The Other Side of the Ocean

Saturday, December 31, 2005

tic toc tic toc tic toc tic toc 

where are you going, where are you going, will you take me with you? 

Where am I heading on this next-to-last-day in December?

No, Oscar, I am not having an existential moment. This is a very real query.

A hint:


with lots of cheese and a holiday twinkle

Anyone who has ever lived in Chicago will answer: what the hell, that’s a deep dish Lou Malnati’s pizza. Are you in Chicago or did you order on-line?

I am indeed in Chicago and will be here for the next few days. My family follows me to Madison and so it is only just and proper and good that I should follow them here for the New Year’s celebration. We like our habits, external pressures and legal proceedings notwithstanding. For us, there is only one right way to flip that last calendar page and that way is to sit together at a table and eat and drink and make fun of life as we have known it in the year that just passed.

Driving to Chicago in something that vacillates between a snowstorm and a downpour, I realize that this stretch of road is rapidly becoming either a journey toward heaven or hell. The blinding slush storm is breathtakingly beautiful in a fantastically terrifying sort of way.

Squeezed together in a zippy blue car, with suitcases and parcels piled around us, the three of us sing. Loudly. It is what we do on road trips. There’s some harmony, there’s even some recognition of lyrics. True, I would not know a correct lyric from the flag pledge, but I listen hard and follow an eight of a beat behind.

As the rain/snow swirls and trucks speed past and spray us with extra barrels of freezing wetness, I keep my ex’s car in the rear view mirror (as he wants to follow close behind), and we speed forward into the unknown. Oh, alright, not really The Unknown. I know my way around these parts. Still, it is, on this stormy day, a blind journey, to the notes of Journey and Paisley and Williams, and at the end of the day there is this fantastic Chicago style pizza. I live a good life.

Friday, December 30, 2005

pink drinks and white nights 

There we were, last night, the Sad Liberals, coming together in the old neighborhood, skirting in our discussions the real troubles of the world, preferring to focus on developments in our own homes and spaces, because, really, it’s too hard to replay the news stories that one hears each day, too hard to remember how close it came to being a different set of stories that November 2nd.

When I left the old neighborhood this past summer to live downtown, I am sure in those blocks I left behind images of a person driven by wild chaos: those last months were all about frantic cooking, ranting, packing and yes, cosmo drinking. A mad fury, needed to get me from one place to the next.

So I am handed a gift last night, something for the tree, but something I decided to put up on my loft refrigerator.





A nostalgic prod into days when I made cosmos that were too strong, where I hardly saw the pink in them, where what I said did not matter just as long as I said it forcefully, where evenings rolled into mornings on the strength of a calendar pushing one day into the next.

Of course, friends know better than to say that I have settled down into a steady pace now. I’m up late, up early, up all ours of the night. Agitated by the wealth of bright things that happen each day, I need less sleep. Markers of chaos then, of great sanguinity now.

Late last night I drove home on one of those bright winter nights were you need no headlights to see what’s ahead. Deer tracks, visible on both sides of the road, white fields, tinted with blue light, serene calm outside, pounding music inside my own space. That pretty much describes my movements now – both the serenity and the pounding music within.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

not to be catty... 

My friends have cats. That’s not the worst of it: it seems that most of the bloggers listed at the side here have cats. So anything I say about cats is bound to elicit strong thoughts and feelings in the vast majority of readers.

My attitude toward cats has been that they are best left to their devices. Preferably in a barn where they can chase mice and in that way participate in the race for the survival of the stronger species. Though I love birds so I have issues with cats there.

But every once in a while there will come a cat that I do like. No, not the cute little kitten, such as the one I took in as a grad student. That one clawed at my face to get me out of bed before noon – a horrible and spiteful little act. No grad student I ever knew got up before noon. I had to, because of The Cat.

I’m thinking that I like my friend Ed’s cat, Isis. (His other cat -- what can I say… barn life for you as far as I’m concerned.)

But I see that Isis has rights, many rights, ones that any number of people can only dream of. The type of rights I generally associate with the US Constitution. For him it’s all about liberty and the pursuit of happiness with a lot of freedom to participate in commerce thrown in: of the food-transporting kind. Except that he doesn’t have to transport it very far as there are bowls of cat food everywhere. Ed tells me that this is the way it must be with two cats around. Otherwise they fight. Granted. My sister and I always had separate bowls of soup and cereal.

Typically I let Ed know that I am dropping by his sheep shed. But last night his phone was endlessly busy and so I showed up unannounced. Isis obviously had not been told that I was about to usurp his dominant position and hold on the household and so he was out and about, doing his cat thing. Smugly, I entered the sheep shed. The hour is mine, I'm thinking.

Not true. Within minutes Isis, his cat instincts finely set to detect possible usurpers, was back at the shed.

And so I have become accustomed to devoting the first hour of a visit to basically kissing up to Isis. It’s the only way to buy an hour or two of freedom from cat interference into pretty much anything – from sipping wine and munching chocolate to resting with a good book, or what have you. (The cat rejects the wine I bring over, thinking probably that anything of indifferent vintage is not worthy of him, but he sniffs the French chocolate appreciatively. Thanks Isis.)

Okay, so Isis I like. But convince me that other cats out there, the ones that jump all over your fine chocolates and your friend’s lap at awkward times are to be admired and adored. What other beast has such privileges? Fish stay in their tanks, dogs stay in their kennels or get the basement treatment when guests come. Cats? Cats set the agenda. And owners sheepishly acquiesce. That includes sheep shed-living owners.

But I do like Isis.



Larry, the other one, watching the dusk roll in. and me.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

three points 

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

fishing alone 

I am in court first thing this morning. A foggy day, a wet kind of day. On the bench, my favorite judge. Memories of past trials before her, remembering her compassion, her wisdom.

We’re wrapping things up now, we gather our papers. The opposing counsel comes up, we shake hands. As she turns to leave, she tosses this over her shoulder: you are a great writer – she tells me. I am putting on my coat. I stop. Writer? My last published law review piece was on the impact of the court system on indigent mothers who neglect their children. Surely she is not referring to that. I can barely remember what I wrote there. I have so little patience for most law review articles.

And your photos – outstanding! – she continues. Oh! Ocean! You are referring to my blog! The judge looks up. Blog? Tell me, how can I find it?

Suddenly I remember that my last blog post was about a sheep shed. My favorite judge is about to read a post about sheep shed. And éclairs. And French chefs with cute derriers. My mind races over recent posts. I remember, with relief, editing out an expletive at the last minute. “Hell” is tame. The previously inserted word was not.

We walk out the court building, my ex and I. We talk about the attorneys, about their reading of Ocean. He drops me off at the lake. I want to walk among the fishermen who are out there in great numbers.

Are you cold? I ask one. No, not at all. We have enclosures.

They sit and wait. Mostly, they sit with their own thoughts.



fishing, alone


A few days ago, one fell through the ice. Within minutes they pulled him out. He went out too far.
Oh, so there are others, always there are others.

How many do you catch?
On a good day, 200.
You eat them all?
The limit is 25, we can only keep 25. The fishing is good here, I travel all the way from Fort Atkinson just to fish here.

A long drive to sit alone.

A big grin covers his face. It’s worth it. But then, ice fishermen are an interesting lot. Sit with me and you can watch.

I’m not dressed for it so I walk back to the loft. But I have been drawn to the sight of these people every day now, for weeks. I’ll look for you next time -- I tell him. He sets up his post and throws down a line and waits.



pulling your own lot

Monday, December 26, 2005

a sheepish invitation 

I have known Ed since the middle of October. I have fed him bowls of soup, he has helped fix mixers and VCRs at the loft, we have traveled to France together. But I had never set foot in his place until today. Why? Because he lives in a sheep shed and he has always had this line: one look at my sheep shed and you’ll quit being my friend.

As if I would not be friends with someone who lives so… humbly.

Shockingly, I received an e-invite today. Come on over. I’ve cleaned the place up. Me: can I bring my camera?

I rushed. After all, he could change his mind.

Ed lives a mere 9.5 minutes away from me. I live in the epicenter of downtown Madison. Yet, when you approach his shed, you lose the city and suddenly find yourself in the deep countryside. He likes it that way.

I walk up to his shed, noticing the attachment to a dilapidated barn. The shed is slanted. At the lower end Ed, at 6 foot 4, barely clears the ceiling.




I open the door. He is polishing floors. He does not notice I am there. His cats stare at me. Who the hell are you? If a cat can glare with distrust and suspicion, then these guys are glaring. I give them time and space. It is like that with cats and children of another.

Ed designs machines. Predictably, there are machines and tools in odd places. Okay, I am cool with that. My work space intrudes into my living space. So does his. Only it looks more bold and daring to see high tech machines next to the comfy reading chair. It's not a set straight out of Pottery Barn.










Outside, I am shown where the sheep once moved from the barn to the shed. His sheep shed. Obviously not while he has been inhabiting it. Still, it gives one pause.

I want to be honest. The sheep shed has track lighting. It has a better shower situation than any number of b& b’s we stayed in while in France. I mean, it may not be classy, but it’s no shed that any sheep I know have ever inhabited.

Still, it is a conversation stopper. And where does your friend live – I am asked. In a sheep shed – is my honest reply. After that, it becomes all about the weather.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

merrily we roll along 

Rerun performances: same baked treats for breakfast, same squash soup with goat cheese dumplings, same Cornish hens, same chocolate-orange yule log. We are a family that repeats itself.

All this talk about people staying up late to wrap presents? Hmmm. Me, I just get up before the rest (lofters sleep late) and spend an hour playing on the computer. Merrily. Eventually I get to putting ribbons on boxes. Selectively. Weirdly shaped boxes don’t get ribbons. What for, who’ll even notice? I bake, then I wake. It all works.

What did I enjoy putting underneath the tree? I have to give credit to Jenny’s inspiration: origami papers to make wild animals and a set of paint-by-numbers cards. I warned the recipients that it worked best if you had a potent beverage next to the paints .

Afternoon activity: each year it’s the same. A several hour discussion as to which movie we should see late, after dinner. Endless reviews are presented, three agree, the fourth vetoes, and then we start again.

Christmas. What is it about this day for people like me? Each hour evokes the mood of the same hour last year and the year before. On this one day change is not welcome. Just today, repetition is bliss.




secretly, last minute



an ornament hiding in the ribbon box




new latte mugs, Bourges cookies

Saturday, December 24, 2005

it’s Christmas eve, spot, we’ve got lots to do… 

So goes the opening line of a kids’ book. Then, in fewer than 100 words, a story unfolds. It’s not a high-drama thing. Spot bumps a few ornaments and the (single?) mommy dog gently scolds him before telling him good night. The next day they find a bone or some such conventional doggie toy and all is well.

I probably haven’t done a great job of convincing anyone here of how evocative this little story is but believe me, it became a favorite in this house – for building on a feeling of warmth and eagerness that so often accompanies this night before Christmas. (Or you can go the poem route. Same thing.)

[Of course, I’m remembering reality here on Ocean. I just read a few blogs where family members were sick for the holidays, and we wont even go to the more troubled corners of the globe which, at last count, outnumber households of peace, of love, of joy.]

This evening of great music and beautiful colors, of foods and friendship and love has had its share of bumps even in households where all should be calm and all should be bright, such as this one. Some eight years ago I distinctly remember wanting to take the gift ribbon so that I could tie it tightly around someone’s neck until they squirmed. And this morning I woke everyone with a growl. I can’t get your goddamn VCR to work and so if you want to watch your goddamn favorite video later today you can goddamn get yourself someone else to fix the goddamn machine! This blasphemy on Christmas Eve day no less. [Thanks Ed. Everyone should have a friend who can fix goddamn machines on short notice.]

It’s because of all this range of bad impulses and frustrations that surface at the slightest provocation that New Year’s resolutions become so attractive – sort of like the idea of dieting after a pastry indulgence. I’ll be good tomorrow.

For me this day is special. I dig deeply within my cluttered soul to make it so with a determination and insistence that comes from no religion but from knowing that I can and should do better. An unexpected visit (Oscar and B., thank you), a moment at the window watching the fog hide the Capitol, Christmas Eve dinner as it has been eaten since as students we first ate it in Scotland decades ago – fondue, with daughters at our elbows now, with laughter, always with laughter and love.

Happy holidays, happy days, gentle loving days to y’all.



Christmas Eve on the lake: a gathering of friends

Friday, December 23, 2005

in the matter of the tree, part 3 

So it’s beautiful. But then, it always is.

1966: I set out in the cold, snow-covered, dismally poor Polish countryside, in search of a tree. I am staying with my grandparents in their village home and I am determined.

I find a small tree, ask a farmer to help me bring it home, where we make paper ornaments, my sister and I, adding them to the dozen glass ones we had kept from years ago. The entire project takes great effort. Most likely, more effort than is expanded by my Polish Christian friends who also have trees that year. For me, the tree has no religious symbolism at all. But it is beautiful and I want my childhood sugarplums even as my (parental-sibling) family is already beginning to unravel – a process that would continue even to this day.

2005: There is a gift under this tree, delivered earlier today by my summer real estate agent. It is somehow fitting that the first gift (one gift) should be from her. A Wisconsin girl, she brought a Wisconsin cheese and a Wisconsin wine. She sat down, looked around and said: this loft fits you. It is how I imagine apartments in Chicago look. A Midwestern girl, she thinks within a Midwestern orbit.

1999: When my daughters go off to college, the tree project is always accomplished on the day after Thanksgiving. They want time with the pine scent, with the colors and lights, with the feeling of sugarplums dancing before them. By Christmas week, when they next see the tree, the branches are turned down, brittle with the weeks of waiting for the daughters to return. I mist the needles with water, I check the base to make sure it is drinking and still it becomes dry, significantly so by Christmas Day.

I was thinking this year that I do not want my limbs to turn down, brittle from sitting quietly and waiting for my daughters to return home for a visit. When they come I should be fresh and peppy, having myself returned from somewhere just in time to greet them.

2005: With each year the daughters take on more of the project. Now, in their adulthood, they do it all. No, wait, we unwrap the toilet paper from each ornament and lay it on the table for them to pick up and place on the tree.






No one is hungry this year during tee trimming, possibly because it follows dinner. Or is it because so much is different this year?






I am the only one who has grown used to the loft. I have lived here now for four months. It feels like home. How does it feel to my daughters? Their dad?

When the tree first went up, earlier this week, it offered an intense scent. Unmistakable and pervasive, it alerted you to its presence. By now, the tree has adjusted. You could say it is part of the loft – it no longer feels strange to see it here and the fragrance blends into the smells of cooking and the freshness of its lofty environment.

Maybe this year’s Christmas tree project was the toughest after all. Or maybe what we are trying to do here at the loft as everyone gathers for the holiday is actually quite simple. Maybe the enduring nature of this project, which has survived our reshuffling, their moving out, my moving as well, maybe all this is why our tree this year is especially tall, beautiful.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

in the matter of the tree, part 2 

I wake up knowing that the day is now longer. We are moving toward summer.

And still the tree remains untrimmed.

[One year, I imagine that we will wake up on December 25th and decide that there just wasn’t the time or the will to trim the tree (even though tree decorating remains at the top of our list of pleasurable holiday rituals). And the tree will remain there, in its beautiful, pristine splendor, naked, without ornamentation that one year. There’s beauty in that as well.]

We intended to go through our splendid evening of tree trimming last night. But the day took another direction.

Suddenly, as everyone rushes to get things done, my pace has slackened. I have my daughter here, at my side and the movement through a day becomes very different. More protracted, leisurely. We have things to do, tasks, chores, all of it and yet our inclination is to linger. For no reason, we detour to look at antiques and embroidered pillows, we sip lattes at length and watch calm moms handle toddlers’ spills of frothy milk. Outside on Monroe Street, we pause just to look at how stunning a stream of cars can be against a receding winter sun, framed by the bare branches of Madison’s numerous trees.






At home, I want to bake something. One does not come back from ten days of pastry-gawking in France without wanting to do at least the simplest pastry (an eclair) right here, filled with the familiar rich crème patisserie (chocolate this time).





And as we drive to the airport late in the day to pick up daughter number two, it becomes clear that tree trimming will not take place on this solstice night. It cannot be rushed. These hours have to be taken as they present themselves. And they are presenting themselves very slowly, deliciously. Dare I say it? Christmas may just have to wait.

Or not. A new plan is hatched: tonight. The tree gets dressed tonight. I think.

to be continued

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

in the matter of the tree 

Before leaving for France, I bought a Christmas tree for the loft. It was no small matter, if you forgive the wording here: the instructions were that it should tower.

Ed, with his rusty truck where mice have taken to nesting and myself, out searching for a big tree. It took two days until, indeed, one was found.

The tree rested on the truck for the weeks I was away. Monday, first thing, while the crows slept and the sparrows dozed, the tree was brought into the loft. Up it went, reaching for the ceiling, the 30 foot ceiling, up up (okay, maybe not to the top, but pretty darn high).

Secured, positioned, ready for the arrival of three people who, together with me, have decorated a tree every year since time began.

First person arrives. She looks critically at it and pronounces it magnificent. But in the wrong place.

Second person arrives and says “not bad” and notes that the position could stand adjustment.

Third person about to arrive. First two people have given excellent advice. The entire loft is rearranged. The tree is pushed against the brick wall. It kind of rocked and wobbled in protest, but it survived the transport from point A to point B.

Tonight, the trimming begins.

Let it be noted that of equal importance is the food that you eat while you trim. Bubbly drinks and festive nibbles.

So, on this day I'm dreamily raising my glass (of cranberry grape juice at this point) to the tree, the wonderful tree that brings people and food together.

To be continued.



wobbling heights

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

weighty thoughts 

Monday, December 19, 2005

from Madison: my Oscar speech 

Sunday, December 18, 2005

from france: final fireworks 

Yesterday -- the last day. Morning spent walking through the rich countryside of central France; the afternoon -- in an ostensibly sleepy cathedral town that was not so sleepy on the last shopping Saturday before Christmas. Dinner at le Cheval Blanc. And it’s over. This morning we head back for Madison.

Here it is, a final burst of fireworks from a day that had it all:



is this any way to start the day?





Yvoy le Marron: village chat





he gets around (but why not through the chimney?)





la vraie campagne (the real countryside)




the sun comes out





the ducks play




forest light



Later, in Bourges:




here as well




first stop: pastries of course




dare I order the big one?





no, two small ones will do (Ed shares)





crowds come out on this last Saturday before Christmas





but at dusk, in the shadows of the cathedral...





it's not all about shopping -- a Christmas fair: colorful scarves, beautiful voices





at the fair: a dreamer




hot stuff





on stilts: working the crowds



And back at the Auberge du Cheval Blanc:



the best meat dish of the trip: terrine with onion confiture




scaling back: only 4 this time





the best rendition of that oozing chocolate indulgence

Saturday, December 17, 2005

from the vallée de la loire: from this valley they say we are (maybe) going 

Friday morning. Gray skies, one packed suitcase, one duffle bag, time to leave Le Cheval Blanc and slowly head back.

The plan is to spend one more night in the valley of the Loire, but closer to Paris. Then, one last night in Paris and we head back (on Sunday) to snow-encrusted Wisconsin.

How long will you be working on your post?
Give me another minute…

Two hours later I look up with my most beguiling smile. I’m done.

In the meanwhile, Ed has gone exploring the small town of Blere, where we have settled in for the past three days. Ed, the same person who has kept France at arm’s length for a few days, has now discovered two places and he wants to share.

A chocolate shop and a motorcycle store.

The first is easy. A dozen of this, a dozen of that – purchases for people back home.

Why a motorbike shop? You have to understand Ed to know the answer to that. Suffice it to say that when we pass through parking lots in front of famous sights, my eyes wander to the architecture while his remain longingly transfixed on an R100RT model of the BMW bike wedged in some obsolete corner of the lot.


Ask the shop keeper what you need to ride a motorbike here.
Say what? Why would I want to ride a motorbike here?
How else are you going to zip between villages the summer you spend holed up in France writing your book?

Monsieur at the shop is tres charming. Keep it below 45 kph and you don’t even need a license, he beams.

There you have it. Your solution to the excessive fuel consumption and expense associates with renting cars in Europe.
And when is it that you think I am going to do this?
Knowing you, once you get going on an idea – it’s a done deal.

Maybe.




I see this, btw, ...




...around every corner


Finally, we leave. We drive toward Yvay le Marron. It's a small village, with a population of maybe 100, not to be found on any map that I have. I picked it from my “restaurants with rooms” book, randomly, with an eye toward being closer to Sancerre.

[What’s so great about Sancerre? It’s not a tourist destination. It is pretty alright, all perched on a hill top, with fields of grapes, like skirt folds, cascading down on all sides. But it’s not as if there is some great monument or sight there. So what’s the big deal?

The big deal is that if a French friend (living in Wisconsin) tells me “I have this cousin, he owns 35 hectares of vineyards and produces a lovely little Sancerre wine” you can be sure I will say “oui” to an invitation to stop by and visit him and his lovely wife, right there amidst all those Sauvignon grapes.]



on the way we come across a market. with many snails and oysters and cheeses and, well, French stuff.



fresh and honest


How long have we been driving to this Yvay place?
Close to two hours.
Where the hell is it already?
Ask a mechanic at a gas station. I cannot direct you to a place that is not on the map.
Why a gas station? You think those who are mechanically inclined know everything? I’ll ask the first person we pass.

We have these kinds of conversations often, Ed and I. Point, counterpoint. Another round. And another. Today each fizzles into nothing. We are returning home soon, No need for either of us to win rounds. These are the final hours of jostling and prancing.

Let it be known that the first person we passed had the right answer. Yvay le Marron. A village in the middle of nowhere. With three stores and a restaurant called Auberge le Cheval Blanc, with rooms for overnight guests. [Yes, I do stay in places with names that are not Le Cheval Blanc. Okay, maybe not this time, but truly, I have chosen inns with other names.]




from the outside, looking in...to le Cheval Blanc



It is late afternoon. The drizzle is constant now. Le Cheval Blanc is charming. The prospect of driving another 100 kms on winding country roads to get to Sancerre and then turn around and drive through the dark back again is less than appealing.

But we do it. Already on this day we have paused for motorcycles, chocolate shops and provincial markets.Why would I not add a winery to the list of quintessentially French things?

Off we go.




trees in misty fields




well now. what have we here. would you believe me if I told you that one of the herdsmen kissed me while I got out to take photos and that he had wine on his breath and a wide grin and everyone laughed, including Ed?




clip and burn: shaping the Sancerre sauvignon stalks all winter long



Andre Vatan -- that’s the name of the domaine. We find it, finally, caves and all. Andre’s wife greets us and spends the rest of the afternoon talking to us about their wines.




an older "cave" of the Vatan Domain


We taste last year’s Sancerre and I give Ed one of those “I’d do you this favor for you if you needed it; wont you carry six bottles for me on the plane?” glances. I know what he’s thinking: she has her suitcase, her computer, her purse, her camera, her other six-pack of Loire wines, a picture that she bought that does not roll up and a bag full of food treats for her year ahead. What the hell is she thinking? He shrugs his shoulders, nods his head in a total I don’t get her way. He has one duffle bag. That’s it. [You have to pick your traveling companions carefully. A person who travels with only one duffle bag has his virtues.]

The drive back is an adventure. The drizzle is steady. The road curves and dips. We lose our way once, I forget to turn down my brights more than once. Eventually there is a sign: Yvoy le Marron 3 km. We are there.

Monsieur le chef Bruno is younger than monsieur le chef Michel of the past three nights. He is more adventurous. A risk taker. The food is creative and spirited. The butter content is down by about 85%. Not everything works perfectly. The crustacean trilogy is one third great, two thirds okay. But when it works, it sings. The fish main course is a wonder and the millefeuilles pastry dances.



fish in two sauces, risotto, tomatoes



yes, five cheeses on my plate



a napoleon, decorated


After dinner a new plan is hatched. Why leave the valley, why go back to Paris, why do any of it? Another night here and on Sunday morning we can hustle back to the airport. You can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Le Cheval Blanc is a quiet little gem. We’ll give it another day.

Friday, December 16, 2005

from the vallée de la loire: lazy crazy days of winter 

The goal was to do three things on Thursday: visit a renowned chateau, drive to a Renaissance town and then finally enter the city of Tours – virtually in the back yard of where I’m staying. So close and yet so far, for I’ve yet to see this provincial center, this cathedral city with an old heart and a new zesty feel to it (so say the books).

But it was a late start. Blog posting takes a while. The decision as to where breakfast should be eaten takes even longer. Finally the big one: is Ed game enough to do these outings or should I venture forth alone? Three hours shot, just to think all this through.

It’s close to noon by the time we (yes we: Ed’s there, with the map, picking the slow winding country roads to get us to our places) set out for the Chateau Azay-le-Rideau. In truth, there are rewards to being sluggish and unmotivated. Really. The day speaks for itself.

We arrive at the Chateau and it is closed. I get one of those peers over the glasses that says – you done your homework on this one? We drove an hour to find something closed?




from the outside looking in: chateau azay-le-rideau


I look at the sign: Damn. It’s a siesta thing. Closed for a two and a half hour lunch break. Oh, the French.

Do we wait for it to reopen? No we do not. We’ve had our look. Nice. A walk along the river would be equally pleasing. The river, though French, does not take a two and a half hour lunch break (the rest of the town does. Everything but the bread store is shut tight, as if it were middle of the night, December 24th).




along the river Indre




the Indre, further from town


Here is an insert: what’s with Christmas in France anyway? Are they all ho ho ho about it? Sort of and with their own twist on familiar themes. There’s the matter of Santa. St. Nick already makes an appearance early in December here, so what sense is there in bringing in Mr. Claus at this late stage?

And why is Mr. Claus into windows here instead of chimneys? You have to think that a child or two would be frightened to have a fat old guy peering in through the window and yet they seem to love this concept of a peeping Tom in a red suit. Santas climbing the walls alongside buildings are everywhere.




outside, looking in




the pig is puzzled


Okay, back to this slow moving day. Our next stop is Chinon. We become obsessed with finding a tasty creperie for lunch (there were lots of them in town). Of course it has to be The Perfect Creperie. In the search for The Perfect Creperie, we found the perfect Renaissance town. Beautiful.




(one of) the gems of Chinon


But by the time we settled on the Chosen One, it stopped serving food for the afternoon. In fact, they all closed by 3. It was a great idea foiled by incomprehensible and obtuse opening hours that fail to take into account the needs of two tourists with a slow moving pace and cravings for the perfect crepe.

And so Chinon remains the town with memories of old streets, climbing Santas, a glass of Chinon wine at the local café and a leisurely time spent in the car (say like two hours) watching people pass by. It was almost dark before we were motivated to leave.

So finally we set out for Tours. Tours is big. Tours at rush hour is no fun. Tours looks daunting and intimidating for people who have not stepped into a crowded urban scape for several days now. At the outskirts of Tours I do a totally crazy maneuver and we retreat. To our own little inn with the chef with the sexy derriere.

For indeed, instead of expanding our palate and subjecting ourselves to another dining experience, we decide to not budge for dinner and eat, once again, the dishes lovingly prepared by monsieur le chef Michel.

I wont do the usual photo run. I’ll just put up things that puffed out at me. That’s enough. They exemplify well the state of the stomach after the meal. Oh, let me throw in the cheese platter, where once again I selected 4. Because it was our last night here. I had to!




an appetizing appetizer. inside: snails in garlic butter




she's cutting my fourth selection; yes, that's right, fourth.




crepes stuffed with Grand Marnier soufflé




and on the side, a little soufflé, because I really needed even more dessert.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

from the vallée de la loire: castles and breads, sweet things and passion 

If you want to see the details of just one chateau, I’m all for pointing you to Chenonceau. Inside and out, it’s absolutely stellar. Not to worry, Ocean does not like detail, especially of sights seen and unseen. So none will be provided.

But my traveling companion, Ed, and I drove there with gusto and zip. You could say that it was a chirpy moment.



chenonceau over the river cher



with a black swan, portending of things to come


Our next stop was to be at a local winter market, but now things proved more complicated. We were told it would be an afternoon market. It had taken place that morning. The only greens we saw were those being swept from the streets – traces of what once was and is no more.

And there was the matter of the castle (in this town of no market). How much would you spend to go inside the ramparts of a medieval castle? You should not make this decision at the top of the castle hill. You should make it prior to the climb. Turns out cheapness prevailed. And so we hiked down, me at a sprint to keep warm, Ed at a hobble to protect his ankle. Apparently cobbled streets hurt.

Then came the food debate. Ed wanted bread. It had been four hours since he had his fix of baguette. We pause at a café. No breads there. But am I the type to say non to a wonderful peach and chocolate concoction, wrapped in a flakey pastry, along with chantilly cream, along with a steaming cup of milky coffee? No. I eat and drink. Ed sits and twiddles his thumbs. Monsieur from the café is agitated. One eats and drinks, the other does not, how could that be?



a cake of peaches and chocolate


We return to the inn. Ed nurses his ankle, his silent lust for French bread and, as he readily admits – a sensory overload from all that is around him.


The passion according to Olivier

My senses, however, are still up and craving for more and so I set out to do one of my favorites: visit a regional wine maker and chat about the fate of this year’s crop. I am in awe of these people who work so hard and take chances and if the weather turns on them or a new bug appears, they lose their fortune and start all over, or commit suicide.

Madame at the inn calls madame of the Domaine of Olivier Deletang. Over the river and through the woods and past one village and another and I should be there.

I get lost three times. I pass villages, rivers, forests, vineyards. The roads are narrow, the explanations are in rapid-fire French, my maps – forget it; since when do maps show actual roads?

I arrive hours later. Dusk is setting in, the dog is barking, smoke rises above the field where a sole man is clipping the vines and burning the trimmings.



a winter rose at the edge of a row, distant smoke




chenin blanc grapes

How do I describe the extraordinary privilege of getting close to someone’s passion?

Inside, madame sets out 9 bottles. It’s always the same routine. She opens the lightest, youngest wine first, pours some, gives it to me and talks about its flavors, its composition, its strengths and weaknesses before moving on to the next uncorking. By the time she opens the full bodied Montlouis “Chateau Boulay,” I am ready for it. The wine explodes in my mouth; I’m dazzled, ready to dance with joy, laughing, crying, kissing, all of it (at least I feel that this would not be inappropriate). It is that good.

My purchases are minimal. I buy six bottles – a combination of light and profound – all that will fit into one carrying case. And I know I will never drink the finest of the fine. They have a shelf life of some thirty years at least, but this is not why I put them aside after these visits. I have never been able to find the right moment to open treasures acquired directly from the hands that have made them. When the right moment comes, I will be drunk with all that I have saved for it.



to take home


As I get ready to leave, I ask about the next generation. The vineyards have been passed down now since her husband’s great-grandfather began growing grapes here.

I have three daughters, she tells me (at least, this is my belief as she speaks no English). The oldest is in England, the middle hates wine and the youngest prefers the reds of Burgundy. I have hopes that the oldest will return soon.

Oh, daughters!


A return to Michel’s domain

The chef at the inn calls me over so that I can see what is on his TV screen. A French version of the food channel. It’s an American chef, he says with excitement. You remember his name? How can I confess that even us foodie types do not have the names of the culinary allstars firmly implanted in our brains?

Charlie Trotter? – I offer, knowing fully well that this guy is not our man Charlie. I’ve never eaten at Trotter’s but I’ve met him on his return visits to Madison. At least I don’t come across as a culinary moron.

I decide to stay at the inn for dinner. It’s too late to go searching for restaurants in the city (some thirty kilometers away). And I like chef Michel’s attitude. Ed says I like the looks of chef Michel’s little derriere, but he’s wrong. It’s the attitude and the food that keep me here.

I wont go through the details of the meal. I’ll bypass the introductory chef’s surprises, the pear sorbet, the final plate of cookies. But here, take a look at the wonderful grilled oysters and the tenderloin with an assortment of wild mushrooms. And if you’re still not enthralled, move down to the cheeses. Rap my piggy knuckles, I had four pieces this time. She insisted! And because I am a supreme oinker, I asked for the plate of assorted desserts. Yes, all seven of them, topped with the signature dome of sugar threads. And don’t think I’m not excited about breakfast, a mere hour away, because I am already mulling over the possibilities.





grilled oysters with tomato, braised belgian endive, in a cream sauce




tenderloin with wild mushrooms and a potato cake




4 cheeses 2 wines




7 desserts 3 sauces covered by 1 dome, for one person

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

from la vallée de la loire: porky leaves paris 

Yesterday exhausted me. By morning I was still digesting the day's events and gastronomic highpoints.

But it was time to move on. The day, Tuesday, had to begin properly with a café creme and croissant. After that, it was a mad dash for the taxi, booked to take us to the station, where we were to pick up the little mini-auto.

We are off – heading for the Loire valley, chateau country – an apt destination for people who are not especially into the magnificent opulence of the chateaux.

[I drive, Ed navigates. Soon, Ed tosses the map aside as I refuse to listen to any of his instructions. Just because you navigated a boat from Maine to Cuba does not mean you know beans about French roads! It is proving to be that kind of a driving partnership. A hundred kilometers out of Paris I think of the days ahead and reconsider. Ed picks up the map and we forge ahead.]

I roll out of the car when we reached Chambord, the granddaddy of them all, the place that is so elaborate that it kind of makes you splutter. In December, this most popular tourist destination is completely empty. I do not have to wait a second to take photos with nary a soul ruining a pristine people-less composition.







The sky is so blue, so blue that it clears my senses and prepares me for the next pleasure. We head toward Amboise, home to another chateau. But that isn’t the purpose of the late afternoon stop over. This is:






Note several things. To the Q of would madame like chantilly cream on the tarte tatin or our home made vanilla ice cream? – I answer: both.

My travel companion sighs and loses himself in a book, blocking further witness to my food follies.



When were you last in France?
Oh, when I was maybe twelve…
Did you find it fascinating?
I pretty much avoided engagement. I kept my nose in a book the whole trip.
And this has changed now?


Meanwhile, my grin widens and my cheeks puff out. .





At dusk, we drive along the Loire, pausing now and again to watch birds dip their feet in the winter water.









It is evening. We arrive at a country inn with the ubiquitous name of Le Cheval Blanc. I have this very special French book that lists the country’s restaurant inns. They have very cheap, basic rooms appended to small eating establishments. These are not Michelin starred places by a long shot. But the chefs aspire to put them on the culinary map. They work their tails off to maybe someday make it in this crazy world of kitchen perfectionism.

Ed tells me: I cannot eat anymore tonight. The lunch of cheese and bread and tarte and chocolat chaud is still with me.

I glare at him and slam an imaginary door between us. I reassure madame at the inn that at least one will be downstairs for dinner.

The other one knows not to mess with me over food. We both make an appearance that evening.

In the meantime, we have a computer crisis. The chef-owner had written me back in the States that he thinks he has WiFi and that it may extend into other spaces of the inn. We have yet to detect any WiFi anywhere in this tiny town of not too many. My back up plan, dial-up, is also not working. It is dinner time. You, who feel the French are heartless and mercilessly wrapped in their world, I have said this before and I will say it again: I have come across the most caring, generous men and women here, on this side of the ocean, in this country of frites librés.

Monsieur le chef abandons his kitchen duties to putz and toy with my computer issue. Even Ed is transfixed by this. In the end, monsieur le chef takes us to his backrooms where la famille (granddaughters) is watching le telé. In the tiny office where he puts in orders for fresh langoustines and fraises de bois, he pushes aside his papers and allows us to set up shop with our machines.

Just let me know when you want to use my office. It is yours for the duration of your stay, he tells me.

At dinner, I reach a level of hero-worship heretofore unknown to any living soul. For this man of generous heart also has talent. Oh such talent! A quick run through the meal before I collapse. My dreams are already of the next day’s sights and pleasures. There are so many, so many to pick from. And they’ll begin at the table. Of course. It has to be so.



To amuse the palate, monsieur le chef proposes: broiled moules, baked chevre, hot tomato cappuccino, broccoli flan




My langoustines are the most tender I have ever had. Swimming here in a beurre blanc sauce, with slivers of veggies in a vinaigrette




Lobster, grilled with gruyere cheese, in a creamy crustacean sauce




Assorted cheeses to choose from: two. okay three, just for balance.




To clean out that palate: exotic fruit sorbet with rum




Custard with fraises de bois in a fraises coulis, dramatically domes by caramelized strands of sugar




Wake up, open the window, look outside onto the courtyard…




…and head down for breakfast.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

from Paris: a work day 

Monday. It’s gray outside. The temp hovers near freezing, just a touch above, but it feels colder. I take the RER to the university. Of course, I get it wrong. I am plenty early, but I manage to pace and wait for my hosts at the wrong platform. The cold is wrapping itself around my new French tights. Soon it will pierce their thin close-fitting shield. After that it’s a short trip to the bone.

Okay, I am saved total embarrassment. The dots connect, I move to the right spot, we meet up. Madame professeur is totally charming. She would make me feel welcome if I showed up in sneakers and a cowboy hat. Even though she herself is dressed ten times more splendidly than I am. And I am in my best teaching duds.

We meet en masse, the whole lot of them – professors, administration, you name it, they are there. It’s all good. I don’t discuss business on Ocean, but believe me, it’s way better than good.

But it gets even more wonderful. There’s our working lunch, for instance. I follow them to the local brasserie. It’s packed. Students, faculty, smokers, nonsmokers – oh, I want to take a photo! But I am on business, Ocean and business do not like to mix much.

I proceed to order what they order: a salad, poached salmon in an herb sauce, apple tart tatin with chantilly cream, white wine. Ooops! Le grand faux pas! I order my espresso with dessert. Wrong! It is an after the meal thing. I don’t think I ever knew that.

The talk wanders to private lives. Women are so skilled at this. By the time we’re done with the (two hour) meal, they know and I know all that could possibly change the course of human history. At least our own human history.

Another set of meetings. More progress. We have ourselves the skeletal form of a deal. The professors here have done their work. This will be a joy to run.

I take the train back to the hotel and change clothing for dinner. I had taken a minute (or two) to stop and shop. At least that which will visible above the table will be presentable.


from Paris: comparative analysis, part 2

Walking briskly to the dinner, don’t want to be late. Oh… wait! I see fruit pates in a store window. I may get hungry later. Enter pastry store. Buy 4, okay 6, okay 8 pates. I take note of pastries. I take photo. I have great lust for these guys, I do.



on my way to the Lutetia



passing a square with empty tables; too cold to sit out tonight

Arrive at restaurant. Uff! It is big time special, over at the nicest hotel on the left bank. I know it well, I’ve used the bathrooms here before.

I am early. The waiter asks if I would you like an aperitif while I wait. Okay, it will loosen me up. I amuse myself by taking photos in mirrors and sipping an aperitif Lutetia: champagne with spiked cherries and cassis.

hi, me!

One by one, my deal makers arrive. They note my aperitif and order the same. We are all spitting cherry pits together. This is going well.

We order the identical main course because everyone at the table except me knows that we are in prime Coquille St Jacque season.



over a bed of leeks in spices


The conversation is mostly in French. I tell them I understood 90% of it. I exaggerate. It's closer to maybe 70%. And I keep missing the crucial line. Like, when they were talking about adopting a Chinese girl, I did not get who was doing the adopting: the whole lot of them? The maid? Some movie star?

But I did understand our talk of forthcoming vacations. Here's what I got. And this is honestly presented. Ocean tells it like it is:

Typical American law profs (TALP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- grading exams, keeping up with holiday demands and/or hating the holidays

Typical French law profs (TFLP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- hanging out with local friends and favorite family members in the Basque region, eating tons of good food and occasionally saying something profound, like isn't this great wine?

TALP during the break between semesters:
- huh? What break is that?

TFLP during the break between semesters:
- three professors, three answers:
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps

TALP during spring/Easter break:
- it’s so short! Who can do anything! Maybe clean the house?

TFLP during spring/Easter break:
- time to open up the country home for friends and family. So come visit, we eat well! You are so on, pal!

TALP during big summer vacation:
- mow lawn. Oh, come on, we just took all that time off on New Year’s! Okay, maybe a day at Devil’s Lake is in order. You got problems with that?

TFLP during big summer vacation, two answers from two professors (I missed the third, I swear she said Guadeloupe, but I could be wrong):
- spend two months at favorite Michelin two star inn at the Perigord and one month hanging out in Sicily
- spend three months at Loire valley summer house.


I am walking back to the hotel, less briskly. I am thinking – I have people in the city of Paris that I would visit now. Strange. Paris, up until today, has always been just my own, left to memories that I created for it. It’s different now. Connecting with people changes things.

Monday, December 12, 2005

from Paris: briefly 

What makes me think that the oysters were fresh last night?

The little wormy thing on the outside was moving like mad.



fresh and honest

What makes me say Paris is beautiful? Oh, come on. It is.



december view



walk across the Seine


Why is this post so short?
Today is my work day. I have day-long meetings at Paris University.

Sunday, December 11, 2005

from Paris: if you know me then you’ll know that in Europe, on a Sunday, you can always find me in the nearest park. 

There isn't a text that I need to add here. At the Jardin du Luxembourg the bright sun coaxes me out, the light wind reminds me that it is December. Still, tell that to the children, and those used to a pause on a park chair, or to the flowers that refuse to give up for the year. Tell them, go ahead, tell them that the season calls for different behavior. If you give us the light and the bright sky, we will come out and stand or sit facing the rays. And the children will run around us. This is the way one should regard Paris. Children playing around all of us. For a day one can believe that this still is a Paris for everyone. For a day. In the public space of a park. Wistful sigh...



le jardin




little girl with sucker




man reading paper next to blooming flowers




winter blooms




smiling at the boat and the ducks




the boat and the ducks




dad, showing the world (in photography) to the daughters in pink




facing the light



from Paris: it was the brest that did him in; for me it was the French coq

Saturday evening started in a tame mode. We went out for an aperitif. Twice the dense fumes of smokers drove my companion, “Ed,” out. At the third place we stayed.

My ruby drink set fire to the table. My French scarf warmed my body. A French man sat across from us at the café. He mumbled something. I mumbled back. Ho hum. Time to move on.


aperitif


At the quintessential Parisian bistro at a late late hour, I got fired up. The man at the table next to ours ordered a cheese tray. He took a portion. And another. And another. And still another. Doesn’t he know the unspoken rules of cheese conduct? I am in a tizzy. Oh, but then I notice that he is Italian. There is something in his manner. I know, it is unfair. Still, I am forgiving.

Ed stays calm at this point. He eats at a snails pace. Actually he eats snails (I say it was the fault of those snails).



les escargots


Me, I am ready for some French coq au vin. I haven’t had it for decades! Piping hot, with four soft, boiled, round potatoes at the side.



coq au vin

But then comes the brest. Paris brest. Puffed up in the oven, smothered with caramel cream, the size of a dinner plate!



paris brest


I eat it, Ed finishes it. Cognac aux pruneaux is surreptitiously poured into my coffee by the waiter. The rest is a blurr.

That’s it, Ed tells me the next day. I cannot take this pace every day.

Today, he stays in the hotel, resting. Me, I’m ready to go. One coq and a brest? What’s the big deal? I set off for the local Café.



reading the Café's own cookbook

Saturday, December 10, 2005

from Paris: people doing their thing 

My line is this: what I love most about being in Europe is watching people going about their daily lives. It sounds ho hum, trite, bahn-al, but it happens to be the truth.

Taking pictures of them – now that’s another matter. Yesterday’s walk produced almost no good shots. Actually, in truth, it produced no shots at all.

But today taking out the camera was a joy. Most people did not mind (with one notable store-clerk exception…okay okay, just tell me nicely, I’ll put it away). The sun was out and even though the temps were nippy, it was well above freezing.

Walking, watching, daring to shoot, with an apologetic smile, a nod of thanks, to you, who let me take these:




woman in beret, crossing street




family walk




boules on Place des Invalides




in the sun: child in a scarf and pigeon




winter roses and men talking




From Paris: Brittany snails and goat droppings

Of course, I remain drawn to the foods here. They compete for my attention. And today I came across some foods that made yesterday’s loot seem like cold potatoes (though sweet potatoes they were).

My traveling companion (let’s call him ed – nice and easy to type) ventured out with me for the hike on the left bank. His slow pace (ankle problems) was compatible with my desire to stop, look, listen, photograph. I did wear him out. But not before the look of defeat became evident on his face.

He had come more to get away from work and to prove me wrong about Paris than to revel in the life of this great city. But I know better. I have traveled here with reluctant Americans before: people who are willing to give France a chance but hold back their favors with respect to Paris. People who love the quiet of the countryside, who hate noise and the anomic nature of big city life in the States.

Converts – I’ve made converts of all of them. To stay in a Parisian neighborhood that has several local cafés to choose from, where there is no traffic, to walk through the parks, the backways, the great squares, to turn your back to the Eiffel Tower and face the children’s playgrounds – it’ll do it every time. And when they are bewildered at the serenity of it all, the civilized manner of the waiters, the bon journé greeting at every shop, when their senses are thoroughly confused by it all, I take them, smugly, to be sure, inside the food shops.

Ed lapsed into acceptance at my favorite cheese store. I could not pull him out. They don’t like idle visitors here – it’s small and cramped, they want customers. But he wouldn’t budge. He smelled the butter content and the washed rind, he looked and finally said – this is the guy who never spends if he doesn’t have to – I’m going to have to take some of this stuff home.

But I already knew I had him inching toward Paris-adulation last night. As he dipped the freshly baked bread into the butter, garlic and herbs swimming around the Brittany snail, he said to me: please, tell the waiter to tell the chef how good this is. I did. Because it was.




crotin de chevre: literally -- goat dropping




a mountain of tommes




favorites: blues and yellows




the snails that broke the camel's back


Indulge me. A day cannot pass without this admissions: the pastries here knock me out every time.




the only pleasant aspect of "divorce" is the pastry named after it




a refreshing moment at the hotel: tarte de Normandie

from Paris: comparative analysis 

Local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art: which would you prefer? Time constraints make it impossible to indulge all your senses all the time. If you go to the museum, you’ll have to skip the neighborhood walk. If you idle away a few hours at a café, chances are you’ll rack up the calories (who can say no to the gateau or the tart there?) and your derrière will eventually grow too big for the tiny chair at the café table.

So you have to choose.

Same goes for pastry selection: local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art? Which one?

On my first day here, I have to say that I went all out. I went in and out of pastry shops, dizzy, seduced by the smell, the visual displays. Each time here, the offerings overwhelm me.

I checked out the local little place on the rue du Bac:




local flavor


I went in at least three chocolate shops, absolutely torn as to where my Euro should land. The Maison du Chocolat impresses. So does Cacao et Chocolat.



chocolate indulgence


Those are the giants. Then there are the little gems, without the name but with equal amounts of fresh intense flavors.

And of course, I paid a visit to my hero, Hermé’s where the lines were long, as people were anxious to bring one of these home for le diner.



high art


I promised myself ten hours on the stationary bike back home. I vowed I’d ride Mr. B every single day of the winter months. I swore I would do push ups and pull downs and whatever else is required. And then I went for all three.

Friday, December 09, 2005

from Paris: comfort and joy 

My pre-departure checklist is long. It is always tediously long. By the time I cross off the last line, I am late for the taxi. I go down and o9Miraculously, the cabbie looks in the rearview mirror and notices me. Can we make it to the Union before the bus leaves for O’Hare?

I’m on time. But just barely. The bus pulls out. My traveling companion is not with me. He’s chasing his passport somewhere on the back roads of Oregon. People really do forget to take their passports. I thought that only happened in movies.

The bus driver is taking a circuitous route. There has been a major accident on the freeway. I am not surprised. It is snowing lightly. The roads are smooth and slick from the freezing wetnesses.

At O’Hare, we face near white-out conditions. A foot of snow is expected. It’s hard to believe that some flights are coming in. Not everything is canceled.

We sit in the lounge waiting. Everyone is quiet, mentally making contingency plans. The Air France plane has yet to land.

But suddenly, there it is, inching forward toward the gate as the ground crew pushes away masses of snow.



surprisingly, it landed in the storm



at the gate; a sigh of relief -- we'll leave tonight


When flights are precarious, passengers begin to sense the need for cooperation. We board quietly, apologizing for blocking aisles, fitting into our seats without complaint, making no demands on those around us.

A baby cries. How old? Just three weeks. First trip to Paris? I ask with a smile. My companion, with passport safely tucked in his duffle bag wonders if it is always like that: one mother sees another with a child and the heart melts with tenderness. I say yes, but I admit that I am relieved when the mother moves toward the rear of the cabin.

Two hours of deicing. The minute the snow is hosed off, with a milky yellow substances that flow like bile across our windows, new snow covers the plane.

But deicing means we’ll take off. And we do. We lift off, immediately entering the white nothingness, floating in swirls of clouds and snow. Airbus planes are notoriously quiet. This only adds to the feeling of being smothered by the snow storm.

We land in Paris. A crowded train takes us from the airport through the northern districts of the city – those same neighborhoods that were so much in the press the past few weeks. And what happens now? Do the discussions continue? Will they ever turn into something other than endless debate and denouncement?

My companion is traveling with a sprained ankle. He hobbles behind me bravely, but at the hotel he collapses.

Me, I set out. I don’t wait another minute. It’s past noon – people are already sipping their vin rouge and eating their salades and plats du jour. I head toward the handful of cafés around the corner. I pick one that still might allow me to order what I want (on the promise that I wont linger too long):



comfort and joy. with chocolate


If I had to now turn around and retrace my steps, returning immediately after my café moment, I would still tell you it was worth it. There is no greater comfort than the joy of having a café crème avec un croissant, made with the sweet Normandy butter that gives it its incomparable flavor.

But I don’t have to return. I am staying here with the bare chestnut trees. And it is warm enough. In the forties, just as predicted.

Paris, as she was when I left her, two seasons ago, a lifetime ago.



winter song

Thursday, December 08, 2005

hold that flight, I want to get on! 

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

why did you do it, nina, why?? 

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

a cold walk 

Monday, December 05, 2005

because, most of the time, I know how to protect myself 

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Spinning dizzying understanding 

Most of you who read Ocean are not in any way connected with the legal profession. Me, I practiced the stuff and now I teach it. I am likely in some way responsible for the training of most, if not all, the young family law attorneys in town. Others teach about corporate mergers and acquisitions. I teach about marriage and divorce. If you practice either (what’s there to practice in marriage law?), likely as not you will have taken my class. Cool.

A commenter once wrote that I have never written with such raw emotion as when I was trying to sell the house. Watch me now.

I teach family law. I teach about compassion. I teach about clients who, for reasons too difficult to understand, cannot get it together at the time of divorce. I teach about lawyers and judges who are ill equipped to deal with what is thrust upon them. I teach about how impossibly difficult it is to make reasoned judgments in this area.

Okay. And then, suddenly, I have a personal issue that requires the intervention of the legal system. And I need to hire an attorney. And the other side needs to hire an attorney. And things are not going right. What? What’s happening? I did not say that! The other party did not say that! (The opposing party and I happen to be in good communication with each other.) Oh, suddenly I understand. The attorney on the other side is engaging in the art of exaggeration.

But wait, such conclusions! Where are they being drawn from? Oh! Reading blogs, I am told. The attorney on the other side reads OCEAN! Material from here? To be used against me? Poor Ocean is sobbing as we speak! That's just shameless! Oh, I cannot wait for this to be done with legal matters.

And now I am reminded of the time I was selling the house. Don’t write about this publicly – I was told. Keep quiet, keep quiet.

And I am reminded of the time I was called before the judicial system some 8 years ago, unfairly, on someone’s whim and fear. Keep quiet. This will resolve itself. Just keep quiet.

I cannot. I stand behind my life. I have made plenty of errors. I take responsibility for them. I am not ashamed to admit to them. But this? You, lawyer on the other side, shame on you. Shame. I will never teach my students to be like you. Yes, you may have won your case. Now go and sleep on it. Sleep on your conscience. Nighty night.

P.S. Had it not been for the asinine issue that arose, I would have been posting about my brunch this afternoon. And I would have said to you, pal, that I do indeed post photos of me smiling. Here's one that someone took this afternoon at said brunch.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

make me feel like it’s December already.. 

My most recent days have had a lot of December in them. I may not write about it, but I certainly belong to the non-religious bunch who are nonetheless happy happy happy to:

a. listen to Christmas music;
b. put up the most splendid tree ever for the holidays;
c. cook, bake and otherwise think and work around seasonal foods. (In fact, I always gain at least five pounds in December. It is quite unfortunate that this follows the couple pound gain on Thanksgiving, but what are you gonna do…)

Okay. Holiday spirit. Here’s mine so far:

1. I was nice today to two friends. Over and beyond. C’mon! That counts!

2. Yesterday I bought a tree. I was told to get the biggest one sold. I bought the biggest one sold.



the challenge: to find anything in the heap of trees, for sale at the UW Forestry Club's annual tree sale


3. Dark chocolate, covering gingerbread. Yeah. That’s always on the list. I oblige.



suns, moons, stars


4. It helped that it snowed to high heaven today. I'm tickled to be walking, driving, skiing and otherwise moving in snow. I am. Today I walked. And within two blocks of my loft, I came across the risk-takers – those who believe in thick rather than thin ice. These dudes:



barely thick enough ice, during a winter storm


It’s a good thing that I am leaving the country next week. Otherwise I would be likely to post sappy little numbers here all month long. December is all about gloom and sap. Huge amounts of the latter, but always held in check by the former.

Friday, December 02, 2005

altered states 

couples, part 3 

So last night I took a friend and we hung out with the third in my list of cool couples.

Typically (but not this time) when I go there, I encounter a handful of others, mostly men, of varying ages, uncoupled men, or, if they are in partnerships, you get the feeling they wont last.

Both the he and the she in this relationship are professional white collar types. But it has not always been thus. For a number of years he was a Madison cabbie (and the assorted types who congregate here often are as well) and there is nothing more fascinating than listening to his tales of the city’s underbelly.

Because, apparently, there is an underbelly to this town. One that sweats its way into the open late at night. One where you suspect that the drop-off point for the passenger is also the drop-off point for, well, other stuff. One where poor women with children and with bundles that you imagine contain all their worldly possessions are transported to Beltline motels where they will await affordable housing.

God, you need to be tough to do the night runs. You need to insist on pay and try not to imagine how those dollars were procured. There is no romanticism or poetry (even if indeed, my friend, in his spare time, dabbles in poetry) about driving those who cannot or will not sleep. Though now, in the aftermath, there are tales to be told -- chilling tales with unfinished endings, for who knows what happens after the door slams behind the rider, never to be seen again by you, or maybe anyone.

[I have to say this: in addition to Madison’s underbelly, there is also the matter of this writer’s belly. I was told to show up for appetizers and drinks. Okay. I’m thinking peanuts and pretzels. But no. The photo tells part of the story. The rest is in my stomach.]


lox, leek cheese, fruits and stories

Thursday, December 01, 2005

couples, part 2 

About my second couple: last night was handed over to another awesome twosome in my trilogy of wonderful pairs. Mind you, when I say these three partnerships are wonderful, I make no comment on the nature of their relationship. They could be screaming and kicking each other all night long for all I know. I am only saying that, for me, it is cooler than cool to spend time with the both of them.

And whereas on Sunday evening I was pampered and peppered with French by people who have cousins living off of the wines they produce in the Sancerre region of France, last night’s couple has relatives that, like them, are as American as apple pie.

American: what exactly is so American about them? Can a transplant onto American soil even say something intelligent about this? Sure I can. I have eyes. I see someone making pink drinks and I think: it may be called a cosmopolitan but it sure feels local. American local. In Poland, only American wannabes (I’m guessing that's 64% of my country men and women) (please don’t write me in protest, I’m joking) (sort of) would even think of pouring anything into their beloved vodka.

Another example: I ask them about their relatives – if they trek down to any vineyards to check grapes for rot (it’s a curse for the French) and they tell me no indeed. Too busy volunteering for various political and social causes. You mention volunteerism to a Pole and he or she will ask “and what do I get for it?” And, too busy working at such American jobs as corporate forecasting for credit cards. Poles don’t work that hard and they don’t use credit cards.

Anyway, this oh-so-American couple feeds me regularly and welcomes me to their home and listens to my stories even though I am sure they think I am completely insane, because it is not unusual (like yesterday) for me to come in and note that I have had some dramatic event occur just moments ago. They know not to sigh audibly. They know that it will be a long evening and I will not leave before 11 before I get things out of my system.

(As a matter of fact I have been a lot calmer lately so perhaps my stories aren’t as dramatic as they once were, but still, they listen very very patiently.)

A good pal recently said this to me: Nina, you and I like to be with people who are different from us.

A correct statement. And it fits here as well. An example: this couple has young kids. At least, I think they still have kids. I haven’t seen them for months. I come there at 7:30 and both children are sound asleep. I am told. My kids were never simultaneously asleep at any time before midnight in their entire lives except at times when I drugged them (I mean with cough syrup).

And when I enter their home, dinner is cooking (see below) and there is no sign of a dirty dish anywhere. You know how it is at my place before a dinner party? Well-ordered and neat until about 5 when all hell spills onto every dish and pot, so that by the time anyone comes I feel that stacking things on the floor is the only alternative

Anyway (have you noticed? every first word of this post’s paragraphs begins with the letter A, how weird is that?), I am enthralled with these people. Obviously. So dearest daughters, I don’t want to hear any more claims that I am sometimes not sufficiently devoted to and intoxicated by things American. I am, to these people and by these people (in all ways: she makes the best cosmos in town). So there.







neat & tidy and delicious

I'm Nina Camic. I teach law, but also write (here and elsewhere) on a number of non-legal topics. I often cross the ocean, in the stories I tell and the photos I take. My native Poland is a frequent destination.

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