And sometimes, you're flooded with recent images. Like, when you see these: where am I? In Nice?
No, no. Madison's market.
But wait. Ocean author is carrying her Languedoc shopping basket. Is this Pierrerue? And isn't that fennel? The one from Sicily maybe?
It's a Languedoc basket alright (more like Moroccan, sold everywhere in southern France). And it's fennel. But it's Madison again. At the market.
Fennel, did you say? Oh, that pale gold and green of fennel! Like this? Is this a field of fennel? In Sicily?
No. Very similar colors, different plant. Dill. Just outside Madison.
And this: could anyone have doubt? These guys are ours! France, get your own purple flowers. Oh, that's right. You claim lavender. Well, we claim these:
Sunday. It's Sunday now. Day of repose, right? With a few well-built, well-coordinated cyclists hitting the roads. France comes to mind, no?
No. It's Madison.
Though I don't know about the "repose" part. I am just outside Madison now and I come to a field that for years sprouted the ubiquitous corn and soy beans. This spring, it has been rented out to local families, in search of a place to grow things. Hmong farmers, working the land the hard way.
I watch. Such a hot day. The children run between one adult and the other. One creates shade for the mother (is it the mother?). She's hitting the hard soil with the hoe. Fresh air, tough work, vegetables growing. A Wisconsin scene, to the core.
