Why do I love you so?

Because you are so pretty to look at?

at jo's: sip it with the Times and a round of chess

at jo's: sweeten it (no!) or drink it plain

at jo's: outside, on a summer afternoon

I did the bold thing today. I bought my first latte at Jo’s. Jo’s Tazzina is the closest café to the apartment I’ll be moving to (in the Bassett ‘hood) and in a month or so, it will be my place of choice for a latte.

I have been reluctant to try a cup thus far. What if I hated it, what if the barista was without brewing brains? What if it just did not measure up?

But it did. And oh, are the colors good for camerawork!

[Tonya, I am like an unleashed animal around a latte - I cannot help myself with the camera. Ocean is but a vessel for my coffee-posting crazies.]

Left to die

Being a post-war baby in Poland can really cause you to enter the world not kicking and screaming, but coughing and gasping. I was not a healthy little number. By age two (and I mean 2 days), I seem to have been pegged as the one who couldn’t stomach life. By the next two (months this time), I managed to develop the dreaded pneumonia which, without antibiotics, and when added to the fact that I was not eating, was pretty much the kiss of death.

My mother likes to recount this as one hopeless situation. So what did she do? She took me to the village, left me with my grandparents and went back to work in the city (after all, she had one healthy one gurgling in the play pen already).

I have to believe that she shed many a tear, expecting (as she tells it) a little wooden coffin with the limp body of her baby, whom she had barely named some weeks earlier, there - waiting for her upon her next return to the village (they had no phones back then).

I always think that story, which is supposed to be ultimately upbeat (what do you know! On the strength of milk squeezed straight from the cow’s warm udder, you pulled through! -- I am told), is maybe a sign that abandonment works in my favor. True, I was not really abandoned, but I certainly was left to…well, die, actually (if I am to believe my mother’s chipper-ish choice of words).

So if you ditch me for one reason or another – I will surprise you and I will thrive. Fresh warm milk -- organic maybe? -- is all it takes. That is the most obvious conclusion to draw from this. It is, however, not the correct conclusion.

Where there’s a will there’s a way; where there’s no will there’s no way.

Sometime in the last 24 hours I realized that I have too much on my plate right now. Which then caused me to ‘fess up to myself that I am one basket case. And I have run out of steam. Normally, under such circumstances I am one to push the balls to the wall. I cut to the chase, go the extra mile and get things done. No lollygagging for me.

But it’s different now and I am making no bones about it. Each day this month I have been running like a chicken with its head cut off. Until now. Instead of putting the pedal to the metal, I am sitting here stumped and I know I’ll stay here thus til the cows come home. And I don’t even have cows.

Eat ‘n run

Ah, kef! How great it is to watch a person work so damn hard and then succeed!

Did you ever have one of those days where you think: okay, it’s just hours. Eventually three o’clock will turn into four o’clock and four will turn to five and so on and so forth. You write mediocre posts and you feel your day is greatly below mediocre.

Then, as dusk turns to very little light, suddenly you get swept up in a celebration of someone’s success. Kef was all about big time success, and tonight one could walk and eat and drink and walk and so on and so forth, and before you know it, her success rubs off and it begins to feel like it’s YOUR SUCCESS! – even though in this case, I did nothing more than walk and eat and etc.


eat 'n RUN

eat 'n run and DRINK

EAT 'n run

Kef: congrats on your Ph.D.! And on so much more (and you know exactly what I mean, my friend).

Revelation, part 2

(10:00a.m. phone rings, my heart leaps)
Hello??
It’s me.

Oh. Sigh... Don't mind me -- I am only reminding myself of days when I waited for the boyfriend to call. Now again I keep hoping it’s that certain someone…
A boyfriend??
No, a realtor with a house sale offer. Sigh…
Anyway, aren’t you teaching now?

In ten minutes…
You sound desperate! Don’t tell me! You want to meet up for another fix of …coffee* ??
(meekly:) …yes.

And so here we are again, in the late afternoon, only this time the size of the cup has grown. I’d say we have an addiction going here.



*this same person threw out slanderous attacks against the java joes among us here.

Oh come on! Everyone, just quit stealing my thunder!

So I crashed on Mr. B three weeks ago. Immediately after, I learned that Lance crashed exactly the same time, on a practice run in France. Yeah, yeah, coincidence.

Then, yesterday, I get this email from a friend:

The leader of the Tour de France Dave Zabriskie fell today in the final minute of the team time trial as his team was trying to beat Lance Armstrong's team. His injury rivals yours (EXACT location!). He ripped his treasured yellow jersey, too. His team finished without him only 2 seconds behind Armstrong's. Unfortunately for Zabriskie, he has to get up tomorrow and ride day after day some 2000 more miles.

Yeah, yeah – coincidence.

I’m unruffled. These racing giants – they race, they crash, it’s their life.

But this evening I hear that the president, Mr. Geroge W, himself wants in on the limelight. While the G-eighters were most likely schmoozing, he was out biking in Scotland. And then he crashed. He ran over a cop! How stupid is that????And here, what’s wrong with this paragraph (from CNN)?

The president's bicycle was damaged, and he returned to his hotel in an SUV that
had been trailing him as he rode with a Secret Service agent, McClellan said.

Our president took his own bicycle with him on a trip to a G8 summit? No! It cannot be! And someone was driving an SUV in Scotland? I have NEVER seen an SUV in Scotland. True, I have not been to Scotland since they started manufacturing SUVs, but I can just imagine what the Scotts think of SUVs. Pretty much what I think of SUVs (mind you, I have rented one two times on family vacations just to see what the thrill was).

There are also a few words about our president’s embracing attitude toward the person he injured:

Bush "visited" with the police officer for some time after the accident and asked White House physician Dr. Richard Tubb to monitor his situation at the hospital, McClellan said.

Why the quotes around visited? Did he not really visit? Did it not go well? Did the officer resist? Is there a law suit brewing? And what’s with offering Dr. Tubb's services? Who even has a physician called ‘tubb’? And FYI, Mr. president, health care in the UK is readily available. So, your largesse is not needed.

Okay now, people, settle down with your bikes. Next thing you know I’ll be reading about the pope crashing during an afternoon spin for an espresso in Rome.

Revelation

I can’t believe it: there is a combination of roads that allows me to bike from downtown Madison to my house, without an incline steep enough to require even one single shift in gears. Today I finally mapped it out. I feel the joyous realization that I am now embarking on the easy life. Goodbye toned, muscled thighs, hello pleasure! And really, I never ever wanted to look like this.

[photo from smartcycles.com]

More like this:

Another discovery: some people appear in their blogs to have great disdain for something, possibly hoping to elicit sympathy and kind words from like-minded readers, but all along, you know what they are? Closet java junkies!

Today, as I put my own cup down on the table, next to hers, I thought – what the heck am I seeing here? It sure is one frothy cup of tea from the professed lover of the brewed leaf. No leaf there: it’s a kissin’ cousin of my own latte!

I don’t know why she drinks it with a straw. I don’t know.

Zakopane and Paris: shared fate

This spring, I had again returned to the mountain town of Zakopane in Poland. Less than 100 kilometers from Krakow, it nonetheless took over four hours by train to get there (something about the tracks being poorly designed). So I took the bus on my way out, cutting my journey by more than an hour, but adding a load of misery as the bus stopped and snailed its way on the winding narrow road.

This is the town that put in a bid for the 2006 Winter Olympics.

Poles hoped for a stunning upset of the frontrunner, Torino. What they got was a stunning kick in the pants in the first round of voting.

Zakopane: still a favorite way of getting around

Today, as the Committee announced its selection of London as the 2012 Olympic site, I have to think that more than the substance of the package was being judged. It is said that this was all Blair’s doing and that has to be right. Even watching from the sidelines, I am often taken in by his speaking talents. My class would be so much better if it were taught by Tony Blair!

Still, I have to feel sad for the Zakopane that never made it past round one and the Paris that kept hanging in there until the end. My Paris photo is now but a sad reminder of how voting so often produces sucky, disappointing results.

Venting with a venti

When you are dealing with a crazed person, it's best to not get yourself all hot and bothered. A confrontation isn't going to set things right, especially if you are in a tango with a big gun and you are only a wee little fish. I know that. I'm not going to use foul language and spit fire when the gun is pointing at my forehead. I'm going to be docile and wimpy and do a quick retreat.

But when I get to my computer, I can let loose.

Bottom line: I think it was entirely inappropriate for Miss driving-huge-SUV to blare her claxon at little me and Mr. B, just because she did not like the fact that I was leaving the parking lot, holding on to a latte with one hand, and steering Mr. B with the other.

I admit it isn’t optimal to be biking and looking after a steaming latte, extra hot, especially when you have a sprained thumb so that the whole experience causes you great pain, at the same time that the Whole Foods sack is bouncing around your rear tire because somehow it got loose on the ride up Mineral Point hill. But the distance is short and few things bring me as much pleasure these days as the thought that I soon will be home, sitting back and enjoying my long deferred afternoon latte.

And really, what damage am I doing to anyone? I’m careful. The ride from the café home is uphill, so it’s not as if I can speed.

But the irony, the irony: me on my little Mr. B – what’s our horse power? Maybe a quarter of a horse, an old lame horse at that? And the SUV? How many horses does that one have under its hood? So there she is, Miss driving-huge-SUV, talking on her cell phone and driving this monster machine with one hand and honking her horn at me, and screaming that Mr.B, my latte and me – we’re an unsafe combination.

The nerve.

A tale of two sillies

While the country was mesmerized by fireworks, the following conversation migrated from a Madison neighborhood last night:

Can I bring anything tonight?
Shears.
Shears?
For hacking away weeds and plants in my yard.

I have enough in my own.
I have more.

I have more.
(third voice pipes in): I have more.

Mine are out of control.
Mine are out of control.
(third voice pipes in): mine are out of control.

[Let's compare:]


Ocean front & Ocean back




TShow front & TShow back

I wish I lived in an apartment.
(third voice): I wish I lived in an apartment.
I am going to live in an apartment.

Lucky! I’m going to make the change soon.
(third voice) I’m going to make the change soon.
I am making the change. Soon.

I ain’t got no hot water and they shut off the heat Can you loan me some money for something to eat*

Savannah oak interlude

On the way to Milwaukee’s Summerfest, I stopped at a farm where oak trees three times my age grow along the banks of the Yahara River.

The last time I was excited by something that grew in the wild on a Wisconsin farm was … I can’t think when. But yesterday I was shown wild cotton grasses and gnarly oaks, sweet blackberry brambles and black walnut trees, and the stream that eventually becomes the Yahara – all making me think that there's something to the words “take Manhattan just give me that countryside!”

bridge over untroubled waters



sizing up the oak trunk


Oh, the festgrounds were crowded..



From there it was just a … two hour zip to Milwaukee’s lakefront Summerfest.

Do Ocean readers know about Summerfest? Advertised as the biggest music festival in the country (by what measure? number of performers? number of visitors? number of concurrent stages? number of beers consumed by attendees?), it is first and foremost a bargain! One fee ($12) and you’re in: see as many musical numbers as you want, stay as long as the bands are playing.

Okay, so you have to eat and drink and you can’t bring in your own stuff.

Think you’re going to see photos of your typical greasy fair foods? Think again. With jambalaya, corn on the cob, roasted chicken and strawberries dipped in chocolate, along with seemingly bottomless wine coolers, I had a feast. Of course, the feeling of “this is a bargain” quickly wears off, but hey, you're paying for the food, the setting, the noise, the people-watching!

jambalaya over beer

A Shocked Michelle


Almost forgot. The music. It’s all about who is singing, of course, but the show is also in the audience. Summerfest is 100% Milwaukee. Yeah, I know, the audience is from all over, but somehow Milwaukeeans set the tone. You get the feeling that after the show, they’d like to take off on their Harleys and head into the sunrise, muscle shirts wipping their torsos, barely covering the elaborate tattoos. I felt at home (because of the tattoo, not the Harley).


Maybe I exaggerate a small bit. And I don’t even have many photos to back me up here. I had been so taken with the Savannah oaks that I used up most of my battery life on the farm, leaving me wondering when oh when will I get myself a back-up battery. The benefit? The post will be shorter as a result.





Michelle Shocked was one hell of a singer though and would have been great to take many photos of. The audience as well – especially the delicious views of several hundred Wisconsinites wiggling their butts on command (Michelle’s song demanded it).


"turn away from me and shake that butt!"


What would you be like if three of your boyfriends were driven to commit suicide?

Maybe you’d be singing dark songs to a packed, adoring audience. Like Lucinda Williams did this night.

Oh no, I would not succumb to that kind of thing – where you stake out seats hours in advance just so you can be in the third row, literally at the singer's feet. No, I would not do that, would I? Peer pressure! My fellow Lucinda enthusiasts, like me, were willing to sit through an entire performance of the Hacienda Brothers (you’re kidding! never heard of them? where have you been?) just to claim good seats for Lucinda.

I thought young people could take the loud music in stride. Or maybe she was just blocking the Hacienda Brothers and forgot to take the plugs out afterwards. BTW, cowboy hats are in at Summerfest!

Lucinda was awesome. You have to admire a true comeback, where a singer has a dismal beginning, then gets herself a Grammy in her mid-forties and is drawing huge crowds of young people (okay, and me – but that’s fitting) at the age of 51.


Is it the dead boyfriend thing that makes her face look so defiant? So steady? And is it her history of tough living that makes her look to the lyric book to jog her memory with many of the songs?


Lucinda Williams singing songs from "World Without Tears"

Regardless, she had the audience on their feet. You could not stand still – her music went right from the stage to your gut. Probably the best concert I’d been to in years.

[Thanks, Saul & Mel, for insisting that I go, for driving, for the whole day!]

* American Dream by Lucinda Williams

The day Ocean's author was rocked into silence

I went for a run early this morning. I do that occasionally just to challenge myself, because between Mr.B and my walking partners, I have pretty much taken off my running shoes for the year.

How good a runner am I? If I take on a hilly terrain and brisk-walk it in 50 minutes, I can do the same at a jog in 40 minutes. So pretty lousy.

I was greatly discouraged. The rest of the morning was spent at locking myself up with lots of reading material and ignoring my physical self.

As a result, blogging was out of the question.

When I rejoined the world, my favorite phone caller was there jingling away. That caused me to hole myself up all over again.

I'm out again, but in a few minutes some kind folks are sweeping me away to Summerfest in Milwaukee. I was reluctant to go. NO ONE SHOULD REGARD ME AS GOOD COMPANY RIGHT NOW! But they persisted and so I'm off. A real post will follow. Tomorrow.

Eastward ho!

This morning I set out for the east side. You might think I was stalking this guy who lives out there, but no. I had another meeting at Mother Fools coffee house and I thought Mr. B might enjoy the adventure.



Hey, what do Ocean and Mother Fool's have in common?

For non-Madison readers, let me summarize it thus: east side people have this thing where they are in love with their ‘hood. Willie Street to an east-sider is like the Black Madonna is to a Catholic Pole. East side people don’t typically like to admit to any great affection for west side people. Phrases like “stuck up” and “snotty” come up. “Homogeneous” is another. And the dreaded word: “suburban.” West siders are soooo suburban.

Within the west side bunch, you have near-west siders, who think they are more like east siders in their funkiness and then you have far-west siders. Near-west siders don’t like far-west siders. They want to distance themselves from the suburban image. And that funkiness complex, too: it comes up.

At this moment I live on the far west side. I got news for you, near-west siders: you’re not more funky than I am, you’re just more rich! Your house costs twice as much as mine.

Me – I like the east side just fine and today I absolutely loved it and felt a great deal of jealousy, verging on rage: they have one of the best bike paths running through it and it is level! No hills, no ups and downs, none of it: flat as can be. Mr. B and I were in heaven.

So there I am, wiling away the morning hours, when a familiar sight comes right into my field of vision:


Oscar? Note the (empty) glass of iced coffee... It has to be!

If this doesn’t appear familiar to you, take a run through cyberspace here.

No, no, Oscar was not stalking me nor I him. It’s just that east siders, they like to band together in public spaces.

My Mo Fo morning made me very very late for the farmers market. So late that Anne of Fantome Farm no longer had any goat cheese left. How can one eat 6-grain crackers without goat cheese? The good thing about being kind to the farmers is that they give you the shirt off their back and, more importantly, their sample containers if they don’t have anything to sell you. Anne: you saved my crackers for the week to come.



Mr. B was happy enough carrying the whole loot home. Uphill -- it being the tiresome west side.

Where Ocean’s author gets in over her head, in rough waters

I recently met someone who is an extreme sailing enthusiast (in addition to being an in-his-spare-time Hoofer's instructor, for those here in Madison who know a Hoofer when they see one). When he found out that I’d been sailing only once in my life on some little nothing boat in Poland when I was maybe 18, he began coaxing me into coming out for a sailing lesson.

I resisted for a while, but finally and I admit this without shame – I thought: why not? It will at best be the adventure of my life and at worst: a terrific blogging opportunity.

So today I sailed.

I’m sailing away
Set an open course for the virgin sea...
(song sung by Ocean author at the last karaoke attended by her)

My instructor pal is terrific. Moreover, he may at some point log onto this blog and so I will not convey here the full passion of my (negative) feelings toward sailing.

for the love of sailing

In truth: it was not his fault. He is so good at yelling at the crew to get their shit together. And he caught me when I almost was pulled by the rope and tugged viciously to the raging waters below.


is that the Capitol? So far away...

And maybe my attitude was tinted by the weather: today was so goddamn windy that the choppiness I am sure would make a mermaid seasick.

note his task: it was mine for 90% of the hours spent on the sail boat

I did not mind the heavy work either. The bending, hoisting, pulling, swinging down as the sail swept its way across the boat threatening to bang the hell out of anything or anyone in its way – all this reminded me somewhat of working in a restaurant kitchen (another one of those things that took my fancy a few years back) – except that it was like working on plating appetizers on a rocky, swaying floor, where if you did not grip tightly with your shoes, you would be thrown into the oven with the powerful force of a room that refuses to stay upright.

You know when I hit bottom? When I got off the boat, swaying my way in total stupor up the Union Terrace steps and realized that my Summer Without Car meant that I had to peddle Mr. B all the uphill way home.

A Whole Foods moment, part 2

Generally, I do not take over the counter supplements – of the type that are supposed to boost your everything, from the immune system to your sexual pleasure. It’s not that I do not believe in them. I’m sure turmeric, green tea, cloves and ginger really give a nice dose of anti to your oxidants, but when I last studied the ingredients of a leading supercritical antioxidant supplement (in addition to the above, it had parsley, peppermint, rosemary and, I kid you not, extra virgin olive oil and yellow beeswax), it sounded more like a list of salad ingredients than effective device for increasing your cell protective activity. Bottom line: I’ll focus on throwing together a salad instead. And anyway, there’s something grossly wrong about me paying money to counter free radicals. I was raised in a different political culture.

But yesterday I reconsidered. I had been talking to someone who is involved with pharmaceuticals and oncology and all those other important medicinal matters and he was rather shocked that I wasn’t blasting away at detoxification with greater force.

And then he said – I know you love wine. Surely you take milk thistle? I do not. I do – he tells me – at least once a day, I put it in my coffee.

Put something putrid in my coffee?? You have got to be kidding! My pricey latte should be bombarded with a foul seed extract that purports to counter the damage the caffeine (or wine) is about to inflict? No, it cannot be.

On the other hand, I had to admit that my rendition of a salad lately has been to open a bag of mixed greens or arugula and eat them straight from the plastic container. I don’t even take the time to give it a fourth rinse (believing all that garbage they write about it being already triple rinsed), I most certainly haven’t been putting any turmeric, green tea, ginger, parsley, peppermint or rosemary into it.

And, not surprisingly, I found that you can, these days, get everything in a pill. Everything. Forget about pouring putrid liquids into a great latte.

Okay, so now I have these pills that will save me from sure death by tomorrow. But just for July. After that, my life is all about purging and getting rid of things.

A Whole Foods moment, part 1

Are you one of those people that gives an honest answer when someone runs into you and says “how’s it goin’?”

Because you know you shouldn’t do that. People don’t want to know. 99.9% of the time the bump on your hip and the slump in your demeanor and wit will make them uncomfortable and they’ll quickly review their options for a hurried retreat.

Give them one. If you must unload, give them a chance to walk away. Throw out a gift of “oh, but you know, that’s just the way things are, so must get going now to experience some more of life’s bumps and bruises.” They’ll love you for it. Watch the big grin appear, the hand, poised, ready for a parting wave, relief, palpable relief evident in their entire demeanor.

I am puzzled though. If most people really do not want to know, why do they ask? After all, “hi there, how’s that blog of yours?” works equally well and generally one can say at least one honestly pleasing thing about one’s blog.

the Gates, visited

I recently met someone who lives in Madison’s (one and only?) gated community and today I finally agreed to come over at lunchtime so that I could inspect it from the inside rather than give in to my immediate inclination to dislike it site unseen (or is it sight unseen?).

My host gave me the password that would open the magic gates. Initially I had intended to bike over, but one look at the hill that I would have to ascend on the return trip and Mr. B bowed out. So much for my great protector. So I took the Great Old Van (“GOV”) with me in case I needed to make a hasty retreat.

The gates were imposing and the GOV stopped, almost refusing to go forth, afraid perhaps that he would be arrested inside on appearance alone. I assured him that he would fit in with other construction type vehicles which were freely getting across the great divide, most likely filled with south-of-the-border laborers ready to do the dirty work for the wealthy on the other side.


GOV mirror eyes gate with suspicion

Inside, there were faux waterfalls and matching mailboxes and many outrageous looking houses (chalets, plantations, every rich person’s fancy). My host is a guy who hangs with the less affluent and so I was surprised at the comfort level he demonstrated toward his immediate neighbors. But then I suppose he doesn’t see much of them. One recent addition to the community is a house pegged at $9 million, belonging to the daughter of the Farm & Fleet CEO. This was to be her summer residence.

summer cottage

neat and tidy

I suppose I can forgive my host for living there. I, too, am comfortable with diverse lifestyles. I try not to shun the affluent nor those who live behind gates (in this case there is a perfect overlap). But when he proposed a walk to the state park across the highway I was more than ready. I figure I had made my sacrifice and breathed the ChemLawn-ed air enough for one day. I needed the prairie breezes and nicely smelly waters of Lake Mendota to lighten my mood.

from the park looking south: across the waters


where is Monet when you need him...

close-up: hangout for butterflies

Quick, tell me some things about Polska

I am so very impressed with this list of ten memorable things about Poland. You're on Oscar! Here's my list:

Off the top, ten things that stand out about Poland (not necessarily the most important and most certainly not in any particular order of importance):

1. Pansies instead of marigolds. In public spaces and private gardens, Americans go for the gold. Poles plant pansies instead. Everywhere. Lots and lots of them.

pansy mania

2. The food. Okay, it’s heavy. There’s lots of cream and butter and meat. And ice cream and cake and poppy seeds. And sausage. Oscar notes that Polish people have avoided obesity. Someone recently said it’s because Poles don’t use couches as much as Americans do. But they sure have the potatoes.


light fare: cabbage stew, mushroom soup, sausage, beer



first choice: sour cherry- apple, in the middle.



yeast cakes and doughnuts.


highland hut strung with roasted kielbasa.

3. A love of the outdoors: the mountains, the waterways, the forests, or just a scrawny bit of land on which to plant flowers and grow berries. See, after you get yourself a TV, you save up for a car. It can be a cheap car. Next is a scrap of land with maybe a shack on it. That’s where you spend your leisure time. It’s more important than having a washing machine. Of course, there’s a problem there, but we’ll keep hygiene off the list. Don’t want to give the wrong impression …


forest walks


mountain air

4. The market economy has not taught sales people manners. Oscar observes that they can be rude. Indeed! Kep had commented that there are only two types of people – those willing to be engaged in the lives of people they encounter and the sulkers. It was said that the sulkers were the byproduct of communism. I’m beginning to think that it’s deeper than that. They pout and sulk and pick on their nails or smoke a cigarette and ignore you.


pretzel man with an attitude; and a cigarette.

5. Good coffee AND good tea. This theme’s for you and you (even though I do not have a photo of the tea; pretend!).


there's great coffee beneath that great foam. Oh, and don't forget the poppyseeds on the breads and in the cakes. Lots. Carry a tooth pick.

...and quit staring at the sour cherry jam; it's all in the coffee


6. Manipulating the outcome: Poles use all sorts of devious tricks to get by in life on very little. How enterprising – you may say. Yes, if you are not the one that has been manipulated in some way.

7. The parks the parks the parks: Polish cities are all about the parks. It’s more than just the beauty of these places, it is that they are public spaces that draw every inhabitant in, creating a communal stomping ground, a social place where you can be alone and yet not alone. (I have posted enough pics of Polish parks on Ocean. move on.)

8. Religious symbols, churches, chapels – they’re everywhere. No, really. It’s like the Vatican has decided to make Poland its second home. Jesus indeed. Or more like Mary. Poles are more into Mary than Jesus.

in the highlands; for some, it's worth the long hike.

9. Women attend to their skin. I swear, there are more cosmeticians than lawyers. Maybe that’s a good thing. Polish cosmetics, btw, are first rate. And there are lots of them. None of this simple body lotion: there’s anti-cellulite lotion, anti-wrinkle cream, stress-relief lotion, and topical cream for your newly implanted tattoo. And no, I do not know why deodorant isn’t nearly as popular.

10. Café conversations. Poles either like to walk and talk or sit at cafés and talk. Yes, the common denominator is the talking thing. But if you see the thousands flocking to cafés each day you’ll wonder if maybe the café, not the conversation, is the draw.

dogs are okay. as long as you feed them. sugar.

cafe life: generations.

P.S. thanks to Ann for encouraging me to finally move on to Flicker, and to Oscar for working with me through the conversion.

Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme

My calling voice this morning was the voice of work. But I haven’t the stamina from last winter. After two hours of pre-dawn lecture writing (I have a class to present this morning), I crawled back to bed.

And then I did what I do just about every morning: I watched the morning come in.

Some days (today) I am more awake for this than on other days, but rarely does this hour pass without me noting its stunning beauty.

I keep the curtains open in the bedroom. It is completely private: only the white pines that I planted years ago can witness what takes place inside this great room. And I keep the window open. Not in the dead of winter, but at all other times.

And so the day starts with a bird chorus and a misty green outside – gray at first, and more translucent as the sun breaks loose.

In all my travels, no wake-up scene has impressed me more. And I know that it will no longer be with me when I begin my mornings at Bassett.

This morning, just before dawn, from my pillow: sublime.

but soft, what light through yonder window breaks?