The Other Side of the Ocean

Why did we get an extra day in February? I would have liked an extra day in the month of May – unquestionably the most hope-filled month. Adding a few more hours of hope sounds good to me.

Last night, I barely made it across the Square. My evening companions were hardly bothered by the sting in the wind. Making me wonder if I am in the wrong state, with the wrong people. Or at least in the wrong season.





Just to torture me, two eateries turned out to be closed. Perhaps forever. Still, we made our way to the third -- Muramoto, which is always special, always fresh and creative (and always just a tiny bit cold).





So on balance? I can't complain. Good will and good food trumped the cold.

But the next day? Well, as is often the case, if you start with resolve, you end with resolve and nothing much happens in between.

I worked at home and brooded. Looking out my balcony windows, I was at first buoyed by the blue skies. And then? Let’s just say that clouds got in my way.

It is an uncomplicated family. With just two sets of grandparents. No separations, abandonments, divorces leading to multiple sets, or additions. The two pairs? Different as can be. One set has stronger caregiving instincts. The other? Hard to tell. I’ve heard the words “selfish” and “difficult,” but really, who can tell.

They don’t get along with each other. Of that I am sure. I never hear sentences directed from one to the other. Think of all the possibilities: she can talk to the other grandmother, the other grandmother can talk to him and he to her, or to the other grandfather. But none of this happens.

And yet, to the amazement of all, the other grandparents, the ones with no caregiving instincts buy a cottage right next to the fence circling the home of the one set of grandparents. To taunt them? No. Too expensive a proposition.

What were they thinking?? Maybe – and no one thought this is possible, but maybe they had an itch. To be physically close, to their son, their granddaughters, even as nothing else in their nature, or perhaps in the circumstances, permitted the more intangible connection.

All four have died, some time ago, and so it's impossible to know for sure.


I was thinking of physical distance today. And of families. And of partnerships. And mostly of daughters. With whom I have multiple exquisite connections. But, because of circumstances, the physical distance is there. To taunt me.


No photos today.

A student comes into my office to chat. He looks over my shoulder – you have over 9000 messages in your Inbox?

I shrug. Sometimes life gets the better of you.


My day? Like countless others. Consumed by work and thoughts of work and worries about work and dreams of less work.

In between various lectures, I sit not too far from the broken fireplace at Acora coffee shop (off the Square) and stare at the logs that refuse to light up. Behind me, a picture with a peace sign feels like it needs a prop to the right.





Perhaps I’m not telling the story well. Okay. Start again.
The Square. Walking toward Ancora.





After, I cut through the Capitol to get to State Street. You know, the street that, in a straight arrow, shoots you straight to Bascom Hill.





Eventually, I lose any conception of time and place. Until the light fades and it’s time to leave and go home.





Long day.

I’ve been thinking a lot about accomplishments today (and lack thereof). Some people give years to this kind of pensiveness, but I gave it only about an hour.

It doesn’t take me long to sort through puzzle pieces – I either find good fits, or I don’t and then I turn to something else. But today, I’m thinking maybe I found some good pieces. Figuratively speaking.

Much of this is about the value of work (not only the wage-earning type) and about whether, at the end of the day, you know you have delivered something of worth.

But beyond this, it's also about how differently people approach value. And that it shouldn’t much matter how others judge value, so long as you can understand what holds value for you. (For a very random example, I see value in a politician’s work ethic and political and personal accomplishments. As opposed to, say, a convincing speech. And I’m okay with that. But that may be just me.)

All this thinking, coupled with a substantial work load (of the wage-earning type) left little time for much else. But I did take a photo. And it reminds me in some small way of a painter. And her paintings remind me of “my own demographic.” Which in turn reminds of me of how sad it is that important work (for a random example – ascribed to one gender, or in the alternative, most often performed by one gender) is so often undervalued by others (for example – by members of a different gender – the one with the louder voice).

So enjoy the colors of the tulip. Think spring. In the alternative, just think. (Maybe about value?)

I like planning a departure. I like arriving. I like staying. Leaving’s not for me.

Even though it is part of the American experience. Individual freedom, food in the grocery store and leaving. An American trilogy.

And so I learn to live with it.


The familiar wait for the Yellow Line (why is it always late?), the added burden of going to the barracks of the Northwest terminal, the delays, the flight over the city I’m leaving behind…





...the Detroit layover and the short flight into cloudy, cold and on the verge of snow Madison.

Work. It will take over my days and I'll forget all. Add that to the trilogy. Or does that make it a quadrilogy?

Brilliant sky. Warmish even. A day for a long, scenic walk. Let me charge up the batteries.

Where’s my camera?

My last memory of it is when I used it to photograph a Georgia pecan pie. And shrimp piled on grits. And a pretty arrangement of roasted baby beets. That was last night.

So where’s my camera?

No one is picking up the phone at Vidalia (that’s right; the place is named after an onion). I set out to bang on some doors.

Lovely blue sky. Brisk walk. I knock on the front door. Nothing. I poke around the back alley and find their delivery door. Bang bang bang. Nothing.

Out front again, interspersed with lots of cell calls. The chef comes out. Big guy. Great talent there, in the kitchen. I tell him so. (Chefs make me feel small even when they’re short. This one – I can barely say one clever word, I’m so awed.) We poke around the office. No camera.

Maybe it’s in the safe. I don’t have the combo for that. I hope it’s here.
I’m totally apologetic for wasting his time. He should be slicing slivers of onion not searching for my little Sony.

I go out to brunch with my daughter. Great neighborhood place that serves eggs benedict on green tomatoes. With a side of cheese grits. I’ll order anything with grits.

Phone rings. My camera is safe, waiting for me at Vidalia.

Darn. I was getting used to imagining a walk without it. You take a disappointment, shake it around a little and adjust to the new parameters. Sure, I fretted. What if the perfect light threw itself at the perfectly expressive face of someone perfectly positioned before me? Eh, so what! I'll write it down. And I'll quit breaking the pace. I'll walk in step with my daughter. I'll be free!


Freedom is overrated. It’s good to reclaim my little guy. Nothing brilliant threw itself at me, but I could take out the reliable Sony and aim it straight at that gorgeous sky. And the still bare cherry trees. And the dad, sitting on the banks of the Potomac with his son. And the strawberry cupcakes. God, I love having my camera with me.

People like San Francisco and Seattle and New York. I’m saturated with New York and I can’t relate to the west coast. They have weather superiority issues. Every time I talk to my own mother (who lives in Berkeley), I hear about how uniquely special the skies are over there. When I am out visiting, all I notice is how crowded it is underneath their brilliant skies. And of course, Seattle isn’t that brilliant. (I haven’t ever traveled there, so I shouldn’t comment, but I’ve heard enough about the problems with their leaky skies.)

But this year, I have come to love visiting Boston and D.C. It may have something to do with two of its inhabitants, but there’s more to it.

I gave Boston its fair moment here on Ocean a couple of weeks back. Let me focus on D.C.

I go outside to pick up a couple of steamy coffee concoctions and I notice that I am not wearing gloves and it doesn’t matter. The air reminds me of Paris – cold, but nothing a scarf can’t take care of.

Around me, there is light. D.C., unlike any other city in the States, has no sky-scrapers. I think the tallest building (the Cairo apartment house, built in 1894) is 13 stories high – that’s just one more than my condo building in Madison. It caused an uproar when it went up and since then, structures are kept to more modest levels. You get to see a lot of sky. I like sky.

Food? Oh, like Boston, it reeks of good food. Low-end southern tinted, high-end perfectly composed and, what I tend to sample on our nights out – excellent fresh and honest (they list the farms!) middle of the pocket-book stuff.

Like last night, here (and yes, we devoured one of those pies):





And did I mention museums? You know, the free ones? Where you can enter, not wait in line and walk straight up to a painting with your little ones and transport yourself to another place in seconds.





Or, come back years later with the now not so little one and take in a visiting exhibit of mid-nineteenth century British photography.






…And then watch a dad teach his kid to skate (in the Museum sculpture garden).





























You know, the sculpture garden with the big typewriter eraser. (Are you too young to have ever used these? Times were tough for writers of yore.)





We cross the Mall to the metro stop. The Mall. My office looks out over a mall back in Madison. Bascom Mall. But the D.C. Mall is huge. With room enough for a game.





In the late afternoon, we make our way back to Georgetown. Because it’s always so enchanting there. And because they have great cupcakes.









On the way home Im taken (for balance) to a "favorite" rat-sighting places.

So okay, there are rats. I do indeed see one. Squirrels with less attractive tails. An animal-friendly city! Me, I hate pigeons and yet I still love Venice.

There isn't a city in the world without issues. And still, they draw me in. Complicated places. But beautiful too. You can't get too lazy in life and hide. D.C. wont let you hide.

It’s time to take a break. Wisconsin has forged some kind of weather alliance with northern Canada this year and I'm getting impatient with it all. Time to head south. Where a daughter lives. D.C. is south. D.C. hardly ever gets snow. D.C. is balmy now. Springlike almost.

I’m coming!

Say what? I'm bringing with me snow and ice to the east coast? I'm so sorry! But surely this would not include D. C… Could it??

The plane is full of people diverted from cancelled flights into New York and Boston. Lucky us. We’re heading south of that mess.

So it’s unfortunate to hear the pilot come on and say “folks..” (captains like that expression) “… we’re being diverted.” Why? -- I wonder. “Our landing gear isn’t working properly (something about no skid that or the other) and so we need an extra long runway. That means going back to Detroit or landing in Dallas. We’re choosing the latter.”

At least that’s what everyone heard. Dead silence. Then murmurs. (Wow, that’s really south!) Then another announcement. “Folks, there seems to be some confusion. We mean Dulles, not Dallas.”

The minute cell phones are permitted, the whole plane calls everyone they know to tell the story of Dallas, no, Dulles, and ha ha! isn’t it funny?

People like a happy ending.

But it’s icy and foggy here. I take the city bus from Dulles to DC downtown and I can barely recognize anything outside. The city is hiding behind a layer of cold, gray air.





I am a bad weather magnet!

Still, I'm not discouraged. This is daughter-land! And weather patterns change. And walking from the metro stop to her place I see this:





...and this:





Perhaps not balmy. But warm enough for someone to be sitting outside. How about that! How spring-y!

Last night, I wanted to see my city bathed in a moonlit landscape of bronze and gold. I wanted to watch the skies warm up. I wanted to see the eclipse that was announced as being best witnessed from my home town. Not to be repeated until 2010.

I had a three-hour time span. The night was crystal clear.

I stayed home.

It's so cold outside!

But I did take a quick peek from my balcony. Good stuff. Up there, between my condo and infinity, there was a pretty moon all orange and, from one side, bright.





The next day (today), I was lost in a universe of work from sunrise to sunset. And I couldn’t be bothered with moons or stars or lights bathing landscapes, or much of anything else, really.

Oh, how quickly moon beams fade.

High of 6?? No, you don't feel my pain (you folks, south of here).

I wait at the bus stop. In the shelter hut. I’m not a fan of them. What can I say -- they are dirty. Still, they offer protection.

A couple sits on the bench. Very young. She snuggles into him. He’s detached, but it could be an image thing. She takes out a pack of cigarettes. Why you doin’ that? – he asks. I paid for them! –she protests. And look, I won $3 in the lottery! And then – hey, look at these! She takes from her pocket a crumpled strip of photos. Fetus photos.

He glances over, says nothing. Look here, you can see his wee-wee. He looks, says nothing. She lights her cigarette and only now do I notice that she could indeed be quite pregnant.

I also notice that she has a tooth missing and that she is wearing ankle socks. On this horribly cold day.

She snuggles into him again and lights her cigarette. I leave the shelter.

And the whole episode just shakes me on so many levels.


I get off on campus, pick up a cup of coffee at the bookstore and walk to the Law School. You know how you can tell it’s icy cold here? The guys are not only not in shorts, their heads are covered.




My class ends late. I look out my office window. For a long time. Just a person or two out there, on Bascom Hill.



I eat a sweet potato chip and head home.

Today, over coffee, a friend suggested that I break beyond the tame in Ocean. (Actually she did not use the words “break” or “beyond” or “tame,” but I chose to hear it that way.)
I thought about it for a second and then said this – Ocean is a leisure blog. It explores the possibilities of that component of your life.

I’m not sure I fully believe that, but it sounded good.

And so here I am, on a major political event day in my state and I walk away from it here, on Ocean.

Well, not totally. I’ll say this much: Ed and I cancelled each other out in the voting.

Other Wisconsin news? It was cold. Even the bus felt cold. But, I get off, I go vote, I walk home, open the door to my condo, and suddenly, winter feels like a small nothing.





In the late afternoon, I drive to the café, passing a playground in a very small park. Everything is iced over. No kids here. What a surprise.





Returning home again, I watch a guy walk a kid up toward a park trail. He points to the ice on the trees. The kid listens. They walk on.




And that is today, political happenings notwithstanding.

We saw it coming. And sure enough, we wake up to the sound of ice pellets hitting the glass door.

It’s going to be a long day.

I lose myself in work.

The Inn is empty except for us and the innkeeper. We go downstairs to confirm that we will be staying an extra day. I don’t think this was in doubt. The weather looks…severe. Our innkeeper tells us that we may get snowed in by mid-day (the Inn is a couple of miles away from the main road). He’s urging us to think about food early, before the snow piles up.

By early afternoon, we’re restless. We borrow a shovel (just in case) and venture out to town. To stock up. To eat. To walk around a little.

Not bad so far, I tell Ed. The road by the Inn feels very manageable.




We get bold. I suggest crossing the Peninsula to Bailey's Harbor. These are short distances and if the roads aren’t too bad, we can eat there. We can even head north along the coast. How about that! A peek at the wilderness in a snowstorm!

We go slowly, but really, it seems very drivable. Some businesses are still open, the main roads at least are being plowed regularly, even as the storm dumps more snow and ice with each hour.

Along the coastal road (Q), it’s very very quiet. We see the lake and it looks so very different today.





The road bends into the forest. We’re surrounded by evergreens, now not so green, because of the snow. Sometimes the windshield is hit by pellets, at other times by the quiet flakes. No one is out playing in the snow today. Okay, almost no one.





I remember this stretch of road well, from summer days of many decades past. Days of wildflowers and creeping rose bushes. I pick up the woodsy Rustic Road toward Cana Island – it’s where you can find Door County’s remaining lighthouse. We get out and hike to the island’s edge. You used to have to slosh through water to get to Cana and the lighthouse. But now, I can see clumps of growth through the snow. But just barely. It’s all being covered by torrents of snow.

The lighthouse looks lonely, out there, facing the full force of the storm. We walk around it, trying to keep our faces away from the gusts of sharp pellets of ice.





It’s hard to say where the island ends and the water takes over. Much of the shoreline is under a winter cover. And there isn’t an edge, really. Just a swirling mass of water and frozen bricks of ice.





And now the wind is really picking up. The snow is persistant and dense. One last look at the frozen waters of Lake Michigan…





…and we start to head back toward the car, leaving behind an island completely buried in ice and snow.










The Rustic Road is looking very rustic now. The snow covers tracks quickly and so movement is slow.





Still, by the time we reach the village of Bailey’s Harbor, I'm sensing that the snow has again changed it's tone. It's become more gentle. There’s time for a late lunch/early dinner at the Harbor Fish Market. It feels good to shut the world of snow out for a while.





We order the “catch of the day” (which, btw, comes, not surprisingly, from Maine) and mop up every last drop of sauce on the theory that you never know where your next meal will come from… And still no appetite for dessert.





We cross the peninsula and pass one village, then another. Some eating places are actually opening for dinner, but we've had enough. I turn in toward our Inn, gun the engine and push our way up the hill, following someone’s tracks, assuming that the vehicle knew the road better than we do.

And we get back without so much as a slide.


It's Monday now. The drive back to Madison is like child’s play. Even though the 220 or so miles moves us from bright fields of glistening cherry trees to landscapes of blowing and gusting snow. All beautiful. Really, I forgive my state for being so cold. For now.

Such a calm beginning to the week-end! Wake up, look out the window, see this:





The clouds disperse, the sky's blue, that blue that makes you not hate February quite so much. It's a fleeting moment of winter love.

It’s a perfect day.

We have skis with us. We have enthusiasm. We have a state park across the road, on the Green Bay side of the peninsula. We glide quietly through a winter forest.















Magnificent. That alone was worth the drive. We watch others love this day equally energetically.










And, we climb a lookout tower to get a different view of the coastline as it dips into the village of Ephriam.





I tell Ed – this is the tower I climbed with daughters when they were little. It taught me to get my fear of heights under control.
It’s under control? – the man knows my weaknesses.


Our innkeeper suggested that I stop in and say hi to Joel, over at the basement café of the Ecology Store. It’s in the old meeting house in Sister Bay.

Joel is from one my favorite spots in France -- Brittany. He’s been in Door County for about a dozen years – oh, what one doesn’t do for one’s sweetie! - but he speaks enthusiastically about the village of his kid years. And, remarkably, it is the village where I’m expecting to get to this spring. He’s thrilled. I always want to tell people to go there – it’s so beautiful, but it’s so far! Oh, I know. It’s at the very western tip of France. For me, that’s the attraction.

Joel makes a fantastic curried cauliflower bisque and a hot cheese and tomato sandwich. The coffee is best of best. Or, maybe it’s the setting – by a warm stove, after several hours on the trails.





It’s late afternoon, but I still want a look at the Michigan Lake side of Door County. Newport State Park is a place I used to go to with daughters and I want to see it now, in the winter cold of a February sunset.

We give up on skis and hike along the coast, then through the forest, then out again until we see the islands around the northern bend.















The wind is sharp now and the sun is almost gone. Ed leads me out onto the iced-over beach.

How do you know we’re not over water? – I ask. It’s no secret that my adventuring quotient is far lower than his.
There are grass clumps here.
They could be underwater. Or sporadic islands.

But we forge ahead, because the waves, breaking against the ice are so loud, so beautiful, so harsh, that you want to get closer, just for that one spray, caught on your shivering camera (okay – shivering hand; the camera doesn't care).





We better hurry back, Ed warns. He has this way of being calm, indifferent really, and then suddenly infusing an urgent note, making me think that we are in imminent danger.

But we’re not. The wind is strong, but the path is marked by snowshoes and we make our way through the darkening forest to the beach as the sun fades, throwing its inevitable red streaks everywhere.





We’re exhausted. We eat dinner at a place just around the corner from our Inn. Solid Door County supper club fare. Our appetites are huge. But still no room for anything sweet.


I’ve been tracking the approaching storm system all week long and it looks pretty certain that it'll hit us hard enough, so that we will not make it out of Door County Sunday.

No matter. I have my books, my work materials, my chocolates and a half bottle of rosé from Cassis. And so another tempest begins. With pellets and fat wet flakes and most everything inbetween.

Fading Internet, disappearing roads, disappearing world!

More later. Maybe much later.

It’s cold. The car steams up inside, freezes on the outside. So we head north.

Ed asks: we’re stopping at Oshkosh for chocolates, right?

This is a puzzler to me. I associate Oshkosh with kid overalls and experimental aircraft shows. A working town with no particular culinary traditions.

You don’t remember the article I read you from the NYT?
I don’t remember the article you read me from the NYT.

In case you, too, missed it, the article describes the old fashioned chocolate and candy shops in Wisconsin’s Fox River Valley (that would include the towns of Oshkosh and Appleton, with Green Bay thrown in for good measure). You wouldn’t think there would be such a high demand here for homemade chocolate. But there is.

And everyone knows where to find them. We pull up to a drive-through Starbucks in Oshkosh.

We’re looking for Oaks Candies. Know where they are?
Of course! Follow 9th to Oregon!




Inside, it looks…oldfashioned. I’m trying to understand candy labels – there are creams and clusters, but I’m beginning to see that Wisconsin has its own faves:




Anglefood, meltaways, oysters.

We buy a little bag of 6 candies for $3.26. We eat several. Very sweet. Fresh.

Where’s Doty Street? – we ask.
She knows we’re looking for the competition. But, she’s Oshkosh friendly. Down the street, turn right at the gas station except it’s not really a gas station it’s like a car dealer, and then right on Doty.

We follow the trail. Just a breath away from Lake Winnebago.




In a residential neighborhood, a house, with barely a sign announcing it’s business there in the basement.





Hughes Home Maid (pun intended) Chocolate Shop. You want authentic? You want friendlier than you could possibly imagine? You want an invitation into the kitchen? Free samples? Oysters? Easter Bunnies? The best English toffee? Here, put yourself in my shoes for the moment:






















We leave with a pound box of milk chocolates (Ed and I share a love for quality milk chocolate – we search out the stuff in all food stores) for $9.50.





I’m thinking we should stop now while the sugar is still under control. But we’re so close to the others! Shouldn’t one compare?

In Appleton, the gas attendant gives us directions to Vande Walle’s. It’s on Mall Drive. Easy.





Here, the samples are flowing at us fast and furious. Try this, try that. We do. And we take the self-guided little tour of the kitchens. More samples there.




When it comes time to buy, I am drawn to the garlic pistachios. You can understand that, can’t you? When the nice nice super nice saleslady describes the center of an aglefood chocolate, I’m starting to perspire. Still, I pick up a bag of toffees and chocolate covered jellies. I love those! Memories of Poland!

You need a bag to carry all that, don't you? Sheepishly -- yes. And where is...
Two miles down on Wisconsin, you’ll come to Superior. It’s there. – they tell us. They know what we’re up to. Our next stop on the candymaking tour. Wilmar Chocolates.





Would you like a sample of anglefood? No! I mean, yes, sure, thank you. I’ll pass. How about a cinnamon spice fennel piece? Yes, of course. No, I’ll pass. Mmmm… delicious.






Wilmar’s is different. At Wilmar’s, it’s criminal to pass on the dark chocolate stuff.

The clerk asks an older man who comes in. Would you like a piece of the cinnamon spice fennel… No thanks. I’m not into that newfangled stuff.

Wilmar’s is breaking new ground here.

In the back, one chocolatier is finishing up his work. You’re taking pictures? Yes… you know. Came here because of the article. Yes yes, well, hope you like our chocolates.





I can hardly stand the sight of another. And yet..

We have chocolate macadamia turtles. They’re very seasonal. Sure, throw in that. Three half pound boxes, $27. For small gifts, no? I'm still smiling. Must be all that chocolate covered anglefood.



Ed asks about the next stop, but I am sugared out. You can’t enter a chocolate making place and exhibit no enthusiasm for the free samples. It’s just not polite.

We listen to the radio as we make our way up north, into the Door County peninsula – the pinkie finger of our state, surrounded by the waters of Lake Michigan.

It’s cold, the sun is long gone, the snow layer around us is significant. It’s quiet.





Juniper Inn is off the road a bit, just past Fish Creek. The innkeeper is waiting for us. The fire downstairs is blazing. Cookies in a jar, a sherry decanter on the nightstand. Our “Sunflower” room looks over a forest of birch and fir.

We unload the car and head out for a seafood dinner at Kristofer’s. 20% off, all seafood on Fridays.

It is, as I remember it from previous trips many many years ago. Twinkling. Subtle. Nice.





We pass on dessert. Nothing sweet tonight, please.

I have to put off writing ‘til tomorrow. I am done for the day. Too much sugar. Or something.

Say, can you tell where I am? A Wisconsin reader will know. I think.









Goodnight.

Hi, Happy Valentine’s Day!
Mmmm, I just had a dream…
(I’m smiling…what a sweetie…) about?
I was rebuilding a machine and I got a call telling me of a mafia connection…
(oh.)
Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you anyway…
It’s just a Hallmark holiday!

Clarification: Hallmark was founded in 1910; according to Wikipedia, St. Valentine’s Day was first described much earlier:

The first recorded association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in 1382, by Geoffrey Chaucer:
For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese [choose] his make [mate].

..written to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. They were married in 1381. He was 13. She was 14.


True, these days, I understand that one billion Valentine’s Day cards are indeed sent out to (one hopes) loved ones worldwide.
And guess who is not getting one?

OVERHEARD (later):

Richard, hi, this is Ed. I need that instructional video on repairing a spindle…Yes, great. Tried to call you last Friday. Oh, you took the afternoon off? To be with her? So what are you doing for Valentine’s Day? You got her a card? And body oil?
(how nice!)
Me? Oh, I did nothing. (big grin)
(and proud of it)
And proud of it!

(LATER)
Okay, okay, we’ll go to the mall and pick out a card.
(forget it! who wants to pick her own card?! and support Hallmark in the process?!)

(LATER)
I ask my students: how many of you think Valentine’s Day is silly?
I count hands. Half the class.


(LATER)
I note in the front office at 11 a.m. three staff members are receiving dozens of roses from their husbands. Wonderful.


But then:

(LATER)
I promise you, it’s okay. I rented a romantic comedy from the video store. I do not mind watching it alone tonight so that you can spend time with your cats.

(Why this incredibly conciliatory tone on my part? Because in exchange for not celebrating St. Valentine’s, my occasional, indeed, these days VERY occasional traveling companion offered to head up north tomorrow. For the hell of it. To embrace the outdoors. Soooo sweet! And yes, we're mindful of the snowstrom predictions. Oh, Wisconsin!)

(LATER)
You want to go to the mall and buy t-shirts?
(I’m charmed. My occasional traveling companion hates malls, hates shopping, clothes acquisition, spending money, using fuel… He must be thinking: it’s Valentine’s Day!)

At the mall we encounter men looking (belatedly? desperately?) for something to give to their (deserving!) sweetie.


chocolate?




lace? lotion?


Victoria’s Secret and Godiva chocolates are doing well.
Elsewhere, we buy the t-shirts and are almost ready to head back…

Say, do you mind if we stop at Sears?
(Really?)
I want to see if they have their computer operated wood milling machine…

They do.
Five minutes, okay?
At least it’s next to the exercise equipment. I go through an entire upper body work out program before he finishes studying the details.



machines


We head toward the Great Dane Pub. He eats a salad, I eat a hunk of meat. Sometimes, just sometimes, we don’t conform to gender stereotypes.

An overactive imagination, I'm told.

Really? You mean, to the average person, these two are not 1. Russian 2. spies 3. enjoying the fruits of prosperity in the state of bucky badger?

Okay, okay, if you say so...

The snowiest winter ever! -- our local paper claims this about Madison. Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like Colorado, or Buffalo (my images of big snow places). It feels like it’s winter in a very cold place.

A student comes to my office and tells me – nice view, but my, it’s cold here! I know. A Scrooge corridor of cold.

The view? Well, you know it well. I post it now and then. Oh, you want to see it again now that you know it’s the snowiest winter ever? Here we are:





Wisconsinites know how to defend themselves from the cold. Note these two, photographed on my way to the bus stop.





I timed my walk to the bus so that I would not have to stand in the cold for long. The bus came early. Oh, thank you, thank you. One minute less of waiting.

You should know that I have a flex parking spot near campus. I pay only if I use it. I have used it only once this academic year.

Tonight, I contemplated using it a second time. Obama is speaking two blocks from where I park. An opportunity!

But, I received a threatening message from campus parking telling all of us with nearby parking that we should not use the lots unless we are there to work! Uff! You guys cut me no breaks.

I don’t really want to hear Obama anyway. Nothing that he can say will convince me that he is more electable or more capable of effectuating change (than she is). Nothing that she can say can convince me that she is more skilled at winning or accomplishing policy dreams (than he is). One of them. But which one? Who can tell? I worry about people who think they know. Really? I worry that they may have superior predictive visions. Because me, I just cannot tell.

But I’m straying.

Outside, snow is falling again. It looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, doesn’t it?





Confusion. An apt ending to a cold day where heated passion is about to take over downtown.

UPDATE: Oh! The beagle won! The world does know how to pick the best of the best! I am delighted!

It was a long trip home. The last bit of food on a Sunday morning…





…and then the usual catch this, catch that, wait for the storms to blow over and the winds to settle and the passengers to get on, get off – the usual.

There isn’t much to photograph on a day like that, though you can look like a first time flyer easily by taking out the camera on the plane and shooting the landscape out your window. And I do this, most often because it is a final wave, an act of parting and leaving behind that beautiful world, the one with the Boston skyline…





…and all those neighborhoods that we walked all day long.





At home, the thermometer outside never made it to the positive digits. But my heater is working and the orchid continues to bloom and, importantly – Valentine’s Day will mark movement into the last weeks of February.

Yay.

The early afternoon is set aside for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. It is at once a uniquely splendid place and, at least to me, slightly disconcerting. It’s the brainchild and private collection of the irreverent, the prominent, the wealthy Isabella Stewart Gardner (she lived at the turn of the century; the previous turn). And it is packed with great art. Top of the line stuff.

How can one person have acquired so many of the world’s treasures??

It is also a photographer’s dream – there is a beautiful courtyard that throws light in all directions from the skylight (her idea!). And there are arches and sculptures and jasmine plants and blooming orchids. But you’re not allowed to take pictures.

You’re not allowed a lot of things: to use cell phones, to take photos, to carry a coat, to sit, to stand, to touch, to use ballpoint pens (only pencils!) – museum behavior, sure, but in this place, somehow these small pieces of life should not be so completely locked out.

Still, my eyes are trained to look at everything but the “no camera” signs and so I take out my clunky guy and begin to snap. Of one little hallway corner, where a Matisse is hung simply, above a door, stuck between other canvases.





…of the courtyard with Venetian Palace ornamentations and the winter array of plants…





…only to have angry men run up and scold me for my wrongdoings. And of course, I deserve it. But it makes me grumpy and so I start to notice other things besides the art. For example, I notice that the people who work here do not smile at you (and there are many, many guards; not surprising, given the fact that this was the site of the biggest art heist ever, back in 1990, when a Vermeer, three Rembrandts, several Degas prints and a Manet piece were easily taken out of their frames in the middle of the night).

And there is an aura of pretention, including at the information table where I encounter a condescending attitude from the ladies there when I stop to chat about some quirky museum details.

And I want to say – calm down. Isabella was born rich, she married even richer and so you at least have to temper your protective admiration by one degree, because spending money well was what she did best and though it’s commendable, you have to keep it all in perspective, no?

For a number of reasons, I linger for many, many hours at the Gardner home and so I feel myself to be immersed in the details of her life. I even borrow and read all the books on her, on the construction of her home, on the courtyard. Cover to cover.

And I leave wondering what it would be like to have to figure out a game plan on how to spend a fortune. (It’s good to occasionally mull over the problems of another.)


In the late afternoon, my little one and I walk the ever eclectic and always fascinating streets and neighborhoods of Boston.





And even though it’s a cold and somewhat wet February day, the walk is splendid. We make our way to the South End, where the brownstones are so gloriously Bostonian it hurts. And they are without the Beacon Hill aura of generational wealth. As the snow swirls and drizzles, we walk forever and occasionally, but not often, I remembered to take a photo.











There are a number of fresh and honest bakery/cafes in the area (ah, gentrification! Thank you for the fresh Vermont mozzarella and basil and tomato on a crispy baguette. And the cupcake!). We linger and watch people walk their dogs and come in for a warm bite and beverage.





It is a good moment.

We continue over at Newbury, with my own feeble attempt at spending money well (just two little shirts – one for her, one for me; no, not matching. I am more than twice her age).

It’s dark now. The snow showers are kicking up.





And still, we want to walk. Across the Boston Public Gardens…





Past the well tended and so very pretty blocks along Charles Street, all the way to the river, where we catch the T back to Cambridge.

And we have energy for one last hike, over to what is becoming a family favorite – EVOO. Roasted squash salad and a superb steak frites and a lemon tart, capped with an espresso macchiato and a final invigorating walk home.





I leave today, Sunday and that’s the tough part. Tough not only, not even principally because it is a high of -1 F today in my home town.

Sigh...

Satiated with foods from the salty ocean waters the night of my arrival (Legal Seafood, for the curious), the next night we set out to eat at Oleana. I like being in spaces where celebrity chefs rule. I suppose it fills fill a void I have in not caring much (anything?) about popular culture and the stars that parade through it. Oleana has two celebrities – both women. I am into women succeeding in politics and in the kitchen.

Ana Sortun is Oleana's chief chef and owner. And it’s a charmed set up: she cooks with produce from a local farm named after her baby girl, Siena. I want to be their CSA member! I want to be part of the Siena family! Okay, okay, I’ll not get carried away here. But you can see how all this would appeal to me.

Ana won the James Beard award for the Best Chef in the Northeast in 2005. Madisonians will remember (should remember!) that Odessa Piper, former proprietor and chef at our own l’Etoile (digression: does anyone besides me notice how the NBC news anchor always says “our own” correspondent so and so? Creating fictional communities, because we lack real ones...), won a similar award, for Best Chef in the Midwest, back in 2001, when I was cooking in her kitchen. (Admittedly I did not prepare the signature, prize winning parmesan cup with greens the evening it was judged to be sublime. But I did throw it together on other nights…)

Then there’s Oleana’s Maura. She won Boston’s Best Pastry Chef award twice in the last decade! And no, it’s not because there aren’t others. Boston has a strong Italian influence with a lot of damn good canoli bakers. Though I suppose that does not fit the image of the best of the best.

Oleana fuses flavors from the eastern side of the Mediterranean. Turkey, for example. Spices from Egypt. The menu is lovely to read: Grilled Haloumi in Leaves with Yellow Foot Mushrooms and Ouzo, Grouper in Parchment with Moroccan Spices, Meyer Lemon and Fried Almond Couscous …

So, of course, you want to know what I ate. I’ll be honest: I picked the main dishes before I even set foot in the place. The haloumi, followed by the grouper with Moroccan spices… Oh, and I can't not mention the Prosecco aperitif with the juice of blood oranges, accompanying the whipped feta and hot pepper spread at the start of the meal, and the espresso baked something or other at the end, served with a refreshing espresso Sicilian granita.


















On the ride back, our Lebanese cab driver asked about the food at Oleana.
How much? - he wondered.
Mid-twenties for mains, I said.
Reasonable, he nodded. Of course, my wife, she cooks the best food.
Married long?
Eleven years. We fight, but we understand each other. You? Single?
I am. But friends with my ex.
That’s good. I’m friends with my ex girlfriend. We meet once a year, catch up.

Food, the great welcome mat: I invite you into a conversation. In the space of ten minutes, we will review decades of life and sigh.

Do you wonder why I take meals so seriously?





At Oleana, there are wall hangings in the warm hues of middle eastern countries. With a fire place in the corner. Tiled-tables, waiters towering over you in the tight space of a long room. A bottle of Mediterranean wine (Cassis! At Oleana! The so very familiar Domaine de Bagnol!), a cup of Turkish coffee for one and an espresso for the other. I can hardly remember that outside, there’s a layer of ice and a dusting of snow.

It’s always pretty, that lift up that takes you over the eastern edge of Madison’s isthmus.




By the time I touch down in Boston, it’s dark. And late. Delays. Hardly surprising considering the weather patterns from the last few days. I’m hungry. I head straight for the restaurant where I am meeting my little one. I’ve had images of sea food platters all day long. They all contain bits of lobster – a crustacean that I rarely (never, these days) see on my plate back home. But here, I am almost in lobster country. Isn’t Boston home to the lobster roll? With fries and slaw on the side?

Okay, but first comes the soup. Yes, I am in New England.






It’s brisk here now. In the morning, I go to the Law School and listen to a lecture. In the time I am doing this, a band of snowshowers has passed through. I look at the courtyard in front of the law buildings. I seem to bring the stuff with me. Here you go, a gift, from Wisconsin. Still, this is a feeble cover compared to back home! The paths remain stubbornly black. Dark vectors and a tangle of branches, refusing the sweeping cover of whiteness.





I’m used to this stuff. If I ignore it, maybe it’ll disappear.

I walk to the river and look around me. Not much activity here. Cambridge folk aren’t as hardy us we are. One runner. A few cyclists. Empty benches. Silence.





I look into courtyards, admire the spires, the statues, all of it. And now I appreciate the delicate layer of snow. You can’t deny it. Snow beautifies most anything it touches. At least in this month.





Still, it’s cold. I walk into a flower store to see if I can brighten a table with something not entirely seasonal. We must be close to Valentine’s Day. Buckets and buckets of roses.





I pick something with greater staying power and walk across the campus, back to the apartment, thinking ahead to dinner.

Slow crawl to work. Everything moved at a speed worthy of a broken record. [Remember how you could listen to a 45 RPM at 33 ?]

But, the sun is out, class is done, boarding pass is in my hand, suitcase -- oh, it's somewhere, in Ed's car waiting to meet up with me at the airport. And flights to one of my two favorite cities on the east coast.

And there, I shall eat. Because in winter, this is what you do: you contemplate the marvels of art and food. And send good vibes to the seeds that will bring forth a new season of bounty. Soon.

I'm dizzy with the possibilities.

We got the snow. Without pause. Classes were cancelled. Roads were hard to track down. Trees sagged. Plows came out of sheds to do their job.

Beautiful.















Tomorrow I head out for a weekend of eating. It’s the only way.

The election back and forth. The malice directed at the other guy or woman – the one you don’t like. Seeing evil in them. I remember. I felt it. Elections encourage elevated feelings of hostility. Which continue if the other one, the one you didn’t want, wins. Hey, that’s not my choice. Yours! You idiot!

Your candidate. Her/his loss is your loss. it’s personal.

The snow. So delicate and lovely back in December. Dreaming of a white Christmas. Winter wonderland. Then.

White stuff coming down tonight. February storm warning. Snow, heavy at times. Again? Shouldn’t we move on? Change! Time for change! But not just any change! Better. I want better weather and better leadership and a better me!

The snow tonight. A foot expected. Yes, really.

Think flowers. Think orchids, blooming for weeks on end. Think April buds (soon!) and daffodils that bloom early. Think how grateful a Washingtonian (the state) would be if a month had just three sunny days in it. Think Valentine’s pink and tomato soup red. With basil. That’s regional seasonal! Basil can be grown indoors!

Just don’t look outside. Don’t go to the twelfth floor of your condo building and admire the view that you don’t have on your lower floor. On a day like today, stay on your own floor. For once, it's not better up there.





Alternatives for this day:

Snuggle with your puppy, your sweetie, or your guitar. Or, toss away your guitar and get cozy with the president of France if you’re her:




Yes, that's my new orchid plant. I proclaim February to be national (or at least regional) orchid day. With Carla humming in the background.

I may as well bring out the apple pie. Today, I am one of you.

True, not many all-Americans choose to start a Sunday with three rounds of bowling, but, suffice it to say that when Ed said this morning “we should bowl,” I acquiesced. At Union South – the student hangout.











It’s a little downscale as compared to the suburban alleys from last week. The scoring board makes mistakes. The balls are chipped. But hey! It’s cheap. And I can work on my score. So that I don’t get LOL in my comments when I report my final count. (59 last week, 81 this week. That’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it??)

It does not take long to feel weariness in the hand and body. I know it’s time to move on.

I suggest we head for the giant expo (at the Alliant Energy Center) of orchids. I used to grow these back in the days when I had fantasies about being a serious gardener. But mine never looked this complicated.














Yes, yes, I do indeed purchase an orchid. It is a statement of hope. I can grow these again. I can. Just you wait.



At the other end of the hall of the Alliant Energy Center, there is an RV expo. Flowers for the ladies, RVs for the guys. Predictably, Ed tugs on my sleeve and pulls me over to the big vans. I refuse to take photos. These machines are huge and sort of creepy looking. But I do like the little ones alright and Ed is clearly enthused by the mechanics involved.

I ask him – so, supposing we loaded up one of these guys onto your (very old) (very very old) pick-up. Where would we go? What would we do?

Well, you can park overnight at any Walmart parking lot in the country… or you can go to an RV park, charge up and head for the mountains and leave the RV and hike up for a few days of camping.

Now which part of that was supposed to excite me?

Still, I can see this is a tad more adventurous for him than, say, southern France and so I do not close the door on the possibility. It’s good in life not to close doors.

Similarly, I do not object when Ed suggests that we stop by Dane Brewery for a beer and a peek at the kick off. A shocking idea, given that we both hugely dislike football. And what do I say?

Sure! A nice pilsner and a plate of fries with gobs of ketchup! Why not?





It’s like reading a different blog here, on Ocean, isn’t it? You have to stay open-minded to get the full bang out of a Sunday in February.

You can’t say that Madison lacks mood or character. Spend a summer Saturday morning at the Capitol Square – the place sings with the market! It’s a carnival of people, foods, flowers.

But downtown on a winter Saturday morning? Nothing would drag me there.

Except, maybe, a gentle snow, a willing Ed, and a suggestion of winter play. Of sorts.

And, though it is cold, it’s not so bad that you can’t start thinking about groundhogs and counting the days ‘til spring.

In the meantime, we are right in the midst of Madison’s Winter Festival. If that sounds a bit grandiose, well, maybe it is a tad overstating the level of frolic. It’s definitely not Mardi Gras down on the Square, but it is, nonetheless, utterly charming in a cold sort of way. Traffic is diverted, snow is covering every inch of concrete and road, kids and adults are trying out alternative ways of moving around.





And it’s all really sweet. No, truly, it is fantastic to see the Square looking perfectly Alpine, or Nordic, or some such loveliness.





Ambitious people are creating winter art. Like this ice sculptor: he's starting to chip away at an ice block:





We watch for a while, then head to the newly opened patisserie on the Square (“Sucre”). (People like me need frequent warm up spots.) Fantastic baked goods! As pretty as any in France.





Okay, back outside, our man is still sculpting and the snow is falling and it is all so wintery.





So, it’s a perfect moment to wander into the new cheese store (Fromagination), also on the Square (to warm up again).





Starting to look like Paris here, no?

Further up, snow sculptors are packing down and chiseling their stuff. Couldn’t quite figure out what this is, but it looked significantly impressive.





Getting totally nostalgic now (oh, look, he’s sculpting where the Flower Factory sells its stuff in the summer!), we decide to scoot over to Monona Terrace, thinking that the Winter Farmers Market is there. (It’s not – it’s at the Senior Center these months.)

Finding nothing, we walk out onto the bike path and watch the handful of kite enthusiasts standing out there in the cold, snowy expanse of frozen water, flying their banners.





The color is barely there on this white on white day, but still, there is something majestic in their effort to put that splash of brightness in the sky.





Satisfied, we walk back to the ice sculptor – finishing touches now.





We end the day at Sucre. Best cherry scone ever. Wonderful sandwich. Great coffee.
Life’s beautiful, here in Madison on February 2nd. Snow and all. And only a few weeks now until Spring.

Over coffee, my friend said – there is so little color right now.

And she is right. On a cloudy day, there is nothing subtle or pretty in the darkened snow and the wet trees.

Or am I not spending the time to look for good frames?

I went out of my way just a few steps and regained confidence in February. Yes, even here, in Madison. Because even if I’m getting grumpy about the season, there are many who take it in stride. In fact, they seem to enjoy it. Really. Take a look.