The Other Side of the Ocean

Why, of all places, Buren? Ed, my traveling companion, does business with a factory owner here. You know, Ed, the relaxed guy with the duffle bag? Who avoids meat and avoids fancy cars and living spaces (try: sheep shed just south of Madison)?

We speed by train to Koln, then to Dortmund, and there waits Oskar, ready to take care of us. Oskar, politely dressed in tweeds to meet Ed, dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans (don’t forget the duffle bag). Ed, his big time American buyer who routinely requests shipments of parts needed for vintage BMW motorcycles in the US. Oskar, who drives the most gadget filled car I have ever seen, opening the door for Ed, who proudly drives a 93 Geo (I think; I can’t really tell as the rust has eaten away any markings), with pink stripes, because it came that way; purchase price: $600.

If Ed is an original who-knows-what, the elderly Oskar is a quintessential German industrialist (you know, in my imagination, since in truth he is the only German industrialist I have ever met). He puts his car in the fast lane of the highway and stays there for the entire fifty mile trip home.

There are no speed limits on this highway? Ed asks this staring at the speedometer which is registering 180 km/hr ( approximately 105 miles) and still climbing, as sheets of rain drench the road, and wimpy cars jump out of the way, to make room for the big black bullet, driven by a man with very gray hair.

Oskar booked us a room at a lovely inn in the center of Buren. We had searched the Net and asked about a few simple choices on the outskirts. I think he must have thought we were Americans without an imagination. He ignored them all and placed us in a hotel fitting for one of his major clients.

He points now to a church across the street. Looks very old, very… Christian.
You want to go in tomorrow? To look, sure. A noble if ancient history, there.


[N.b.: Buren is known for the castle on the outskirts, where Himmler set up his experimental epicenter for the breeding of the superior race. We went there today. Wewelsburg – a beautiful castle turned ugly.]






In the evening Oskar and his wife prove that what goes on in the German kitchen can be splendid. In the home kitchen that is. Buren is pork country and we have it wonderfully prepared with roasted veggies, on kebab sticks.



But it’s the dessert that deserves loud clapping and hooting, if only Mr and Mrs Oskar did not seem so refined and proper. An appfel kuchen (forgive spelling, it’s not my language) with vanilla ice cream and a home made eggnog sauce.



And the drinks! You’d think it would be all about beer, but no. A lovely aperitif of a local bubbly white poured over brandied apricots, followed by a German Riesling look-alike (actually two bottles of it, as we are all in the mood), followed by an herby digestive, lovingly called killepitsch. I received a present bottle to take back home. I’ll serve it with the story of why it has the word kill in the name, a story that seems to trace it back to the drinking habits of German soldiers during The War.


In the morning Ed and I sit down to a German breakfast. Bread, yes of course. And cheese and boiled eggs. And meats and salamis and all the rest of it, the part that was to be expected.



After, as Ed and Oskar meet over machines, Mrs. Oskar and I walk through the town, out of town, around town. Best to keep moving. It’s 3 degrees C outside and the umbrella needs a raise every now and then.








Shit weather. Those were Oskar’s first words to us at the train station. Agreed. But a golden day nonetheless sparked by the amazing generosity of our hosts. Down to the very last golden spear of pale asparagus that we eat for lunch, along with boiled potatoes and wine. Beer for the boys. Cakes at the café for all of us.

For a little village (with no Internet), this place has a handful of nice surprises.

When gray stone houses have high stone fences and dense hedges, you get that itch to find an opening and look inside. Shocking color! Little gardens built into rocks and along paths, trees so full of blooms you have to wonder why they are this excited to let it all out.







Ocean colors


It’s horse country here. Not because of the proximate Chantilly racetracks. They graze and raise their horses in Apremont for the sole purpose of playing polo. How do I know this? I walk past the fields and I see this:











But the village itself is really small. From the point of view of commerce, there is one tabac and one country restaurant. That is it.

The chef has been cooking up local foods in the kitchen of this particular country auberge for some thirty years. Does food ever become predictable? No. And that's just excellent. You do not want to go out of your way to find food and realize that the place offers no surprises. Not a problem at the Auberge. The seasonal Brittany lobster is splendidly presented: boiled, broiled, baked, wrapped in aspic, creamed in a bisque. There are just a few locals in the dining room. They all choose the lobster run. Me and them, them and me. Community over lobster tails.


pancake wrapped lobster in aspic, radish custard, chutney, parmesan cookie



lobster bisque



spiced tail, two types of a potato, one type of everything else.


God, what a way to start a trip. I justify the indulgence by pointing out that it is Ed’s only night in France and tomorrow we’ll be hosted by Germans and who knows what will appear on our plates. I imagine they have a different attitude about food, there, in the villages of Germany. When I was a teenager, I spent a month in Eastern Germany (because I am Polish and I guess one needs to show a sign of neighborliness even if I’m not altogether sure the feeling was historically reciprocated). Don’t much remember the food. Given me, that says a lot.

So indeed, the meal is splendid. Chef Jean Claude smiles endlessly. I want to hug and kiss him but realize that such a display of affection may be misinterpreted.

Nothing left then but for me to wake up the next day before dawn and venture forth for a morning walk, just to see those earliest beams assert themselves on the stone walls.





Followed by a basket of croissant type pasteries and then a frantic effort to catch the proper and timely train into Germany. It becomes cold and drizzly in central Europe. Figures.



layers of croissants



to Germany, for now.

P.S.: No, no Internet access here in Buren, Germany either. Not even dial up at the hotel. I infiltrated the proprietor's private office to post this. Man, I am brazen. I post now to the audible belly-laughter from the floor below. Good thing they're all preoccupied with late night week-end indulgences or else I'd never have coaxed anyone to let me work here, behind the kitchen doors.

Where did I come up with this one – a village so close and yet so far?

It is the first stop – a day of rest. I chose Apremont because it is very very slow-paced and it has a country restaurant. With a few rooms at the side. The appealing qualities of Apremont.

But how to get there? It goes like this: from the airport, to a Paris train station, then, by train, onto the nearby Chantilly – a town of lace and racetracks and chateaux and nearby forests, then, well, then you’re stuck. I guess you could always walk to Apremont…

Nina, if you wheel your own suitcase and carry your own heavy pack while I just tag along with my little duffle bag, people will talk.
Well then, as a special favor, I'll let you pull it...

There have to be buses to Apremont, non?

Oh, but first thing’s first. You know that you are where you want to be when you look up (this is still in Chantilly) and see this:



chestnuts in bloom

And when it takes no more than five minutes to locate a café that will serve you this:



Chantilly: fresh and honest


People watching. You could say that it was the first thing I did (other than trying to get places) on this side of the ocean. Over a plate of cheeses and a salad, with slices of tomato and baguette. So simple, even a kid could do it. Or eat it:



Chantilly: two girls and a flower


Back then to the problem of how to get from Chantilly to Apremont. We have established that there are no buses that run there. So taxi maybe? It’s only about six or seven kilometers. No taxis come to you in Chantilly. You have to do tricks and ask lots of people.

People get curious about us, with the yellow and blue backpack, the big suitcase and a small red duffle (the latter is Ed’s the rest – well, mine).

Where are you from? The question this time comes from a guy smoking his, let’s pretend, very French cigarette.
And where are you headed? Yes? Well you should leave Chantilly. I’am from here. I hate it. The people think they are rich.
Hmm. It could be that they are. Creamy white buildings, like the cream that made the name famous. Lovely. With flowers everywhere.





After many such innocuous and quasi-helpful conversations, we are finally whisked off in a fancy cab.

In Apremont, we settle in to the Internet-not-available-not-even-dial-up “restaurant with four guest rooms,” La Grange aux Loupes.



Apremont: no to Internet, but yes to a French poodle


Helpful types suggest I hike over to the fancy resort outside of town… Surely they’ll have the wiring. Oh yes, indeed.

Meantime, the sun is pulling at me. God, it’s gorgeous here. So why is it that tomorrow we leave? That is the nature of this trip: to move on even when you’re not particularly inclined to do so. I have an agenda!



the houses of Apremont

Good morning, it's five o'clock, this is your wake up call.
I did not order a wake up call! I hardly slept…
Well get going, you said you were stuck as to what to pack.

I am. I cannot decide. It’s cold and hot at once, I need different things for hiking, for working, for biking, for beaching, for riding the iron rooster. Late last night, I stared at my closet for one hour then, disgusted, fell asleep.

Me, I had no problem..
You’re only going for two weeks, I’m going for two months!
…I took out all the shirts that didn’t have holes, as you don’t like holes, and stuffed them along with clean underwear, into a duffle bag…

So starts my trip. The bus leaves in two hours and I am stuck on what to pack. Moreover, the post office and I are in dispute. They only hold mail for thirty days. What’s the matter with people, doesn’t anyone take off for two months anymore? I do not understand Americans.

In the meantime, Ed, my singularly original travel companion is calling again.
My asparagus is up!
Great. Jeans or chinos, jeans or chinos…
You have to try some before you leave.

It is 9 in the morning, the bus leaves in two hours and I am not asparagus inclined. But take a New York boy and place him on a (mini) farm and he gets, well, excited when things come up.

So if I miss the bus it is because I am steaming asparagus and steaming at the post office and wondering what to pack. God, what a sunny day.

Not a time to get all sentimental, is it? I’m leaving tomorrow morning. My God, I am leaving tomorrow morning????

The last time I packed my bags and zipped off to Europe for several months was when I graduated from college. Holed up in the mountains of Italy in February and March, I soon became restless. I spent as much time away from my rented room as in it. Get me out of this beautiful Alpine valley!! I want people, streets, chaos!

That was then. Now I want to delight in tranquility and peace, so that the biggest dilemma becomes which olive oil to favor and which lemon tart to come back to in the afternoon.

Still, to be gone that long…

I ran between office and Library Mall and Bascom Mall and thankfully, no real mall. I packed up my one little plant and gave it away, I zipped and zapped through my big list and made it smaller.

It’s good that I am leaving at a time where the sun is so strong and spirit of this place is so palpable. It’ll make me eager to be back. In two months. Gulp.



badger spirit



badger spirit, cont'd



badger spirit, cont'd


At the end of the day, with a friend:


another red spirit

Hey, Wisconsin loyalists, we are in the middle of spirit week! Of course, if you’re visiting from elsewhere and you don’t know this, it may appear that we are batty. Tuesday is the designated red and white day. On Monday, Bucky was on the hill and a bagel ‘n juice breakfast was on the house.



breakfast with bucky badger on bascom




...because it's spring



I took a break this past evening to celebrate being frantically busy. This may not make sense to anyone else, but breaks come naturally to me. I have a plateful and yet I leave town for a different kind of plateful. The good people in Lake Mills who taught me ice sailing back in January were grilling and I was itching to have fantastically flavorful piece of meat and this:


another shade of green

…overlooking the now very unfrozen this:



ice free


My host volunteers with the Lake Mills Fire Department and so we took a hike to examine up close the guts of a fire station. Inside, all is spiffy and red and ready to go.





To me, the job appears stressful to the max. But the wife of our host said that her fears were not that a fire ceiling will come crashing down on him, but that he’ll get run down while speeding to the fire station. Tough cloth protects you from heat. What do you have to protect you from crazy drivers?



sizing things up


The hike back reminded me that at this time of the year it takes a while for the darkness to roll in. And when it does, it’s still kind of pretty and inviting.

It’s a song. Switch a word (traveler for hobo) and you have a Madison eatery. Or a bar. Or something. You also have me, a person who is weary just from facing questions about how the months ahead will play out. I have great thoughts about it, but very little idea about how the contours and pieces will fit into place.

At the Weary Traveler last night, I ate my Andes sandwich and I drank a German beer and I thought that I need to get going. Tired of planning, of lists, of trying not to forget details. My weariness will leave. When I am finally on the road. In a couple of days.

more april observations

One reason why I had always thought that I was well suited for the “house in southern France” idea (or in Italy – take your pick) is because I think I’d do well in the area of hospitality. Not so much the kind where everyone is suddenly a close friend and writes you that they’re on the way for a lengthy visit (as recounted by the infamous Peter Mayle), but the kind where on a warm evening (and because it is the south, there would be many such warm evenings) friends and neighbors would be welcome to congregate around my table, conveniently positioned outdoors under maybe a grape trellis or by a pear orchard. Not unlike this orchard, with tall grasses and budding branches, only this one is just outside Madison:



April orchard


In my dreamy images, I would not necessarily have to cook – people would bring stuff – but it would be at my table and I would freely pour wine and I would happlily dust off surfaces and light candles and wash linens. Indeed, I’d look forward to setting the table. Not unlike this one, only this one is at the loft, on a lovely April Saturday evening:



April evening at the loft


When a bunch of bloggers and assorted others put together a birthday dinner for me at the loft last night, I must admit, heaven could not have invented a better set up. I cooked nothing and barely touched a dish cloth. They did it all. I’ll step back from text and let a few photos describe the night. I did fail to catch the Kodak moment when someone at the table said “oh, look, Tonya is on fire! Do something!” In the heat of the moment my hand left the camera. Tonya herself received nary a singe, though she did admit to having felt a touch warm when leaving the stove. I suppose we should all pay attention to what our bodies tell us.

One last comment. I had wanted to do the noble thing and tell people not to bring gifts, especially since they were already providing food and drinks. I apologize for my utter piggishness in not stating that. But when each and every gift then turns out to be a gem of thoughtfulness, this does not increase one’s motivation to do the gallant thing in the future.

I can only say thank you, here, on Ocean. Especially to the author of the Tonya Show, who spearheaded the entire evening and cooked up a storm for it. What a fantastic pack of friends these guys are! No, really, you have no idea.



the work of others



the labor of Columnist Manifesto's "B"



start with Bozzo-Lee savory cheesecake and Tonya Show margaritas



Tonya Show first course



Tonya Show Moroccan chicken



Althouse cake



happy Ocean author



"tiny thoughts" and soon-to-be tiny one, finger-licking good



Althouse at dusk



Marginal Utility and company



The Tonya Show: mastermind behind the event



Ocean author: the last puff. It's chocolate. Really.

Someone asked me very recently – what are birthdays for anyway? Everyday should be like a birthday, celebrating the people we like and love.

Yeah, right.

Truth is we don’t. Stuff happens. You quit emailing. You develop an edge. You think murderous thoughts about those who have caused you grave injustices. You forget to check in, to say the nice comment. Sometimes you can’t get yourself to admit you even like a person – their insanity being so evident in your eyes.

Birthdays are different.

I don’t know if my Mom reads Ocean. She did once and thought it sheer madness, so she probably stopped. But if you do, on the sly, this note is for you, Mom: thank you for these:

That’s my birthday wisdom. It has nearly always worked.

It helps that I was born in this second half of April. Imagine, a light breeze, trees in full spring swing now...




Forget reasons why you should not do this: get an early morning latte at your favorite café, idle a way a few moments, then finally settle down to get some stuff done.




In the evening, close the computer and go out somewhere special. Who cares if it’s a long drive away. For example, I’m choosing to eat in Chicago. I saw this guy cook on TV. I’ve been curious. Vietnamese-French. Wouldn’t you spend 4 hours on a bus (then cab, then car) to eat a cool meal with your pal of 30 years? Without a doubt.








About the middle. Middles don’t count.Think of it: middle of the semester, middle of the road, I’m in the middle of something! Middle-man, mid-life crisis, don’t put me in the middle! Even midsummer night isn’t really about the middle of the summer, it's about a date in June... give me a break.

Concentrate on the beginning and the end. The rest? It's just filler.

There’s no question. There will be no sanity in the week ahead. None at all. I’ve hit that time period before the blast off, you know, when the space people turn on the clock and you get to see seconds being tossed aside, one after another, until there is nothing left but zero.

And in this period of seconds, minutes, hours before my departure a week from today, I am finishing the semester and making lists of all that must be attended to before my run out of here. I don’t pretend to cross things off the list. I just add.

Because I will be gone eight weeks, I primarily want to attend to people in the time before I leave. People with whom I can celebrate all sorts of stuff – earth day, for example. Or enduring friendship. I place no limits on what causes joy and calls for champagne.

I put into the sidebar the chronology of my travels, but no dates. I leave there an element of uncertainty, but also predictability. If I am posting from Dubrovnik, you’ll know where I am heading next and what has already transpired.

It’s not all play. I am indeed working some during this trip and that accounts for a destination or two. But there are a lot of saved vacation days being used up in the weeks ahead. A lot. I am, finally, reaching into my European soul and taking time off. I need it. You need it too, I know. I will take it for you.

Is it all solo travel? Nope. I will have my traveling companion at my side for the first couple of weeks and my family the second couple of weeks. After that it’s just me. Riding train after train, with my camera and my laptop.

This is my present to me, to start me off as a 53-year old. You know, ‘cause it’s significant. I was born in’53 and I turn 53 in a minute. Surely that means something, no?

Look outside. Ohhhhh, warm. A Mr.B kind of morning. I am at an appointment on the far west side. Hurry up, doc, I have to be at a Very Important Lunch with a Foreign Delegation at UW’s Grainger Hall (some 8 miles away) in an hour.

Doc looks at me and says: don’t forget to use sunscreen in Sicily. Here, let me google something for you…
Tic toc tic toc. Hurry up doc.
She types in “best sunscreen in Europe…” here we go!
Hurry up, I need to fly like the wind… I’ll use your “Best in Europe” sunscreen, I swear.

I’m flying alright. Down Old Sauk hill, onto bike path. Oh, look at that, I am passing Borders. I need a Sicily map. Quick look: no such map here. Pedal pedal pedal. Oh, Whole Foods. One minute. One minute to pick up greens for supper. Oh, and apples. And strawberries. Ooops, that took three minutes. Okay, so I’m going to be late. The Very Important Lunch is at 11:45, I’ll be there by noon. Yeah.

At noon, I chain Mr.B to a rack and fly inside, bags dangling, hair flattened by helmet, pants still rolled up. Where the hell is this lunch? No, not in the deli on the third floor. Oh help! I call the secretary of the UW Very Important Administrator hosting it. Upstairs on the fifth.

I walk in, apologetically. Two dozen Very Important people and little me. Hmm. And they all speak French. No one has rolled up pants. Ah.

Introductions. I am the president of… I am the chair of… I am little me. Let me give myself a title: I am directing an exchange program in your country.

I listen to snippets of conversation: this is the chair of so and so (or president or director, head honcho, you get the picture) and is he ever a Francophile! But no, not true. I am a Francophile in that I go to France every year to eat. I speak the language of menu items.

Yes, France. And food and France. Certainment. Madame says: last night our entire group mostly spoke of food...

I look at the cheese slices and rolled up lunchmeats and wonder if they’ll be talking about food again after this meeting. I hope they’ll be talking about the chocolate dipped strawberries and not the rolled up lunchmeat slices.

Back on Mr. B now, another meeting to go to at 2, but hold on there, I need five minutes for a UBS latte. Oh, a UBS stop means I can look for a map. Bingo! Sicily in my bag. Computer under my elbow (needed for my next two meetings). Briefcase dangling on a strap. Helmet snapped onto purse, camera on another strap. Jacket under arm. Extra hot skim latte, no foam, between two fingers.

Why is my day so fragmented and without borders or boundaries?



pre-dusk, from the loft

I set a goal: write five exam questions per day. I wake up early, work through my lectures, meetings, emails and then finally I am ready. Question number one. No, wait, there is an errand that needs to be run. On the Capitol Square. Sunshine? Let me walk over. Reflecting on how pretty the day is…



reflecting


Perhaps a little movement? Why not spin out into the country? Just a few minutes down the road.. Ohhh, cool outside. Okay, I’ll work at my friend’s place. Comfortable now in the kitchen… But that tail of an overly affectionate cat, looking for love in all the wrong places: cat, get off my legal pad! Back and forth, back and forth. Clearly I need to take a break…



swooshing


And always, the country roads beckon.



tempting


It’s dusk now. I wrote two questions. Pedal back to the loft, coming around Monona Bay, yet another view of the white dome.



seducing


Madison and environs are a distraction at this time of the year.

I had a meeting at Fair Trade Café on State Street this afternoon. I was almost late because I could not find a parking spot. For Mr.B. Why one should have to worry about parking a bicycle is a mystery. Unless you live in Madison and you understand that tearing up streets is a seasonal ritual. You would think we had the smoothest pavements ever, what with the constant road construction. We don’t. Tearing up streets is merely a seasonal thing. This particular block on State Street will remain discombobulated I estimate for about six months. Meantime, sidewalk coffee drinking will be of this sort and bike parking will remain a problem.






On my morning bike ride, I encountered two ducks. This is not unusual by any means. Ducks are a common thing in town. These ducks made me pause enough to create a traffic problem on the bike path. They seemed to have a strong attachment to the view of Madison’s skyline. What a gorgeous spot for them to meet on their date! They are on a date, right?






Last night I spoke to my mother, a resident of Berkeley California. She enjoys conversing with me in winter when she can compare and contrast weather patterns. She has a particularly strong aversion to Wisconsin January temperatures. This conversation did not go so well. We have been having some gorgeous skies lately. And the third week of April finally wipes out the gray in favor of this:





It’s raining in Berkeley. A lot, I hear. It’s terrible to admit to inferior weather when you are a Californian. I tried to be especially nice on the phone. One shouldn’t gloat too much, it’s unbecoming.

Admittedly, the secular aspects of Easter are entirely pleasurable. Bunnies, chiks, pink and lilac eggs, willow buds, tulips, chocolate – am I leaving something out?

Still, when your own chickies fly the coop and move to distant places, you’re not going to get all bunny and basket about life, are you? Effectively, secular Easter becomes just another day.

And yet, when I got on my computer this morning and downloaded photos from yesterday’s bike ride, they did strike me as terribly, well, Easterish.

It was a glorious ride. For one thing, I survived it. I’d been warned: Nina, it’s at least twelve miles of hills and vales from Fitchburg to Paoli. Nina, you hate hills. Mr. B hates hills.

All true and yet the idea appealed to me. Bike over to a small little town, get a cup of coffee and a pastry, an ice cream maybe, bike back. The day was perfect for it.

Twenty eight miles later I was back, with photos of spring and a Starbucks latte under my belt. Not exactly from Paoli. The only refreshment you could get in Paoli that did not have either heaps of sugar or alcohol in it was this:



Paoli pump


So on a detour back, we gave in to the only café within a twenty mile radius that keeps decent hours: opens at 5:30 in the morning, closes at 10 night, every day of the year. Sigh. Another Starbucks success story.

But forget the Fitchburg latte for a minute and look through the lens of a ride to Paoli. Over hills and vales, past peering eyes of local inhabitants. I’m told I’m a duffer: a casual cyclist, relying on three speeds, singing to myself, dangling a camera. Yeah, and proud of it.



prairie dog, making sense of the duffer



a highlander watching me, sort of



baby highlander



highlander scratching his back



birches: last week's gray is today's green



getting the apple trees in shape



...and the soil ready for spring planting


Happy Easter, if this is your day to revel in the potent moods and flavors of spring

STORM UPDATE: So the roof over the loft held steady. True, flakes of the older roof came crashing down as a result of yesterday’s hail storm, as if some spirits of darkness went through and liberally doused the place with buckets of charred and blackened logs. Nothing that a few hours of dusting and vacuuming could not pick up. An apologetic landlord sent notes promising help with the clean up. After I had already cleaned up.

Of course, it was a vivid reminder of how this supposedly gentle season can deliver some forceful punches. A lesson that seems to have left my conscience by the morning, as I set out for my Mr. B ride (a habit now, so that I can fit into stuff come summer).

I have enough sense to look over at the skies toward the horizon. Wow, that is one deep shade of blue. One hill of puffing later, I look up again. Wow, that is bluer that blue! Indeed, it is no longer blue. More like dark and ominous.

How unfortunate.

And how remarkable that whatever system was passing through decided to loop around Mr. B and me, so that indeed, my only problem was battling the wind, skirting branches and twigs and other storm debris on the bike path and avoiding bold and brazen geese.

By late afternoon all was over and done with. The sky turned a cornflower blue. Come out, come out. Oh, spring.



morning: from John Nolen Drive



morning: lake Monona



goose on the loose



afternoon: from Monona Drive

One look outside and I knew it was a Mr.B moment. Warm, balmy, murky, but inviting. I took a spin around Fitchburg. For those not in the know, Fitchburg is Madison’s escape suburb. You move there if you do not want the big city feel of Madison. (I know, I know.) Fitchburg has changed since I took note of it some ten years back. How best to describe it?

Construction. There are many men with hammers. And there are many buildings at various stages of completion.





Nature? Country air? Sure, if you can find your way out of subdivisions. These goosies are lost. They will forever circle this pond wondering what hell brought them here and how best to leave.




Still, you can find farms and sheds and empty spaces and Russian bakeries baking poppyseed kolatchky...






Oh, I interrupt this post as the loft roof just caved in. Hail, pounding away, brought with it soot and tar from the rafters and I am covered with it!

I will resume posting tomorrow. After a discussion with management about rent abatement.

Maybe I wasn’t fair in yesterday’s post. Maybe downtown Madison at this time of the year has its seasonal flair. Today, I am more forgiving. How could I not be? On my way to and from campus, I passed these:



blue, green, white, blue



spring forward



sweet sight

I was heartened to hear yesterday that the head of the Sicilian Mafia had been arrested. The manhunt had been on for a while. Of course, at some point, someone will reveal a clue and soon after, the chase will be over. In this instance, it appears that Mr. head-of-Sicilian Mafia was all the while hiding in his village of Corleone. It seems odd that he should pick the one and only place we identify as the Mafia homebase in Sicily, what with the Godfather and all, but there you have it: if you want to hide, go back to the most obvious village. No one will look for you there.

Now it just so happens that in a few weeks I will be in Sicily. The plan is for me to travel from one tip of the island to another and guess what: one set of roads would indeed lead me darn close to Corleone. This poses a dilemma: should I maybe pause for a quick little aperitivo there?

Will the village, which appears to be perched obscurely in the central hills of the island, have curious passers by, like myself, wanting to get a feel for a Mafia hangout? So will there be tourist stands? Post cards for sale?

Or, will the village be closed off with yellow polizia tape? Because if it would be closed off, then it would be silly for me to make my way through no person’s land just to run into yellow tape.

Will there be angry gun-bearing relatives ready to fire at anyone acting all curious and invading their space? Including the little tourist from Madison, Wisconsin? With a camera?

Or, will it be a village like any other -- sleepy, dusty, with donkeys and funeral processions and nothing more. To the naked eye.

Corleone. Intriguing, isn't it?

In many a post I have come down strongly, viciously almost, against the suburbs. I have punched at them good and hard and I stand firm in my conviction that they lack soul.

But we are at the cusp of real-time spring and the cusp of spring does not, visually, bring out the best in cities, even small cities such as Madison.

I walk home from work and I am hungry to find a pleasing announcement of the season. No such luck. I see porches with student couches, I see signs that perpetually announce the transient nature of the housing around the university: Fall rentals available. There are always fall rentals available. No one stays more than a year before roommate hatred or school completion forces a move.

I want what every other long term downtown resident wants – stability. And property care. And yet, if all buildings around me put on a fresh face and started to call themsleves townhouse condos, I’d freak. And move on.

And so today I walk home, loving the warmth of the air, loving my light jacket, the absence of gloves, the light breezes… all good. And what’s this? Two blocks from my loft I come across an intersection which is abuzz with activity. Young people, fixing things, painting doors, chatting excitedly… I am at the corner that once housed the Polish meats and foods place.



June 05


That sad looking place closed some months back, soon after I moved downtown. The new, young people working on scraping and painting explain that it’s going to be a flower shop. Cool! With a catering and special events emphasis. Oh. But still very much a walk-in place. Super cool. I think. Obviously this freshly painted spiffy place will not have a dilapidated porch with last century’s furniture on it. Or an ancient Coke machine dispensing overpriced fizzy stuff at the side. But will it have soul?



April 06

I biked over to the far west side to visit the business of an immigrant I know. She works hard and has a complicated personal life which she reviews with me when I come by. She is pretty successful at what she does. Still, her work is tedious and she likes to pause and talk about men, relationships and the American way. She is from Laos.

I, too, am an immigrant. I hold on to this identity. I never forget about it.

I wanted at one time to be an immigration law specialist. I know far too much from personal experience what it’s like to seek work here, legally, illegally, quasi-legally. I know what it’s like to get hired under the table and not get benefits. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

But in the end I hadn’t the fiber for it. Handling custody battles seemed more cheery than handling deportation issues. Two parents fighting to spend time with a child. How nice. A person facing expulsion. Leave, or be jailed. Either way, go back to your family and tell them you failed.

The neighborhood I live is on one side student-ish, and on three sides immigrant-ish.

I rode out on Mr. B to do my stuff out there on the west side and, as I was leaving my neighborhood, I came face to face with the demonstration of Latino people, hundreds of them, walking back from the Capitol, asking, with their banners and their faces, for recognition and acceptance.

I claimed American citizenship when I had recognition and acceptance. I was already in law school, I had a family, I knew I would find work. My commie past was forgiven, I had a spot here. I did not have to face my family and tell them I had failed.

The images below... they bring forth a wealth of sadness in me that I cannot begin to explain.

Remember the recent blog post about how happy I am to be out of the yard work business (see post below)? Yes, well, then a friend mentions an overgrown yard, where raspberry canes are choking each other out of existence and I break. I succumb to the pruning-clipping routine with a vengeance today, for hours on end, until my bare arms and legs look like bloody hell (no, no photos; too macabre).

But, life has it’s rewards. I am asked:

Want to run over to Rolling Pin, the Russian bakery down in Fitchburg?
I don’t know, do I?

The bakery closes early on Sundays and so I cease my pruning, leaving a quarter of a raspberry patch in a state of great disrepair (hell with you, raspberry canes, go prune yourselves!) to see what the Pin is all about.

The Rolling Pin is a bunch of things rolled into one.

A few items are sort of Russian. A number of items are sort of American. Then there are displays of Russian babushka dolls, of flowered shawls, of a painted samovar (all for sale). Otherwise, it feels, well, American.



batrushka (pastry) choices



babushka (doll) choices


But wait. The patrons sitting there in the corner? The two older women? They may as well be from Brighton Beach, NY. Russian to the core.





And the owner/baker at the Pin? Russian as well. She brings out of me all of the handful of Russian sentences I can speak and then beams to high heaven over my proficiency. I leave before I am forced to sing Russian folksongs just to keep the pretense going.

Refreshed but still badly damaged by the evil canes, I am cajoled into going to a nearby stretch of the Ice Age Trail. The sun is warm, so warm, the grasses are dry and yellow. My companion proposed that we rest. All fine and well, but this causes him to instantly fall asleep. I myself cannot not so easily zonk out at the side of a trail, but then I tend not to readily doze off on mud heaps covered with last year’s weeds.

I busy myself taking photos of grasses from the ground looking up.





But seriously, I totally appreciate how easy it is in Madison to zip out into the countryside and walk miles on end without encountering anyone. (Okay, with the exception of these two lovers who were, er, taken aback by our intrusion. )

after downpours and drizzles and thunder and fog, I wake up to a brilliantly sunny Saturday.

Naturally, I am inclined to call upon my traveling companion.

Ed! Look outside!
I have to work. You told me it would rain today.
I was wrong. Look outside!
You have to work as well. Didn’t I hear you talk of exam question writing this week-end?
Damn it, look outside! I deliberately moved from the suburbs to the city so that I could go out into the country on spring days like this!
[I know this may not make sense. But I do not recall a single brilliant spring weekend in the suburbs that was not spent on me doing yard cleaning. Never to explore the rebirth of forests and meadows, never to hear the wild pleading of a goose chasing down his love-object, never to see the first flower, the first sunbather, the first fishing vessel out in our state parks… Too sad. But now I am free of yard clean up! I am free to explore!]
Ed, look outside!
I have to work. Here, take a look at this book I got from the library. It’ll give you some hiking hints if you want to head out alone.

So much for “traveling companion.” What is it with people and work in this country? It will get done! It always gets done! Good grief.

[Still, guilt overtakes me and I spend the first four hours writing final exam questions for my courses.]

In the early afternoon, I head out to Dodgeville. I do not remember the convoluted process that led me to pick a Governor Dodge State Park trail arounf Cox Hollow Lake for my Saturday trek-in-defiance-of-all-those-who-insist-on working, but the expedition was fantastic. Ten miles of clear skies and wild geese and pine trees and not a single person on the trail except little me. Okay, back at the parking lot, I did run into some dudes sunbathing by the lake. That’s Wisconsin for you. The temps were only in the fifties.



bluffs and pines



walking on water



yes!!



a quiet run



jumping the season

Here’s a piece of local gossip: I know an attorney in town who has his own personal clothes shopper. I once asked him whatever for and he explained that he trusted her completely to find clothes in Madison that will make him look hot.

Another little tid bit: one law faculty member I know (again, here in town) also has her own shopping service. Hers is tied to a particular store. When a new shipment comes in, the shopping assistant calls and tells her that she has clothing set aside, appropriate for her size and tastes.

Then there is my friend Ed. He does not have a personal shopper. Indeed, most often, he tells me that he picks up Levis and socks and shirts at the same time that he picks up parts for the machines he designs, both readily obtainable right here:




Okay, truthfully they would not be off this particular rack. But it is the only photo I could take. For some reason the management at Farm & Fleet worries that people like me are out to steal their fashion ideas and so I was asked to put away my camera.

Please do not write and tell me that I am a complete clothes snob. The last pair of shoes I bought were $29 off the Net. With them, I threw in a t-shirt for $19. I intend to wear both for teaching and traveling purposes.

But still, I cannot get excited by the selection at Farm & Fleet. I could if I were to spend time at a farm or on a fleet, but traveling around Europe? And indeed, Ed is a frequent traveling companion of mine. When I mentioned that perhaps he could evaluate his wardrobe before we next took off, I got a hurt look and the following question:

Can I take my St. Vinnies stuff? Would that work?

I contemplated this for a while, then offered my personal shopper services. I can do this: I can direct the man to proper attire.

Inspired, I carefully selected shirts, pants and shorts (the latter for hiking purposes; I warned that I will not be seen in a European city with anyone over the age of five wearing shorts). I brought them for his review.

I get these reactions: the shirt is too short and too baggy; the shorts are too tight and too clothy; the t-shirt makes him look too heavy...

The man dresses in St. Vinnies stuff and refuses to let go of shorts that have more holes than there are lakes in Minnesota and I am told that the beautiful espresso-mocha shorts with delicately frayed seams that I identified at Banana Republic do not fit the bill???

I stopped. My talents as a personal clothes spotter were on the line. I suggested we sort through his existing apparel. Surely something would present itself.

And it did. I pointed to acceptable pairs of shorts and pants and I okayed the three t-shirts I personally had forced on him many months back. I gave a loud NO to his favorite -- the frayed t-shirt with a huge drop of blood and an American flag inside, even if he told me enthusiastically that it was a free gift for giving blood. I said it made him look like a walking commercial for the proposition that Americans are out for blood in this world, which, even if true, was not something we would want to advertise when traveling in Sicily. You know, home of the Mafia. Blood has different meaning there.

Ed looked puzzled. Why had I selected as many as three pairs of pants and two shorts? Why does anyone take more than one pair of each (one on the body and one in a back pack) for a two week trip to Europe?

I have no answer to that. Truly, I am stumped. I am inclined to say – one just does.

at the loft

Spring, 1966. I am packing. I am thirteen. I am leaving New York. Going back to Poland. My father’s stint at the UN is over.

At thirteen, I regard life as a compilation of the past and the here and now. I do not remember thinking about the future. A future is too vague. A future is the next dance, the next math quiz. It never strikes me, at thirteen, that I may never see my NY friends again, that they will disappear for me and I for them.

Enter the Internet. And google. Oh, it’s easy to look up one of my three best friends from those elementary years. Radhika Coomaraswamy. How many will you find that are not her? Jackie Graupner was another search. I thought I nailed it, but writing her was a dead end. Some Graupner got a bizarre email from me. I don’t think it was the Jackie I knew.

But my best friend with the most common name (Debbie Woods) lost out. Forget it. 3,170,000 google entries. And that’s before contemplating the possibility of a name change.


This evening I get an email:

Hi Nina! I'm sure you don't remember me, but I'm your old friend from UNIS. My name is Debbie xxxx (Ocean protects real people with real names) (formerly Woods) and we used to be best friends back in the day. How are you? Please write when you get a chance. I'd love to hear from you. Debbie

Oh you poor infant bloggers. You’ll never know what it’s like to hear from a best friend 40 years back. You’ll not understand that when I stepped on the ocean liner that would sail me back to Europe, Debbie was quickly slipping into a permanent closed file. Because for you, there are no closed files ever. All you worry about is the ways in which you are noted and recognized on the Net.

Poor you. You’ll not know the joy of rediscovery. You have a vision of a future and it includes the world, indifferent people googling you and you them. Poor, poor you.

So what happened this year? I moved downtown in the fall. I have no car now. I walk or bike to and from work. Fantastic, right? Healthy! Invigorating!

Not so much. When I lived miles away from downtown I was so disgusted with my driving-everywhere habits that I went to the gym daily, sort of as my penance.

But now I walk, damn it! Thus the gym disappeared from my routines.

Then there is the food situation. If my Wednesday seminar students continue to bring wonderful foods to class (today: Panera bagels and spreads, chips and guacamole and bean dip) I will grow.

Blame it on the students! It’s their fault!

And why this topic now? Why all the exclamation marks?

Because I was showing off to someone recently how easy I am to buy presents for (this was presented in the form of a hint), how I am consistent with the type, size, colors, styles of clothing, for example. Want proof? Look! I biked over to a store yesterday and without pause, snatched a handful of summer duds, biked home and wallowed in the ease (not the biking part) and wonderfulness of it all.

This morning I daintily lifted and item or two out of the bag, put it on and went into shock.

Yes, holding my breath helped. But really, I had no choice. Back in the bag things went. Drive back to the store, throw down the clothes in disgust, glare at Mr. B for letting me down this winter (why didn’t you make me ride you??), resolve to do better in the weeks ahead.

But not on Wednesdays. All rules are null and void on the day of the Wednesday seminar.

Sunny, still cool, but sunny. I have three little cards saying that I am entitled to all sorts of bonuses at Banana Republic (BR). Time to cash in. Time to dust off Mr. B and ride out to BR.

Trouble is, BR is at West Towne, our most distant suburban shopping oasis. I hate it (West Towne, not BR).

Still, $10 off for customer satisfaction, $15 off for shopping in my birthday month, plus some return credit – I have the loot that will expire soon! I must go!

So I bike over. Mr. B is telling me – are you serious?? The winds are at many tens of miles per hour. You are huffin so much it gives one pause. Let’s rethink this.





But I don't rethink it. I persevere.

Later: I have arranged to meet a friend at the Old Fashioned this evening, Madison’s latest eating craze. Why do I call it a craze? Because people are crazily drawn to it. It’s the budget off-shoot of the fancy Harvest. As far as I can figure out, it has sandwiches and mac and cheese. But don’t take my word for it. Twice I had gone there to eat and twice I had walked away thinking my funny bone remains untickled. Nothing on the menu enticed me to stay.

This time I came with hope. Wouldn’t you eat in a place that reflected such spectacular Madison landmarks in its windows?






We came in, we learnt of the waiting time, we left. Give it up.

Sure, I would have spent less $$ had I stayed, but I would rather order two simple appetizers and eat within an hour of entering a place than to have to wait until someone decided that you, rather than the million at the bar, were entitled to a tbale.

And so we ate next door (Harvest), where the view from the inside was huge. Sort of like the view from the outside at Old Fashioned, but looking out now.




Very very straightforward moral of the day: don’t venture out where the wind is too strong and the crowds too overpowering. You can do better. And you cannot underestimate the power of pink: a cosmo helps give perspective.

I do not create a bloggable life. Indeed, most days, like today, are outstanding in their blog-unworthiness.

I got up.
I dropped off car keys.
I worked.
I paid bills.
I mailed bills.
I scrambled eggs.

This takes me to 7:35 pm which, I believe is right now.

I did make one concession to Ocean while walking to the mailbox (with the bills). I detoured for half a block, just to see if men were fishing now that the ice was gone. Indeed, they were. And there were a few other signs of a Madison spring:



hark! it is the orange guy. you either love him or...not. He plays the piccolo. Constantly. Outside. Same tunes, year in, year out.



in my neighborhood, by the lake; a spring dance? no, a twosome at the hoop.



fishing by the RR tracks

No, no, I did not lose my life in the Kettle Moraine yesterday, Chuck (note comment to previous post). Though almost.

A quiet day in the woods of eastern Wisconsin, that was the goal. My traveling pal, Ed and I drive to the Kettle Moraine. We search for the entrance to the State Park. I see a sign in the parking lot: EVENT IN PROGRESS. Event? Like a wedding or a bird watching group maybe? Should we tip toe?

I look at the cars in the lot. Something is not right.





Trunks open? Cages inside? I look toward the field. A crack. Something falls from the sky.

The man is pointing a rifle at the sky, no at me! I am about to be the next Cheney-like victim. I will be giving interviews to the press that it really does not matter that I have 100 pieces of shrapnel in my body!





We leave.

In another leg of the park, we finally leave the car and start our twelve-miler. Not so quiet here either. Crack. Shot heard from the now thankfully distant hunting fields. And the frogs! These guys are mating with a scream! Two ponds, a cacophony of sound.



pond 1



pond 2


The hike reveals no green sprouts yet. No matter. A deer stares at us, then turns her white-tailed rear-end in our faces and flies off. The Moraine dips and crests, giving the feeling of a swaying horizon line that can’t straighten itself out.





At times the birches stand tall and silver and you imagine how absolutely splendid they’ll be when dressed. Revealing so much limb is never optimal.





At other times, trees appear engaged in some macabre twisty dance, some forest tango of gnarled trunks and entwined arms.





Most interesting of all is the fungus. Sometimes it seems like a bunch of spaceships had crashed into the bark: half of a ship in, the other half protruding still.

But the splendid award goes to the family of cranes. Oh sure, I scared them off with my camera. But not until I got them to move slowly, languidly, so that I could take this:





Nothing could top that. Okay, only one thing could top that: a great meal. A great meal can top pretty much most things. We didn’t have to drive far for it. In Delafield, a colorful shack stands by the lake. Fishbones.





It is nearly impossible to choose a main course. Four plates screamed pick me! Pick me! (jumbo prawns in a hearty vegetable Creole sauce served over sweet potato dirty rice and topped with an asparagus and lump crab relish, OR hand-made ravioli stuffed with mascarpone cheese, shrimp, crawfish tail meat, spinach, and shiitake mushrooms served with a chipotle beurre blanc and spinach chiffonade, OR delicate Norwegian salmon, brie cheese, spinach and crawfish tail meat wrapped in phyllo dough, baked and served with a side of red pepper, asparagus, corn and lump crab relish and finished with a chardonnay cream sauce, OR jumbo prawns, calamari, fresh fish, green lip mussels, butternut squash and red-skinned potatoes in a rich shrimp broth)

Too much pressure. More sweat-generating than the twelve-mile hike. I let others do the selecting for me. Outstanding stuff! Oh, there was an appetizer as well, but it all swims now. But let me mention the crawfish bisque. If you go there, you have to order the crawfish bisque.



killer shrimp creole


crawfish bisque

I ask Ed, the guy I often do stuff with: what's that?





What's what? These are trail maps, of course.
Why?
Why what?
Why are you looking at trail maps?
You said you wanted to hike out in the country.

To me, this means getting out of the car, taking a walk, growing tired of walking, returning to the car and driving to get something substantial to eat, having earned it with that "country walk."

Why do we need maps?
So that we know where to go. Let's see, maybe this twelve mile spin up to the observation tower in the Kettle Moraine...
Twelve mile spin? April Fool's, right? When do we eat? Can we go to Milwaukee to eat?

Here the conversation comes to a significant impasse. I see we have issues to resolve (including Ed's allergy to cities). One thing is certain. My blogging wont resume until tonight or tomorrow. When this guy sets out to hike, he means business. When I set out in search of a meal, I mean business. It remains to be seen where this day will take us.