bathing

The last time I remember taking a leisurely, soothing bath was in May, in Brittany, after braving the cold spray of the English Channel for three hours. In those days (was it only two months back?) I still appeared to have the need to demonstrate to Ed (my occasional traveling companion) that I have adventure locked firmly into my DNA.

Today, we dance ever so gingerly around the topic of travel. The play of words and ideas is all very delicate, very unserious. At the surface, we ignore the other, even as we surely are aware of what the other is saying.

For instance, Ed tells me – some weekend soon we should take the ferry across Lake Michigan, and bike for a while, and pitch a tent. Noting silence, he continues, in a conciliatory fashion, I suppose – and eat a nice dinner.

Minutes earlier, I had already put in my own comment. My colleague told me how beautiful his recent trip to California was. He stayed at a fantastic b&b near Carmel and you should hear him rave about the food! Silence.


In the meantime, I continue to shower. I put off thoughts of bathing. That indulgence is, in my mind, for those splendid times when you do challenge yourself and hike out or pedal out and get unlucky with the weather. You come back to your lovely warm room, turn on the hot water knob and exhale.

Still, as I bike to work, I note that others are bathing on a fairly regular basis. The ducks are doing their morning stuff in Lake Mendota, and on my return, I note the cars are getting a soaking, as the city flushes its water mains.



Purchase photo 1921







Purchase photo 1920