from St. Paul. and Minneapolis: dancing with dragons

So, I appear to be stuck on this very unoriginal observation: it is winter here. And so what? It’s winter in more places than not. More of the earth’s land surfaces tilt back from the sun than toward it at this time of the year.

Still, this is indeed what I think of when I wake up in St. Paul on a February morning: we have gained a few more minutes of winter daylight. And by now, the novelty of this season has worn off. One is tired of the stubbornness of the thermometer. Climb out of the ditch already and move on! Preferably in an upwards direction.

Am I imagining it, or am I also detecting a tiredness in those who navigate this climate all day long? Stay warm, they say to me when I leave a store. Stay warm. Well yes, I’d like to.

My friends tell me that I am especially intolerant of the cold because I, too, must navigate it daily back in Madison (I walk most everywhere except to the distant Whole Foods). I think it’s that I do not have Nordic patience in the same way that I do not have save-for-retirement patience. Spring is the next season. I like the next season. Has anyone asked me if I’m ready for it? So ask me. Yes, I am ready for it.

I am hoping my host here is amused with me. The Twin Cities have such great virtues! Why must I speak of the cold as if it defines a Minnesota encounter?

But doesn’t it? Here, we eat hungrily and we eat well. Food is good here. I think to myself: it’s because you need to warm your insides. The raw food diet is not a Minnesota thing. Food cooked over a warm stove – there you go, that’s eating!

Last night’s fare: ravioli with Indian potato and squash in a Thai curry and coconut broth.



Brunch fare: a crustacean frittata, nice and solid. No trimmings needed, hit the core of the dish, eat it while it’s hot.



We walk the Skyways – paths of steel and enclosed glass connecting stores and office spaces downtown. An illusion of a hospitable climate, of a fairytale city where the temperature is always 68 degrees. Minneapolis, the Singapore of the northern hemisphere. But without the fresh air on my face, I am not fooled. I am in one big bubbleof stores and office spaces, held tightly together by a leak-proof wrap. They say there is a real world beyond this, yet no one wants to be a part of it. At least for now.









And at the end of the day, you find your car - so cold and unwelcoming. You left me out here! Go ahead, ride my chilly interior! I’m giving it back to you now. And when you step out on your driveway, you’ll get it in your face again. So there.

I remember being in Quebec last winter and thinking – full force, let me embrace this terrifically cold air fully, totaly. Let me skate in it, hike in it, stand and face the river winds, then sit by a fire and melt. (Only a hot shower would eventually take the freeze out of me.)

Minneapolis is gentler than that. Much gentler. And yet I run from the cold as if it had the power to knock me down flat.

Here’s a thought: tomorrow morning, I will do as the Quebecois and the Minnesotans do. I will step out, without reservation and face the cold. I will run, I will walk, I will dance up and down the streets of St. Paul. And she frolicked in the winter mist, in a land called minnehaha... I will celebrate its beauty, its crispness, its blues skies and pale winter light. Like this single character, dancing with the magic dragon:




It’s nice to hatch grand plans. Particularly for a morning that (luckily) is still many hours away.

from St. Paul. Or Minneapolis. (I can’t always tell)

It is remarkable that the four of us would choose a northern spot for our annual February reunion (we are of the same law school vintage), but we did. You had to be there at the time the location was discussed (it was when we were having that warm spell over winter break, remember? When we described it as a balmy spring-like winter?). The only thing I can now say is that it’s good we tossed away the idea of being further north. It could have happened. North seems fun when the temperatures are south-like.

The New York Times recently published an article on how Minneapolis is the du jour week-end destination. I feel hip and on the spot! I am convinced I booked my flight before the NYT corresponded ever submitted his story. I am in the right place! And I do like this place. These places. (Twin cities. Plural.)

(I think I would hugely dislike Minneapolis weather in April. I already have misgivings about April in Madison – one of those Aprils when it refuses to be anything but cold and brown. Minneapolis makes up its mind even later about moving into spring.)

The focus today was on architecture, yoga, memento acquisition and food (and drink, but that is a story for another post). If you have been curious about what's west of the Mississippi, you’ll (perhaps) appreciate these photos of a day of crossings – not of an ocean but of a river. Back and forth. To see what's on the other side.




Witnessed:

an original Gehry:




...the new Guthrie theater, outside:




But the real delight comes from being inside the Guthrie, looking out through windows with reflecting ledges (third image = reflection of Ocean author):












...and finally -- the Walker sculpture garden, the last spoonful:

from St. Paul, Minnesota

Chasing even colder temperatures, I flew up north for the week-end. A bit hard to post from here, but never mind. Just think of me sitting around warm spaces indoors and sipping lattes and talking. Reunions with great friends are like that.

did you ever wonder why Daniel Fahreheit placed the freezing point at 32, giving much space and consideration to all those temps between zero and 32?

It's because he was Polish. There, now you know. And so, on this once again colder than a polar bear's natural habitat day, I give you the story of why it is that we must call it "only" a "zero" kind of day.



A student came to me after class and recounted this story: the UW School of Pharmacology was recruiting students this week. To the admitted students who were to come up for a look-see it sent the following message: bring your coats! It’s going to be zero in Madison (or something to that effect). A southern type glanced at the message and threw her light jacket into the overnight. Zero. Wow. That’s when ice starts to form. That’s, like, when it no longer rains.

She came to Madison and discovered that the zero was a Fahrenheit zero. She never left her hotel room.

My student has kinfolk in the science world and so he knows stuff about physics that only the scientifically inclined would know. He told me that Mr. Fahrenheit placed the zero where he did because that is where he felt utter cold should begin. That seemed like a fishy urban legend and so I said good-bye to my student and dashed to the trusty Internet to find out the answer to this puzzling query: why did good old Fahrenheit give us the odd scale that we have now?

It's because Mr. Fahrenheit was Polish.

You don't believe me? Ocean readers are such skeptics! Read about it here, in an article by Maddox ("Blinded by Science" on Dicover.com). I know, most people do not follow links. Okay, here are the relevant paragraphs (emphases added). Read them. They're oddly funny. At least to this Pole they are.

Rømer was the man who in 1676 had first measured the speed of light, and his temperature scale, when he unveiled it in 1701, was a predictably abstract affair, of use principally to scientists. Water, Rømer declared, would henceforth be said to boil at 60 degrees and to freeze at . . . at . . . well, at 7.5 degrees. Yes, that's right: Seven and a half.(…)

To a young German physicist named Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit, the cold-blooded Rømer scale seemed to cry out for a sister scale, if not an outright replacement, usable by the general public. His alternative, published in 1724, was a masterpiece of populism, a temperature scale for the masses. Rather than worrying about what temperatures made various substances do what under laboratory conditions, Fahrenheit simply used 100 degrees to denote the highest temperature reached with any kind of regularity in Western Europe, and 0 degrees for the lowest. The scale was an instant hit, and for good reason. For the first time in history, a generation was able to know the thrill of watching temperatures climb toward 100 degrees over the course of a sweltering summer.

Better still, the Fahrenheit scale made it possible at last to generalize about temperature in a way that resonated with the human experience. It's difficult for us future dwellers to imagine, but prior to 1724, statements like "It'll stay in the 60s through the end of the week, and on Saturday? Dust off that barbecue, people, we're headed into the 70s. Chuck? Yolanda?" were simply unknown. You could say it was hot. You could say it was cold. You could even say it was 13.75 degrees Rømer, but the romantic and beautifully intuitive concept of a heat wave in the 90s was futurespeak.

Indeed, Fahrenheit's gift to the world was so liberating and transformative that people were willing to overlook its glaring flaw. At lower temperatures—those one might encounter during, say, winter—the intuitive poetry of the Fahrenheit scale disappears. You don't need to be a hydrologist to appreciate that there's a qualitative difference between the world at 34 F and the world at 31 F and that the Fahrenheit scale does nothing to reflect that. Glance at Fahrenheit's biography, and the reason for this jumps out. Although he lived and worked in Germany, Fahrenheit was born in Danzig, Poland, later named Gdan´ sk, the icy harbor on the shores of the Baltic whose weather would provide such a poignantly bleak backdrop to the Solidarity protests of the 1980s. To a native Danzigian, the temperature at which water froze was a thing of no consequence, certainly not when compared with the majestic, definitive coldness of his boyhood winters, and so Fahrenheit assigned it the not otherwise distinguished number of 32.

full plate

I do not mind busy. But I mind BUSY! I mind having no hours to sleep, fewer yet to write. Or to make amends where I need to make amends.

February is a challenge in Madison in the best of times. When work fills your plate and temps continue to fall, there really isn’t a lot you can do. The day is not yours, it belongs to others.

Outside, the shadows grow longer. And bluer.



I sat in the car this evening, motor running, then not running and I counted minutes (waiting to see how long before the cold would force me back out again?).

Someone asked me – do you often sit still in odd places and count minutes [tip: to count minutes, you have to count seconds]? Yes, I do. When time passes slowly, when I am waitng to move to the next stage (or to cross the street with an odiously long light), I sit still and count minutes.

Isn't it magnificent that at the end of an office day, you don't have to return home? That you can go to Borders and continue where you left off? With a latte.

then came the snow…

Why keep it just cold, when you could have cold and wet and windy all in one fell swoop?

And if you think it’s easy manipulating a camera in thick gloves, mindful of the lens and gusts of snow, think again.

There will be those who will argue it’s pretty out there, on Bascom Hill, in a post-card-New-England sort of way.



Sure, I’ll grant that. But walking home is tough. I shout out a greeting to a colleague – trying to keep myself covered! He answers – it wont help.

At least I left my bike at home today. And so I did not look like him, zigzagging across the road with a ta-hell-with-it attitude and a pile of snow on his shoulders.



Instead, I stopped at my local flower shop for a pick-me-up. On the second coldest day of the year, you have to look at what’s ahead – a season of these, at the market, soon. No, not next week or even next month, but soon.

documenting cold

Schools are closed today. Hmmm. That’s a rare one. Madison keeps its public schools warm and running even in threatening weather. But the cold, it’s the cold. Double digit negative numbers again and those wind-chills! Subtract another twenty or thirty degrees for the winds.

I need to head out. A twenty-five minute walk each way if I’m brisk about it. I’ll be brisk about it.

Outside, it’s bright. The illusion is of the Arctic, or at least Alaska (not that I have been to either). Train tracks weaving through a snow-touched terrain, empty spaces, a bike shop and that exapnsive northern sky. Seems right, no?



Eyes, all you see are the eyes, looking down, averting the wind. Hide the skin, cover up, watch out. But eyes get cold too!





It could not be! Some will opt for The Look over warmth. I would not be in her (bootless) shoes for anything. Her scarf looks full and protective. But a bare head? Today? Insane.



We’re a hardy campus lot though. Look, we fill the Library Mall as if it were spring! Open up, food carts, bring out the sushi and the gumbo (I rarely eat lunch from the carts, can you tell?), it’s lunch hour and we’re all out and about, enjoying the… Arctic blast. We have no choice.

How cold is it?

When it never even crosses into positive single digits, it’s cold.

I understand today is Super Bowl day. Here’s my attitude toward Super Bowl: Yes! So who is playing? (Bears v. some team whose name I do not remember).

But outside my window? Cold, supremely so. Furnaces working overtime.

your choice

Do you want more photos and stories of what it feels like to look out the window on a Saturday morning here in Madison? Knowing that we are experiencing the coldest week of the decade?
You sure?



I had to spend a day at the Law School again -- more meetings, workshops, etc. etc. I took a quick break in the early afternoon to run down the hill and get a latte (extra hot, please!). Not many people out and about. And even those used to winter here looked like they had had enough of this.



Forget about Madison for now. I'm offering a trip to Provence, France. One that took place in May, 2002. With strangers. Read about it on Ocean View, on the "Armchair Roaming" page.

behind bars

Stuck. From early morning until late at night, in the confines of my workplace. Meetings, more meetings, workshops, all necessary, all beneficial, I’m sure, but at the end of the day, the image I retain is one shared by any soul who has long days at work (meaning the vast majority of humankind) – of a day going by too quickly, with too few pages read, too few hands held, too few crushed spirits (at home, in school…) soothed.

There was a pause in our various and sundry meetings. I looked up from where I was sitting (in the corner of a law school room, where I could hide within my space and listen and watch) and saw this view. The Capitol, as a metaphor for the cake, out of reach for now, but waiting, to be approached, enjoyed, at the end of the day.

Too bad that I am in this month feverishly counting calories.

so...

Yes. And tired and thirsty (for wine especially) and generally worn down, to the cold bone, thoroughly chilled by my walk home.

When I passed this sign, over in the (Nitty Gritty) window, I knew I need take no other photo today.

simple?

No. Not for me, anyway.

I took my daughters’ car all the way to the west side and back again. Plenty of time to think about all the mistakes that can be made, not so much in life, but in a very brief expanse of time.

You could say that taking a photo through a dirty windshield while speeding on Campus Drive is just such a foolish act, but actually the traffic was moving very very slowly at the time. And the moon was out. And it seemed right.

I wish I could conclude that most decisions I make appear right months, or worse, years from their making.

Truth is, some do, some do not.

feathers

If I go through a day and I ruffle no feathers, I consider that a success.

On balance, I would say that half of the days of the week I do and half I do not.

The worst is when the feathers I ruffle are my own.

Walking home, I encountered this little guy. Stern, don’t you think? He is asking me – why do you do it? I can only shrug my shoulders. How do I know?...

shivering

Many shirts, a sweater and a wooly scarf – all for naught. It is cold. It isn’t as if I am hoisting the last scrap of wood into the fireplace. I live in a comfortable loft that has a thermostat and even though the forced warm air gets slightly tepid by the time it reaches the space occupied by me, if I keep the fan blowing long enough, it eventually does warm up the place.

I am cold in the way that one is cold when it all just isn’t enough.

I’m sitting at Borders, working away (some people work in offices; how boring is that) and my hand reaches toward my nose. It could serve as the cube that chills a summer beverage, it is that ice-like.

Earlier, I had done a brisk sprint through Shorewood, the neighborhood behind Borders. Not cold then, no, not at all (thank you, walking companion, for distracting me from the ice, the snow, the nip in the air).



That was then. Cold now. Really cold.

twisted

In the early morning, when the wind was beyond cold, I went out for a stroll. Yes, that’s right – a walk, up the Picnic Point path and back again.

Snow, wind, the cold tentacles of winter – I take them in stride. The twisted gnarled branches of life – now that’s another thing.

winter

There are maybe two days in the year when the weather in Madison is perfect for cross-country skiing. Maybe one will fall on a day when you actually have time to hit a trail or two.

You wake up, have your granola, do some light stuff around the loft and then someone says to you – nice day out there… you want to go cross country skiing?

Damn. It’s almost noon. Who can be bothered with the effort of getting out and swishing around on boards.

You look up the weather for the week, hoping to put off this very outdoorsy project for the next day, but, that Arctic blast that hasn’t yet hit Madison? It’s about to hit Madison.

So you go to Fontana Sports, you purchase things that you think are fitting for an afternoon in the forest (but you keep tags on, just in case), you tell yourself the forest green cap is exactly right for any number of occasions (isn’t it?), you rent the skis and you set out.

And then you remember how much you love skiing. The trail (Blue Mounds State Park, make a note of it!) is groomed – five miles of hills and dips and curves and you are just in heaven. You even take a shot at parallel turns down especially precipitous dips in the path, even though cross country skiers are supposed to commune with nature rather than speed down for the thrill of it.

Winter. Not so bad, not today anyway.


yes, there's a tag on the cap



forest and farms



not out of the woods yet

ice and snow and blueberry pancakes

Tight days mean little time for a leisurely stroll to and from work. I biked. With wet hair and a scarf flying in the winter wind.

And there was a winter wind. Ice, snow, I can handle it. (So could these students, just outside my office.)



But my mind was on other places, other mornings. And food. Here, read about it on Ocean View, "Ingestibles" tab, of course.

waiting

…for the big thaw. It is of little significance that the big lakes haven’t been frozen for more than a handful of days. In my mind, frozen water is a poor substitute for the spray and splash of the warm summer stuff, bedazzling at sunset, probably splendid at sunrise for the odd types who are drawn to watching that sort of thing.

Still, there are people who consider walking along the snow topped ice a pleasant, romantic little adventure.



I applaud them. I am happy for them and they are happier with the date on the calendar than I am. (In truth, it is unreasonable to speak of thaws in Wisconsin in January).

Me, I wait for the Terrace chairs to be out again, not piled against a wall, pushed away, irrelevant, undesirable, cold.



The best thing about biting, crisp days like this is that you’re glad when they are done with.

wednesday woes

I may as well set this up as a regular Ocean feature for this semester. Because, fact is, I do not have the required minutes (and therefore the creative spirit) to make much of anything of this midweek day. It is, and will be for weeks on end, too busy (with work) for words.

But maybe not for photos. As long as one wakes up and gets out of bed, there is never no room for grabbing your digital and taking a shot of the world.

So there you have it. My day ends with a walk along the lake. I have to give support to a fundraiser at the Monona Terrace convention center. Within walking distance for me.



Once there, I am lost amidst swarms of unknown people. What do I do? Consider hitting the dessert tray. Worth it? You tell me.

signs

What greater evidence is there of the beginning of a semester than the appearance of posts here, on Ocean, that are short, but not so crisp, and certainly not always to the point?

Walking home from work, with my camera dangling as usual in the hope that something wonderfully amusing or, in the alternative, fantastically clever will strike me, thereby forming the backbone of an evening story, I almost reached the loft before taking a single shot. And I chose to photograph this:



Why? Not for the cleverness nor amusement value, but for exactly what it is: the incongruous pairing of a sunshine motif with the reality of snow piled around bicycles.

Again, why is this of interest to me? I’m still contemplating my own March madness. Assume I have earned a week-end of downtime. Should it be in warm places (where oranges grow)? Oddly, I think it will be in a place that’s both cold (encased in snow) and warm (kissed by the sun) at the same time.

So many days between now and March. So many chances to change my mind.

mammoth thoughts about mammoth people, plus a photo of a mammoth tree

It seems that sometimes, people just take charge. Of a conversation, of a life, of a problematic set of circumstances. They seize the reigns, grab the bull’s horn (or is it tail?), they jump in and suddenly, they are towering and omnipresent, and their inclinations, proclivities, ideas and belief systems are ferociously palpable.

You might think that I would regard this as a bad thing. It smells of an aggressive, domineering stance. Most unwelcome, right?

No. Over the years, I have felt the strength of people who can do this effectively and it is incredible to behold. They tower over you, they appear to strike against your most pernicious fears and worries and then, miraculously, they step back and let the free-wheeling, independent spirits roam again.

It doesn’t happen very often (not the seizing the reigns, not the stepping back), but in my mind at least there are the rare types who can do it, have done it, are willing to do it. Heroes, to me.

buried

If, looking outside today, you leapt out of bed, downed a hefty bowl of granola, with a steaming latte on the side, slid into your warmies and your winter boots and dashed outside to play in the immensely beautiful snow – you were not me. Or even remotely like me.

But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.

I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.

A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.



But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.

week-end redirect

Looking for a story tonight? Ocean View (Save & Travel tab) has an update. What about? Oh, on this kind of journey:



It is far, far better to direct you there than to have me write about this cold, cold, work-filled day.

dear little one,

I didn’t mean it. When I told you that you were stubborn (back when you were only a week old), I didn’t mean it. Or, I meant it then, but I think now you were just communicating your willfulness. And desire. For food, for life, for the winter season. Making a statement.

That photo? You look so little, there in that field, with a bunch of flowers in your hair and sporting a New York t-shirt. A successful parent is one who can make you appreciate both – nature and New York (and Istanbul and Buenos Aires). And so in this way, I have not failed.



We toddled along, you and I. You, more patiently than I, of that I am certain. I forgave you your long hours at work and play, I forgave you your way of scorning the vegetables on your plate. And you forgave me my insistence that there be room for everything in your life (even the vegetables). And you tested and tasted life and made up your own mind and the one minute we were not watching, there you were, holding onto a plateful of good things.

Bold steps, one after another -- an early start, you walked before anyone on the planet. No one has your concentration, your attention to the finer details of life. Thank you for not dwelling on the imperfections that are all around us, even as I try to get a handle on it all, realizing that one never does fully get a handle on it all.

You fit in. In life, you fit in. You are that flexible, that curious, that tolerant of those with strong convictions (yes, I have food convictions, I admit it – and you humor me and work next to me as we pile food onto plates and trays, side by side, you and I in the kitchen – thank you for this).

Twenty-two is like two twos, two terrible twos only you were never terrible. It’s as if you skipped from being one, to a confluence of ages and years so that you have always been a child and an adult and you worried along with me when I worried about you because you understood that sometimes one needs to worry.

But mostly, your face has been a barrelful of expressions. You can make lizards dance with that mouth down pout. You have made us laugh hard.

Your sister adores you, your dad does too, and your friends, but move over, people, there is room for me! I adore you so much, my little one!

Happy birthday!

…with so much love…
~muz

PR

What’s in a word… Or in letters? What images do those two bring forth?

POLAR?

An obvious choice today. Light snow flurries, gray skies.

I need a break! It cannot be all work, I need a break! I meander. Just a handful of blocks, to Vilas Park, the zoo, empty now. No little children with cups of fizzy soda… So cold… Are there beings who do not mind this grayness, this utter chill?




PR... Public Relations?

In my days (are my days no more?), I heard a lot about PR. We need to do some PR work, our image is at an all time low. Do people still worry about Public Relations? Elected officials? Firms and corporations? Universities? Professors?

I do. Bloggers who use their real names have to worry about this. What image do you project when you write frivolously?

Whatever it is, it’s better than posting about the nonfrivolous: work. I love my job to death, but I rarely write about it. I am a photographer who does not turn on the power of the camera (I speak figuratively here) until the door of work slams behind me.

Thoughts like that come up as I sit immersed in materials, preparing for the next semester (which starts next week).


Puerto Rico

Of course! It had to be! An addendum to the post below:

What are you saying, that people should not go all the way to Puerto Rico for long week-ends? You’re kidding, right? It is the norm! That is why prices are so elevated Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Working people go away for week-ends. Self employed people do whatever they please. You are self-employed. I am not.
Puerto Rico is too far for a short trip. Five hours on the flight, each way…

I feel I am listening to my mother.

Too far…
No, I cannot listen to another too. I booked a room. Come or not, I’m off. A week-end in early March. So that I can smell the salt and listen to the steady ripple of waves.
Camping, would you consider camping? Hiking maybe?
No.

Some may consider a few days of warming one's toes in golden sands boring.



Not me.

fleeing the darker side of winter

Looks like the March sailing week-end is off. No boat to be had down there on the Keyes.
What?? (a sigh of relief… boats on choppy waters… go this way and that way, go this way and that)
But what I really say is – a week-end at a southern shore is what I long for on the cold dark days of January, February… What now?
What now… we’ll see… something will come up.

My occasional traveling companion just erased an image of boat decks and shorefront bars where sailors drink whiskey and smoke cigars. It’s what stories are made of. Gone.

Can we forget about the sailing bit and find a beach for the week-end? I have built my life around the image of the Caribbean blue waters in March.
Reluctantly: There are cheap fares to the Bahamas. People go there to gamble. Beach during the day, casino at night. You want to gamble?
No.
I don’t either… But that’s what you do down there…

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a cheap airfare and gambling.)

I’ll look up some fun and funky places to stay, where fans spin in tile-floor rooms and locals sit on bar stools in the lounge and sip on whiskey and rum…
Can you keep it under $65 per night?
That wipes out the vast majority of winter Caribbean destinations!
How about Puerto Rico?
I’m surfing the Net as we speak…
So, cheap places. Have you found any?

(Future traveling companions: The way to my heart is NOT through a constant search for the very cheapest room to be had on whatever side of the ocean you may find yourself.)

Who needs a beach anyway… It’s pretty, here, in sunny cold Wisconsin. True, the picnic tables will stand empty for another six months or so…



…but one needs to look on the upside of a January day.

Driving home late in the evening I focus on the upside of a January day. I try not to pay attention to the smoke suspended from chimneys, never seeming to go anywhere at all, held back by the cold. I try not to see that.



I bring back my now polluted daydream of hammocks suspended between palm trees and bars filled with sailors and locals, drinking whiskey and rum. The remains of an image. They’ll get me through a day or two.