! I have some in the room…
For hiking??
It’ll be on solid surfaces mostly, wont it? And besides, mine are Madison sensible ones. Still, I’ll feel like I belong.

Our climb begins. At the beginning, it is wonderfully benign. We pass coves where waves crash with beautiful sprays of water…










…and hillsides with vines planted in terraced rows, spilling down to the sea.





But near the summit, as we pick up the footpath, we suddenly begin to feel and hear the force of the wind. Its rush across the planes and mountains of Provence sounds like an airplane engine. At times, as it careens toward the heathered cliffs, it's more like a firecracker. But it is fierce.

The road barricade is up and so it can’t be that bad, can it?

Peter Mayle wrote this about the mistral: (it is) a brutal, exhausting wind that can blow the ears off a donkey.

Ears off a donkey, cars off a road – how about tourists off a cliffside?

As we climb higher, we are whipped and pounded with such force that I utter my first series of “I can’t’s…”

Still, the views are compelling.









Sure, we are alone on the trail, but it is January. Who goes hiking in Cassis in January (in boots that will never, ever be the same)? The wind pushes us toward the mountain and so reason tells us that being blown off is not possible. But it’s finicky. Sometimes a gust will brush to the side and then I feel like it’s teasing me, coaxing me to the cliff’s edge so that it can deliver a final punch and push me over.






At other times, it is deceptively calm. Nothing more than a breeze. And I crawl (yes, crawl; I’m no fool – I will NOT stand up and be toppled by an angry French wind) within three feet of the edge (you cannot get me to a cliff’s edge even when it’s calm out there) and I feel it’s all worth it – the views are that good.





But as we continue along the trail, the wind picks up again and even though the edge is now ten feet away, I feel I am a mere dustball, about to be picked up and carried to the white-capped waters of the blue Mediterranean. I cling to the branches of a small pine and let Ed move forward without me.

We are on the mountain ridge. We see cliffs by the sea and the chalky mountains of Provence all the way to the north. I can hardly recall ever feeling so enthralled by a combination of water and land.






The afternoon light is changing and I am reminded that the day ends early. We turn back.

Along the port, the people of Cassis are milling about, enjoying the week-end sun, the camaraderie of their neighbors, the sweet treats of life in a coastal small town. We join them and as I contemplate which pastry should be the chosen one…





…and how much of the crepe Grand Marnier I should leave for Ed, I think to myself that the danger was completely imagined up there, on the cliffs.





I look outside of our Nino’s windows and I watch the sun leave strokes of orange and pink on the cliffs we had scaled and I think – how tame!



(view to the left: today's hike)




(view to the right: tomorrow's hike)


Still, when we sit down to a seafood Provencal dinner at Nino’s…





… I am not so sure. Our host tells us – le mistral, it can roll cars off the road.

The wind is dying down tonight. They say it has run its course. It is done for now.

Before falling asleep, I spend a good half hour untangling my hair. Ed on the other hand collapses instantly. You can't tell if his hair has been touched by the mistral -- it sort of always looks like this.

And so, a flight and two train rides later, we came to Cassis.

Where’s that? Just east of Marseille, on the coast. But a world apart.

The thing about Cassis is that…

It’s large enough to have at least two patisseries open every day.
Last year, it had sunshine on 329 days (source: Nino, of Nino’s Restaurant).
It’s snuggled between the tallest cliffs on the French Mediterranean.
People from all over come here for the bouillabaisse.
Not much is happenin’ in Cassis in January.
It has a port.
It is surrounded by vineyards producing white wine (and rose) that was the first to receive AOC status in France (if you don’t know what that is, trust me – to the French you are nothing wine-wise or foodwise if you do not have AOC status).
Ed wanted to celebrate the sale of his business by going to France.

Now, which of the above lead me to come here just before the start of the new semester? I’d say all but one.

We arrived on one of the few afternoons of the year where there was no sun. Indeed, the cliffs were hidden behind low, gray clouds. And the wind – ah, the wind! We are in the midst of a le mistral spell, when the vicious wind pounds at the south of France with such a fury that, they say, it drives people mad.

I had chosen a small hotel at the side with a view toward the sea. Nothing about my choice was good (meaning – it looked nothing like the cute place I had inspected on the Net and, horrors of horrors, if we wanted to use the Internet, we would wind up paying a sum almost as large as the cost of the dark, dingy room; that, more than the Mistral, would lead Ed to despair).

We set out for a walk so that we could take stock. I mean, the factors above notwithstanding, there is more than one French fishing port by the Mediterranean Sea. And yet... We breathed in the sea air, noted the fishermen on the pebble beach…





…and hiked into town.





It’s not easy to find a room in a place that doesn’t really cater to tourists in January.

But, never underestimate the power of an Ligurian restauranteur who for decades wanted to buy out space above his eatery so that he could open up a trio of rooms for his clients. How fortuitous that he should do so just before we showed up!

We ate at Nino’s to celebrate our good fortune.



fish soup



monk fish



orange cake


Here’s Nino’s (the next morning), the restaurant with the whitest, brightest trio of rooms above.

We are not sleeping well. We doze off alright, but at two we are up. I write, Ed reads, we watch CNN and BBC and wait until sunrise. And then we are too tired to get going.

On this last full day in the city, we get to the lovely old (but really new) café for breakfast after they have stopped serving it. No matter. A morning, sorry, afternoon meal of apple cake and a sweet yeast roll is perfect.









And again, slowly, tentatively, the sun comes out.

I tell Ed that I don’t think I have captured the essence of Polish life well enough here, on Ocean. I suggest a walk through my old neighborhoods. Past shoe stores, schools, bread shops, milk bars, past old churches and old women selling old everything. I take a photo or two. Not of anything unusual, not anything splendid at all. Just the ordinary stuff of an ordinary day. Here's one of women waiting for a tram.





As the sun moves closer to the bare branches of trees, I turn in the direction of Lazienki – the most beautiful of all city parks.





The weather – just at the freezing point, but fairly sunny – has brought out more than a handful of people. Older people, non working people, preschoolers.





Everyone has something in their pocket for the birds that live here. My sister has given us bread and nuts too and, as last year, we are absolutely delighted to throw bits of crust for the peacocks, ducks and birds.

















The squirrels are fewer than before and they are fussier: they dispose of uncracked hazelnuts and walnuts and seem to ask us to break the shell before handing them their treat.






When the sun finally disappeares and the chill becomes more pronounced, Ed heads back to the room and I begin what has to be described as a rush of last minute embraces. Some of my friends and family are more patient with my restless spin through Poland this winter. Others – not so much. I understand their puzzlement – why so short? Why only three days?

It is as much as I can do this time.

I stop in again at my dad's, meet up with my sister, drink tea with one special friend and eat dinner with a family of another and now I feel truly that I have never left, even as I sit there and try to bring Ed, who speaks not a word of Polish and understand little of what it means to feel Polish, into this peculiar world of close ties and long history.



daughter, mother



father, daughter


At the end of the day I am spent and so again, I do not sleep. At five in the morning, we are on the way to the airport. Wet freezing drizzle dirties the window of the car. It’s nice to be driving at this hour – the driver tells us. It’s nicer to be sleeping under a quit, I’m thinking.

I’ll be back soon, I tell myself. And maybe I’ll be calmer and less rushed and maybe I’ll venture out of the city and maybe I’ll capture the faces in new ways, because the old ways are beginning to feel remote, as the country distances itself more and more from the way I knew her thirty years ago.

In the year my father was born, the Chopin Monument went up. Then, during the war, it was knocked down. In 1958, when I was five, it was unvelied again.

Photographing Poland. I ask myself each time I am here -- how should I do it?

I'm posting just one photo from today. If you stare at it long enough, you'll race through most of the questions that I have about my days here. Maybe not all. Maybe not even some. Maybe none at all. But to me, this image has soul.





I'll leave Ocean alone for a night. Tomorrow we leave for France and on my way there, I'll again come back to this theme. Because I have been thinking hard about how best to post (and think about my days here) with accuracy, with flare and with an honest punch.

You have to smile. Visitng Warsaw now, you just have to smile. I know that much.

We are sitting at Blikle Café, eating breakfast. An egg in a glass for me. Classic Polish stuff, though in the old way, the soft boiled egg would have been pealed and dumped unceremoniously into a tall glass. None of this delicate poaching in the glass stuff that I see now.




It is a late breakfast. The Café doesn’t open until 10 – an interesting time to contemplate an eggs and toast beginning.

(Okay, we cheated: in waiting for it to open, we stumbled into the bakery next door and snacked on sweet cheese yeast rolls.)





In fact, we are not the only ones now sitting down to a full breakfast. Slowly, the place fills. An older gentleman comes in, looks around and approaches Ed. May I have your newspaper? -- he asks. Ed obliges, as well he might since he doesn’t speak Polish and the paper is in Polish (Ed likes to have reading material ever present, even if he cannot read it).

We learn that the man is Swiss, but born in Poland. First time in Poland? He looks at Ed with interest. No, I smile. It’s his second.

The single woman at another table chimes in. He’s a New Yorker? I nod, though by now, Ed has spent far more years in Wisconsin than in his childhood city. But she got it right and she's pleased. Nice day to be outside! Enjoy it.

Polish people are forever curious about people sharing space, even fleetingly, with them.

Second trip for Ed, but the first time in years that my winter days in Warsaw are dappled with sunlight. Throwing back the curtain this morning, I could not believe that I saw this:





A walk. A long overdue walk. I hadn’t done it last year: too cold, too gray, too wet. But now? Ed, we are in for a hike!

And so we step out for a first real look at my city.

Remember the Square of Three Crosses from last night? With the pudgy looking church? Here’s its cross (one of the three!) against a deep blue sky. Oh yeah. That other tower? The Palace of Culture. Gift of Stalin. No cross on that one.





We walk along the "Royal Way," toward Old Town. The pudgy church is behind, casting a wicked eye at the building up front (on the left of the photo) -- the former headquarters of the Communist Party. I used to walk this way daily, to classes at the university. I was destined to have a more personal connection to the place then too. But that's another story for another for another forum.





Oh, the sun, the sun. In spite of near freezing temps, I am not cold. We walk past stalls of flowers -- so common in European cities! Who gets this morning bouquet? An office buddy celebrating a name day? A sweetie back home?




Further up, we pass the univsersity buildings. Hey, my classes were here! I ran out for tea at nearby cafés more than once. More than a hundred times. None of this Starbucks quick latte stuff. Prolonged, animated tea breaks.





And finally, the old town. We slip and stumble over the cobbled streets and icy sidewalks (sand just does not have the melting power of salt). And, I am, as usual, enchanted. Not by the beauty of the place, though there is that...





...I am enchanted by what was reconstructed here, out of rubble, starting just a few years before my birth and well into my childhood. The Royal Castle at the photo's right side? My high school class helped clear the the old bricks and stones to make room for it. The Castle: not old, but looking as it once did, before the Nazis emptied the city of structure and life during the War.

And of children. The children of the war years. The generation just in the shadows of my own.

Ed and I walk into the Museum of Warsaw History. There is a temporary exhibit of photographs and words. Of children, deported from Warsaw to labor camps and transit camps in the last year of the city's destruction, in 1944.

There is nothing I can say here that would adequately convey those stories, their stories. On the website of the Banished Children Project (banwar1944), you'll find more. But let me at least leave you with one tiny image of this unbelievable horror.





We watch a film on the destruction of Warsaw. I had taken my daughters to this very film ten years ago. I could watch it a thousand times and still, I would not be able to comprehend how Warsaw could be reduced to nothing. And rebuilt with such strength and gusto soon after.

Outside, I am dazzled by the light. If ever I loved the soft play of rays on children's faces, it was now, this afternoon. A group of school kids, meandering across the square, taking a quick look at Syrenka, the mermaid with the shield, the symbol of my city. Who can not smile at this?





And all day, we encountered granparents, caring for their little ones while parents are at work.









We pause at a traditional old restaurant where Polish people, older, nonworking people are eating their mid day meal. Ed is thrilled with Polish mushroom soup and I'm happy with my borstch. Warmth from within.





It's getting late and the sunlight is getting dangerously thin, frail, as if it might disappear behind the trees of city parks.





We turn back. We catch a tram along the main street, Marszalkowska, the one that zips past the Palace of Culture.




We get off just steps from where I first lived in Warsaw, in a most unremarkable, tiny apartment, looking out on a tram stop. Around the corner, you can still walk past the markers of what we not so affectionately refer to as Stalinist architecture.




You're probably noting the graffiti. That's new. I'm noting that even at times of envisioning a utipian society, the mother is depicted as holding her child (similar images are on the remaining pillars, where she is also holding tools of work in her empty arm).

It's just a short stroll to the park. Several parks, in fact. Let me end this for today. A long post. A full day. A gradnmother bending down over her little one, wiping his nose.

By late evening, the streets are nearly empty. True, it’s January. But it’s not a miserably cold January. And maybe we’re not hitting the tourist by-ways. (How many tourists are there in Warsaw at this time of year anyway?) Still, Warsaw feels quiet.

Oh, there was traffic, sure, a snarl of cars, especially at the periphery of the city, driving in from the airport. But now, as we set out for a quick evening walk across the Square of the Three Crosses, just outside of where we're staying, we encounter few others.

Warsaw is like that: it can quickly become residential, with only the occasional small shop (sausages maybe?) squeezed in among rows of low rise apartment buildings.

Is there a shopping heart to the city? Ed asks.

Is there? I have to think about that.

Yes and no. This is a city of neighborhoods. You return to your own to shop for foods, to drop off your shoes at the cobbler. The heart of the city is a magnet, but not for commerce so much as for its prettiness, its café life, its parks.

But there is no time for that tonight. After many delays and a missed connection, we are dead tired. We flew in at the darkening winter hour of three, pushing through the gray clouds of a January sky.




After a quick first visit with my sister and her son, we make our way to Srodmiescie -- city center. My old neighborhood. The place where I learned to tie my shoe laces and stand in line for warm loaves of bread.

We stop at a local café-bakery...




... and order a salad of greens, pickles, egg, tomato, beans and smoked highland sheep’s milk cheese.





And, rather predictably, we end the first day with a pastry. We aren’t really hungry, but there are too few evenings here and I can’t pass it up – a bite of apple cake with baked meringue.

The taxi was late. So we (yes, my occasional traveling companion is along for this ride) had to chase the bus for Chicago. There was fog. And rain. And thunder. The flight out to Paris is delayed. So we will miss our flight to Warsaw.

On the other hand:

Chicago weather is not as wretched. Free champagne is always nice. A longer layover at Charles de Gaulle means time for croissants and a cappuccino.

Travel is for the hearty. Or for those with hearty appetites.

The next three days are in Warsaw. I’ll write once we get there.

How do you regard your past? Most of the time, this is a ridiculous question. You recall moments, they’re good, they’re bad, you move on.

At other times, it’s a challenge.

When I travel back to Warsaw, I almost always ask myself this: what if I had never left? It was chance, really, that brought me to the States. I could have stayed in Warsaw. I almost stayed.

When I am in Poland, it is as if I had decided to stay. Here I am. Walking streets that are my daily route – I know the way the sidewalk concrete aligns itself in this block, I know the store that closes early on this corner.

It’s a desolate feeling, because it is not populated with the people I love – those in the States – so there’s that. I feel alone in Poland, even as it seems very much home.

Now, I imagine this is not unique to the “immigrant” who returns to the old country. Presumably if you lived all your young life in, say Columbus Ohio (is that middle America?) and then move away, but you go back at an advanced age (am I at an advanced enough age?) you feel alone. Yes, most certainly. But do you still think of Columbus Ohio as home? I mean, in the States, isn’t “home” a transferable concept?

There is no way that my Warsaw years can be picked up and transferred here. The people of Warsaw do not think and feel in the way that people in Columbus Ohio (or New York, or Chicago or Madison – the towns of my American existence) think and feel. They just don’t.

But, at the same time, I have chosen to put distance between myself and that world. I am removed from it because I want to be removed from it. No one forced me to give it up. I did it because people here drew me to their world. And I stayed.

Except when I go back. In Poland, I am not American, I am in all essential ways Polish, because, well, I grew up there.

Too foggy for you? Yes, of course. It has to be that way. As yesterday, I was thinking of all this as I was walking to the grocery store late in the afternoon. The fog in Madison was so dense that all the time I was contemplating this photo, I believed that I was watching a man walking his dog.





I was wrong. There was a man. And there was a fire hydrant. And they were not together and he was not walking the fire hydrant. Things get complicated on foggy afternoons.

You have no idea how complicated it is to be an immigrant. You love your old home country. You miss it. For whatever reason, you do not live there anymore. You embrace the new land: you learn about being a resident of your curiously different, but increasingly familiar home. You don’t go back to the old place, but then you do go back. You get all nostalgic. You go back again. And again. Until you remember that it’s not all that perfect back home (in the same way that it’s not all that perfect anywhere). You think – I best put it behind me. You do, but you don’t really. You want to write a book about it all. You do write (or commence to write) a book about it all. Then you go back with renewed enthusiasm. After all, your childhood memories were good and pure and simple.

And it does not stop there.

I’m finishing up work here, but my foot is already there, in Warsaw. I can see myself on the January streets of my childhood turf. I can feel the place. Not as it feels to, say, my sister, who lives there now, but how it feels to me, the immigrant, going back to what was once undeniably and completely home.

I was thinking about this as I was walking to Whole Foods this afternoon. Perhaps because the route to the store is so boring.



going there



heading back


Or, because I have a quick (so very brief) trip to Poland ahead of me.


Or both.

Intermittent mechanical problems (say, randomly speaking, in a furnace that works…most of the time) are excruciatingly similar to on-again off-again lovers. They both keep you riveted with what they offer, and then, just as you’re settling in to enjoy their splendidness, they turn away and you’re left out in the cold. Until the next round.

By the time the furnace man came to fix the dysfunctional machine, the furnace was up and running. It tests fine! He tells me.

I know better. It’s a passing phase.



I spend a good part of the day in my office, making progress with various projects. The campus is almost empty. Cold from an almost complete absence of the human form.





Coming back home, I note that I have taken only one photo (see above) the entire day. I’ve had days like this before. To me, they are typically markers of shoddy effort on my part – not so much in terms of finding inspiration, but in terms of making purposeful detours into prettier (or at least more interesting) terrain. If you know your path home is ugly, diversify! If you know your furnace may not be fully functional, dig out more blankets and cook up a zesty Moroccan stew!

Here is my change of direction:





Not pretty enough? Okay, let me stray further, toward Lake Mendota. Frozen now.





You guys cold out there today?
Not so bad.
You are made of different fabric than I am.





At home, I run into the furnace repairperson.
You’ll be fine now! Have a good week-end!
I close the door, listen to the steady hum of the mechanicals within the furnace and wait.

An hour later, I turn toward preparing a pot of Moroccan stew.

I am on the Interstate. Alone.


(no, that's not me; I'm the one with camera, remember?)

No one to take charge of the camera in the back seat. Just me. And loosely packed bags thrown about. With dirty laundry.

I search the airwaves for the appropriate song. Maybe the one about going home? To the place where you belong? So, do I belong here, back in the condo?

Sure, yes, but I would like, for once, to come home and not find that in my absence, the furnace has taken a vacation. So that the place has a lovely chill – fitting with the mood of a person leaving behind two weeks of daughters and their hilarity and facing a brief period of intense work and neglected chores.

Coming home. There is no heat, but contacted persons are awfully nice about it. Niceness counts. Home. Home, home. Facing the bright side now: home. With sunlight streaming in, so that the absence of a working furnace is barely noticable. (Until the sun sets.)

By the way, did you ever notice how difficult transitions can be? You have? Really? You too?

How do you photograph a blast of Arctic air without spending much time in direct contact with it?

Intense dark blue sky of dusk, remnants of snow on frozen branches – that’s the best I can do.





And forgive me for the brief posts in the next handful of days. I’m returning to Madison tomorrow (sob, no more daughters) to catch up with stacks of papers – all of which must be reviewed and attended to before my departure on Monday. Where to then? Keep reading.

P.S. Ocean is four years old today. Ocean View is one year old this week. Ocean Store is opening for business this month. Is it all driven by a restless winter impatience? Or staying in from the cold? Maybe. So, thank you, Arctic air. And thank you to all who read Ocean. Posting daily makes sense to me so long as I have at least one person who likes to see what I’ve come up with. To all of you – commenters, readers, lurkers, friends, family, occasional traveling companions – thank you for peeking in now and then. It’s utterly wonderful to have you here.

Without doubt, in Poland, it’s all about the Eve. The Day is only for recovering from the Eve. Maybe under the market economy people now make resolutions – to earn more money, to eat less junk food, that sort of thing – but I doubt it. You greet the New Year and then you forget about it.

I’m not sure where I fall on the Eve/Day dilemma. Which counts? The review of the past and the anticipation of midnight?

Maybe. Last night, the snow fell gently, the taxis were snatched faster than I could say, and we made our way, as last year, to Crofton on Wells – a downtown restaurant, where Suzy Crofton presides over a wonderful kitchen. (We have a tradition of saving the very best eating experience of the year for this evening.)

So, snow, a family frolic and finally, a feast. Not bad.












potato blini with smoked salmon, quail egg custard, etc.


After dinner, a quick glance at the postmidnight crowds (as seen through the window of a moving cab)...




... and then sleep. Had the ride been five minutes longer, I may have begun my night's slumber right there in the taxi.


Today, the snow still fell gently and the day moved gently as well. Here's what I could take in from the back patio of a third floor condo:





It was the kind of day where my big excitement was a trip to the gym, followed by a purchase of coffee. There were many many people buying coffee today. And taking it easy.





Someone sent me an email asking if I made resolutions. I’m on the fence with that as well. I, like millions of others, do believe in self improvement, but I also know that piling it on (be chipper, moderate indulgences, spend less on travel, etc etc) will freeze me in much the same way the computer freezes when it has too many applications open and running. Still, the “do better” slogan stays with me and I get to pick and choose which elements of it are pleasant enough to incorporate into the day.

Day is forward looking. Eve is full of nostalgia. Looking back is sad. Looking forward and doing better is optimistic.

There’s much to be said in favor of Day. Oh, but when I remember last night's mushroom and sunchoke soup...





Happy days ahead to you. And many evenings of good eating!