The Other Side of the Ocean

Can you tell what's down there?



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Boston. I'm following the steps of my younger daughter who lives here. For now.

Late, I walk through her campus, liking the leaves and light that hit her law buildings, in much the same way that I like it when the sun hits the trees outside my own law school office.



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New England. It conjures up a wealth of pretty images.

And food wise? Oh, it's good. I hear on the news that lobster prices are at a twenty year low. Sad for the fishermen. They're hoping that at least people will buy what's brought to shore. We help by eating lobster rolls for dinner.





And we retire. In anticipation of tomorrow’s journey north.

Surely I do not need to check the air pressure on my bike tires anymore. It’s the tail end of October. Next week is November. I’m not happy on the bike when it’s cold. The wind cuts through everything. The lake path is murderous. At that point, I prefer the bus.

And yet, this morning, I check the air. Low. I pump it up to 125 where it belongs. And I set out. It may be the last time this year. The last time under this administration. The last time before Spring.

I zip by the playing fields. Onto the lakeshore path. Past the plaid coated figure. So Fall.



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...and past the morning emptiness of the Union Terrace.



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On Bascom Mall – pumpkins. Hi, jack-o-lanterns.



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And then, toward evening, it is the reverse. Bye, jack-o-lanterns. And pink toned sky over the Capitol.



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I pass bikers coming back from band practice. I pass the barns and silos next to our agricultural school.



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Warm. I’m warm. Amazing. Sun’s gone, it’s the end of October and I have to unbutton my coat.


At home, I lock up my bike, thinking that I may not touch it again until 09. Weird, isn’t it?

I thought of posting this ad on Craig’s list:

Wanted, part time job.
Qualifications: various.

I am motivated and hardworking. Unfortunately, I already have a full time job and oftentimes I don’t get home until after 7 p.m., so I am available only in the evenings before I fall asleep, or on week-ends (unless I am away – like this coming week-end and several others in the near future). Actually, come to think of it, between work, writing, photos and blogging, and being away, I guess I don’t have a huge amount of time for an additional job, but what time I have to give will be quality time.

I don’t mind boring work, so long as it’s well-paid.
I would like to earn at least $25 per hour – in my head that translates into $100 in four hours, which is pretty cool.

I like children, so long as they don’t have some contagious bug. Children like me, too, which does not mean I am immature, only that I find most kids engaging. We get along.

I can teach languages if you need to learn languages. I realize no one in this country wants to or needs to learn languages, but still, you may consider it, just for the heck of it.

Please send me an email if you think I am qualified to do whatever in the next several weeks.


What do you think?

Are you suggesting that I should do the search rather than just post and wait for attention? Oh, but I did!

The best ad that I came across asked for someone to come and be intelligent around her 12 year old son while she was away on a business trip. $25 per hour. Pay non-negotiable, the ad read. Wow. The pay seemed pretty high to me. I surely could at least fake great wisdom for that amount! But, somehow, I felt the ad was strange.

Almost as strange as the ad I put up on match.com a little more than three years back in which I said I wanted to meet someone who was brilliant at what he does (and I placed no limits on what kind of activities that someone could be engaged in). Ed responded to that one. Amused. At once putting forth the disclaimer that he was not such a person (we’ve argued over that, with me taking positions on both sides, depending on the issue), but still wishing to congratulate me on not simply wanting to walk on beaches at sunset or to eat all dinners by candlelight. Never mind that he himself likes to exist in perpetual dimness and would not mind if lights were off for most everything except reading. And he likes beaches. Though not for reasons of romance.

Ed and I became great pals. Occasional traveling companions even. So perhaps I should be more open minded about the ad on Craig’s list asking for intelligence.

Or, to the ad wanting to hire a chocolate seller at Fannie May. I mean, no one likes the name these days, but their chocolates are alright. Even though I would have to wear a bonnet and what’s the point of getting my hair done if it then has to be concealed by a bonnet.

Yes. There you have it. I decided to visit Jason one more time. Tonight. Hence the search for additional employment. You need to pay as you go in our new economy. I get it already.

A photo for today? How about this, the first that I took with my new camera. Out on the balcony. I wont take it further than that. Too scared of dropping it. I’m titling the photo “still, life.”



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If occasionally you can distract yourself with something completely inconsequential, do so. It’s so refreshing to indulge in (one’s own) stupidity.

Today, for example, in between classes, I thought about hair. I began to think that perhaps I should tighten my belt around my scalp. I believe Jason, my hair man, is as talented as they come. But talent is expensive.

So, cut it less? Touch it up not at all? Maybe. If no one in the world cares about the color/length of your hair, why should you?

In the afternoon, between classes, I looked around me. People have interesting hair.




curly hair in café





60s hair on State Street





very blond hair on Bascom Mall




I have to say, it was a cold day. So that very many people, even student type people, covered their scalp. This is odd, given that so many insist on staying with the short pants. I suppose one does lose heat more front the head than from the shins. Still...



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Suddenly, it is very cold outside. The wind, the bursts of freezing precipitation – all of it is very uninviting.

But didn’t I just put into a book format an effusive rhapsody about how beautiful outdoor Madison is, year round?

(It’s interesting that I chose that theme at the time that crickets chirped, and dragonflies buzzed, and raspberries turned red, and the sun felt too warm.)

As it is, I had no choice but to head out today. True, I have no classes on Monday, but appointments forced me to go downtown. And then, since I was just a stone’s throw from Ed’s farmette, I visited his cats.



Isis
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Larry
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I did not need to do this. Ed hired a cat lady to come in his absence and prowl around and feed his two strays some of that awful looking 9-lives stuff out of a can. But I wanted to demonstrate my respect for his two "kitties," which are really sort of like his two "kiddies." Sometimes, I’m sure Ed thinks I would shove the cats off their territorial perches if I could (they can be overbearing), but really, I do not mind them. You can’t expect much from cats who survived in the wild before showing up at his door. I remain grateful for the occasional purring noises that they throw my way. I pet them and then we go on doing our own thing.


Outside, the robins were out furiously going after the crab apples, the snow showers came and went -- in short, it was a perfect end of October kind of day. If you like the end of October.



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It was time to do a thorough cleaning. You’d think those who are ridiculously fastidious and who routinely clean their home Sunday mornings should not have to binge clean. You’d think.

Five hours later I was tired. And still, there was (law) work to do.

Late in the afternoon I had had enough. I did what I never do: I borrowed a car and took a drive.

I felt that Fall had passed me by. My coastal travel had been to places (California and New York City) that don’t do Fall very dramatically. Somewhere in there I had missed the show.

And so I drove. Too tired to hike, I took a car spin west of Madison. Some of my favorite country roads are here, a handful of minutes away. The sky changed from partly cloudy to gray, but it did this in a stunning way. Many of the trees had dropped their leaves, but not all. The fields were mostly bare, though some still had corn. Cows were pulling at the last bits of green grass. It was a gorgeous drive. (Pulling off the road to take a photo can be challenging. Toward the end, I abandoned the car and hiked some, although most of these shots were taken with a car by my side. Total gas used: one eight of a tank. Decadence.)




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Today, Ed set out to hike the Smokey Mountains (in North Carolina) with his buddy John.

Over the years, he and I have struggled to figure out ways of structuring trips and getaways that would please and delight both of us. It's been tough, given that the very first words we ever spoke to each other were around the theme that we have nothing in common.

You want to suggest compromise? Well sure, Ed and I are familiar with compromise: he bends, I bend, neither of us likes it, we sigh with resignation and toddle on. For some things in life there is no perfect middle ground.

I have thought for a while that I should quit trying to like danger and clean water and bad weather and no roof over my head. And so today, off Ed went, to pursue adventure with someone loves discomfort as much as he does.

As we shopped last night for pouches of food that they would eat in the days (weeks?) ahead, I felt both nostalgia and relief. Suckers, I envy you. For the first three days anyway. Not after.

There is another element in the story and it has to do with the fact that Ed and his buddy have both recently retired. Their time is unconstrained. It has been a valuable experience for me to watch what happens to people who retire early and whose time becomes infinitely intractable. (At the same time as I remain at home, with a stack of midterms to grade. No, not jealous. Really. I love teaching. But I also love infinitely intractable schedules. So, more like envious.)



This morning, before Ed’s Great Adventure, he and I went to the Westside Community Farmers Market. There are only a couple of Saturdays left for the outdoor market. How sad. The tail end of anything is difficult. In spite of the fact that the shades of autumn today were so very beautiful.








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After, I drove Ed to the airport. In Milwaukee (you got it: cheaper airfares!). Originally, we had wanted to stop at the Milwaukee Art Museum prior to departure, but predictably, things got out of control and we barely made it in time for him to check in before the gates closed.

Except that the gates did not close, because the flight was canceled. Here I am, zipping back to Madison and Ed is borrowing someone’s cell phone to call me with the suggestion that maybe we should spend a sweet afternoon at the Museum after all (prior to his now very late departure).

I turn around, pick him up and zip to the downtown waterfront, to the magnificent Santiago Calatrava structure (first one of his to be completed in the US, granting him the “Best Design” award of 2001).



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We saw it with the wingspan open and then, on the way back, because it was so windy today, we saw it closed.



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And inside, all was immensely sleek gorgeous. What, you doubt me?



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At the close of the afternoon, I grabbed a latte and a cookie, dropped my OTC off for his bold and daring trek and headed home. I’ve learned how to find the pretty way back to Madison. I know when to get off the highway and veer toward the hill from which you can catch a glimpse of the city ahead.



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Closer, I could see the windsurfers do their thing.



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I was happy that they got in a good day of flipping and gliding. It’s getting colder by the hour. I bet it’s warmer in North Carolina. Sigh... Hi, Ed...

Even as I went through a rigorous downsizing three years back, and a significant belt-tightening at the end of this spring, I am forever fighting the urge to grow and upgrade. If only I had the next camera in the lineup of the affordable (making it, therefore, unaffordable)! What’s $100 more when you are investing in years of photo-taking? Say the camera lasts only two years (because then I’ll be fifty-seven and probably doubly clumsy). That’s 14 cents a day extra, no? Most any employed person here, without little kiddies to support and with a good health insurance plan can afford 14 cents a day, right?

Of course, this is the pigheaded way we think. I should get, instead, in the habit of putting away 14 cents a day, just like that, without much thought to it, because, well, I can afford to do it. And then, in two years I should celebrate: I’ll have accumulated $100. How thrilling is that?! It wont buy me an upgrade in my camera (because you can’t really buy an upgrade after you have already purchased the camera), but $100 is good for any number of things. In fact, it is such a fat wad of money, that I may be tempted not to spend it all. Hoarding it, I may become stingy and self-righteous. I may look down on those who don’t know how to save and whose credit card debt exceed boundaries of reasonableness. (Forgetting that, not too long ago, I was one of them…)

That sounds wrong. Perhaps I should purchase the upgrade and also contribute to a political campaign, ensuring that I remain committed to noble ideas at the same time that I am improving my photography.

Why is it that the best solutions are so often the most pricey ones?






UPDATE: Sanity prevailed. I basically got a replacement camera, with a very modest $45 upgrade. Here's why: Mr. Frugal (Ed) pointed out that I had not used half the features of my now broken Sony SLR. One can improve photos through camera upgrades and through learning more about how best to use the camera one has. Mr. Frugal is right. And, in a magnificent gesture of great generosity, he offered to replace the camera. Perhaps a gift for what was, after all, a date that had some significance? He wouldn't admit it, but one can spin nice tales like this on one's blog.

So, eventually, it rained. I cheated and drove to work. I felt like a person on a diet who had just had a triple fudge something or other. The joy did not survive the guilt. At least you’ll get a photo that is different from the typical workday lake shore path and/or bus stop cache. (Note, please, our hardy men with a pizza, but no umbrellas.)



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I was on the path to my parking lot – a path that I only took twice last year. It had been snowy, cold, disgusting, and now that you mention it -- winter day.

I'm right in recalling that today was only October 23rd? I think I’m getting soft.

When I sent an email to someone describing my day’s highs and lows, she pointed out that my story – or at least part of it – was gross. I suppose she is right. I do admit that teeth sagas have elements of the macabre (especially when they entail such drama as wrestling something loose from a bone it grew to love), but I think there's fun to be had even there, at the office of a maxillofacial surgeon. I mean, the name itself – maxillofacial -- has overtones of something good. It all sounds like biting into the maximally delicious mille feuilles, no?


But really, more significantly, I miss my good camera, the one that shattered on 40th and Fifth.. My little point and shoot is okay for the straightforward photos of fall colors outside.





But it does not inspire me to look for bigger and better things. I’m content writing about the maxillofacial aspects of life in the meanwhile. One could do worse, I suppose.

Last night, I left Ed to the vultures of the New York Bar and flew home.

Apart from the early morning tumble, the day was unmemorable. When I was not at the library, I people watched.



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And window-peered.



at Tiffany's: taxis, jewels, lights
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at UW: cows, explanations, lights

Ooops, that last was from today, back in Madison. You couldn’t tell?


Yesterday, I had wanted to eat dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar – it’s a place where Ed and his dad used to occasionally dine and it’s a place where my dad has eaten as well (though not with me) and I thought it would be somehow fitting. Especially since it also happened to be Ed’s birthday. Normally, Ed would like me to make nothing of October 20th, but I remind him that it is also the date we first became Occasional Traveling Companions (three years ago), and so it’s harder for him to be a jackass about the whole date recognition thing.

The Oyster Bar is so traditional, so old world New York, so old people New York (especially if you’re eating before 6 p.m.), so old habits New York, that it hurts. Have I crossed over to that world? Of hanging on to fading lights and checked tablecloths and waiters who understand that, so often, you must dine alone?

As it happened, on this day Ed was with law types and so I did eat by myself. I at least had wanted to pack some oysters and take them to him, over at The Firm, but New York says No! to taking out raw foods of this sort and so I ate a handful of Long Island blue points…



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… took over some clam chowder for the OTC, and flew home.


At my condo, the heating system has again failed. You may recall that this was a recurring problem last year, but they swore that it was finally repaired and that I should never have to experience the depressing reentry into a cold unit. I know they tried. I know it. Still, it was cold.

This morning I biked to work. Out of habit. Blue skies means bike. So now I am hoping for rainfall for the rest of the week because frankly, I’m too cold to bike out there in the tail end days of October.

On a cheerful note, I also visited my dentist so that he could plug my jaw with additional pain meds.

In all, a glorious day of cold, pain and work. No, I'm not complaining. Life is good.

This morning, looking for an open branch of the Public Library (I need a quiet space to get stuff done), while also glancing up at the Empire State building, the flags on Fifth Avenue, and the lions of the main library, I fell. It’s not the first time that I have fallen in a city. Curbs and uneven slabs are dangerous for people who think and look in terms of photo angles.

My camera shattered and helpful Australians who had gathered to assist felt badly for me. I felt badly for me as well. My knee is just recovering from last week’s biking tumble. I’m feeling bruised.

As it happens, just this morning, I was thinking about taking care. I do know that I can be both over-attentive and under-attentive, all in one breath. At the b&b breakfast table another group of Australians was asking about safety. I mentioned always feeling safe in New York, even in days when I was in college, riding subways to and from work after midnight. Our b&b landlady confirmed that even in this still poor neighborhood of Brooklyn, she, too, feels perfectly safe. But really, her word is suspect given that she is going to Afghanistan next week to do a story on orphans, and this is not her first and only visit there, and my word is suspect because I also can be not careful enough. For example when mounting a curb on 4oth and Fifth.

Of course, people usually fear other people rather than their own lapses in judgment. The Australians were especially surprised and disturbed when they learned that nearly anyone can purchase a gun in this country. They probably weren't really worrying about tripping on sidewalks. Maybe they are better at navigating uneven terrain than I am



Today, Ed is again conferring with lawyers. We were late for his meetings because there was traffic down below, in the tunnels of the NY subway. The train paused numerous times and I remembered that feeling of irritation that comes to you in New York as you stand still waiting for others to move so that you, too, can get ahead in life. And in traffic.


Yesterday (Sunday), I dragged Ed through Manhattan once more. I proposed several escapes from the city, but he was nice enough to say it really did not matter where we went and I believed him. He has given up on the city and his radius of intolerance extends so far that any quick journey out of the center will do nothing to calm him.


In my youth, I had always hated Sundays in New York. It always felt empty and ugly then. But now, tourists and an influx of young families have given new life to the city on week-ends. As we made our way again to Central Park, we encountered any number of good people watching opportunities.



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But you can’t just hide in the park for two whole days. In my opinion, it's not beautiful enough. This time the park spit us out on its southwest corner and I gave Ed the choice of staying on Broadway or heading east. He shrugged. We turned east.


The high towers here are cool to look up at. Not all are boring, or even straight.



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We find ourselves admiring these two thin buildings providing the bread to the piece of salami in between (the salami being the Russian Tea Room).



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I lay down on the sidewalk trying to get it all in, but I fail, because the lens does not permit the joining of the red awning and the blue of the sky in one shot.

At times, the stuff on the ground is equally captivating. Somewhere nearby, there had been a costume party for dogs, and this guy was being wheeled home after collecting no prize at all. Perhaps feeling disappointed with his lack of success, he is now unwilling to pilot the plane home. His owner finally gives up. He knows he is almost home, she tells me. Home is the building right next to the Mercedes Benz dealer. Yes, that’s Park Avenue for you.







We stay for a long time on 2nd avenue. No tourists walk on 2nd avenue and so it retains the aura of my childhood (helped by the fact that I lived right by it) – an empty wide street, with dozens and dozens of small neighborhood restaurants. One after another, none of them especially unusual or expensive. It’s like walking through a French city on a day where everyone has checked out with the flu or the plague or some such disease that keeps you off the streets.

Eventually I lead Ed to Tudor City. Even though it’s hard to hide entire neighborhoods in New York, few people knows about this place. It’s a bunch of blocks elevated above the rest, connected to the world with the two prongs of a U shaped street. Built in the 1920s, it was created with the hope of luring the middle class back into this part of New York. Now it faces the UN. Back then, it had the city slaughterhouses below it. The middle class can easily be bought off by decent housing.

These days, you can find quiet here. And views of the UN. And of 42nd Street below.



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Ed wants to linger, but I’m feeling cold. I’m often cold when the sun hovers just above my reach. We make our way to Grand Central where Ed proclaims that it looks the same (apparently the huge renovation efforts of the 90s do not impress him; a crowded station is a crowded station). And now I know we have done enough of Manhattan walking.

We take the train back to Brooklyn and get off (along with this well tended duo)…





…just on the other side of Brooklyn Bridge. This is the spiffy part of the borough and only the most difficult to impress (Ed, for example) would not find it charming.




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The promenade gives pretty views of the bridge and of Manhattan. It is a pleasant place to finish up the day.



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The walk back to our own neighborhood is long, but it takes us through the gentrified neighborhoods – Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope -- and I am curious to see these well treated parts of a long-ailing borough.

We pass by many pleasant looking eateries and as I had hoped, Ed is tempted. We are intrigued by a place that brags about its cupcakes and posts a news clipping proclaiming it to offer the very best piece of chocolate cake in Brooklyn.





We buy cupcakes for later and settle in for a dinner of soups and salads and sure enough, rosé wine for me and a lovely darkish beer for Ed.






So ends our week-end. Today I’ll be flying home for sure and Ed will be flying home maybe for sure, depending on what the attorneys decide. I have a busted camera and a sore knee, but I really do have to admit that on balance, I sort of like this city. I gave it some good years and it gave me back an interesting take on life. It’s like having a very witty friend who doesn’t make things easy for you but keeps you amused nonetheless. Eventually you may get tired of the strain and stress of it all, but I’m not there yet. Stumbles and falls on crooked curbs notwithstanding.

Masha Hamilton, co-owner of the B&B where Ed and I are staying, is an accomplished novelist. And journalist. Not surprisingly, it takes us a while to leave the breakfast table. And so it isn’t until noon that we make our way toward the upper east side of Manhattan.

The goal is to go easy on the city parts and emphasize the green, the water, the walking opportunities here. In other words, to placate the guy who refuses to say one kind word about New York.

Except that it sure is more crowded than when he was a kid here.

It is that. You hear French, Italian, Russian, Polish. Tourists, in great numbers. As someone said, the weak dollar has been a boon to New York.

And so here’s our walk, with commentary.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Rooftop sculpture garden. Because it’s such a good view toward the south and west.



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Inside the museum proper, Ed starts reading every bit of info plastered on the walls. I tug, he reads. We crawl toward the exit, past a photo exhibit and past the new Impressionist (and early XX century European) art rooms…



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And finally, out the door. And into the park.



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As always, it is a place of calm, even on the week-end. Ed wonders if the horse trails are still there. A well dressed man with a large shopping bag from Tiffany’s overhears and pauses to talk about the trail and whether they have closed all the stables in the park. Ed mutters that New Yorkers aren’t supposed to be friendly.

Toward Columbus Avenue, in search of food. Past Magnolia Bakery (yes, now on the upper Westside)…



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…past endless brunchy places which Ed rejects on the basis of price and pleasant ambiance. I’m thinking hungry thoughts, so we take the subway to SoHo. I am in NY, with a million places to find unusual snacks and all I can think of is that Café Café on Greene Street will probably be an okay compromise for the two of us. I’ve gone there when the chips are down before and it always seems to be okay for fussy types.



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But the blocks in SoHo are dense with crowds. And merchants. And tourists. And shoppers. And families. And the world. And so long as we’ve lost our calm, we may as well plunge all the way to complete madness and cross over Broadway toward Little Italy…



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…and Chinatown, and the markets along Canal Street …



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I ask Ed if he ever used to come down here when he was growing up. Not really. Just to get pickles over on the lower east side. Makes sense. People leave their neighborhoods mostly for food, right?

Finally I take pity and we turn toward the financial district. Surely, on a week-end, all will be quiet there.

But no! If you were a tourist, wanting to see ALL of New York, wouldn’t you go here, to Wall Street, to the Bull, you know, to take a photo of how it should be but isn’t, what with the markets collapsing?



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The sun is getting awfully close to the horizon. I think Ed is in a daze. He’s grown awfully quiet, so that even provocative things like “isn’t this great?” aren’t having much of an impact.

I suggest that now is the time for us to ride the ferry to Staten Island. Ed used to do this as a kid. We all did, but he used to do it A LOT. Back and forth, when it cost a nickel. Now it’s free. Life could not get better than this.

We walk toward the ferry just as the sun turns all those golden and orange colors near the horizon. One of those oh say can you see moments.



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At the Ferry Terminal, the crowds are huge. Of course. People do use this boat to get home. The sun blinks, shines and dips below the skyline.

The ride is beautiful.



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Not to get too immigrant-y here, but this is the way I first came to the country: through the Verrazano Narrows, before this bridge went up in 1964...



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Ahh, New York...


The return is dark and windy and we stay indoors. Ed reads the rag papers people have left behind. I watch a woman paint her nails as the ferry hums and pushes toward Battery Park.

We take the subway back to Brooklyn. Neither of us feels like hiking for food. Our hosts suggest that we get take out from Homage. It’s kind of skuzzy, but it has good food, we’re told. We pick up a bottle of rosé from a hugely secure liquor store, then some chicken salad and portabella mushroom sandwich with sweet potato fries from Homage, and make our way back to our b&b room. Ed tells me it’s one of his favorite meals. Ever.

As always, the drive into the city blots out all that has happened in the last decades and puts me into my childhood days again. Especially as we crawl into the gut of Manhattan at 49th, near the UN, just blocks from where I lived during my first years here.

I don’t think it has the same effect on Ed. I hear him groan as we move in that incremental way one moves from east to west here. Let’s get out and walk, he says. We do. An overnight bag rolling behind us, backpacks in place – we look weird, but, as always in this city, not weird enough to stand out.

I remember three years ago, during my routine trips here, I’d walk the streets at midnight, often in great distress, often sobbing actually, at the enormity of life and the difficulty of finding a good way to move forward and I did not stand out then either. New York is a city that pretends that eccentric is normal so that it can turn away and ignore all that should not be ignored.

It’s a gorgeous, albeit crispy cool day. It makes the city look clean and fresh, especially if you look up toward that patch of blue.



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I leave Ed and the suitcase to the vultures of law and set out to meet a family friend (Martha) back at the UN. It’s a rare chance for me to get back inside and look around. I used to have a pass, but security measures have tightened so much over the years that our permanent passes became worthless and we, once children of the UN, have become part of the crowd again. Outsiders.



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Did you notice there are no children at all visiting the UN? Martha asks me. No school groups. No children. They’re not allowed. The building is not up to code.

It’s one of the reasons why I am here: come spring, the UN is going to be gutted and rebuilt from the inside. For the next four or five years, it will be closed, under construction. And once it reopens, all the remaining people that I still know and could ask to let me inside, will have retired.

We stroll now past the big rooms – the Security Council, the General Assembly.



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head of the Polish delegation ?


And the delegates’s lounge, where you can get your espresso fix.





My father, after his stint as head of the Polish delegation, returned later to the UN as USG. Two ends of a career in diplomacy: the first trip was so brilliantly optimistic and exciting. The second – so different! The family’s grown and gone, the wife’s tired of diplomatic functions, the future is uncertain.

My parents broke up after his final years at the UN. He went back to Poland, she stayed behind. As I walk now with Martha, I remember these spaces as ones I walked through on my own. It had been my father’s world, but I knew it best as a place where I hung out in the company of no one.



from inside the glass tower of the Secretariat
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looking out from the UN cafeteria
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Out on the streets again, I move rapidly to reconnect with Ed. And now I am in his world. From the midtown law firm, we walk to Union Square, with suitcase, backpacks, my cameras, all of it. Hobos in black and blue, past the shadowed streets of a city rushing to call it quits for the week.



42nd street
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We spend some time with his cousin. Ed has family business stuff to talk over and I listen to them speak in that familiar way that you have toward those you needn’t pretend anything anymore. You’ve been through it all, childhood, bar mitzvahs, funerals, and now you talk in short cuts, with references to facts and faces that are understood.

And then I am tired. It’s evening and I do not want to go to the free MoMA exhibits. I want to go to Brooklyn, leave our bags and find dinner.

I know very little of Brooklyn. I used to go swimming at St. George hotel somewhere in this borough, because they had a pool open to the public. End of Brooklyn experience.

Now we are in a neighborhood that is very much as it may have been forty years ago.



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Except for the occasional brownstone that is being renovated (for example, our B&B on Sterling Place)...





... it is still a place for people who are just hanging in there. A place where meats are roasted outside a grocer's and people hang out casually, in pairs or small groups.



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Our hosts recommend Cheryl’s soul food and it is a good choice, even though I think it says something about Brooklyn that we should be in a basically Black neighborhood, with African American restauranteurs, serving food to mostly White people. Distinctly New York types. A family with a son who reads during the entire meal. Grandparents with a college kid who brags about her ambitions all evening long. Three couples who call themselves troublemakers, sending back the by-the-glass wine, complaining of too much spice in it. Who sends back house wine?

At the b&b, I struggle with the Internet, but not for long. I have never known the night life of New York, not the part that continues past midnight. And I wont know it this time. And that’s a good thing. New York was at its best for me when I was a kid. That’s the part that’s pleasurable now as well. The bars, the nightclubs—that’s someone else’s New York, not mine.

Such a challenging place! I think I would be slightly more at peace with its peculiarities if the b&b Ed and I are in had reliable internet. In the absence of that, we are left to muse (gripe?) about what it is that we do and don't like about the city.

I'll get back to that topic, for sure. For now, enjoy, as I did, the approach to the New York on a bright bright autumn day.



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Everyone has an opinion about New York. The French love it. Midwesterners think it’s stuck up and full of itself but fun to visit anyway. Asians flock to it. No one can quite ignore it.

For me, New York is like a recurring dream. It keeps coming back to haunt me as a place that changes my life. Again and again. Sometimes in good ways, and sometimes not so much.

I moved there when I was seven, stayed six years, returned when I was a young adult, stayed three years and then left for good. I returned for visits thereafter, but they were short visits. Inconsequential, really. Until just a handful of years ago, when I returned to visit my now ex, who was spending the year there. One of my last trips to Manhattan ever was to see him. It was, sadly, the last time that we still felt married.


So tomorrow I’m heading to New York. Ed has legal matters to attend to, and I seized the chance to travel there with him. I want to experience a neutral New York. One that doesn’t rock my life any. Ed hates the city with a passion (like a true New Yorker that he is, he’s incapable of feeling merely indifferent about the place) and so I’m thinking we’ll have a fine old time. I’m not looking to eat well, to shop, to see the sights. The trip is a return of two aging former New Yorkers who see it as a place where they grew up, for better or worse.

That’s tomorrow. Today, I worked. In downtimes, I played around with the stitches in my mouth. Discreetly. And watched students kiss the soil out on Bacom Hill. Or something.

Well, it had to come out (the part of the tooth that chose to remain, nestled snuggly somewhere below the surface).

I remember loving my oral surgeon last year (call him Dr. Handsome, though this is not his name) and so I chose him for today’s visit as well. At the rate of a tooth out per year, my mouthful should hold me through until I’m almost eighty. Dr. Handsome will be there to pluck them out and all will be jolly.

That is, with the help of nitrous oxide.

Perhaps meditation relaxes the soul even more effectively, but I’m not hoping for a spiritual mending. I just want a nice state of dulled senses for a while. Breathe in, close the eyes, ahhhh….

The nurse sighs wistfully. Sometimes I wish we could take a chunk of this home with us for the evening, she tells me.

Do you know what it’s like? I ask it in a whisper. At least I think I am whispering. What do I know. Senses fully dulled.

Yes, my dentist gave it to us always when we came in for visits as kids.

Nice dentist. My childhood dentist was Dr. Heinz of New York. Once he looked into my seven year old mouth (I first moved to New York then) he never let go. I was his most reliable source of income for years. He’d get his face very very close to mine and stare into my mouth through little telescopes attached to his nose. He never asked me how school was going or if I was going to school at all, or if I liked dogs, or New York or summer by the sea. He was not even close to handsome.

I sat for a long time in Dr. Handsome’s office today, breathing steadily and feeling swell. I wondered if people who did drugs felt this calm. Of course, I know a little about smoking pot. I went to college on the Columbia campus of the early 70s for God’s sake. You go to a party and you see handmade cigarettes and you know they’re there to produce some altered state of being. Still, fresh off the boat from Poland (a plane, really, but who’s counting), I was too terrified of American drugs to experiment. Had there been someone schooled in the medical sciences standing nearby by (like Dr. Handsome this afternoon), I might have said sure, create visions of loveliness in my head for five minutes, no more, so I can see what the fuss is about. But the people around me where so far gone that I felt strangely alone, there with my glass of cheap Chablis. Almaden. From a round jug. Anyway, someone had to stay sane and keep windows closed up in the apartments of Morningside Heights. The temptation to prove once and for all that humans can fly seemed ever present among the smokers. At least that’s how they talked.

Once I left New York, the whole smoking pot thing faded to a distant memory. For one thing, someone finally told me that it wasn’t quite legal here. You could have fooled me. Everyone had been smoking pot on campus. These were foggy times indeed. I moved between the fog of rolled cigarettes in school and of dry martinis and scotch on the rocks back in the homes of people whose children I watched.

Oh, but what did I know about the law anyway. Laws were oddly irrelevant in Poland. A mystery for most of us. We lived by standards set by family, peers, school teachers. No one talked much about The Law. Indeed, if someone got arrested, you wondered if it was for good reasons (politics) or bad reasons (drunkenness). There seemed to be no other. Crime was rare. Even against a young girl walking alone after a high school dance, cutting through dark alleys and streets of a city whose lamps never had enough light in them to make a difference.

I thought about all this today, at least before Dr. Handsome started breaking up what was left of my tooth. Twenty four pieces later (his count), I was free to go.

And now I sit here trying to decide what I should have by my side for the debate tonight: a narcotic painkiller (strongly recommended by Dr. Handsome) or a glass of rosé. I’d go with the rosé in a beautiful glass, but I’m not sure it pairs well with thin soup or yogurt. Oh what the heck. Let’s give it a go.



Ocean author in the early 70's:
can you guess which side of the ocean?

Legislation without teeth. Political accusation without teeth. Proclamation without teeth. A former resident of postwar Poland without teeth.

I saw them all today.

Before my morning class, I was sitting in my favorite dentist’s chair asking him to please glue back a crown so that I would not look silly in class. Not so fast, he tells me. You see, you no longer have a tooth.

I have heard this before. I'm Polish and those of us who resided in Poland in the after-war years have troubled teeth. Maybe it’s all that kielbsa we put down on the dinner table. More likely it’s the absence of fluoride in the water and the utter dread everyone had of dentists who practiced the mantra of drill baby drill without much attention to issues of pain.

The interesting thing about my current state dental insurance program is that it pays for the cheap and bypasses the expensive. I left the clinic knowing that I had both lousy teeth and lousy dental insurance. Perhaps I can forgo teeth in the years ahead of me. I can see it: I become a caricature of a person, dependant on rosé wine and very soft cheese. Without the crusty bread.


In the afternoon, I take my papers to a favorite café, one that no one appears to like and so it guarantees for me the peace and quiet that I need for class preparation. I finish early, pack my papers and head back for my late class.

I cross West Washington and remembered how, four years ago, I had witnessed a demonstration here. A packed street. Tens of thousands of hopefuls, turning out for Kerry. Not that it did him any good in the final scheme of things. But the scene was like no other that I witnessed in Madison before or after.

Today, the street is golden and empty.



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I note it and keep walking toward school. But here’s a little twist to this day: on State Street, I hear the announcement: John Kerry, speaking in support of Obama on the Capitol steps NOW! I look at my watch. I have a few minutes. I turn back toward the Capitol. This is what one does in American politics, I tell myself. You listen, over and over, to people who support your candidate. Big crowds or small.




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I listen to the Obama people drown out the group of students who have a different vision for the next four years.






But still, for me, it’s all slightly bizarre. A toothless rally if you will. Kerry, who once drew crowds, now has this to deal with. Does he remember his West Washington speech, introduced by Bruce Springsteen, four years back?

I wait, but Kerry still does not show up by the time I have to head back to class. I leave the relatively small gathering and make my way to the Law School.





Do tooth fairies make the rounds only when baby teeth bite the dust? A shame.

Morning brunch on the Square. The streets are empty. It’s a holiday, isn’t it? I park, I read the meter: not enforced on week-ends and holidays. I put away my quarters.

After brunch I find a ticket on the windshield. I chase down the enforcement cop. Not a city holiday??? -- I ask. Look, if you want to give me the day off, that’s great. I’ll vote you in. Until then, pay up.

A cop with a sense of humor. Ha ha.

Afternoon coffee off of State Street. I know better. I feed the meter with a quarter and a dime. It buys me 22 minutes of peace and quiet in the parking space. And yet, after 17 minutes, I get a ticket. What just happened??? I have no idea.

In the early evening, I drive my daughter to the airport. I see her through the lines, I wave, my eyes brimming with daughter love (for the one who is leaving, for the other who is far away)…





I exit the parking. I clock in at sixteen minutes – one too many to get a free pass.

At home, I put the pumpkin and its cousin out on the balcony. I’m feeling sort of like the slumped guy. There are days when everything falls into place. So they say.

Warm, tantalizing Sunday. My older daughter and I set out for some of my favorite autumnal outposts. The girl’s deprived. It’s a paved world, out there is DC, where she lives.

I am only now (at midnight) recovering from the pace.

Let me try to pick out the essential pieces of the day:



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Gibraltar Rock




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(yes, it's positively inspiring at this time of the year)




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Ice Age Trail by the Wisconsin River




Ski High Orchards




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Somewhere near Oregon, Wisconsin

Then came the cooking. Favorite autumnal recipes. Hurry, please, people are hungry.

At midnight it all stops. Or almost stops. Finishing up the post... Yawn... A new week. Yawn. Well rested, ready for the challenges... Yawn... Stretch those tired muscles. Such a pretty autumn we're having...

I can hardly catch my breath.

My older daughter is home for the week-end and the day cannot hold enough minutes. In case you wonder how it is -- you know, when they grow up, go away, get a life, but then, for one fleeting suny fall week-end, you get them back. Home again. It's like this:



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Westside Community Farmers Market: fall berries





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Westside Community Farmers Market: sweet peppers




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Downtown Farmers Market: sweet potatoes




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Downtown Farmers Market: cauliflower





Downtown Farmers Market: pumpkin spice cake





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Tree Farm: hot pepper picking




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Tree Farm: picking flowers




Tree Farm: picking flowers and gourds with daughter





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Indian Lake County Park hiking trail




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Indian Lake County Park hiking trail, continued


And that's just before the sun goes down. Oh, daughters.

In the late, late afternoon, just before the sun disappeared on me completely, I biked to Ed’s place.

It has been a long week and I admit it, I am sleepy tired. Ready for a winter nap.

My Polish grandmother always went to sleep when the sun set and got up just before it came back up. I never appreciated how short her awake time must have been in early winter and how long her up time was in midsummer.

Today, I felt like I had a week of Polish midsummer days.

I watched once again (probably for the last time this year) the farmers in the fields next to Ed’s place. Bending, always bending.



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It’s that last effort before the final frost allows you to give up. It all moves at a slower pace now. There's less to pick. And there are fewer family members picking. No kids in the fields now. The shelter from the sun is neglected.



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I allowed myself a five minute nap in the sheep shed at Ed’s, then asked for a ride home.

I am more like McCain than Obama in at least this way: I act on impulse. I think afterwards. I have to say that this has lead to some unbelievably fantastic results. And, I admit it, some poor ones. The interesting thing is that my unbelievably fantastic results would, most likely, have happened eventually, had I not acted on impulse. On the other hand, the bad outcomes may have been avoided had I paused to think. So I’m in favor of thought.

Like this guy, discovered on my walk down the hill in the early afternoon:





For those who think I have become too serious, what with my postings on thought and dirt paths disappearing, well, we are in the midst of serious times. But, life is silly anyway. Agree? I mean, look at this trio. I passed them on State Street this afternoon. Bucky! Buck up already!





Much later, I gathered up my texts and papers and set out to bike home. On Bascom Hill, all was quiet. Almost. I’m not sure what these people were doing. Do you see them? Specks on the darkening turf. Push ups? Exercise inspires thinking. So that’s a good thing.





The bike ride home was long. My gears wouldn’t shift. Here’s the good part: I didn’t fall. It was a thought-filled and thoughtful ride.

Until the 1970s, my permanent home was in Warsaw Poland. The family apartment (where my dad lives to this day) was in the city center, but very quickly I discovered that this center also harbored a secret wee little neighborhood of homes along a dirt road. Strolling along that stretch of unpaved road, well hidden behind a city park, you could imagine you were in the countryside. It felt remote, insular, peaceful.

I was away from Poland for some years and when I returned for a visit, the dirt road and the homes adjacent to it were gone. So much so, that I really came to think I had imagined it all. No one talked about it. No one seemed to remember it. In a push for modernity, Warsaw had wiped the dirt from its landscape.

I do not recall ever seeing a dirt road in New York (where I lived afterwards), nor Chicago (my next residence). But something similar happened when I visited Beijing in China. Toward the close of the last century, I found myself searching for a neighborhood of huts and dirt tracts. I’d read about them in a book. No one seemed to be able to tell me how to find them. But I did find them. Here, this time I have proof (with apologies for the quality of the photo):



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Two years later, I returned with my daughter to Beijing. I wanted to show her this older, exceedingly tired neighborhood. But this time I really could not find it. I realized that it had disappeared. Erased from the city plan, it will survive for me only through this photo. In a push for modernity, Beijing had wiped the dirt from its landscape.


I learned this week that the block across from the condo where I live (in Madison) is no longer going to house a bigger and better Whole Foods. You need only say “the economy” to understand why. People nod and sigh and then they look to the big hole in the ground made ready for the store and wonder what will become of it all.

Today, for the first time, I went to a place that, until now, I hadn’t known existed: a community garden just next to the Department of Transportation building. Just down the street from my condo. The garden looks tired now. Some tomatoes still cling to spent vines and the zinnias are relentlessly pushing their color, but you know that the season is really over. You can smell the indifference to growth.



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This garden has a dirt path. Not a road exactly, but a path. More than you’ll find in Warsaw or Beijing, that’s for sure. (Don’t tell me about parks. I know about parks. They are sensual. They are sublime. But they are not the soil that, for better or worse, covers your feet and gets under your fingernails.)





I heard that the garden is slated for removal. Something about future development, bla bla bla.

My friend Barry thinks we should turn over the once meant for Whole Foods plot to the people who want to garden. A community place to grow things, right there, on the intersection of University Avenue and Segoe Road.

What a terrific idea! There would be something enormously gratifying to live across the street not from Whole Foods, but from whole fields of foods. And let me put in a quiet plug for a dirt road cutting through. No pavement, just dirt. With woodchips maybe, to keep the dust low in the summer. In Madison, progress means that you can think about making room for dirt roads.

The decisions you make at daybreak come back to haunt you by sunset. Call it a Polish proverb. Though I think in true Polish speak, it would be something like: drink vodka before the cows are out to pasture and you’ll lose your herd by sunset. I’m not stereotyping. Many Polish proverbs have agrarian roots and involve references to drinking and/or dancing.

As a good Madisonian who would rather not drive if she can help it, I took the bike to work this morning. Yeah, yeah, drizzle on the horizon. Drizzle will come and go. And I miss the lakeshore path. Something to do with the ducks, I suppose (or, are they not ducks?).



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In the course of the day, the drizzle gets worse. By evening, it rains.

It’s a long way home in the rain. I’m despondent. It’s easy to let the stork fly south when the winds are favorable (another Polish proverb that I just made up).

My students say – put that bike on the bus bike rack and leave the driving to others. I watch a film clip on how it’s done (thank you, students). I set out.

I wait at the bus stop, wet and tired, along with others who are wet and tired.



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The maneuver is successful: bus comes, I pull down its bus rack, place the bike on it and clip it in place.

I am so pleased with my accomplishment. And like so many who feel the tickle of success, I let it go to my head. I get off at the Whole Foods store. I need some greens for supper. And bread. And a bottle of rosé to help me through tonight’s debate. I stuff my purchases into my backpack. Oh dear, it’s really raining. I whip out my umbrella and climb on the bike. Clumsily. At least I have the sense to stay on the sidewalk.

At the intersection I pause. And then, suddenly, it’s not so easy to get back on the bike. I don’t know why. I’m tired. My coat is in the way. My umbrella is crazily obstructing my view. I wobble and I fall. Onto the green strip by the sidewalk. Pure mud.

Sigh… I make it home alright. Wet and muddy and bruised, knowing that it’s all my fault. Because I let the cows graze with vodka on my mind. Or something.

In the days when I was looking at various photo printing options around town, I stumbled upon the studio (workshop? salon?) of Tom & Barbara Crozier. Picturesalon.com: Fine Art Giclee Printing Services – their ad says.

Ed was intrigued. Don’t you want to find out what giclee printing is all about? He has a mechanically curious mind. I don’t. Besides, he was mispronouncing the word terribly, making it all sound very slippery and eelish.


But today, a day after my own “art show,” I am primed for something new. We call Tom and Barbara, the owners of Picture Salon, to see if we can pop in for a visit and learn more.

They are the friendliest people in the world. If I were to construct friend material, I’d say, let’s start with a base, modeled after these two.










Though this is perhaps besides the point. I'm on a mission to find out what giclee printing is all about and how you pronounce the darn word anyway.

Here’s Tom and Barbara’s take on it: Giclee is a French term which means "to spray." It was actually coined by a U.S. company to distinguish the printing process (using a highly refined inkjet printer that sprays micro-droplets) from that of a standard offset printing process.
And it’s pronounced "jhee-clay.”

That’s the short of it. But for me, it is truly an eye opener on how one might (okay, I might) present photos: on beautiful, creamy, all cotton art paper, for example. Or on a canvas, stretched over a wooden frame.





Such possibilities! And as you inch toward the model of a painting, you get inspired (I got inspired) to play with photos (on my computer) so that they become canvas-like in all ways. Like Tom’s own work, seen here:





Someone asked me at the art show this week-end why I don’t paint. Well, really, it’s because I am awfully average. I mean, I can do a credible job of putting something down on canvas that looks like a rendition of what is out there, but my God, it’s nothing I would ever put anywhere, not even on my own bathroom wall.

Photo canvases are different. The paint brush is irrelevant, except as it appears on my laptop's little photoshop icon. The canvas is stroked by what the camera framed, delivered in a format that suits the image -- muted maybe, or dappled, or faded, or made bold. And then delivered on a canvas as if it were a painting.

Barbara and Tom walked us around their studio (workshop? salon?). Impressive stuff! I watched one of their workers stretch a canvas. In another room, I looked at a stack of quality prints, ready for shipment to the Art Institute of Chicago, a regular client.





Do you guys want to handle small jobs? Like a print here and there? From insignificant me?

You see, here’s where their agreeable nature clicks in.
Sure. Of course! -- they tell me.

So watch for this new way presentation of cherry trees from Door County, or of the café at sunset in Avignon. As I said on Saturday: time for a new project!


Want a preview? Okay, here's my favorite so far. Send me an email if you like it. For example, on your office wall. At special, crashing economy prices! Dreams of constant travel recede, but art's a constant. This canvas-print wont fade. At least not in your lifetime.





[For the loyal reader who keeps track of ongoing other projects: the writer’s shed will have heating. And walls, too, I’m told. One of these days. Months. Years. As for my book project? Always on my mind. Sometimes I even make progress.]

I’m not a fan of giving advice. I think my personal experiences in life may be interesting, but they don’t offer much in the way of wisdom or guidance. Still, after working through an art show (my first one), I have some nuggets that others may find, well, interesting. Not instructive. But interesting.

So, thinking of showing your stuff to the public?

Wonderful. Stay calm, stay focused. And consider the following:

Don’t be shy about sending invitations to your best pals. I sent none. But when a handful of friends (Suzanne, Tom, Joan + family, Barry…) showed up on Sunday, I was ready to hug them forever. It’s good to talk to people who sort of accept you with your quirky flaws already and who aren't there to learn about your medium.

Don’t put out brownies as treats. Kids will come and eat them rapidly. Their sugar high will be your afternoon low.

Do suggest conversation topics for those who visit your space. I posted on the wall three questions people could ask me (note banners in photo below). People did come up and ask me all three questions. True, my mind ceased working when, for the 100th time, I addressed my own questions, but that’s just me.



If you put out wine, because it’s sort of a gallery type event, put out cheap stuff. Don’t worry that it has cheap written all over it. No one cares. They’re pleased that they can drink and look all at the same time.

Make your occasional traveling companion or partner or loved one or someone be there when it’s time to close down and pack up. Not because you yourself can’t take out nails and cart down art pieces, but because this is the way it’s done. And then, of course, accept his (or her) dinner invitation (if one is forthcoming…sigh…) to celebrate your “accomplishments.” I imagine that would be a fun way to close the event.

Sigh…

Hats off to you guys, the vendors-farmers at the Westside Community Farmers Market here, in Madison. Second night of frost and this time, it was no superficial pat of cold. It was the real thing. A slap, a kick where it hurts. I knew it when I biked in the morning. My knuckle cracked.

So maybe hats on, farmers. And bottoms up. Or thumbs up. (Am I getting my cheers right? They’re awfully anatomical.) To the good crop, to your relentless efforts. Thank you.








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There are some people who never act on skills that they have and then there are those who make way too much of skills that, even after much massaging and coaxing, never amount to much. I err toward the second, unfortunately. I pursue too much rather than too little.

Late this afternoon, I headed for the industrial penthouse space in my condo building to get ready for the studio art show that runs this Saturday and Sunday. How thrilled am I with this event? Truthfully, I’d rather be camping.

When I stayed in Pierrerue (a tiny village in southern France) some two years back, my dark cave of a room abutted the house of a painter. I loved her art. I make no comment on its worth, but I will admit that her paintings made me happy. (I brought a piece back home and it has made me less happy here, but I think that’s a statement about me and not about her talent; I’m not very adept at appreciating art out of context.) I asked her then why she did not display it, sell it, promote it. She shrugged her shoulders and said – I guess I don’t think I’m there yet. To me, she was holding back.

A person who blogs with photos doesn’t hold back. This blog, Ocean, pushes boundaries alright. Boundaries of sanity. Why would anyone, anyone post so much, so often? And then bring all those photos back again in the form of an art show?

Ed and I hung the photos and tomorrow and the next day I will sit by them and talk to people about book making and blogging and photo editing. And then I will go back to my own quarters, shut the door and look forward to my next project.



setting up

The unexpected gift. The compliment, the pat on the back. The invitation that you never thought would be for you. Aren’t these magnificent?

It came in the form of a phone call several weeks back. Hi. We’re from Wired (the magazine). We’d like to send you an invitation to a champagne reception celebrating the publication of Chef Grant Achatz’s book, Alinea.

Yes! I’ll be there! (Oh, btw, when and where?)

I ate at Alinea two years ago (and wrote about it here). It was the most extraordinary (and most expensive) meal of my life. It could be that my blog post was spotted (they noted the camera). This was a party for loyalists and for the underground press. Apart from the blog, I fit into neither. Or, not they would know. I have been following the career of Grant Achatz with care and a lot of concern (about a year ago he was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue and the story of his treatment options is harrowing), continuously.

I think he is as close as we come to food genius.

Grant likes to say that he pushes the boundaries. I told him last night that I see him more as a person who releases people from a history of inhibition and restraint. We live in a world that tells us what to feel and how to feel it. We smell pine forests when we’re hiking and we taste good food at special dinners and we cry at sad movies and we laugh at funny stories. But mostly, we do one at a time and not a great deal of the other.

At Alinea, your senses take flight. You taste, smell, feel. Your eyes are entertained, your nose links smell with childhood memories, your mouth is bathed lavishly with beautifully orchestrated explosions of flavor.

You can’t do molecular gastronomy (that is what he does) badly. It only works if it is done with great precision and terrific imagination. How successfully is Achatz at pulling it off? After a meal at Alinea, the world is not the same anymore. You understand that your senses are screaming to be let loose, to bring you joy. And so you have new respect for food, for life.


And so on Wednesday afternoon, I take the bus to O’Hare, then the subway downtown. At the last minute, I find a room for the night. I don’t want the hassle of getting back to Madison in the middle of the night.

At 7 sharp, I enter the magical world of Wired. The magazine is holding a two week festival of innovation in Millenium Park. Normally it’s free and open to the public, but this evening, the pavilion is closed for this private event.

Inside, the light is blue, the people are mostly in black. Champagne and exotic drinks are mixed and handed out freely, generously.





I take note of the exhibits. Amazing. Beyond me, mostly. I’m not geeky enough to understand design brilliance, but it all looks sleek, exquisite, futuristic.









Grant is there, as are his assistants. There’s one small camera crew, but otherwise, it is more a party than a publicity event. I had made sure my camera and posting were okay, but it certainly is true that I was one of the few furiously trying to take it all in with my trusty Sony.





The chef looked even younger than in photos I had seen of him. To me, food greats are celebrities. More so than those labeled as such by, say, People magazine. I watch chefs with awe. There is something beautiful about cooking talent. Having worked in a kitchen with skilled chefs, I am even more impressed with what it is that they try to accomplish for those out front.

And so you can imagine how thrilling it is to watch Grant do a cooking demonstration for us.

He walks on a small stage and says – it’s easy. There’s a misconception that it’s really difficult. It can be, but mostly it’s all small steps (what he doesn’t say is that it’s many many small steps)

He talks about the idea behind this plate: autumn. Memories for him of growing up in Michigan. It’s his favorite season. It reminds him of hunting with his dad, of being young and jumping in leaf piles, of the smell of leaves burning.

Quintessential fall, he says. And so I am playing with memory and playing with your past. It’s a search for emotional triggers.

Achatz puts together the components: apple cider gelee, granny smith apples, apple cider and pheasant breast. And herbs. He cooks it in a sealed pouch, then cubes the ingredients, cubes also a cooked shallot and then dips this in tempura.









Finally, he takes branches of fall leaves and uses them as skewers. The leaves will be burned, the aroma will be intense.









Grant laughs as he recalls the presentation of this dish at Alinea. Because we take risks, there are always consequences. So we’re lighting these leaves and sending them out into the dining room and there are ashes everywhere. The general manager had to deal with this as chairs were getting stained and clothes are getting dirty and you could just see all the people sending us their cleaning bills… and then the embers from the leaves! We had to tell people – don’t touch the fire! And as we burn maybe 100 of these per night the whole place smells like one big campfire. But then, you see that some people are so moved by it. They’re laughing, they’re crying with the memory of it – it goes beyond just the bite.





After the cooking demonstration, we are invited to sample some Alinea tid bits, assembled for us around the room. Lobster cracker with tapioca and fennel mousse. Sort of like a lobster cheetoh, Grant explains. His little boys love the stuff. As opposed to, say, the lavender pillows – they tasted those and bluntly said shampoo! Then, the Alinea concord grape, and the bacon (Nueske’s! I asked.) with butterscotch, apple and thyme. Then the recently legalized in Illinois fois gras inside a crispy cinnamon meringue and an apple thing that sort of resembled a gummy bear. And finally, roasted pumpkin with whipped maple syrup, smoked salt, sage and cereal. I may have gotten the details slightly off. But you get the idea. Autumn.













As we walk, watch, eat and drink, Grant Achatz is signing his book. We each get a gift of his beautiful tome.






I have to say that this is art at the highest level. The book is dense, thick, beautiful. A great gift to anyone with an interest in food. Not for the recipes (although there are those), but for the ideas, for the beauty of visualizing a daring performance.

This year, Chef Achatz won the James Beard chef of the year award. No surprise there.


At dawn, I retrace my steps to the El, to the bus, to Madison, to work. The book is at my side. I look at it as a reminder of great ideas. It’s a good thing to occasionally get close to the masters. They sharpen your own edge and push you to try harder.

Good question. A blogger should reveal that much: where, where is her mind right now?

I’ll answer briefly: I’m at the moment in a Chicago hotel. The view out the window is lovely, thanks to the kind desk clerk who put me up there where it’s grand, in spite of the not so grand cheaphotels.com reservation (made minutes before my departure).

I should not be here. I should not grasp at fanciful threads of improbable stories, I should not travel for frivolous reasons.

Still, I am here. Tomorrow, at the very tail end of the day, I’ll explain. For now – here’s a photo of my evening walk to an event at Millennium Park.



Purchase photo 2078