2 days ago
Friday, February 11, 2005
In New York: The Gates pre-show
I take my time this morning. It’s almost as if I don’t want to be overwhelmed just yet.
[Besides, the wind is vicious. Last night, the flight into La Guardia battled the invisible bursts of air and I think many of us wondered if the plane would give up and land at any random place, instead of the runway. In the end it was routed the “old” way, the way you used to fly in before September 11th, just to the right of Manhattan. The man next to me, sitting huddled into his jacket with a cap pulled low over his head, became excited by the flight, the winds, the entire experience. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a candy bar and insisted that I share. So sweet – both the candy bar and him.]
But by 9, I can’t take my own diddling and I head out, up on 64th where I am staying, into Central Park at the Zoo entrance.
And immediately I see the difference between this and Christo’s earlier California art project, “Running Fence.” New York’s “The Gates” (or, in its full name: “The Gates Central Park, New York City 1979 – 2005,” referring to the time it took, logistically, politically, otherwise, to put this 16-day wonder on the City turf) are not a contiguous serpentine. They follow a curve, a path, a road and then they stop, only to be picked up again elsewhere.
The result is nothing short of magnificent. True, the colors were matched to this day: the blue of the sky reflects against the glass buildings, the grayish brown of the land retreats to the back and the contrast of the vivid orange against the blue becomes piercingly stunning.
I talk to a group of Gates workers. There are 600 scattered throughout. All are paid $6.25 an hour and are given one free hot meal each day at the park. Wisconsin? I know about Madison! – one says. It’s a progressive state, isn’t it? But so far from everything! Yes to all of that, I answer. Kristen, a worker from Seattle tells me to find her tomorrow. She’ll save me a scrap of fabric (they’ll be handing out swatches of it on a first come basis). Her friend, a retired New Yorker, lifts up the base covers and shows me how each gate was assembled.
I go to the Metropolitan Museum because there, from the Terrace, I know I can get an aerial view. But the terrace is closed to visitors today. A reception is being held there for Christo (people say he is French, but he only lived there later in life, after a childhood in Bulgaria). I go to the elevators anyway. Maybe no one will notice if I go there now, before any of the guests show up. They notice and turn me away. But I think I can catch the elevator on the second floor, without guard interference. I do! I alight at the Trustee’s Dining Room. A receptionist greets me. I tell her I am here just to take a few photos. I hope I sound official. My black coat hides my unofficial looking corduroys. She says – yes of course, go right ahead. I comment on the brilliant weather, the view, the beauty of it all. She smiles.
Outside again it is still cold. I buy a Gates t-shirt in support of Central Park Conservancy. And on Madison Avenue, I snatch a sample pair of prototype boots (next year’s style, sold for one fourth the price). I am lucky because French distributors always use my size as the prototype. The boots are almost orange. My day is complete.
[Besides, the wind is vicious. Last night, the flight into La Guardia battled the invisible bursts of air and I think many of us wondered if the plane would give up and land at any random place, instead of the runway. In the end it was routed the “old” way, the way you used to fly in before September 11th, just to the right of Manhattan. The man next to me, sitting huddled into his jacket with a cap pulled low over his head, became excited by the flight, the winds, the entire experience. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a candy bar and insisted that I share. So sweet – both the candy bar and him.]
But by 9, I can’t take my own diddling and I head out, up on 64th where I am staying, into Central Park at the Zoo entrance.
And immediately I see the difference between this and Christo’s earlier California art project, “Running Fence.” New York’s “The Gates” (or, in its full name: “The Gates Central Park, New York City 1979 – 2005,” referring to the time it took, logistically, politically, otherwise, to put this 16-day wonder on the City turf) are not a contiguous serpentine. They follow a curve, a path, a road and then they stop, only to be picked up again elsewhere.
The result is nothing short of magnificent. True, the colors were matched to this day: the blue of the sky reflects against the glass buildings, the grayish brown of the land retreats to the back and the contrast of the vivid orange against the blue becomes piercingly stunning.
I talk to a group of Gates workers. There are 600 scattered throughout. All are paid $6.25 an hour and are given one free hot meal each day at the park. Wisconsin? I know about Madison! – one says. It’s a progressive state, isn’t it? But so far from everything! Yes to all of that, I answer. Kristen, a worker from Seattle tells me to find her tomorrow. She’ll save me a scrap of fabric (they’ll be handing out swatches of it on a first come basis). Her friend, a retired New Yorker, lifts up the base covers and shows me how each gate was assembled.
I go to the Metropolitan Museum because there, from the Terrace, I know I can get an aerial view. But the terrace is closed to visitors today. A reception is being held there for Christo (people say he is French, but he only lived there later in life, after a childhood in Bulgaria). I go to the elevators anyway. Maybe no one will notice if I go there now, before any of the guests show up. They notice and turn me away. But I think I can catch the elevator on the second floor, without guard interference. I do! I alight at the Trustee’s Dining Room. A receptionist greets me. I tell her I am here just to take a few photos. I hope I sound official. My black coat hides my unofficial looking corduroys. She says – yes of course, go right ahead. I comment on the brilliant weather, the view, the beauty of it all. She smiles.
Outside again it is still cold. I buy a Gates t-shirt in support of Central Park Conservancy. And on Madison Avenue, I snatch a sample pair of prototype boots (next year’s style, sold for one fourth the price). I am lucky because French distributors always use my size as the prototype. The boots are almost orange. My day is complete.
In New York: saffron-colored fabric
7500 gates on 23 miles of footpaths in Central Park. An art project 26 years in the making – up for sixteen days then down again. Like life – born, then left only in the memory.
Christo, the artist writes that it is a golden ceiling creating warm shadows. Newsweek declares it to be a stunning extravaganza whose purity lies partly in being so impractical and ephemeral. Tomorrow, all the cocoons are opened. 7500 impractical gates.
This morning, I'm off to explore the emergent path of saffron. It is up and waiting. The sun is brilliant. The stage is set.
Christo, the artist writes that it is a golden ceiling creating warm shadows. Newsweek declares it to be a stunning extravaganza whose purity lies partly in being so impractical and ephemeral. Tomorrow, all the cocoons are opened. 7500 impractical gates.
This morning, I'm off to explore the emergent path of saffron. It is up and waiting. The sun is brilliant. The stage is set.
Would you accept $10,000 to shave your head and continue your normal activities sans hat or wig without explaining the reason for your haircut?
[In answer to a blogger’s question, as posed here]
Of course! I’d do it for $5,0000. I’d do it for free if a handful of good friends did it with me. I’d eat spiders and get a tattoo. These are only ornamentations in life, they speak to none of the essentials.
Besides, I keep a blog, don’t I? If you think about it, that’s more ridiculous than any of the above.
Of course! I’d do it for $5,0000. I’d do it for free if a handful of good friends did it with me. I’d eat spiders and get a tattoo. These are only ornamentations in life, they speak to none of the essentials.
Besides, I keep a blog, don’t I? If you think about it, that’s more ridiculous than any of the above.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Games, bets, no meals, no automobiles
Gary, an American living in southern Poland, throws out a question for his readers. The deal is we answer it in unison, posting a response on the same day (tomorrow) on our own blogs. Then we compare and contrast.
I had always wanted to do this during one of our blogger dinners in Madison. There, we’d have the pressure of time and no opportunity to cheat and peak. Still, an invitation to simul-blog is always to be treated seriously and so I signed on to the challenge. If you are a blogger, you might want to as well. Just follow the link to the post on trackingsuits. The handful of participants are a wonderful group of bloggers whom you probably haven’t read thus far. Check them out -- they all are thoughtful, creative, interesting and funny (plus Ocean supports any community that crosses an ocean or two -- from India, through Germany, France, to the States and of course, Poland).
I’m off to New York for a few days. Next post will be from there.
I had always wanted to do this during one of our blogger dinners in Madison. There, we’d have the pressure of time and no opportunity to cheat and peak. Still, an invitation to simul-blog is always to be treated seriously and so I signed on to the challenge. If you are a blogger, you might want to as well. Just follow the link to the post on trackingsuits. The handful of participants are a wonderful group of bloggers whom you probably haven’t read thus far. Check them out -- they all are thoughtful, creative, interesting and funny (plus Ocean supports any community that crosses an ocean or two -- from India, through Germany, France, to the States and of course, Poland).
I’m off to New York for a few days. Next post will be from there.
Games, bets, meals and automobiles
I never gamble. I do not want to depend on luck for my good fortune. I have never bought a lottery ticket and I have not touched a slot machine since I was seven and stranded in Vegas for a week (my dad had a car accident while we were passing through; it was his fault, too, but I pretended not to notice this little aside as everyone rallied behind him and caused him to come out financially unscathed).
But Marginal Utility offered a deal I could not resist: Rice on the Republican ticket in 08 - Tom says dinner on him at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. The TradesSports politics market indicates I have more than a spittin’ chance to eat my way to culinary heaven if I take on this challenge and so I signed on. My reasoning: it’s not a gamble, it’s a win – win. Rice is the nominee, I get to eat the dinner of the century. She’s not on – I relax (and pay for a round of drinks).
[Listening to her during this last week makes me a little nervous: she has a persuasive edge to her and she may in fact, if she survives the nomination process, pull out a win over our Democratic candidate X, especially since there is no candidate X who at this point even begins to spark anyone’s fancy. I’ll bet anyone (should I pony up a brand new car? If I win, will someone buy me a snazzy brand new car?*) that Feingold will NOT be on the ticket. Damn, this is how betting leads to corruption of the soul and an empty bank account…]
* This is a speculation, not a serious wager; the terms of the Feingold wager are yet to be determined. Always read the fine print!
But Marginal Utility offered a deal I could not resist: Rice on the Republican ticket in 08 - Tom says dinner on him at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. The TradesSports politics market indicates I have more than a spittin’ chance to eat my way to culinary heaven if I take on this challenge and so I signed on. My reasoning: it’s not a gamble, it’s a win – win. Rice is the nominee, I get to eat the dinner of the century. She’s not on – I relax (and pay for a round of drinks).
[Listening to her during this last week makes me a little nervous: she has a persuasive edge to her and she may in fact, if she survives the nomination process, pull out a win over our Democratic candidate X, especially since there is no candidate X who at this point even begins to spark anyone’s fancy. I’ll bet anyone (should I pony up a brand new car? If I win, will someone buy me a snazzy brand new car?*) that Feingold will NOT be on the ticket. Damn, this is how betting leads to corruption of the soul and an empty bank account…]
* This is a speculation, not a serious wager; the terms of the Feingold wager are yet to be determined. Always read the fine print!
Blogger Brian's beautiful baby boy is born
A few days late, but who's counting...
I am sending the link to Brian's blog not only so all can admire the picture of his (very new) son (some institutional pride here since Brian is a law student), but also because Brian's second blog (SosySteps) is always good to click on whenever you want to reassure yourself that there is indeed a new generation of wonderful children out there who will someday take charge.
Brian and Kris -- congratulations from all of us!
I am sending the link to Brian's blog not only so all can admire the picture of his (very new) son (some institutional pride here since Brian is a law student), but also because Brian's second blog (SosySteps) is always good to click on whenever you want to reassure yourself that there is indeed a new generation of wonderful children out there who will someday take charge.
Brian and Kris -- congratulations from all of us!
a cowardly, cowering ninny
Over on one of the European blogs, a writer wanted to take a pause for a day (I’m guessing that this was the motivation). He wrote something like this – okay you commenters (he has a fairly regular trickle of them), why don’t you have a conversation among yourselves today? And then he retreated. And they spoke up.
Now, everyone who has ever mentioned the word “blog” to me knows that I am terrified of random people saying random things and so I would never ever enable a Comments function on Ocean. I love it when people write emails to me and I almost always answer. Indeed, I have met some wonderful people in this way. Friends for life and all that. But I am way too marmish and sensitive to give free reign to readers who would, I am certain, slaughter me or something/someone that I care about in public while my attention was elsewhere.
However, today I was tempted, just for this one day, to let people talk while I took a back seat and listened. I have a hell-schedule of teaching and then traveling and I really did not think I could afford to take a moment to post anything. Still, I held back with this kind of an open invitation. Why? Because this is how I imagine the comments would look were I to solicit the words of random readers (I’m making up names, but the personalities are of people that I know read my blog):
Polish kielbasa is inferior to German sausage and in any event I don’t eat sausage. But this does not stop me from posting a comment! Because sausage rules and I rule and you Polish goons, geaks and freaks are all the same, pushing your keilbasa as if it were the import from paradise. Roll out the brats, dude!
-- raving anti-kielbasa lunatic
I came to your blog via xxxx (a PD blog from DC) and I expected some legal insights, given that you are a law prof. I must say I was horribly disappointed. May I suggest picking topics more profound than oatmeal in Pittsburgh or martinis in Madison if you wish to maintain some semblance of a professional reputation?
-- lawyer in limbo
Nie wiem co mam napisac. Na pewno mowisz po Polsku ale ja nic tutaj nie widze co by mi tu odpowiadalo.
-- niezadowolona z Warszawy
Hey muz, how come you haven’t answered our emails in the past 24 hours? And how come you never call? It’s all about your blog now, isn’t it?
-- a *relative* living far from home
I seekth thou, dearest, with sweet suggestion,
For willst thou giveth me indigestion
To think that all doth scorn my syrup
Thou kicketh my ass with one sharp stirrup
-- LDMsquared
O.M.G., it’s that lascivious, lecherous, lunatic again! Get him out of here!
-- embarrassed in eau claire
I recognize the communist overtones in your blog. I looked up your father and learned that he was a member of the Communist Party in Poland during the crucial years of Communism Over There. I am not a communist nor especially loyal to Poland but it pleases me no end to expose you in this way.
--Immigrant from you know where
And so on. Thinking about the range of possible contributors makes me produce more sweat than did the guy at the gym who covered the elliptical machine with a running stream of body water. So, thanks but I am too much of a thin-skinned and tender-hoofed ninny*. I guess I’ll just have to find the time for a (benignly marmish) post myself, work and travel notwithstanding.
*And inevitably someone from my past would write and point out that this was indeed my nickname while in grad school. I won it at a poker game and it stuck.
Now, everyone who has ever mentioned the word “blog” to me knows that I am terrified of random people saying random things and so I would never ever enable a Comments function on Ocean. I love it when people write emails to me and I almost always answer. Indeed, I have met some wonderful people in this way. Friends for life and all that. But I am way too marmish and sensitive to give free reign to readers who would, I am certain, slaughter me or something/someone that I care about in public while my attention was elsewhere.
However, today I was tempted, just for this one day, to let people talk while I took a back seat and listened. I have a hell-schedule of teaching and then traveling and I really did not think I could afford to take a moment to post anything. Still, I held back with this kind of an open invitation. Why? Because this is how I imagine the comments would look were I to solicit the words of random readers (I’m making up names, but the personalities are of people that I know read my blog):
Polish kielbasa is inferior to German sausage and in any event I don’t eat sausage. But this does not stop me from posting a comment! Because sausage rules and I rule and you Polish goons, geaks and freaks are all the same, pushing your keilbasa as if it were the import from paradise. Roll out the brats, dude!
-- raving anti-kielbasa lunatic
I came to your blog via xxxx (a PD blog from DC) and I expected some legal insights, given that you are a law prof. I must say I was horribly disappointed. May I suggest picking topics more profound than oatmeal in Pittsburgh or martinis in Madison if you wish to maintain some semblance of a professional reputation?
-- lawyer in limbo
Nie wiem co mam napisac. Na pewno mowisz po Polsku ale ja nic tutaj nie widze co by mi tu odpowiadalo.
-- niezadowolona z Warszawy
Hey muz, how come you haven’t answered our emails in the past 24 hours? And how come you never call? It’s all about your blog now, isn’t it?
-- a *relative* living far from home
I seekth thou, dearest, with sweet suggestion,
For willst thou giveth me indigestion
To think that all doth scorn my syrup
Thou kicketh my ass with one sharp stirrup
-- LDMsquared
O.M.G., it’s that lascivious, lecherous, lunatic again! Get him out of here!
-- embarrassed in eau claire
I recognize the communist overtones in your blog. I looked up your father and learned that he was a member of the Communist Party in Poland during the crucial years of Communism Over There. I am not a communist nor especially loyal to Poland but it pleases me no end to expose you in this way.
--Immigrant from you know where
And so on. Thinking about the range of possible contributors makes me produce more sweat than did the guy at the gym who covered the elliptical machine with a running stream of body water. So, thanks but I am too much of a thin-skinned and tender-hoofed ninny*. I guess I’ll just have to find the time for a (benignly marmish) post myself, work and travel notwithstanding.
*And inevitably someone from my past would write and point out that this was indeed my nickname while in grad school. I won it at a poker game and it stuck.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Teaching on a late Wednesday afternoon
The seminar room has no windows. And it is warm. Initially it had no desk or table at the end where I sit and so I would balance my tea mug, my notes, and my other papers on a makeshift, wobbly movable something that had slanting leaves, causing things to spill and papers to slide.
I enter dressed in proper teaching clothes: skirt and sweater set today. I keep my long scarf just in case the temps drop and I get nippy. But as I give an overview of a point (I’m talking about Burundi today, the class is Comparative Family Law and I want to demonstrate the interplay of customary law and imported general written law) I keep being distracted by the scarf. It reminds me of something the Pope would wear. Off it goes.
Is it me or is it hot in the room? It’s me. Off goes the top sweater, I am now in short sleeves. That’s better.
I want to keep going because the materials are so interesting (I would think that), but everyone hates teachers who sacrifice breaks and so I stop. I go up to my office, catch my breath, get more tea. On goes the sweater. It’s cold up here.
Back to the classroom for the final round. I get so into this topic that I sound hoarse by the time I’m done. I ask them if I had been shouting. They smile benevolently. Someone finishes her macaroni pizza. God, I’m hungry.
I enter dressed in proper teaching clothes: skirt and sweater set today. I keep my long scarf just in case the temps drop and I get nippy. But as I give an overview of a point (I’m talking about Burundi today, the class is Comparative Family Law and I want to demonstrate the interplay of customary law and imported general written law) I keep being distracted by the scarf. It reminds me of something the Pope would wear. Off it goes.
Is it me or is it hot in the room? It’s me. Off goes the top sweater, I am now in short sleeves. That’s better.
I want to keep going because the materials are so interesting (I would think that), but everyone hates teachers who sacrifice breaks and so I stop. I go up to my office, catch my breath, get more tea. On goes the sweater. It’s cold up here.
Back to the classroom for the final round. I get so into this topic that I sound hoarse by the time I’m done. I ask them if I had been shouting. They smile benevolently. Someone finishes her macaroni pizza. God, I’m hungry.
We begin a run with the rooster
If the Chinese New Year imposes Rooster-type traits on children born now (the Year of the Rooster starts today), I say hold off on your plans to conceive until we reach again the Year of the Snake. In a BBC article that describes the typical characteristics ascribed to people born under the different animal symbols (find yours here), I learn this about Rooster-ites:
People born under the year of the Rooster tend to hide their conservative natures via a display of aggression and self-confidence, however they are very "dignified". Roosters come in two types: those that are very somber and those that are very communicative. They love to be the focus of attention, showing scant regard for the feelings of others and as a result they are often susceptible to flattery and sycophancy.
Me, I was born in the year of the Snake. True, snake-types aren’t going to come around again until 2013, but it may be worth holding back on your desire to mate and procreate until then. Compare us to the above:
People born under the year of the Snake are intellectual, superstitious, sceptical, astute, have elegance, innate wisdom, and possibly some levels of supernatural capability. Snake people rarely seek independent advice or advice from others, possibly because on the whole they don't communicate well with others.
P.S.: I am working on my communication skills. That is something that you can acquire over time. Innate wisdom and supernatural capability on the other hand – those come from Snake-birth.
People born under the year of the Rooster tend to hide their conservative natures via a display of aggression and self-confidence, however they are very "dignified". Roosters come in two types: those that are very somber and those that are very communicative. They love to be the focus of attention, showing scant regard for the feelings of others and as a result they are often susceptible to flattery and sycophancy.
Me, I was born in the year of the Snake. True, snake-types aren’t going to come around again until 2013, but it may be worth holding back on your desire to mate and procreate until then. Compare us to the above:
People born under the year of the Snake are intellectual, superstitious, sceptical, astute, have elegance, innate wisdom, and possibly some levels of supernatural capability. Snake people rarely seek independent advice or advice from others, possibly because on the whole they don't communicate well with others.
P.S.: I am working on my communication skills. That is something that you can acquire over time. Innate wisdom and supernatural capability on the other hand – those come from Snake-birth.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Headed for ruin and damnation
Until recently I could honestly say that I disliked drinking virtually all alcohol save for wine and an occasional beer. Oh sure, there’d been a gin and tonic era in my past (they were so fashionable once, especially in the summer), and a bloody mary moment (so “brunch from the seventies”), and I pumped all sorts of cognacs and liqueurs into sauces and baked goods, but all those oddly shaped bottles basically collect dust in my cabinet.
So what happened? Recently I decided that nothing tastes better than a martini after a day of not-getting-enough-work-done. There are a number of martini models and martini-look-alikes that suit me just fine (and that number is growing). I like the entire experience, the glass shape, the fact that you almost never drink martinis alone (it hasn’t come to that), the jolt of cold, all of it.
My reader from Boston writes this morning:
Another nice thing about martinis: one can talk for hours about them. …[A]t one point in Harvard History Department circles, the Bernard DeVoto formula was favored (2.6 [gin] to 1 [vermouth]— but the ice factor is VERY important; you must experiment. Then it's perfect).
I’ll add this: you can read people’s martini stories for hours as well. There is something about the drink that spells adulthood, irreverence, precision. It is a brainy piece of art, a drink for the strong-headed. A classic.
P.S. Oh why don’t I just blurt it out: ever since cooking late at night at L’Etoile and hanging out with the chefs and waiters afterwards at the bar, I have also grown fond of Cosmos. But these have to be even more perfectly prepared than Martinis: Triple Sec, not Cointreau! And if you overdo the cranberry, you may as well pour it down the back of your enemy.
Like I said in the title, I am steps away from a complete spiral toward hell and damnation.
So what happened? Recently I decided that nothing tastes better than a martini after a day of not-getting-enough-work-done. There are a number of martini models and martini-look-alikes that suit me just fine (and that number is growing). I like the entire experience, the glass shape, the fact that you almost never drink martinis alone (it hasn’t come to that), the jolt of cold, all of it.
My reader from Boston writes this morning:
Another nice thing about martinis: one can talk for hours about them. …[A]t one point in Harvard History Department circles, the Bernard DeVoto formula was favored (2.6 [gin] to 1 [vermouth]— but the ice factor is VERY important; you must experiment. Then it's perfect).
I’ll add this: you can read people’s martini stories for hours as well. There is something about the drink that spells adulthood, irreverence, precision. It is a brainy piece of art, a drink for the strong-headed. A classic.
P.S. Oh why don’t I just blurt it out: ever since cooking late at night at L’Etoile and hanging out with the chefs and waiters afterwards at the bar, I have also grown fond of Cosmos. But these have to be even more perfectly prepared than Martinis: Triple Sec, not Cointreau! And if you overdo the cranberry, you may as well pour it down the back of your enemy.
Like I said in the title, I am steps away from a complete spiral toward hell and damnation.
Looking for something else and finding yourself
It turns out that for some unbeknownst to me reason, my photos come up on a Google image search pretty quickly. I was searching yesterday afternoon, for reasons that are irrelevant (as is most of my searching, I admit), for an image of Umbria (really, it doesn’t matter why, in the middle of writing my lecture I was looking up Umbria) and the first page, indeed the first photo that came up on Google was one from an Ocean post.
Now, I suppose that would be considered a good thing if you took it upon yourself to keep one of those photo blogs where people could come and admire (or so you hope in your delusional state of exalted pride) your photos. But Ocean is primarily a text blog and what also comes up is lots of text (always the last entry of the month where the photo is hidden). That is sort of funny. Or pathetic. Because I am sure that people looking for photos of Umbria are not a little surprised at where they are taken – to some lame blog of a Polish-born law prof in Wisconsin.
Welcome anyway. At least that first photo of Umbria is a decent-ish one. It would be terrible if the one that came up immediately was the one of me eating an ice cream dessert. Thankfully you don’t get to that one until much later in the search.
Now, I suppose that would be considered a good thing if you took it upon yourself to keep one of those photo blogs where people could come and admire (or so you hope in your delusional state of exalted pride) your photos. But Ocean is primarily a text blog and what also comes up is lots of text (always the last entry of the month where the photo is hidden). That is sort of funny. Or pathetic. Because I am sure that people looking for photos of Umbria are not a little surprised at where they are taken – to some lame blog of a Polish-born law prof in Wisconsin.
Welcome anyway. At least that first photo of Umbria is a decent-ish one. It would be terrible if the one that came up immediately was the one of me eating an ice cream dessert. Thankfully you don’t get to that one until much later in the search.
Monday, February 07, 2005
No, I did not attend a meat-eaters' convention, I am merely responding to the pressure to post more about FOOD
Tonight I had so much work to do that I went out for a healthy round of blogger martinis and cosmos. It did not end there. What started out as a meeting for a drink ended as many drinks and then some meat-eating. I think there were other foods proffered that evening. I think. Or maybe it was all about martinis and protein? I feel set for another night of work now. Really. Not sleepy at all. Not at all.
Polish lessons
Today’s front page of the Polish Gazeta Wyborcza can stump a foreigner. On the one hand, there is a headline where only one word is unrecognizable to the English-speaking person:
New England Patriots Zdobyli Super Bowl!
I mean, you can guess what “zdobyli” means in a second – consider yourself then a fluent reader of the Polish press. But in another story, I read about an asteroid discovered by a young Polish astronomer. The young man has naming privileges now and he solicited suggestions from the general public. Thousands sent in names and most demonstrated Polish pride (okay, maybe I would not have submitted “Kiełbasa,” even if is suggestive of Polishness). What they also demonstrated was the inscrutability of my native language. Forget the Super Bowl headline. Try saying these out loud (any of which could easily be spoken by a Polish kid):
Brzęczyszczykiewicz, Chrząszcz, Szczebrzeszyn.
We are a mixture of the unpronounceable and the Polenglish. A mysterious lot. But predictable as well. The winning entry for the unnamed asteroid? Karol Wojtyła.
New England Patriots Zdobyli Super Bowl!
I mean, you can guess what “zdobyli” means in a second – consider yourself then a fluent reader of the Polish press. But in another story, I read about an asteroid discovered by a young Polish astronomer. The young man has naming privileges now and he solicited suggestions from the general public. Thousands sent in names and most demonstrated Polish pride (okay, maybe I would not have submitted “Kiełbasa,” even if is suggestive of Polishness). What they also demonstrated was the inscrutability of my native language. Forget the Super Bowl headline. Try saying these out loud (any of which could easily be spoken by a Polish kid):
Brzęczyszczykiewicz, Chrząszcz, Szczebrzeszyn.
We are a mixture of the unpronounceable and the Polenglish. A mysterious lot. But predictable as well. The winning entry for the unnamed asteroid? Karol Wojtyła.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
The Gates
I know, it is wrong to be in Rome and not do as the Romans do, but I am a football ignoramus and so I benevolently tolerate the Super Bowl craze, but I never participate in it.
Instead, tonight I went over to a friend’s and we watched documentaries. Your adrenaline flow could not surpass mine, because I finally got to see Running Fence, the film about Christo’s art project in California from the 70s. Why is this exciting? Because Christo is again setting up his miles and miles of terrain art (titled this time “The Gates”) and the unveiling of this two week wonder (26 years in the planning) will be in Central Park this Saturday, coinciding with my trip to the city. Will I blog about it? Stay tuned.
Instead, tonight I went over to a friend’s and we watched documentaries. Your adrenaline flow could not surpass mine, because I finally got to see Running Fence, the film about Christo’s art project in California from the 70s. Why is this exciting? Because Christo is again setting up his miles and miles of terrain art (titled this time “The Gates”) and the unveiling of this two week wonder (26 years in the planning) will be in Central Park this Saturday, coinciding with my trip to the city. Will I blog about it? Stay tuned.
And speaking of mincing (garlic, etc.)…
A reader kindly requested that I increase the number of posts devoted to food. I cannot. I have a confession to make: I am taking a (rather extensive) break from major cooking. Indeed, today I restocked my refrigerator and this is how it now looks:
It would be even less full if someone hadn’t packed in a dozen cans of Klarbrunn many weeks back.
Have I grown tired of the culinary arts? Have I thrown in my polka-dot apron and replaced it with the now ever-present in the kitchen Dell Latitude? No. I continue to love to cook and I diligently have the Food Channel on every time I am at the gym, in case a new creative cooking idea pops up on the screen. But everything needs a pause and a rest in life and this is the season for me to withdraw from cooking (the exception: when people come over – then I am all about pots and pans again).
Do I not eat? Oh, I’ll broil a fish now and then. But I am discovering the simplistic beauty of eggs, cheeses and raw vegetables – hardly postable material! Not to worry, though. My trends never last. Today’s cooking calm may soon develop into a cooking mania. One never knows.
Have I grown tired of the culinary arts? Have I thrown in my polka-dot apron and replaced it with the now ever-present in the kitchen Dell Latitude? No. I continue to love to cook and I diligently have the Food Channel on every time I am at the gym, in case a new creative cooking idea pops up on the screen. But everything needs a pause and a rest in life and this is the season for me to withdraw from cooking (the exception: when people come over – then I am all about pots and pans again).
Do I not eat? Oh, I’ll broil a fish now and then. But I am discovering the simplistic beauty of eggs, cheeses and raw vegetables – hardly postable material! Not to worry, though. My trends never last. Today’s cooking calm may soon develop into a cooking mania. One never knows.
Ocean proceeds mincingly
Brian writes that if you type in ninacamic into Blogger, the spell check will suggest a replacement: mincingly (M-W def: “affectedly dainty or delicate”). Although some would scoff and say that a person who plunges into each day with spirit cannot lay claim to any such finespun imagery, that robustness is incompatible with something balmy and light, let me (timidly) suggest otherwise: Ocean does indeed at least aspire to be more subtle than bold, more whimsical than forceful, more delicate than coarse. Bottom line – Blogger spell check and I are friends. Mincingly is a better fit than schoolmarmishly.
Neither prudish nor school-marmish
Last night a friend mentioned that my reputation may run the way of Marion the librarian in some blogging circles. Oh, how wrong you, who think that, are! [And I am not referring to episodes of skinny dipping in my employer’s pool with the lively crowds that frequented the Connecticut summer residence where I once worked as a nanny.]
I want to raise a quiet thumbs up to references to sex and nudity (caveat: in their non-exploitative form, and I don’t care if that is a hard line to draw, it can be done!) though I’m still firmly negative on gore and violence. Just because I refrain from dotting the Ocean pages with words that would make Margaret Spellings ears turn pink, I see no reason why others cannot express themselves more *creatively*. There’s a long stretch of road from acknowledging our interest in sex and the various fascinating parts of our anatomy, to plastering highway billboards with pictures of naked women and men having sex with animals.
It came as no surprise that the public response to nipple-gate was usurped by those who were eager to turn this into an all-out campaign against any positive reference to gays or even cohabitants on network TV. A cleaned-up Super Bowl is a blimp of an event. An absence of racy dicey commercials may lead to a boring half-time, but in the scheme of things, it is just a moment in television history. The pendulum will swing back and Paul McCartney in a turtle neck will again be replaced by something more representative of our lust for the daring and the obscene.
But the door has indeed been propped open for regulation of a more invidious kind: the banning of references to sexuality (sad in its own right) has spread to a standing ovation in favor of the clean, the morally upright, the perfect heterosexual couple, raising the clean the morally upright, the perfectly groomed pair of children.
I say no. I’m all in favor of getting rid of violence and meanness, of cleaning up our discourse so that degrading offense is not bandied randomly, endlessly. But please, let's not go the route of a sanitized nation, where even this splendid Ocean post would be regarded as inappropriate for public viewing.
I want to raise a quiet thumbs up to references to sex and nudity (caveat: in their non-exploitative form, and I don’t care if that is a hard line to draw, it can be done!) though I’m still firmly negative on gore and violence. Just because I refrain from dotting the Ocean pages with words that would make Margaret Spellings ears turn pink, I see no reason why others cannot express themselves more *creatively*. There’s a long stretch of road from acknowledging our interest in sex and the various fascinating parts of our anatomy, to plastering highway billboards with pictures of naked women and men having sex with animals.
It came as no surprise that the public response to nipple-gate was usurped by those who were eager to turn this into an all-out campaign against any positive reference to gays or even cohabitants on network TV. A cleaned-up Super Bowl is a blimp of an event. An absence of racy dicey commercials may lead to a boring half-time, but in the scheme of things, it is just a moment in television history. The pendulum will swing back and Paul McCartney in a turtle neck will again be replaced by something more representative of our lust for the daring and the obscene.
But the door has indeed been propped open for regulation of a more invidious kind: the banning of references to sexuality (sad in its own right) has spread to a standing ovation in favor of the clean, the morally upright, the perfect heterosexual couple, raising the clean the morally upright, the perfectly groomed pair of children.
I say no. I’m all in favor of getting rid of violence and meanness, of cleaning up our discourse so that degrading offense is not bandied randomly, endlessly. But please, let's not go the route of a sanitized nation, where even this splendid Ocean post would be regarded as inappropriate for public viewing.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Parental discretion advised: the post starts out in a gentle, bucolic tone and then turns towards violence and murder
It seems that for years now I have been foisting Indian Lake Park on friends and family. They always tell me they like it, but when I suggest a return visit, they balk. Too far (it’s only 15 minutes northwest of Madison), too doggy (people do like to take their dogs for a walk there – it’s permitted), too hilly (why is this a drawback?)!
But today I may have found an Indian Lake sucker and she packs a camera – meaning she doesn’t tsk tsk with annoyance every time I myself pause to take photos. In fact she takes even more than I do.
Indian Lake is splendid. A birch forest covers a hilly terrain on one side, and on the other, fields stretch upwards, from the lake toward the tree line. In spring the birches dazzle. But in my current “I love February every since yesterday’s post and ever since it decided to be a record-breaking 50 degrees today” mode, they are equally beautiful now.
Two small incidents did remind me that we are not always at peace with the animals that roam the wild, or even those under human stewardship: two dogs were (playfully, we were told) mauling each other and in their exuberance, one decided to entice Ann into the game, nearly knocking her down in the process. Then, as we retraced our steps, we came across a large bone. Those dogs! -- we said. But a few paces further, there was another large bone, this one with a perfectly preserved deer hoof at the end of it, leaving us with these tricky questions: who attacked the deer? And are we next in line?
Oh, it did not strike me until now that maybe Ann will not be so fond of returning to Indian Lake County Park after all!
But today I may have found an Indian Lake sucker and she packs a camera – meaning she doesn’t tsk tsk with annoyance every time I myself pause to take photos. In fact she takes even more than I do.
Indian Lake is splendid. A birch forest covers a hilly terrain on one side, and on the other, fields stretch upwards, from the lake toward the tree line. In spring the birches dazzle. But in my current “I love February every since yesterday’s post and ever since it decided to be a record-breaking 50 degrees today” mode, they are equally beautiful now.
Two small incidents did remind me that we are not always at peace with the animals that roam the wild, or even those under human stewardship: two dogs were (playfully, we were told) mauling each other and in their exuberance, one decided to entice Ann into the game, nearly knocking her down in the process. Then, as we retraced our steps, we came across a large bone. Those dogs! -- we said. But a few paces further, there was another large bone, this one with a perfectly preserved deer hoof at the end of it, leaving us with these tricky questions: who attacked the deer? And are we next in line?
Oh, it did not strike me until now that maybe Ann will not be so fond of returning to Indian Lake County Park after all!
Law School: a place where enduring friendships emerge and where you're supposed to learn how to think like a lawyer. These are not mutually exclusive.
If someday you are lucky enough to have a class as together and as bonded as my Torts section from the Fall is, you don’t have to imagine you will never again come together as a group when the semester ends.
In spite of horrendous time/place scheduling issues, a reunion was indeed orchestrated and it took place at the Orpheum last night. [For non-Madison readers, this is an old movie-house-turned-restaurant (and theater).]
It was perfect. You’re all terrific. Thank you!
In spite of horrendous time/place scheduling issues, a reunion was indeed orchestrated and it took place at the Orpheum last night. [For non-Madison readers, this is an old movie-house-turned-restaurant (and theater).]
It was perfect. You’re all terrific. Thank you!
Friday, February 04, 2005
Posting on a quiet Friday afternoon
Yesterday, in an email exchange with a blogger and friend, we noted how little we actually knew about each other. One could argue that bloggers are people in search of stages, with not always a very interesting story to tell, that they seek audiences, that they reveal too much for no good reason.
And yet, my blogger friends (at least a good many of them) are some of the most guarded people I know (me included). If Ocean speaks for me, it does so quietly, I think, and the story it tells often is not an obvious one.
And isn’t it always like that with people? How many of their stories do we really know? I am reminded of a conversation I had a few years back with a relative of mine (whose identity and relationship to me, for obvious reasons, shall remain an Ocean mystery). We were sitting around a kitchen table, talking (this is a favorite spot and manner of communicating for me) and suddenly he got up, paced back and forth, faced me and said: “I killed a person once. You never knew this about me, did you? With my own bare hands.”
No need to worry, I do not think I am predisposed, by virtue of my relation to him, to commit heinous acts of this sort, yet it did strike me then that not only did I really not know of this particular episode of violence in his life, it is not the only thing that I did not know.
It seems to me that the dissatisfied person is the one who cannot live with that degree of mystery. The calm person accepts this inability of ours to find out much about the other, through blogs, conversations, or otherwise, even as he or she enjoys both the experience of perusing what little information is made available, and the experience of putting forth a little of his or her own life for someone else to take a look at.
And yet, my blogger friends (at least a good many of them) are some of the most guarded people I know (me included). If Ocean speaks for me, it does so quietly, I think, and the story it tells often is not an obvious one.
And isn’t it always like that with people? How many of their stories do we really know? I am reminded of a conversation I had a few years back with a relative of mine (whose identity and relationship to me, for obvious reasons, shall remain an Ocean mystery). We were sitting around a kitchen table, talking (this is a favorite spot and manner of communicating for me) and suddenly he got up, paced back and forth, faced me and said: “I killed a person once. You never knew this about me, did you? With my own bare hands.”
No need to worry, I do not think I am predisposed, by virtue of my relation to him, to commit heinous acts of this sort, yet it did strike me then that not only did I really not know of this particular episode of violence in his life, it is not the only thing that I did not know.
It seems to me that the dissatisfied person is the one who cannot live with that degree of mystery. The calm person accepts this inability of ours to find out much about the other, through blogs, conversations, or otherwise, even as he or she enjoys both the experience of perusing what little information is made available, and the experience of putting forth a little of his or her own life for someone else to take a look at.
A post card from Madison: rewriting the month of February
A reader from Massachusetts sent me an evocative note describing an early February outdoor ritual that she has put in place, and now I am wondering if I have been unfair to this month. She is right – there is something about the light outdoors that is a unique February phenomenon. And it is beautiful.
I cannot show it off well, not from a simple post of two photos that I took this morning during a walk along the Highlands, but if you look at the play of sunshine against the trees and snow, you’ll understand that there is a magic there and it does not appear in March, or April, or May. It belongs to February.
I cannot show it off well, not from a simple post of two photos that I took this morning during a walk along the Highlands, but if you look at the play of sunshine against the trees and snow, you’ll understand that there is a magic there and it does not appear in March, or April, or May. It belongs to February.
Role reversal
I received a notice of a preferred customer sale at Sherry-Lehmann (one of the top wine merchants in NY). Apparently I have been selected as one of their “Best Clients.” This surprised me, as in the last twelve months, I have purchased a total of 4 bottles of wine there, none costing more than $20. My love for good wine must have wafted over from Wisconsin – in other words, they could smell a sucker from a thousand miles away.
I left the brochure on the kitchen counter for several days, thinking it is a bit ridiculous to purchase wine in NY, given that Steve’s in Madison sells perfectly acceptable wines. But I am mad at Steve’s because they have not restocked their wonderfully inexpensive yet full-bodied Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03 and so I picked up the brochure from Sherry-Lehmann this morning and examined it more closely, reveling in my Preferred Customer status.
And I was tempted. Wouldn’t you be? A special private shipment is coming in from the south of France of Les Romains, Terroirs Historiques – Grand Cru quality at an every day price. “Light, pale yellow gold…citrus fruits…Chardonnay richness…competes with many top Burgundies…” Say no more!
I call.
You’re from Wisconsin? Madison Wisconsin?
Yep.
I used to live there. You probably were not even alive then… 1969 -72.
I was alive.
So you want a case of Les Romains?
Yep.
Don’t you have a good local wine store there?
Yes, but I am mad at them for not having any more of the Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03.
So you want us to ship you a case of this from the South of France?
Could you please? Isn’t it a nice, full-bodied wine with citrus fruits and Chardonnay richness?
Oh yeah. It’s a good enough wine. It’ll come sometime in mid-March. It’s still in France. I used to live right off of Park Street, near the Belt-way.
That would be Beltline. So do you have anything else, as long as I have you on the line?
Well yes, sure, but do you want my advice? Go to your local wine merchant and buy some wine from him. We’ll get this case out to you soon though. Take care now!
You’re from Wisconsin? Madison Wisconsin?
Yep.
I used to live there. You probably were not even alive then… 1969 -72.
I was alive.
So you want a case of Les Romains?
Yep.
Don’t you have a good local wine store there?
Yes, but I am mad at them for not having any more of the Sicilian Cusumano Chardonnay 03.
So you want us to ship you a case of this from the South of France?
Could you please? Isn’t it a nice, full-bodied wine with citrus fruits and Chardonnay richness?
Oh yeah. It’s a good enough wine. It’ll come sometime in mid-March. It’s still in France. I used to live right off of Park Street, near the Belt-way.
That would be Beltline. So do you have anything else, as long as I have you on the line?
Well yes, sure, but do you want my advice? Go to your local wine merchant and buy some wine from him. We’ll get this case out to you soon though. Take care now!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Why would I undertake the incredibly unrewarding task of simul-blogging the Apprentice?
Because I had a terribly long week and I need a diversion. It’s that simple. Ann suggested it, and it seemed preferable to surfing through yet another three dozen blogs and then falling asleep on the kitchen floor (remember: I have had almost no sleep in the last twenty four hours). Why not simply read a book? I need a new influx of reading material. Tomorrow I am sending out a dozen emails with the Q: have you read anything recently that you’ve loved?
Here’s the caveat: I have never seen the Apprentice. I am an Apprentice novice. I know about The Trump of course, and that’s reason enough not to ever turn on the show. Another issue that I have to face: I am so tired that I am concerned that I will not stay awake long enough to even see the beginning of the Apprentice, let alone the conclusion (is there a conclusion? does someone win? I do not know). If I suddenly stop, forgive me. Imagine that I am then asleep. Most likely on the kitchen floor.
CONTINUED:
Sixteen candidates are left. Who will be fired next? Oh. We only lose one tonight? Fifteen to go? To be resolved in fifteen weeks of shows? The Apprentice seems terribly long suddenly. Like a commitment to a semester of classes.
Okay. Suddenly someone is playing the guitar. It’s Danny. I don’t get it already. I am fired as a simlublogger.
No? Let me continue then.
A lot of people are talking about feelings. And teams! How did I miss that? Are there teams? Okay, I am rooting for this one! (Is there another?) (I am in over my head. On the Apprentice?! Yes, my IQ is higher than 100!)
CONTINUED:
Here’s Mr.Trump. The pink tie, the horrible hair, the bad performance – it makes me think that this man is famous ONLY because he is rich. Oh. That’s not an original point?
Now we are talking about Nescafe. I hear French-style music in the background. Actually I am reliving a nightmare: I have stepped into a class and I seem to have missed the first dozen lectures, yet I still have to take the exam. This is the Apprentice for me: the nightmare class that I joined mid-stream. Tomorrow I will get one hundred emails telling me I have completely misunderstood the show (ie not studied well enough for the exam).
This show makes me feel like a failure even though I have not been fired.
I am only twenty minutes into it. I know! I can fire myself from simulblogging!
Ocean, YOU ARE FIRED!
Here’s the caveat: I have never seen the Apprentice. I am an Apprentice novice. I know about The Trump of course, and that’s reason enough not to ever turn on the show. Another issue that I have to face: I am so tired that I am concerned that I will not stay awake long enough to even see the beginning of the Apprentice, let alone the conclusion (is there a conclusion? does someone win? I do not know). If I suddenly stop, forgive me. Imagine that I am then asleep. Most likely on the kitchen floor.
CONTINUED:
Sixteen candidates are left. Who will be fired next? Oh. We only lose one tonight? Fifteen to go? To be resolved in fifteen weeks of shows? The Apprentice seems terribly long suddenly. Like a commitment to a semester of classes.
Okay. Suddenly someone is playing the guitar. It’s Danny. I don’t get it already. I am fired as a simlublogger.
No? Let me continue then.
A lot of people are talking about feelings. And teams! How did I miss that? Are there teams? Okay, I am rooting for this one! (Is there another?) (I am in over my head. On the Apprentice?! Yes, my IQ is higher than 100!)
CONTINUED:
Here’s Mr.Trump. The pink tie, the horrible hair, the bad performance – it makes me think that this man is famous ONLY because he is rich. Oh. That’s not an original point?
Now we are talking about Nescafe. I hear French-style music in the background. Actually I am reliving a nightmare: I have stepped into a class and I seem to have missed the first dozen lectures, yet I still have to take the exam. This is the Apprentice for me: the nightmare class that I joined mid-stream. Tomorrow I will get one hundred emails telling me I have completely misunderstood the show (ie not studied well enough for the exam).
This show makes me feel like a failure even though I have not been fired.
I am only twenty minutes into it. I know! I can fire myself from simulblogging!
Ocean, YOU ARE FIRED!
Stuffed with rose jelly, glazed, and with a sprinkling of candied orange peel
My sister writes from Poland and reminds me that today is Fat Thursday – the day everyone in the country eats one (actually more like two or three) of these:
And now I know I have come full circle, because I remember blogging about Fat Thursday last year in February. If I began inserting reruns of posts would anyone notice? [This is merely a hypothetical question; Ocean remains true to its posted date.] Who digs into archives these days, given the wealth of current, freshly posted blog material out there?
Blogs seem tired if they have an older date attached to them, possibly because we associate blogs with commentaries on developing news stories. If I click on to someone’s blog today and I see a January post mark, I am disappointed. I think to myself – how stale! So why prowl around someone's even older material? And yet, believe me, my own Fat Thursday this year looks pretty much like my Fat Thursday did last year. And I am certain that people are standing in line in Poland waiting to buy a dozen doughnuts right now. Just as they did last year and the year before.
Blogs seem tired if they have an older date attached to them, possibly because we associate blogs with commentaries on developing news stories. If I click on to someone’s blog today and I see a January post mark, I am disappointed. I think to myself – how stale! So why prowl around someone's even older material? And yet, believe me, my own Fat Thursday this year looks pretty much like my Fat Thursday did last year. And I am certain that people are standing in line in Poland waiting to buy a dozen doughnuts right now. Just as they did last year and the year before.
Last night’s conversation over burgers on the Square
For some, it was a theoretical musing. For others, a very real dilemma:
In a search for meaningful relationships in life, which is the better choice: a passionate engagement with a person who has obvious faults, ill-suited to your needs and temperament, or a calm and steady affection for someone who inspires little else?
[Two of us gave a thumbs down to either option, preferring the risk of continued search than an engagement with mediocrity or petulance. Our third burger-eater is still waffling.]
In a search for meaningful relationships in life, which is the better choice: a passionate engagement with a person who has obvious faults, ill-suited to your needs and temperament, or a calm and steady affection for someone who inspires little else?
[Two of us gave a thumbs down to either option, preferring the risk of continued search than an engagement with mediocrity or petulance. Our third burger-eater is still waffling.]
Satin Pajamas
If you're like me and crave blog-terruptions when working late at night, may I suggest taking a flight over to the European best-blog awards (aka the Satin Pajama Awards)? The winners, announced this Tuesday, are worth a visit and if you want to completely abandon yourself to blogo-mania, you can spend a wonderful night just following the various European links found on these sites. Yes, I know, why stay up all night to work if you're going to be so easily distracted? Why indeed...
(If you follow the blog commentary on the awards themselves, you'll note some regional sniping and grousing over which country produces the fairest of the blogs. Who says blog-biting is a product of the American right - left divide...)
(If you follow the blog commentary on the awards themselves, you'll note some regional sniping and grousing over which country produces the fairest of the blogs. Who says blog-biting is a product of the American right - left divide...)
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Poles on the Pope
It’s hard to take seriously those who say that the Pope is just struggling with a bout of the flu. Haven’t they noticed that the Pontiff cannot hold his torso in an upright position anymore? And still, the Poles have hope, as if their privilege will end with the end of the Polish papacy. Consider this statement by Walesa:
"Every person past the age of 50 has some ailments and that is why we must understand…''
Indeed, the Pope, Mr. Walesa and I (according to Mr. Walesa) are swimming in the same sea of ill health. It may be the only time a comment is made that places the three of us in the same boat over anything. Oh, and the fact that we’re Polish. That’s it. No other similarities are readily identifiable.
"Every person past the age of 50 has some ailments and that is why we must understand…''
Indeed, the Pope, Mr. Walesa and I (according to Mr. Walesa) are swimming in the same sea of ill health. It may be the only time a comment is made that places the three of us in the same boat over anything. Oh, and the fact that we’re Polish. That’s it. No other similarities are readily identifiable.
I’m ready for my Benidorm leave
It’s February in Wisconsin – possibly the worst combination of place and time-of-year on the planet. The groundhog may feel ready to reach into storage and take out his bathing trunks, but I know this is all show and no substance. We have ahead of us a number of months (not weeks)where the dominant color outside will be a muddy gray.
Now, were I an employee of the large British food chain, ASDA, things would be different. The company has implemented a package of work-leave options for employees that is consistent with the British government’s desire to move more employers toward a greater appreciation for the “work – life balance.” One of the many* offerings is the so-called Benidorm leave (named after a Spanish beach resort) – available for employees over 50 who wish to spend winter months in warmer climates. I qualify! Oh, could I go for a Benidorm leave!
* Other benefits include: time off to conceive a child (recognizing that some couples need a little extra time and space…), grandparents’ leave, the usual maternity and paternity stuff, time off for religious festivals, etc. For those who are willing to forgo a salary but still want their job held for them, the company offers even more extensive “time off from work” options. If you have been an employee for at least three years you can take between 6 months and two years off for a career break.
Now, were I an employee of the large British food chain, ASDA, things would be different. The company has implemented a package of work-leave options for employees that is consistent with the British government’s desire to move more employers toward a greater appreciation for the “work – life balance.” One of the many* offerings is the so-called Benidorm leave (named after a Spanish beach resort) – available for employees over 50 who wish to spend winter months in warmer climates. I qualify! Oh, could I go for a Benidorm leave!
* Other benefits include: time off to conceive a child (recognizing that some couples need a little extra time and space…), grandparents’ leave, the usual maternity and paternity stuff, time off for religious festivals, etc. For those who are willing to forgo a salary but still want their job held for them, the company offers even more extensive “time off from work” options. If you have been an employee for at least three years you can take between 6 months and two years off for a career break.
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