...all things bright and beautiful

A blogging friend said to me recently – I’m concerned that my blog is becoming all photos of flowers!

Well yes, there is that worry...





But when we are running through days that properly belong to mid-May, warm days, days when blooms sprout in advance of any reasonable expectations...





...well then we become so mesmerized by it all, so enchanted, so energized, that the camera keeps spotting the flowers and almost inadvertently, it records the progress of Madison’s most beautiful early spring ever...





But just for balance, let me include something from today that's not a flower.

perhaps I'm old fashioned...

...but as we continue with another unprecedented (this calendar year at least) sublime day of warm air and partly cloudy skies, I can’t help but wish that we all dressed in prettier summer fabrics.

The switch on campus to shorts (very short shorts for young women this year, it seems) is instantaneous. None of the pretty cottons that are showing up elsewhere in the country. We like denim.

And that’s a shame.


But that’s the extent of my complaining. It is splendid to be in Wisconsin today. Absolutely splendid.

The morning ride is for me, for the first time, outright warm.





And the ride back is extravagantly beautiful.





Gorgeous colors, don’t you think? Now, can we scrap the denim and see some skirts with maybe tulip prints on them? Or pansies? Or peonies?

And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong I'm right, Where I belong I'm right, Where I belong

Taking an afternoon stroll halfway up State Street (the excuse? oh, I’m good at that: an espresso; I needed the jolt of good, solid coffee...) I thought – how different we would be if this was the everyday, as opposed to the single most gorgeous spring day in Wisconsin!

On Bascom Hill, there were the guys and dolls...










On State Street, there were the amblers and ramblers and generally, people of good cheer.

Walking back to my office, I overheard a student say to his buddy – such a gorgeous day! I think I’ll skip class! So maybe there is a downside to it.

Still, it was the kind of day I love to wake up to. From the very first minute, it invokes a smile.





The bird on my balcony, with the wisp of a green leaf in his beak, reminded me of a Beatles song:

I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
Where it will go...

People say that the song is about drugs. So many of the songs from that album (Sgt. Peppers) are thought to be about drugs. But I like the comment of someone on the Internet who seems to have read that Paul explained the lyrics as merely being about the roof of a house in Scotland. There was a leak, and he was fixing it.

I like that explanation. I’ll go with it.

I hummed the song all the way to work in the morning and then again, biking back home along the lake shore path.

rushing the growing season

I’m watching the pansies and violets quiver and shake. They’re freshly on my balcony and they seem so underdressed! I put them there because I like to rush the season. Time for flowers, no?






Separately, I’m watching the tomatoes inside ever so carefully. They need more light than my southern exposure would give them. They need to be outside, but only in the heat of the day.

Small scale stuff. I don’t garden much anymore (except when I am visiting Ed’s farmette, and then I merely want to pull out all the overgrowth). But when days are as good as these, biking to and from work is not enough. Getting hands dirty and worrying about the light for tomatoes helps.

leaving Boston

It’s late Sunday and I am at the Boston airport waiting for my flight. There may be a chance that it’s overbooked and I have already put myself on the list of those willing to give up a seat. I hate the idea of a prolonged departure and I hate even more the thought of catching a before-sunrise flight the next day, but a coupon with dollars toward the next flight would be helpful; I have to put in many many hours at the shop before I see that amount of money in the bank.

Still, I don’t want to be called.

I settle in to do my work, not knowing where I’ll be that night.


It’s an untidy ending to a wonderful day. Very early, the sun pushes the clouds away as we set out for the long walk to Sofra (a Middle-Eastern bakery, where we are meeting my girl’s friend for breakfast). That walk could go on for hours and one would not tire of it. Not on that spring day, not with the delicate colors of the season visible now in every small bit of yard space.






The Turkish breakfast is delicious, the baked goods – sweetly delightful. Such a good beginning to a day!










And then the clock seems to leap forward, leaving too few hours to revel in the gorgeousness of the day.






I gather my pack and we take the T toward Boston's North End – a place I remember fondly, as it had been one of my first encounters with Boston. I had barely finished college and my friend had moved to this part of town (I like it here – she had said then – the people in the neighborhood look out for you). She made dinner for me (chicken breasts with canned peaches – what can I say, the year was 1974) and we looked out at the fire escape and I felt like adulthood had suddenly descended upon me.

Now, as I walk the same streets of the once (and maybe still now) Italian community...





... I think how my youngest is older than I was then.



We stop for a very, very early supper – it has to be, I have a flight to catch and she has work to do – at the Neptune Oyster Bar. Do you know it? The oysters are carefully described, both in terms of source and also flavor. We order a half dozen local ones and then wait for the big treat – my beloved Boston meal of a warm, buttery lobster roll.





After, we have just a few minutes, just enough time to walk to the Modern Pastry store...





...where I can pick up some cookies for her...





...and then, too quickly, we head back on the T and I stay on for one stop before changing for the airport, and she continues on toward Cambridge, and the next time I see her, she’ll be a law school grad, just like her sister before her, and just like their mother before.


At the airport, they announce the boarding of my flight. No, we wont need your seat, not this time.


The skies a clear, all the way from Boston, through Detroit, to Madison.

in Boston

On any fine spring day, but especially on this fine spring Saturday, the thing to do is to walk.

... to cross Cambridge...




...get on the Red Line...





...to cast one glance at the Charles River...





...make your way to the South End...





...for some hearty Shakshuka eggs (with North African tomato sauce and polenta) at the Beehive, where strains of jazz create a sweet backdrop for a comforting meal.





... and walk. Among heady blooms and the promising light green buds of the most inspiring season.





... and then walk some more.





...noting the many ways we all welcome spring.






My daughter an I finish with our usual circuit. This time, the park pond is with water, the skies are blue, the grasses are as green. Such basic pleasures.






In the late afternoon, she suggests a museum that is unknown to me -- the Institute of Contemporary Art.  It's in Fort Point, across the waters leading up to the Harbor.





We have a fine hour looking through the exhibits, liking especially the candid photographs, yes, very much so, but loving also the views from the beautifully modern building.









Just a few blocks away, on a street of tall brick warehouse buildings, is a place that serves drinks on demand (aptly named Drink).






Tell us what you like, we'll come up with something to suit your cravings. I say -- spring like and refreshing! I watch mint being crushed with citrus juices. Sinfully good.





... and maybe with a bubbly addition? Such talent.





The sun is almost gone by the time we find the T stop and retrace our way on the Red Line across the river.






We eat at Helmand in Cambridge. The most satisfying pumpkin dish, followed by spicy meats and herby veggies.









In the end, a day to savor. Spring in Boston. With a daughter. What more could you ask for...

moment of joy, morning of sadness

We ate at the counter of Boston's O Ya. Plates of food that astonish and please all the senses.




The rain has stopped. We walk to the South Station T stop, pausing just for a split second to contemplate the perfectness of the moment.



I wake up to a bright and beautiful day.

...and I spend the hours reading all the Polish press online about the tragedy in Smoleńsk. Eighty-eight precious lives. A president, senators, military leaders, the grandchildren of those who died nearby, in another tragedy not too many years before I was born.

Today, it's hard to be a Pole.

from Boston

I’m in Boston tonight. Ed asks – why are you going now? You’ll see her at the end of May...
End of May! As it is, this will have been the longest time I’ve gone without a visit with her (I saw her last at Christmas time).

And it’s a last, of sorts. Sure, I’ll be back in Boston for her graduation, but this is the last East Coast daughter visit for just me. Her older sister is already back in the Midwest. And now this one is finishing her East Coast years as well, returning, too, once school is done.

So I’m in Boston. Wrapping up eleven years of being mom to one student, then both, and now just this one. And in a few weeks it all ends: from preschool, to high school, college, law school. All that school! Done!

I walk in the drizzle from the T to her home in Cambridge and think how there is much to like about this place. The university is a presence – overbearing, some would say – but I like its historic countenance and I like that history here intrudes in other ways as well.





And the modern angle – I love that! The food. We’ll be eating a mix of everything – from Japanese tonight to Afghan tomorrow and modern-ish New England Sunday. With New American and Middle Eastern breakfasts.

I meet her, finally, and we walk to Petsi Pies for a predinner nibble and a cup of coffee.





It’s a wet day alright. But so lustrously green and pretty too.

pushing luck

No one I know would admit to being a pessimist. People tend to view themselves as generally optimistic about their own lives (even as they may feel everyone else’s is falling apart). A small handful may tell you they’re not pessimistic exactly. More like realistic. Non-delusional.

Okay, but here’s a true indicator that generally, I belong completely to the band of optimists out there:

Perhaps you may remember that my purse rolled out of my backpack, most likely on the flight from Milan to Paris. That was Monday. Four days later I still have not cancelled my credit cards.

(If the finder of the purse and cards and licenses googled my name and came across this blog – let me assure you, there is a reward for a prompt return of everything. If you’re thinking you can use the cards – don’t go there. That plasma screen TV is not worth it. The New York Times reported that money and in general, the acquisition of consumer goods do not bring happiness. Returning missing goods, on the other hand, does bring happiness. The NYTimes did not say that, but I know. When I was 8, I returned $40 dollars that I found on the ice skating rink of Rockefeller Center. I still feel really pleased when I think about it.)

Why am I holding out (on canceling the credit cards)? Because I believe in the eventual return of the missing bag.

(I did buy a new bus pass. I can’t live without transportation. Though I did not yet get a new driver’s license. I can live without driving.)



So, yes, the jonquils will recover from the overnight snow cover, and yes, the tulip will release it’s tight hold and bloom its heart away for us.










At the core, I'd say  I'm an optimist.

the return

Well, it had to happen. After a break, the deluge.

Madison is under an April siege of shower activity. Rain when we arrive, rain this morning as I wait at the bus stop (without my bus pass – one of the casualties of the lost purse), rain when, last night, I pick up my daughter, here for a quick visit.

Work – there’s another deluge for you. April is a wonderful month alright, but it also wraps up a year of intense classroom preparation. It’s a month where you want to work at half speed, knowing damn well you need to work at more than full speed.


Spring turned cool today, but you can’t get discouraged. Notice the flowers – drooping and wet with beads of cold perspiration, but still flowers, on my way from the bus stop to the office.















Anyway, I am back. Over all, that's quite wonderful, even as I think back to my days there, on that scraggy island where people care more for where they are, and whom they eat with -- more so than about logging in endless work hours and amassing great wealth.

Life can be a challenge...

remembering Paris

This post is written in snatches, during the chaotic hours of the last day of travel. Not all chaos is miserable, but it is true that an excess of it can inspire a headache. The challenge is to contain it.

The day after Easter. We’re heading home. We have quite the pleasant flight from Milan to Paris. With magnificent views of the Alps.





I feel so buoyed by it all that even work seems pleasant: I take out my papers and spread them on my lap for the short duration of the flight.

We land. I gather my papers and stuff them in my pack. I retrieve my little suitcase and we take the metro to Paris.

...Where dusk is setting in and people are out and about.





One short evening in Paris, and then we're gone. We have a very early flight back home. But, one short evening can be one fine evening on a night when the air is crisp, the people are still milling around in a pleasant post-holiday disposition, and the cafes and restaurants are crowded with a seemingly content clientele.

We’re trying out a new little hotel with a new face and an old name (De La Sorbonne, right next to – you guessed it – La Sorbonne) and fabulous prices. We are given a room with a gorgeous view toward the Pantheon.









We are happy to be here, happy with our week in Sardinia, happy to be returning home.

...until I notice, up in that lovely little room overlooking the Pantheon, that my backpack does not contain my black little purse. The one with all my licenses, credit cards, IDs and with all the cash that I had allocated for our stay in Paris.

I don’t leave things. I stumble and break cameras fairly frequently, I worry that I toss away papers I don’t intend for the trash, but I don’t leave things in hotels or airplanes or at the security check at airports. I am too compulsive. I double check and cross check and I zip packs to the very end.

Still, things happen. A passport fell out of my pack on a train ride to Milan four years ago and now (oh, cursed Milan!), on a flight out of that same city, my purse falls out somewhere near seat 18A and I am here and it is God knows where. Dubai maybe?

For one hour we try all available search tools. I make calls, leave messages, send emails. Getting nowhere, I put the issue aside.

It’s late. Time to give Paris at least a half-smile.

Stores are closed, wine shopping has to be put aside for another day, another visit.

We walk in the Odeon area of the 6th Arrondissement. It’s always so lively here. I like that. It makes me believe that in this world, people feel connected to one another in good ways.





We stroll past the oyster stand – Ed is always tempted by it and this time, perhaps feeling just a touch sorry for purseless me, he suggests that we take in a couple of big ones from Bretagne.





Standing on the sidewalk, with a swig of wine from the Loire. Heaven. I grow mellow.

We walk on, trying to decide where to eat. A grocery store is still open. I’m at least able to pick a rosé or two for home, but my heart isn’t in it. Who knows where my credit cards and cash are. Perhaps on a whirlwind shopping tour in Hong Kong. Or Copenhagen.

Again I put these thoughts aside.

We go to dinner at the possibly best comfort food place I can think of – Polidor.


I order a fish terrine and steak au poivre, followed by a tarte tatin. Ed asks for escargot and a chicken with morels. I’m regaining my balance. Life is fine, the evening is beautiful, what will be, will be.




















In the wee hours of the morning, we make our way back to the airport. The streets shine after a morning scrub. Paris is fresh and ready for the day ahead.





We catch the RER train and turn our backs to the city. The sun is almost up. Almost.






At the airport, we encounter the French bureaucracy in full swing. Ed grows terse (a rarity). Because we're here, and there is a room with objects left on planes,  but I cannot get to it -- not in person, not by phone. I must fill out an official form and it must be processed and eventually it will make its way to that room and someone will check to see if indeed it’s there. But by that time I will be in Chicago and sending it will be complicated and expensive. And, of course, one has to cancel credit cards and reapply for licenses, because one cannot assume a good outcome.

And so we fly back and I work on the plane and the irony is not lost on me that if I did not always insist on working during flights, I might have my purse in my pack right now.


Still, for a short little interlude there was Paris. In April. Lovely as always, but especially now.