from la vallée de la loire: porky leaves paris

Yesterday exhausted me. By morning I was still digesting the day's events and gastronomic highpoints.

But it was time to move on. The day, Tuesday, had to begin properly with a café creme and croissant. After that, it was a mad dash for the taxi, booked to take us to the station, where we were to pick up the little mini-auto.

We are off – heading for the Loire valley, chateau country – an apt destination for people who are not especially into the magnificent opulence of the chateaux.

[I drive, Ed navigates. Soon, Ed tosses the map aside as I refuse to listen to any of his instructions. Just because you navigated a boat from Maine to Cuba does not mean you know beans about French roads! It is proving to be that kind of a driving partnership. A hundred kilometers out of Paris I think of the days ahead and reconsider. Ed picks up the map and we forge ahead.]

I roll out of the car when we reached Chambord, the granddaddy of them all, the place that is so elaborate that it kind of makes you splutter. In December, this most popular tourist destination is completely empty. I do not have to wait a second to take photos with nary a soul ruining a pristine people-less composition.







The sky is so blue, so blue that it clears my senses and prepares me for the next pleasure. We head toward Amboise, home to another chateau. But that isn’t the purpose of the late afternoon stop over. This is:






Note several things. To the Q of would madame like chantilly cream on the tarte tatin or our home made vanilla ice cream? – I answer: both.

My travel companion sighs and loses himself in a book, blocking further witness to my food follies.



When were you last in France?
Oh, when I was maybe twelve…
Did you find it fascinating?
I pretty much avoided engagement. I kept my nose in a book the whole trip.
And this has changed now?


Meanwhile, my grin widens and my cheeks puff out. .





At dusk, we drive along the Loire, pausing now and again to watch birds dip their feet in the winter water.









It is evening. We arrive at a country inn with the ubiquitous name of Le Cheval Blanc. I have this very special French book that lists the country’s restaurant inns. They have very cheap, basic rooms appended to small eating establishments. These are not Michelin starred places by a long shot. But the chefs aspire to put them on the culinary map. They work their tails off to maybe someday make it in this crazy world of kitchen perfectionism.

Ed tells me: I cannot eat anymore tonight. The lunch of cheese and bread and tarte and chocolat chaud is still with me.

I glare at him and slam an imaginary door between us. I reassure madame at the inn that at least one will be downstairs for dinner.

The other one knows not to mess with me over food. We both make an appearance that evening.

In the meantime, we have a computer crisis. The chef-owner had written me back in the States that he thinks he has WiFi and that it may extend into other spaces of the inn. We have yet to detect any WiFi anywhere in this tiny town of not too many. My back up plan, dial-up, is also not working. It is dinner time. You, who feel the French are heartless and mercilessly wrapped in their world, I have said this before and I will say it again: I have come across the most caring, generous men and women here, on this side of the ocean, in this country of frites librés.

Monsieur le chef abandons his kitchen duties to putz and toy with my computer issue. Even Ed is transfixed by this. In the end, monsieur le chef takes us to his backrooms where la famille (granddaughters) is watching le telé. In the tiny office where he puts in orders for fresh langoustines and fraises de bois, he pushes aside his papers and allows us to set up shop with our machines.

Just let me know when you want to use my office. It is yours for the duration of your stay, he tells me.

At dinner, I reach a level of hero-worship heretofore unknown to any living soul. For this man of generous heart also has talent. Oh such talent! A quick run through the meal before I collapse. My dreams are already of the next day’s sights and pleasures. There are so many, so many to pick from. And they’ll begin at the table. Of course. It has to be so.



To amuse the palate, monsieur le chef proposes: broiled moules, baked chevre, hot tomato cappuccino, broccoli flan




My langoustines are the most tender I have ever had. Swimming here in a beurre blanc sauce, with slivers of veggies in a vinaigrette




Lobster, grilled with gruyere cheese, in a creamy crustacean sauce




Assorted cheeses to choose from: two. okay three, just for balance.




To clean out that palate: exotic fruit sorbet with rum




Custard with fraises de bois in a fraises coulis, dramatically domes by caramelized strands of sugar




Wake up, open the window, look outside onto the courtyard…




…and head down for breakfast.

from Paris: a work day

Monday. It’s gray outside. The temp hovers near freezing, just a touch above, but it feels colder. I take the RER to the university. Of course, I get it wrong. I am plenty early, but I manage to pace and wait for my hosts at the wrong platform. The cold is wrapping itself around my new French tights. Soon it will pierce their thin close-fitting shield. After that it’s a short trip to the bone.

Okay, I am saved total embarrassment. The dots connect, I move to the right spot, we meet up. Madame professeur is totally charming. She would make me feel welcome if I showed up in sneakers and a cowboy hat. Even though she herself is dressed ten times more splendidly than I am. And I am in my best teaching duds.

We meet en masse, the whole lot of them – professors, administration, you name it, they are there. It’s all good. I don’t discuss business on Ocean, but believe me, it’s way better than good.

But it gets even more wonderful. There’s our working lunch, for instance. I follow them to the local brasserie. It’s packed. Students, faculty, smokers, nonsmokers – oh, I want to take a photo! But I am on business, Ocean and business do not like to mix much.

I proceed to order what they order: a salad, poached salmon in an herb sauce, apple tart tatin with chantilly cream, white wine. Ooops! Le grand faux pas! I order my espresso with dessert. Wrong! It is an after the meal thing. I don’t think I ever knew that.

The talk wanders to private lives. Women are so skilled at this. By the time we’re done with the (two hour) meal, they know and I know all that could possibly change the course of human history. At least our own human history.

Another set of meetings. More progress. We have ourselves the skeletal form of a deal. The professors here have done their work. This will be a joy to run.

I take the train back to the hotel and change clothing for dinner. I had taken a minute (or two) to stop and shop. At least that which will visible above the table will be presentable.


from Paris: comparative analysis, part 2

Walking briskly to the dinner, don’t want to be late. Oh… wait! I see fruit pates in a store window. I may get hungry later. Enter pastry store. Buy 4, okay 6, okay 8 pates. I take note of pastries. I take photo. I have great lust for these guys, I do.



on my way to the Lutetia



passing a square with empty tables; too cold to sit out tonight

Arrive at restaurant. Uff! It is big time special, over at the nicest hotel on the left bank. I know it well, I’ve used the bathrooms here before.

I am early. The waiter asks if I would you like an aperitif while I wait. Okay, it will loosen me up. I amuse myself by taking photos in mirrors and sipping an aperitif Lutetia: champagne with spiked cherries and cassis.




hi, me!

One by one, my deal makers arrive. They note my aperitif and order the same. We are all spitting cherry pits together. This is going well.

We order the identical main course because everyone at the table except me knows that we are in prime Coquille St Jacque season.



over a bed of leeks in spices


The conversation is mostly in French. I tell them I understood 90% of it. I exaggerate. It's closer to maybe 70%. And I keep missing the crucial line. Like, when they were talking about adopting a Chinese girl, I did not get who was doing the adopting: the whole lot of them? The maid? Some movie star?

But I did understand our talk of forthcoming vacations. Here's what I got. And this is honestly presented. Ocean tells it like it is:

Typical American law profs (TALP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- grading exams, keeping up with holiday demands and/or hating the holidays

Typical French law profs (TFLP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- hanging out with local friends and favorite family members in the Basque region, eating tons of good food and occasionally saying something profound, like isn't this great wine?

TALP during the break between semesters:
- huh? What break is that?

TFLP during the break between semesters:
- three professors, three answers:
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps

TALP during spring/Easter break:
- it’s so short! Who can do anything! Maybe clean the house?

TFLP during spring/Easter break:
- time to open up the country home for friends and family. So come visit, we eat well! You are so on, pal!

TALP during big summer vacation:
- mow lawn. Oh, come on, we just took all that time off on New Year’s! Okay, maybe a day at Devil’s Lake is in order. You got problems with that?

TFLP during big summer vacation, two answers from two professors (I missed the third, I swear she said Guadeloupe, but I could be wrong):
- spend two months at favorite Michelin two star inn at the Perigord and one month hanging out in Sicily
- spend three months at Loire valley summer house.


I am walking back to the hotel, less briskly. I am thinking – I have people in the city of Paris that I would visit now. Strange. Paris, up until today, has always been just my own, left to memories that I created for it. It’s different now. Connecting with people changes things.

from Paris: briefly

What makes me think that the oysters were fresh last night?

The little wormy thing on the outside was moving like mad.



fresh and honest

What makes me say Paris is beautiful? Oh, come on. It is.



december view



walk across the Seine


Why is this post so short?
Today is my work day. I have day-long meetings at Paris University.

from Paris: if you know me then you’ll know that in Europe, on a Sunday, you can always find me in the nearest park.

There isn't a text that I need to add here. At the Jardin du Luxembourg the bright sun coaxes me out, the light wind reminds me that it is December. Still, tell that to the children, and those used to a pause on a park chair, or to the flowers that refuse to give up for the year. Tell them, go ahead, tell them that the season calls for different behavior. If you give us the light and the bright sky, we will come out and stand or sit facing the rays. And the children will run around us. This is the way one should regard Paris. Children playing around all of us. For a day one can believe that this still is a Paris for everyone. For a day. In the public space of a park. Wistful sigh...



le jardin




little girl with sucker




man reading paper next to blooming flowers




winter blooms




smiling at the boat and the ducks




the boat and the ducks




dad, showing the world (in photography) to the daughters in pink




facing the light



from Paris: it was the brest that did him in; for me it was the French coq

Saturday evening started in a tame mode. We went out for an aperitif. Twice the dense fumes of smokers drove my companion, “Ed,” out. At the third place we stayed.

My ruby drink set fire to the table. My French scarf warmed my body. A French man sat across from us at the café. He mumbled something. I mumbled back. Ho hum. Time to move on.


aperitif


At the quintessential Parisian bistro at a late late hour, I got fired up. The man at the table next to ours ordered a cheese tray. He took a portion. And another. And another. And still another. Doesn’t he know the unspoken rules of cheese conduct? I am in a tizzy. Oh, but then I notice that he is Italian. There is something in his manner. I know, it is unfair. Still, I am forgiving.

Ed stays calm at this point. He eats at a snails pace. Actually he eats snails (I say it was the fault of those snails).



les escargots


Me, I am ready for some French coq au vin. I haven’t had it for decades! Piping hot, with four soft, boiled, round potatoes at the side.



coq au vin

But then comes the brest. Paris brest. Puffed up in the oven, smothered with caramel cream, the size of a dinner plate!



paris brest


I eat it, Ed finishes it. Cognac aux pruneaux is surreptitiously poured into my coffee by the waiter. The rest is a blurr.

That’s it, Ed tells me the next day. I cannot take this pace every day.

Today, he stays in the hotel, resting. Me, I’m ready to go. One coq and a brest? What’s the big deal? I set off for the local Café.



reading the Café's own cookbook

from Paris: people doing their thing

My line is this: what I love most about being in Europe is watching people going about their daily lives. It sounds ho hum, trite, bahn-al, but it happens to be the truth.

Taking pictures of them – now that’s another matter. Yesterday’s walk produced almost no good shots. Actually, in truth, it produced no shots at all.

But today taking out the camera was a joy. Most people did not mind (with one notable store-clerk exception…okay okay, just tell me nicely, I’ll put it away). The sun was out and even though the temps were nippy, it was well above freezing.

Walking, watching, daring to shoot, with an apologetic smile, a nod of thanks, to you, who let me take these:




woman in beret, crossing street




family walk




boules on Place des Invalides




in the sun: child in a scarf and pigeon




winter roses and men talking




From Paris: Brittany snails and goat droppings

Of course, I remain drawn to the foods here. They compete for my attention. And today I came across some foods that made yesterday’s loot seem like cold potatoes (though sweet potatoes they were).

My traveling companion (let’s call him ed – nice and easy to type) ventured out with me for the hike on the left bank. His slow pace (ankle problems) was compatible with my desire to stop, look, listen, photograph. I did wear him out. But not before the look of defeat became evident on his face.

He had come more to get away from work and to prove me wrong about Paris than to revel in the life of this great city. But I know better. I have traveled here with reluctant Americans before: people who are willing to give France a chance but hold back their favors with respect to Paris. People who love the quiet of the countryside, who hate noise and the anomic nature of big city life in the States.

Converts – I’ve made converts of all of them. To stay in a Parisian neighborhood that has several local cafés to choose from, where there is no traffic, to walk through the parks, the backways, the great squares, to turn your back to the Eiffel Tower and face the children’s playgrounds – it’ll do it every time. And when they are bewildered at the serenity of it all, the civilized manner of the waiters, the bon journé greeting at every shop, when their senses are thoroughly confused by it all, I take them, smugly, to be sure, inside the food shops.

Ed lapsed into acceptance at my favorite cheese store. I could not pull him out. They don’t like idle visitors here – it’s small and cramped, they want customers. But he wouldn’t budge. He smelled the butter content and the washed rind, he looked and finally said – this is the guy who never spends if he doesn’t have to – I’m going to have to take some of this stuff home.

But I already knew I had him inching toward Paris-adulation last night. As he dipped the freshly baked bread into the butter, garlic and herbs swimming around the Brittany snail, he said to me: please, tell the waiter to tell the chef how good this is. I did. Because it was.




crotin de chevre: literally -- goat dropping




a mountain of tommes




favorites: blues and yellows




the snails that broke the camel's back


Indulge me. A day cannot pass without this admissions: the pastries here knock me out every time.




the only pleasant aspect of "divorce" is the pastry named after it




a refreshing moment at the hotel: tarte de Normandie

from Paris: comparative analysis

Local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art: which would you prefer? Time constraints make it impossible to indulge all your senses all the time. If you go to the museum, you’ll have to skip the neighborhood walk. If you idle away a few hours at a café, chances are you’ll rack up the calories (who can say no to the gateau or the tart there?) and your derrière will eventually grow too big for the tiny chair at the café table.

So you have to choose.

Same goes for pastry selection: local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art? Which one?

On my first day here, I have to say that I went all out. I went in and out of pastry shops, dizzy, seduced by the smell, the visual displays. Each time here, the offerings overwhelm me.

I checked out the local little place on the rue du Bac:




local flavor


I went in at least three chocolate shops, absolutely torn as to where my Euro should land. The Maison du Chocolat impresses. So does Cacao et Chocolat.



chocolate indulgence


Those are the giants. Then there are the little gems, without the name but with equal amounts of fresh intense flavors.

And of course, I paid a visit to my hero, Hermé’s where the lines were long, as people were anxious to bring one of these home for le diner.



high art


I promised myself ten hours on the stationary bike back home. I vowed I’d ride Mr. B every single day of the winter months. I swore I would do push ups and pull downs and whatever else is required. And then I went for all three.

from Paris: comfort and joy

My pre-departure checklist is long. It is always tediously long. By the time I cross off the last line, I am late for the taxi. I go down and o9Miraculously, the cabbie looks in the rearview mirror and notices me. Can we make it to the Union before the bus leaves for O’Hare?

I’m on time. But just barely. The bus pulls out. My traveling companion is not with me. He’s chasing his passport somewhere on the back roads of Oregon. People really do forget to take their passports. I thought that only happened in movies.

The bus driver is taking a circuitous route. There has been a major accident on the freeway. I am not surprised. It is snowing lightly. The roads are smooth and slick from the freezing wetnesses.

At O’Hare, we face near white-out conditions. A foot of snow is expected. It’s hard to believe that some flights are coming in. Not everything is canceled.

We sit in the lounge waiting. Everyone is quiet, mentally making contingency plans. The Air France plane has yet to land.

But suddenly, there it is, inching forward toward the gate as the ground crew pushes away masses of snow.



surprisingly, it landed in the storm



at the gate; a sigh of relief -- we'll leave tonight


When flights are precarious, passengers begin to sense the need for cooperation. We board quietly, apologizing for blocking aisles, fitting into our seats without complaint, making no demands on those around us.

A baby cries. How old? Just three weeks. First trip to Paris? I ask with a smile. My companion, with passport safely tucked in his duffle bag wonders if it is always like that: one mother sees another with a child and the heart melts with tenderness. I say yes, but I admit that I am relieved when the mother moves toward the rear of the cabin.

Two hours of deicing. The minute the snow is hosed off, with a milky yellow substances that flow like bile across our windows, new snow covers the plane.

But deicing means we’ll take off. And we do. We lift off, immediately entering the white nothingness, floating in swirls of clouds and snow. Airbus planes are notoriously quiet. This only adds to the feeling of being smothered by the snow storm.

We land in Paris. A crowded train takes us from the airport through the northern districts of the city – those same neighborhoods that were so much in the press the past few weeks. And what happens now? Do the discussions continue? Will they ever turn into something other than endless debate and denouncement?

My companion is traveling with a sprained ankle. He hobbles behind me bravely, but at the hotel he collapses.

Me, I set out. I don’t wait another minute. It’s past noon – people are already sipping their vin rouge and eating their salades and plats du jour. I head toward the handful of cafés around the corner. I pick one that still might allow me to order what I want (on the promise that I wont linger too long):



comfort and joy. with chocolate


If I had to now turn around and retrace my steps, returning immediately after my café moment, I would still tell you it was worth it. There is no greater comfort than the joy of having a café crème avec un croissant, made with the sweet Normandy butter that gives it its incomparable flavor.

But I don’t have to return. I am staying here with the bare chestnut trees. And it is warm enough. In the forties, just as predicted.

Paris, as she was when I left her, two seasons ago, a lifetime ago.



winter song

hold that flight, I want to get on!

Okay. Enough. Really, I have had enough. It’s freezing here. In Paris, it’s in the forties. People are sitting in cafés and enjoying their espressos outdoors (with the help of heat lamps). I’m outta here. Next post: from Paris.

[I’m en route today, will be in France tomorrow, for many delicious days. Fine. One day of very hard work there -- I can handle that, especially since much of it will be conducted in the French way: over fine food and wine. The other days -- well, there's France out there. In the forties. With outdoor cafés. And winter landscapes. And good French people, going about their business, doing their thing, cooking their foods, growing their grapes...]

why did you do it, nina, why??

Here’s why:

I wake up. It’s – 4 outside. Fahrenheit. If it weren’t the last class meeting of my Adorable Torts section, I swear, I would not venture out. But we had a pot-lock lunch class and as it is, it nearly breaks my heart, because they are there together for one last time and it’s sort of like letting your birds fly from the nest – what a dumb cliché – because I know that after today, they will never again sit before me, computers primed and ready, Net images dancing in front of their eyes as torts stories pop into my head, four days out of the week, every week this Fall semester.

And don’t forget the pizza karaoke thing…

So I know I have to get up and get going. But I keep pushing the clock until suddenly there is no choice. I need to force myself in the direction of the Law School.

And so I set out. On Mr. B.

…because I want to see what it is like, biking in the dead of winter.
…because I want to test B’s ability to brake on ice.
…because my commenter from yesterday almost challenged me to do it.
…because I would have been late for class otherwise.
…because it is so damn cold that I figured suffering intensely for 8 minutes would be better than suffering moderately for 22.

I’ll say this much. It felt very very cold.

a cold walk

In the mornings, I have been lucky. Someone is usually driving from the loft building to campus and I can ask for a ride.

In the late afternoon – not so much. Gone are the days of tooting Mr. B’s horn. He has not been out since the first snow fell. As the temps hover in the single digits, I think kind thoughts about the garage parking next to the Law School. I gave it up with good reason, but I admit to missing it now.

I try to leave campus before the sun completely disappears. And I make stops along the way home: Mifflin Co-op, the Café, they all give two minute bursts of furnace air. But then I face the wind again.

At the last push, over the railroad tracks, toward the brick building, I start humming Lara’s theme. Had I a moustache, droplets of moisture would freeze over it and I would walk into the building with purple nostrils puffing out the only bits of warmth left in my body.

Yesterday a man approached me just as I was nearing the loft – He was bundled with layers of scarves so that I could barely see his face. He asked – do you live here? Would it offend you if I peed by the garbage bins? What am I supposed to say? Is the alternative for him to come upstairs, use my bathroom, beat me, rob me and move on? I said – please don’t ask, I don’t want to see this, listen to this, leave me alone.

I didn't stick around to find out if he had done it, like a dog, against the bins.

I tried to explain to a young woman attending to the UPS counter later today, that coldness is differently felt at different stages of your life. Being chilled to the bone means more today than it did on cold walks during adolescent decades of harsh winters in Poland.

because, most of the time, I know how to protect myself

Winter, 1973. I am done with college. I need to leave New York. My work is complete.

I rent a room in a farmer’s house in the mountains of Italy. I want my sociology male-friend to come visit, but he cannot disentangle himself. I want my college girlfriend to visit, but she cannot disentangle herself. I am lonely. I take the train to Venice. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times. It is February, then March. The Venetian b&b owner knows that I am lonely. He reaches for me, there in his own house, with his son and wife in the floors above. I have studied the language, I know how to say no. I push him away and go out in the drizzly Venetian March air.

I am there again, years later when I travel back to Venice with my family – two little girls and a husband. We need a room. Behind the desk, the adult son looks at me blankly. I want to say “ call your dad – he’ll remember me.” I know he will remember me. But I refrain. We find another b&b. Better. Without the layers.

Spinning dizzying understanding

Most of you who read Ocean are not in any way connected with the legal profession. Me, I practiced the stuff and now I teach it. I am likely in some way responsible for the training of most, if not all, the young family law attorneys in town. Others teach about corporate mergers and acquisitions. I teach about marriage and divorce. If you practice either (what’s there to practice in marriage law?), likely as not you will have taken my class. Cool.

A commenter once wrote that I have never written with such raw emotion as when I was trying to sell the house. Watch me now.

I teach family law. I teach about compassion. I teach about clients who, for reasons too difficult to understand, cannot get it together at the time of divorce. I teach about lawyers and judges who are ill equipped to deal with what is thrust upon them. I teach about how impossibly difficult it is to make reasoned judgments in this area.

Okay. And then, suddenly, I have a personal issue that requires the intervention of the legal system. And I need to hire an attorney. And the other side needs to hire an attorney. And things are not going right. What? What’s happening? I did not say that! The other party did not say that! (The opposing party and I happen to be in good communication with each other.) Oh, suddenly I understand. The attorney on the other side is engaging in the art of exaggeration.

But wait, such conclusions! Where are they being drawn from? Oh! Reading blogs, I am told. The attorney on the other side reads OCEAN! Material from here? To be used against me? Poor Ocean is sobbing as we speak! That's just shameless! Oh, I cannot wait for this to be done with legal matters.

And now I am reminded of the time I was selling the house. Don’t write about this publicly – I was told. Keep quiet, keep quiet.

And I am reminded of the time I was called before the judicial system some 8 years ago, unfairly, on someone’s whim and fear. Keep quiet. This will resolve itself. Just keep quiet.

I cannot. I stand behind my life. I have made plenty of errors. I take responsibility for them. I am not ashamed to admit to them. But this? You, lawyer on the other side, shame on you. Shame. I will never teach my students to be like you. Yes, you may have won your case. Now go and sleep on it. Sleep on your conscience. Nighty night.

P.S. Had it not been for the asinine issue that arose, I would have been posting about my brunch this afternoon. And I would have said to you, pal, that I do indeed post photos of me smiling. Here's one that someone took this afternoon at said brunch.

make me feel like it’s December already..

My most recent days have had a lot of December in them. I may not write about it, but I certainly belong to the non-religious bunch who are nonetheless happy happy happy to:

a. listen to Christmas music;
b. put up the most splendid tree ever for the holidays;
c. cook, bake and otherwise think and work around seasonal foods. (In fact, I always gain at least five pounds in December. It is quite unfortunate that this follows the couple pound gain on Thanksgiving, but what are you gonna do…)

Okay. Holiday spirit. Here’s mine so far:

1. I was nice today to two friends. Over and beyond. C’mon! That counts!

2. Yesterday I bought a tree. I was told to get the biggest one sold. I bought the biggest one sold.



the challenge: to find anything in the heap of trees, for sale at the UW Forestry Club's annual tree sale


3. Dark chocolate, covering gingerbread. Yeah. That’s always on the list. I oblige.



suns, moons, stars


4. It helped that it snowed to high heaven today. I'm tickled to be walking, driving, skiing and otherwise moving in snow. I am. Today I walked. And within two blocks of my loft, I came across the risk-takers – those who believe in thick rather than thin ice. These dudes:



barely thick enough ice, during a winter storm


It’s a good thing that I am leaving the country next week. Otherwise I would be likely to post sappy little numbers here all month long. December is all about gloom and sap. Huge amounts of the latter, but always held in check by the former.

altered states

Caramels, from Vienna, with sea salt sprinkled on them. Mmmmm. Oops, there goes that tooth.

Extraction needed. I read Ann's blog post on this. Wow, that sounds like a nightmare! Better have a general anesthetic. Say what? I can’t drive after? I can’t party? I gotta take it easy? Forget it. Tough Polish peasant stock. Make friends with the surgeon by filling out initial form with BIG BLOCK LETTERS STATING PROFESSION: LAW PROF.

It gets his attention. So what do you teach? Do I say Family Law? Do I say Torts? No. Let there be no misunderstanding here: oh, personal injury, among other things. You know, medical malpractice.

Oh, and I want that laughing gas thing.

Man do I get a dose of the laughing gas. It’s like being totally drunk. My head buzzes in the nicest way, without the hangover. I think of all the wonderful people in my life. They seem more wonderful than ever before. I love ‘em all. I’m in love with them. I am making love with them. One at a time. What the hell, oral surgeon too, even though we just met. Pink cosmos are standing on the little dental table. God, I love having teeth pulled.

couples, part 3

So last night I took a friend and we hung out with the third in my list of cool couples.

Typically (but not this time) when I go there, I encounter a handful of others, mostly men, of varying ages, uncoupled men, or, if they are in partnerships, you get the feeling they wont last.

Both the he and the she in this relationship are professional white collar types. But it has not always been thus. For a number of years he was a Madison cabbie (and the assorted types who congregate here often are as well) and there is nothing more fascinating than listening to his tales of the city’s underbelly.

Because, apparently, there is an underbelly to this town. One that sweats its way into the open late at night. One where you suspect that the drop-off point for the passenger is also the drop-off point for, well, other stuff. One where poor women with children and with bundles that you imagine contain all their worldly possessions are transported to Beltline motels where they will await affordable housing.

God, you need to be tough to do the night runs. You need to insist on pay and try not to imagine how those dollars were procured. There is no romanticism or poetry (even if indeed, my friend, in his spare time, dabbles in poetry) about driving those who cannot or will not sleep. Though now, in the aftermath, there are tales to be told -- chilling tales with unfinished endings, for who knows what happens after the door slams behind the rider, never to be seen again by you, or maybe anyone.

[I have to say this: in addition to Madison’s underbelly, there is also the matter of this writer’s belly. I was told to show up for appetizers and drinks. Okay. I’m thinking peanuts and pretzels. But no. The photo tells part of the story. The rest is in my stomach.]


lox, leek cheese, fruits and stories

couples, part 2

About my second couple: last night was handed over to another awesome twosome in my trilogy of wonderful pairs. Mind you, when I say these three partnerships are wonderful, I make no comment on the nature of their relationship. They could be screaming and kicking each other all night long for all I know. I am only saying that, for me, it is cooler than cool to spend time with the both of them.

And whereas on Sunday evening I was pampered and peppered with French by people who have cousins living off of the wines they produce in the Sancerre region of France, last night’s couple has relatives that, like them, are as American as apple pie.

American: what exactly is so American about them? Can a transplant onto American soil even say something intelligent about this? Sure I can. I have eyes. I see someone making pink drinks and I think: it may be called a cosmopolitan but it sure feels local. American local. In Poland, only American wannabes (I’m guessing that's 64% of my country men and women) (please don’t write me in protest, I’m joking) (sort of) would even think of pouring anything into their beloved vodka.

Another example: I ask them about their relatives – if they trek down to any vineyards to check grapes for rot (it’s a curse for the French) and they tell me no indeed. Too busy volunteering for various political and social causes. You mention volunteerism to a Pole and he or she will ask “and what do I get for it?” And, too busy working at such American jobs as corporate forecasting for credit cards. Poles don’t work that hard and they don’t use credit cards.

Anyway, this oh-so-American couple feeds me regularly and welcomes me to their home and listens to my stories even though I am sure they think I am completely insane, because it is not unusual (like yesterday) for me to come in and note that I have had some dramatic event occur just moments ago. They know not to sigh audibly. They know that it will be a long evening and I will not leave before 11 before I get things out of my system.

(As a matter of fact I have been a lot calmer lately so perhaps my stories aren’t as dramatic as they once were, but still, they listen very very patiently.)

A good pal recently said this to me: Nina, you and I like to be with people who are different from us.

A correct statement. And it fits here as well. An example: this couple has young kids. At least, I think they still have kids. I haven’t seen them for months. I come there at 7:30 and both children are sound asleep. I am told. My kids were never simultaneously asleep at any time before midnight in their entire lives except at times when I drugged them (I mean with cough syrup).

And when I enter their home, dinner is cooking (see below) and there is no sign of a dirty dish anywhere. You know how it is at my place before a dinner party? Well-ordered and neat until about 5 when all hell spills onto every dish and pot, so that by the time anyone comes I feel that stacking things on the floor is the only alternative

Anyway (have you noticed? every first word of this post’s paragraphs begins with the letter A, how weird is that?), I am enthralled with these people. Obviously. So dearest daughters, I don’t want to hear any more claims that I am sometimes not sufficiently devoted to and intoxicated by things American. I am, to these people and by these people (in all ways: she makes the best cosmos in town). So there.







neat & tidy and delicious

peace

I lost a post. I worked on it in my spare (nonexistant) minutes, I tweeked it, corrected it , sensitized it because well, you know, people are prone to misunderstandings. And then, when I tried to bring it up, it disappeared.
Forgive me. I am spent. Tomorrow I will deal with my imperfect computer skills, Tonight I sleep.