a day

There is no such thing as a day without small, perplexing, sometimes annoying, oftentimes tedious little issues that crop up and require your patient attention. I find that if I do not have the expectation of an easy and quick fix, then they aren't nearly as annoying or exasperating as they otherwise might be. Let's take this day as an example.

I went to bed last night with summer sniffles. I blame the air conditioning in D.C., but really, if you move around in the way that I do, you're going to expose yourself to stuff. Sooner or later, you're going to be too tired to fight off every bug that assails you. I lost the fight this time. Ah well. It's just sniffles. Still, they're here to stay for a while. May as well get comfortable with that fact.

But they aren't so bad that I can't enjoy a breakfast on the porch. (Did Ed miss the daily photo when I was away? Probably not.)






Or to walk through the garden, to take stock of where my attention should go next.

Flowers?








(the awesome daylilies)




(more awesome daylilies)


Or raspberries?






The berries have it. They're practically falling off the canes, begging to be picked. Ed froze a big batch last week. Time to start baking with what's left (which is a lot!). I check the fridge. Low on butter. No yogurt or lemons. And to think I did a massive grocery restocking yesterday! I take out my list of things for today and write in: buy forgotten groceries.


In the meantime, I place my energies elsewhere. First -- the phone calls that have piled up over the weeks, including my *favorite* - to the Polish Consulate, still in pursuit of documentation verifying my existence or some such silliness. (You may remember, I started the process last May -- we're nowhere near being done, despite everyone's best efforts.) I decide to call the New York-based Consulate. Ah! I need to speak to the legal department! Well, the legal department is not in her chair right now. Could I call back at another time?

I mull over the difference between Polish and English.  You'd say "not at her desk." Poles apparently say "off her chair." I think the Polish words are a tiny bit funny.

I try several times and I finally do reach the legal staff person (so she must now be on her chair), only to learn of a new court document, certifying that I never appealed my divorce is needed to move things forward.  I call the Clerk of Courts in my home town. She has never heard of such a thing. And I've been working here a long time!  I tell myself that I didn't really expect the end to be in sight, did I? I write an explanatory letter to our Clerk of Courts and wait so see if they can come up with something that will satisfy the Poles.


Also for today:  my daughter needs help with her garden and so I take Rosie the moped out to her place. And I say hello to her fighting cats (the two new ones are being challenged by the presiding older cat, who was used to having total control over the entire house). Here are the two newcomers, hiding -- which is another thing they do superbly!










My daughter takes all their difficult personalities in stride. I admire that in her. She assumes the cats are here to stay and eventually they will come around to some common (if not necessarily affable) ground. Eventually.


Back at the farmette, we have a visitor. Long time readers may remember farmer Lee who worked the fields across the road from us before they were taken from her and handed to a corn/soy farmer. In the end she had nowhere to plant and she comes to us asking for use of land. She is struggling to find a place to grow market produce. She asks if we can let her work the land that is currently being planted by her "sister." Ed protests -- we can't do that! And so Ed and I talk about clearing more land to free up additional space for Lee's farming. It wont be much  -- maybe a quarter acre, but it's better than the nothing she now has. 

But it will take a while to do this. I listen to Ed chat up a guy who helped us by plowing the first field for Lee's "sister." There is much to be learned from the tenor of this exchange. Me, I'd have been tempted to push for everything to happen now! Or soon! Ed takes his time and presses no one. In the end, the guy with the tractor may stop by this week. Maybe farmer Lee will be growing market vegetables and flowers again. We're working toward that goal.


So you could say that of the things I started with today, only the weeds at my daughter's had a brilliant resolution: they're out! Everything else just progresses to the next stage, to be picked up and carried forth at some later time.


Later, much later in the afternoon, Ed suggests we pause for a nap. I can't do that very well, but I try. I listen to him breathe rhythmically and I tell myself that someday I'll move even closer to that state of acceptance of what any one day has to offer. Someday. For now, I just listen to him breathe in, breathe out. In, out.

meanwhile, back at the farmette...

It was too late to take in much of anything last night when I returned home. As I said, my one agenda item was to check if there was any damage to the suitcase contents. And so as we came in from the airport, I set my case down and sniffed around it to see if there was any tell tale sign of smoky, peaty Scotch.

There wasn't.

As soon as I opened the suitcase, I found that little sheet of paper that tells you that your bag was picked for a thorough manual inspection. Well I'm not surprised. The little case looked so odd and plump!

Still, the inspectors repacked it well and I breathed a sigh of relief as all bottles of Scotch survived the journey.

It was such a ridiculously issue-free trip. It took two and a half days to travel here from the Isle of Islay and you'd think that at least one of my multiple plane, train and automobile (and tram) connections would fail me. But none did. Indeed, I was 40 minutes early in my arrival in Madison and I sat on the curb waiting for Ed, who was running errands and could not be reached, as he does not own a cell phone.


In the morning -- and it was a very early wake up for both of us -- we resumed our conversation on several small issues that had arisen just before I left for Europe.

One had to do with Oreo the rooster. Something snapped in that bird around the time of the wedding: Oreo lost it. Though intensely bonded with Ed, he became suspicious of virtually anyone else. And so I told Ed -- the rooster has to go.

Now, to ask Ed to give up on an animal in trouble is something you can't do lightly. He will spend months, years patiently dealing with whatever problem that animal may present. And still, I kept repeating -- we don't know what's troubling Oreo and I don't want his hypersensitivities to cause him to act out every time someone who is not Ed approached the farmhouse.

Ed looks at me hard: You mean you're scared of a chicken?
Not exactly...
You're scared of a chicken!
I just don't like to be around a troubled rooster.

This has been our discussion all the while I was away.

Just a few days ago, he finally agreed that Oreo has to go back to his original owner.

And then he changed his mind.
One more try! -- he pleaded, setting up a special restricted enclosure for Oreo when he misbehaves.

It really seems that Oreo has become the main subject of our conversations of late. Intensely so!



Too, there is someone new to the farmette.





Not sure of her (?) sex, but she has been coming here for months, and though I used to chase her silly (out of a concern for the chickens and for old old Isis), in my absence, Ed took another approach (what a surprise): acceptance. And though I'd like to say it's all resolved and the cat is part of our clan, again things are rather in progress. Most likely she is a feral cat and most likely, we will be catching her and taking her to the vet before a release back to the yard.

The odd thing is how Isis seems not to care one way or another about her presence and, too, how well she gets along with chickens.  It's humans that she is afraid of, but we're feeding her and Ed swears that she'll remain an outdoor cat.

And BTW, her name is, as of today, Cameo, for obvious reasons. Cammie for short.






Ah, but all these details are secondary to the main thrust of this day, which is to gasp at the transformation in the yard. Yes, it desperately needs weeding and I spent the better part of this day doing just that, but mainly it is in its July glory and I have to throw some photos here for you, for me, for posterity.



(the early morning look)





(an iris, still going strong)





(the bells and the lavender)





(the tomatoes are just starting their run; this one is a new for us variety -- it's called indigo)





(the raspberries are incredibly strong this year! a reward for all that pruning and replanting)





(superb color everywhere)





(this bed is to the west -- best seen from the porch)





(the cheepers are doing well)





(in front of the farmhouse)


And so I'm back. And yes, of course, it's great to be home. Tremendously so.



(breakfast on the porch, of course!)

return

EARLY MORNING IN PARIS

I had it in my head that I should wake up in my tiny hotel room in Paris at 6:30, which would give me enough time to shower, do a final pack and walk over for the 7:30 train to the airport. I had been sent a message from Air France that everything must be charged or subject to confiscation, cameras and kindles included and so I was sure to top it all, just in case. And I gave myself time for the expected prolonged security check. The flight is the 11:05 to Washington D.C. -- even with added layers of waiting and long lines, I should have enough time for a coffee and a croissant at the airport.

That was the plan.

Here's the reality (it's going to be different than you think):

I woke up earlier. That's predictable. I always wake up earlier than I have to. Then I hear a ping on my computer. Email message. I want to ignore it. Probably junk.

Just thinking about whether to check that email wakes me up sufficiently so that it's pointless to try to sleep again.

The email, it turns out, is from Air France. Flight is delayed. But just an hour. At this point.

Damn. Could have slept more. 

All this means is that I go about everything in a more leisurely fashion. I stare out the window and think trivial thoughts. About whether Paris is more fun in the dead of winter or the height of summer, for example. It surely is wonderful to have light stream into the room just after 6 (as opposed to after 8 in wintertime). Even if there still is a moon up there in the morning sky.





Packed, ready to go. Suitcase has the addition of several books I picked up at the airport in Edinburgh. (Would you believe it -- childrens books! As if my grandchild, who is yet to be born, can follow the complicated story of the smart giant, as only the English can tell it!) Still should be within weight limit, but the suitcase is getting to be extremely stubby and fat.

Leisurely. Think leisurely. Okay, I'll walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. They're open now, though only the joggers' rhythmic stomp breaks the stillness at this hour. It's beautiful and empty and I am just in love with this early morning walk, just minutes after 7.






This will be my one glance at the Eiffel Tower...






But truly the star attractions are the chestnuts and the empty chairs and benches...






Satisfying. Very satisfying. A fitting ending to my short stay here. Sun is up. Time to get going. Just one last glance and I'll be on my way.






Done. I carry my lumpy suitcase down to the RER station. (The one fault of the Luxembourg stop is that there is no down escalator. Over the years, I've cursed every single purchase that bloated my suitcase and made my walk down these steps awkward. This time, I take it in stride. You get a lot less excited by trivial things when you get older.)

At the airport, they move the check in for the Washington DC flight to the (mostly) European terminal F (to ease the burden on the screening in terminal E, which has mostly intercontinental flights).  How will this work? It's the transatlantic flights that are doomed to have the additional layers of screening.

Well now, there are practically no lines at security. Even my (hard earned by frequent flying) fast pass is pointless -- it all moves quickly. And nothing extraordinary happens. No one asks me to power on any device. Most people don't even remove shoes. It just feels very normal. And fast.

And so now I have more than three hours at the airport. I'd say that's quite enough time for this breakfast.





FLIGHT

It is my first time on the new double decker Airbus 380 and after very complicated machinations, I find myself on the upper level (still sardine class, but fewer sardines up there).





It's a mighty big plane and I'll happily return to my lesser ones now that I sampled the flying giant. The downstairs section is too crowded and the upstairs sardines have to sit in the back, which is sort of like hanging onto a dolphin tail in the ocean: there's a lot more flipping and flopping back there when the air gets choppy.

Still, I had the only empty seat on the plane next to me and so I offer no complaints.


ON THE FARMETTE SIDE OF THE OCEAN


No sane person should ever pick connecting flights that arrive and leave from different airports. But what am I to do -- it's all I could get with my piddly miles. In D.C., I arrive in Dulles and leave from Regan (UPDATE: I'll leave that spelling for you, Regan, even though I ought to be a better proofer!).

Now, on the up side (or down side, depending on your spirit of adventure), I have a huge layover. Seven hours. Ed tells me -- go to the museums.  Tempting!

But the plan quickly develops rips and wrinkles. First -- the DC weather just doesn't jive with Europe's cooler temps. And I'm wearing my hiking shoes because they no longer fit in my wee suitcase. So that's a bummer.

Then there is the matter of the suitcase. Did you know that even if you send your suitcase through to your final destination, if you have different connecting airports you have to lug it from one to the other yourself? Well you do. And wishing to save money, I take public buses and metros. During rush hour. Whisky is heavy. As are the slabs of slate I picked up on the beach. And don't forget the chutney. So all this presents new and fresh challenges.

And one last little glitch in the "I'm going to have a fun few hours in DC" plan:  my Paris flight comes in late. Going through customs, catching that bus, connecting to the metro -- it takes forever. So by the time I drop off my suitcase at Regan Airport, my seven hour layover has just been whittled down to 2.5 hours -- not enough to motivate me to go back into town.

So here I am, sitting at Regan spewing off all these tedious travel details which would put anyone to sleep. Without even a photo from D.C. to add color to the post. Well, one: of the Capitol, as seen from the airport. Because it really is quite beautiful, even at a distance.





I'll be in Madison late tonight. I expect to do just one thing before crawling into a comfortable bed in the quiet of the farmhouse summer night: check to see if the bottles survived their long and complicated journey.

movement

Waking up in Paisley, just short of Glasgow, I know instantly I am off island. My room at the Ashtree, while pleasantly looking out on the green space to the back (and if you peer intently, to the church grave stones beyond!), is a room that reveals city skies and Scottish stone, made dark by too many years of history -- much of it not for the faint at heart. (Here's a photo of the front of the hotel. The colors are telling.)





Still, it was a good sleep, as all sleep in Scotland has been for me and I go down to a bustling breakfast room refreshed.

This being the UK, there is a cooked breakfast (their term for anything that has protein and is served hot in the morning), but I say a polite no thank you. It would be unfair to compare it to the fabulous eggs and salmon (with a dram!) on the island. Porridge: I settle for that, slowly winding myself down and easing into the habits of my daily life back home.






From here, I am less troubled about my connections. This is what I had dreamed of for my home state: rapid and frequent train connections to all key points north east west south of the city. Scotland has them. The trains from Paisley to Galsgow run every ten minutes. From Glasgow to Edinburgh (a distance comparable to that of Madison to Milwaukee) -- every fifteen. I ride with commuters who sit back and read -- what a luxury for your morning trip to work! -- or, just stare into nothing at all and imagine the day ahead.






In Glasgow, the switch to the Edinburgh train is so easy that it's almost laughable that I should have worried when I studied connections during the planning stages of this trip.

And in Edingurgh, I get off at Haymarket -- a stop that puts me right on the route to the airport. As of last month, in addition to the airport bus (in Madison, we don't even have that connection to the center of town which I think is shameful), there is now a tram that zips you right to it in style.





And at the airport, though I'm taking the cheap Easy Jet flight, I know I am within their weight limit and I know my suitcase is likely to survive the brutal handling at the airport. (A bit of a hopeful attitude there.)

The flight to Paris is on time, the weather in Paris is superb.

Of course I've paid my dues in the past. And tomorrow my connections on the return home, which I made with the use of frequent flyer miles (meaning you take what you can get and are thankful for it) are brutal and long, requiring patience and a bit of an adventurous mindset. I hope Islay has reinforced both in me.


Paris. What can I say -- may there always be a place in my life, in your life that allows me, that allows you to transition so magnificently from one stage to the next. Where you're comfortable and most everything is familiar, beautiful, sensually pleasing.



(my very first minutes are in the Luxembourg Gardens)


If I have one sigh of disappointment it's that my reliable and perfectly positioned hotel underwent a total facelift. And lift itself it did! Right into a category of comfort that exceeds my budget. I suppose someone understood that a place so close to the gardens and the river, on a street of magnificent calm and quiet will always fill its rooms, even if it charges twice what I'm used to. I have one last stay booked at special promo rates for one night sometime in October and I shall taste that fourth star that they so wanted to earn then. But only then.  (French hotels have somewhere between two and five stars; I nearly always stay in three and in the country, I'll consider two star places).

But today, I'm at the rather academic (three star) Sorbonne (it is across the street from that university and, too, their prices attract the shabbier pocket of a faculty person or a student) -- which is fine, depending if your next door neighbor is studiously quiet, or is in Paris, in Paris, damn it! -- to experience freedom from parents, institutions and the oppressive drinking laws back home. Tonight, it appears I have the former, thank God.



(the room is tiny, but good enough for me)


I really have no time in the city. None at all. I check into the hotel at around 6 in the evening and I need to leave at 7 in the morning so it's just a brief walk and a dinner, but I shall make much of it, that's for sure, because I need that brisk paced gallop up and down these streets, in the same way that I needed that marathon dancing spell at my daughter's wedding. Movement is so good for any number of things, transitions being one of them.


LATER

Walk accomplished. Scenes from it, coming up. It's summer so I never know if I'm photographing tourists or locals and honestly, does it matter? This is Paris:



(you'll see more children now, in July, than in any other month here. they're not in school and not yet away for the family vacation)









("where the hell am I??")




(this is the one time that I longed for Sorede: when I saw these market apricots, which probably came from there)




(love...)





(...is everywhere)





(as are raspberries)





(...and scooters)





(a selfie)



As for dinner? I don't want to do anything but eat a meal at a place that makes me happy and so I go to my reserved spot at  Pouic-Pouic. Lovely and lively, delicious. I am never disappointed.



(outside)





(inside)


As I eat my girolle mushrooms and crab, and my gambas (shrimp) and veggies, and my way too large portion of berries and cream and ice cream, I think about how they know me here, at Pouic Pouic and they know me possibly because I am the one who always come here to eat alone. They treat me royally and in fact, I think they over compensate. Today they comped me a desert wine and they always call me by name. Madame Camic, how did you like such and such, Madame Camic, would you like a coffee?

Do I mind eating -- or, let's broaden it -- traveling alone? Those of you who know me also know the answer to it: it's yes. Of course I would prefer to do all that I do with my beloved at my side! Of course I would!



(a small birthday celebration at the table across from mine)


It just cannot be. And so I toggle on and I devise trips that will satisfy my need to pack up and go, at the same time that they wont remind me too much of how it could be, were I living with someone who also loved to travel.


And now I am back at the Hotel Sorbonne, in for a too brief night of sleep ahead. I can't tell if it will be as solid as Scotland sleep. That would have to be tomorrow's post -- which, of course, will be slightly off schedule, due to travel.

and in the end...

In the early hours, I'm half awake, tossing a little to get comfortable. As always, I glance outside to see what the sky is doing now, knowing full well that in an hour, it may be entirely different.

Wisps of a sunrise over the waters of the bay.






It's somehow comforting to see the stillness of water -- a silent lullaby that lets me fall right back to sleep.

Again I am nearly the last one down for breakfast. Ah, the bay window table is free for me. A beautiful ending to my stay here.






But my flight isn't until evening. And cross your fingers that I'll be on it -- it's pouring right now and the small aircraft cannot land here in low clouds -- it is entirely a visual landing. I read about the year the plane mistook lights below for the landing strip. Turns out they were lights at a distillery. The pilot managed to avoid bringing the building down and all passengers miraculously survived, but the pilot did not. Since then, during poor visibility, flights simply do not come in.  I do a mental calculation if I would still make my overseas connection on Wednesday if I missed my flight out tonight. The answer is less than promising and so I push the whole matter aside and take on a "we'll see, life wont end" attitude.

At 10,  I have an appointment at the Bowmore Distillery. Perhaps you'll remember  -- my day with Eddie MacAffer was to culminate in a hand fill of a bottle for me to take home, but the hand fill was postponed due to labeling issues. Today is the day to finish, in effect, my meeting with the Master Distiller.

Andrew, my Guest House host comes along. Hand fills are rare and special events: a cask is selected for a limited bottling and the bottling is done by the buyer, straight from the barrel. Unfiltered if you wish. (Andrew says -- absolutely unfiltered! I want every last bit of that barrel flavor!)

Today's hand fill is from a Bordeaux wine barrel. Perhaps 250 bottles (that's how much the barrel holds) will be hand filled over the next few weeks. That's it. My Guest House host collects one from each of the hand fills and like many collectors, he picks up a second for drinking. These are whiskys identified for their superb color and taste.

It's pouring rain as we set out toward the distillery. Andrew remarks that it's appropriate that it should be thus. Islay whisky is not for hot and sunny climates. It is a brooding drink, potent and warming, perfect for the foul weather that sometimes hits the island.

Andrew takes over camera work as I am taught how to do a hand fill.












I cork it, label it and finally register it in their log book.





Eddie is here now, having been called in for the event from the peat bog where he was cutting grasses to allow the peat cutting to proceed.
In such nasty weather? I ask.
He shrugs. You do it no matter what.

I ask him and Andrew to pose for a shot. These two have been so instrumental in making my stay on Islay rich with memories!






Eddie signs my bottle, making it quite impossible for me to ever give it up, open it, do anything with it at all except keep it proudly somewhere in the recesses of the farmette.





We say our warm goodbyes -- but not for good. Next year, I'll show you things we didn't have time for during this visit, Eddie says.

I'll see you then!

I walk back to the Guest House now and I face the absolutely miserable task of packing my wee suitcase. If anything breaks, I'll be crushed. Cushioning bottles works well if you have plenty of clothing and lots of space. I have neither. This suitcase has to withstand four flights, two bus rides and three train trips. I do the best I can.

Right. Done for now. One last look at the spot in my room where I spent many an hour, looking out on the waters of varying hues.






Okay. Chores. There are chores to be done. When the rains pause, I set out to the post office. Ah, the rush of Monday shoppers! I am one of them. (The post office is on a hill; the photo is looking down toward the bay.)






Then I have a meandering browse at the book/souvenir/cafe shop all in one. And finally one last return to the Bowmore Guest House, there, perched on a hill -- with my corner room windows staring right back at me now.





The rain lets up a little, but not enough for me to go for a walk. Besides, I'm done. Bags packed, waiting by the door. Despite the fact that I don't leave until evening, this day doesn't feel like an island day anymore. It feels like a travel day.

My hosts Andrew and Alison have a flurry of last minute guest issues thrown at them just before I'm to leave. Nonetheless Andrew gives me a ride to the airport. This is the way they are. They don't work at being your friend. It comes naturally.


LATER:

And the aircraft landed on the island despite the rain and so my passage to the mainland tonight is assured.





Having booked this flight at the end of January, I had my choice of seats and so I am up front, by the window. As we take off from this at once renowned and at the same time deeply private island in the northern seas, I think -- I came as a curious onlooker, I'm leaving as an Islay friend. Maybe it isn't (yet) a deep or complicated friendship, but I know I'm not just passing through.

As we fly the short half hour to Glasgow, I ask the flight attendant sitting right before me how many of these various Scottish island flights she does in one day.
Four or six, depending.
And how many of them are in the rain? About half?
Unfortunately more than that! 

In fact, it's raining when we land in Glasgow. I haven't far to go -- I'm staying in Paisley, a small town just by the airport. The guest house (the Ashtree House Hotel) was the only one in my price range not torn apart by the crowd at TripAdvisor (though it had its detractors). What is it about Glasgow (and its surroundings) that it cannot produce a smile among those who make their way here? (The Ashtree is perfectly fine and the woman at the front desk knew that Wisconsin is America's cheese state -- how about that!)





I eat dinner at the Ashtree (included in the price of my room) and it, too, is perfectly fine in an old fashioned sort of way (north sea shrimp in mayo and ketchup, highland chicken in a cream sauce).

 And here's a relief: first of all, the Internet throughout this entire UK trip has performed superbly for me and second of all -- so far, none of the whisky bottles exploded in my wee suitcase.