bus ride

For you, who do not live in an extreme, northern state. This post is for you. It’s about a morning ride in to work.

I check bus schedules. Good. Here’s one at 8:30. Not too far from my front door. The sun’s out, but we’re not in positive digits yet. Brrr.

Darn. The bus isn’t here. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Brrrr.

Cheeks are feeling it, of course. Mouth too.

Ah, there we go. Bus. But wait. It’s a different number. So what. It goes downtown. It’ll do.

Nice and warm inside. Cap removed, gloves off. I look around. Many foreign students. I live not too far from apartments that are favored by an international community of scholars. So many ipods!

I’m getting comfy, but darn, this is a snail’s pace. Exodus of passengers at hospital. Ah – I took the bus that first goes to the hospital. International community knows which bus is theirs. Smart people. As opposed to me. I am taking the long way into work.

Finally. Close to my stop. Oh oh. Bus is in a resting mode. An accident just in front. Seems a car slid into the bus before us. Driver nicely lets us out. But it’s a bit of a walk to the law school. At least ten, fifteen minutes. Up this way:





Finally, in, just minutes before class. Cutting it close? No! That ride was supposed to be 13 minutes long! It was more like 45. Adjustment needed for the future.

Defrost in office briefly, load mug with tea, proceed to class.


P.S. Trader Joe’s roses are a steal. Brighten up your sweetie’s table with these:




Only $7.99 a dozen. Worth it. Takes the mind off of what’s outside.

the red bag

I had one, not too long ago. Bright red. I thought it would look bold. A woman on the move.

But, it was large and at the same time not commodious. So that my camera, for instance, could not be tossed inside.


I spent this day in my office going through mountains of papers, correspondence, etc, so that I could feel fresh and clean for the semester ahead. And I watched the snow fall and it was pretty, in a cold sort of way and because this was a holiday, I saw very few people on Bascom Mall.

Except the students with red bags. The sign of a new semester: red bags.




Not purses, mind you, but bags, filled with books for the classes they are about to take and I thought – red bags do make a statement and it was good that I had mine for the years that I did.




Even though at some point, you have to move beyond just appearing bold. You have to be bold, or else people will see through you.

making do

My state is focused on the football game this evening. Men in green take the mind off of the bitter cold. I tune in for the last five minutes and watch my home state team lose. It is often like that: I don’t care at all about a game, I tune it, I send my vibes of indifference and the team loses.

I’m sorry, Wisconsin.

I didn’t mean it. I am tired from working all day and playing not at all. I watch the sun move from one end of the room to the other. This marks my day. Last week I was taking photos of bees in rosemary bushes. Today, you get this:




My flowering rosemary at home. No bees.

Just before sunset, I take a walk. Past empty chairs and empty tables just outside my building. Poignant, no?





Still, I am not oblivious to the sharp air, the crisp contours, the harsh beauty of it all. How could I be – it is a cold but beautiful evening.




But I am sorry about the Packers. I really do feel homestate loyalty, even if I do hate football.

warm days, happy days

The warmth must come from within, because, after a multi-hour, multi-stage day of travel, beginning, pleasantly enough, this way…



…and ending with the coldest O’Hare bus ride ever…

I thought to myself – welcome back to the Midwest, where outside temperatures can be extreme and inside temperatures are never warm enough. It does not help that we are in for a week-end of Arctic, sub-zero temps.

As I wiggled the key and pushed back my condo door, I could tell right away. The furnace was dead.

Luck would have it that space heaters, on loan from when the furnace was out the previous time (just before I left for Europe), are still here, ready to be plugged in, so that I never really saw icicles inside my unit.

And eventually, someone will come and the problem will be fixed, so that there can be one interior in all of Wisconsin that makes me feel warm. Maybe.

Back in Cassis (and in Paris as well, but in Cassis this was just so extreme, I had to smile), everyone bundled up in heavy sweaters, coats, scarves, always the scarves, men and women, wrapped in miles of wool, even when the temperature hovered near forty or fifty. When you would go in to a café, you’d be greeted with a heating unit right at the entrance (hello! welcome! we'll keep you warm!) and oftentimes a thick curtain to kept the gusty air from permeating the rest of the space inside.

But, I live in a place that's more hospitable to polar bears and arctic hares and a harp seal. Maybe not a harp seal. And where no one thinks about putting a thick curtain by a café door, and where it’s perfectly acceptable to skimp on heat but waste resources on chilling the air in the summer. A permafrost land of thick skinned and warm blooded people. People like me, with a blood composition that matured in less frosty conditions, shiver and hide and dream about Cassis or New Mexico (I’ve not been there, I imagine it to have a near perfect seasonal variations).

Green grass, easily imagined, elsewhere.

Ah, but truthfully, I am happy as anything to be back, on this side of the ocean. Because it is home. And, most importantly, because I can easily pick up the phone and tell my petite fille, the one who isn’t so petite anymore, happy birthday today. One tap of the finger and she is there and her voice sings with the joy of her special day and I sit back and listen, thrilled to be so close, even though really, she is a thousand miles away. (But only one time zone. It's all in the time zones.)

Happy birthday, little one. I love you more than lilies and roses!

from Paris: going home

There is a new love of the outdoors in France. Cafés, bars, restaurants have spent more on heating lamps and other warming paraphernalia.



People are filling every inch of sitting space out on the sidewalk. Cigarette butts are littering the curbside all evening long.

And inside? Sure, still crowded. It’s France, after all – people have to eat. But there is a huge change, a perceptible difference: as of January 1st, every eating and drinking establishment is smoke free.

If Paris felt alive and bustling before, now, more than ever, it is a January madness out there. A wonderful sea of faces, a friendliness and joviality, spilling out along the city streets.





I’m heading home today. Seems that we could use some of those blankets in Wisconsin. And the heating lamps. And furs and prtable radiators and woolies.

Still, it’s home. I’m hoping that my heating system is up and running.

from Paris

So what would you do if you only had one day in Paris before returning home? (To a place where the forecast forebodes a high of 1 degree F on the day after your return?)

Toward evening, after a full day, even by my standards, I say to Ed – let’s get back. It’s getting cold. It is, after all, in the 40s, and there’s a misty drizzle of sorts. Not great for more walking. And we did walk. In fact, I say, as we get on the metro – we have twelve stops before we get back to our hotel stop.

Twelve stops? He asks. Did we really walk that far? Stops. Let me count them. We stopped first for breakfast, then at a store where you looked at clothes, then for an apple tart, then to look at the Thinker, then at the market, then at the Eiffel Tower, then across the river from the Eiffel Tower to look at the view back, then at another clothes store, then at the café for lunch, then at that Monet Museum. That’s only ten stops.

Than man thinks of unique ways. But, let it be his way. I wont post all ten – you don’t want to see me examining with longing the clothes at Maje or Et Vous and you certainly don’t want to see me yet again eating a chocolate croissant at Les Editeurs, where I nearly always have breakfast when I am in this city and nearly always post a picture of it. But the rest? Stroll along if you wish, after a brief introduction to Paris, recounting yesterday’s late arrival.

So, yesterday: we arrive. We’re cheap. No taxi for us, no. We want to walk to the Metro that will take us directly to our hotel area. Walk. With bottles of wine rattling around in Ed’s tote bag and in my suitcase. So we walk. From Gare de Lyons, across the bridge, to Gare d’Austerlitz. A mere nothing if you are unencumbered.

Pause for quick photo – there, in the distance is the familiar.





In the evening, we go back to a place I haven’t been to for years. It’s tiny, it’s good, it’s modestly priced and it has and always has had an appetizer that I love: endive tatin.





Okay, now let’s get on to Ed’s recollections of our stops today (with a couple of freebies – photos in transit from one stop to the next). Nothing extraordinary, or especially insightful, mind you. Paris for me is beautiful in the most prosaic, predictable places and happenings. It’s what I look for when I come here.

No. 3 for an apple tart on Rue du Bac.





No. 4 at the Rodin Museum




(after)




No. 5 at the market on Rue Cler (serious about cheese)





No. 6 at the Eiffel Tower. Because it’s on the way. And because it’s the Eiffel Tower.




(after: the boat, the car on the boat, and the metro above ground)




No. 7 on the other side of the river, looking back at the Eiffel Tower.




No. 9 for lunch. He told me to ask for ketchup. I obliged, but explained to the waiter that it was for him.




(after)





No. 10 at the Marmottan Museum – with all those Monets.





There you have it. A day in Paris.

from Cassis, France: the everyday

Nino’s staff is already prepping lunch when we go to the dining room for breakfast. They leave us thermoses filled with coffee and hot chocolate and nod to our request for soft boiled eggs. We’re part of the morning wall-paper in their large work space.

The sun is out, of course, with a light dusting of cloud cover. The air is fresh, damp from yesterday’s rain (they’re still talking about it). Outside, the small cars roll up to the restaurants with deliveries. A cook turns heads of lettuce, inspects them, buys the whole lot. Sacks of baguettes rest on a chair.





I think I should always vacation over a restaurant. Working in one is too strenuous. Watching others fuss about food is deeply gratifying.

We set out again to find the wineries. With maps and instructions now. How tough can this be?

We pass by the port where a fisherman is selling sea urchins. I ask him how early he pulls in each morning. Sunrise, he says. What, six? He laughs. More like eight. Okay, I’ll watch for you tomorrow – I tell myself. Maybe.






Finally. We come to the first vineyard and Domaine on my list – Domaine Bagnol. It’s closed. Bummer. I thought I heard “open until noon.” It’s nowhere near that. And the next one is far. Double bummer.

We walk along the highway. How pathetic is that! But, we are car free and proud of it, so now we have to share space with speeding, belching motors.

After being rattled by trucks and cars, we approach the Domaine Fontcreuse. Truly an Ah! moment. It’s lovely here. I taste, I buy, just before Madame closes shop for lunch.
















The vineyard is mostly on the northern slope of the cliffs. Just below the mixed forest. So tempting to climb up and take it all in from above! And why not. Ed hides the box of wines in bushes and we climb up through wet branches, bramble and firs, in every conceivable shade of green, up a slippery, muddy trail until Ed tells me to give up. The summit is far, the climb is ridiculously hard.

I can’t I can’t – I say this now to express my desire to continue. He shrugs and waves me on. My boots are a mess, but it hardly matters. I should write here now that I was rewarded for my efforts with the most spectacular view, but life is not like that. I shout down “you were right!” to Ed and retreat.

Still, the forest scamper was worth it. I tell Ed – “inhale deeply!” “Why?” – he asks. “It’s good for you!” And I believe this. The scenery is pretty, but it is the fragrance here, in the forest, that makes your heart dance.

Through a combination of back lanes and some trespassing, we find a gentler way back to Cassis and even manage to locate someone at the first winery, where I purchase six, yes six bottles in radiant jubilation, just before their gates close for the day.





We pause for a snack at our favorite café – the little one, where you can spend many pleasant hours watching monsieur and madame fuss with coffees and chocolats while their dog keeps tabs on who is in, who is out.





Time, too, for one more trip to the pastry shop. A fraises des bois tart. Perfect.





And the circle is complete. We’re almost back at Nino’s. The port is dazzling in the evening light. Do you notice this if you live here?





At dinner, I pick all things local: a fish soup, a grilled scorpion (“the only Mediterranean fish on the menu!”), a crème brulée.













In the room above the restaurant, I think about making the various train connections to Paris the next day and I listen to the wind. It is wild again. Roaring in from the sea this time. I get up before dawn to watch the fishing boats come in, but I know there will be no boats to see. The waves are brutal.










It’s market day in Cassis and I go to the square to watch the sellers unload. My biggest envy may well be that they have this glorious market twice a week, year round.



















At Nino’s I pull Ed out of sleep so that we can have our last breakfast before the train takes us west, then north. Oh, and one more stroll. Just one more. We have time. You have to see the market and the pounding surf! – I say to him.


We watch moms take their little ones to the market and (mostly) men congregate at cafés, and I think this is the Cassis of everyday France.










When I asked Ed to come back with me for a return trip to France after the semester, he said – when you travel here, it’s like the same trip, over and over. But the regions – each time they’re different! New corners to explore! New hiking trails!

But he is right, to a degree. There is definitely a pattern. And predictability. And to a person who feels herself to be displaced and suspended, this is a welcome feeling.

We shake hands with Nino. We’ll see you again? I say this wistfully. We’ll always be here, he says. Yes, exactly. How wonderful.

from Cassis, France: make sure you point out that you lost your way and could find neither the wineries nor the b&b!

My occasional traveling companion tells me to note this on Ocean and what better way to highlight it than to put his directive in the subject line!


Well, it rained.





I knew it would and so we moved slowly all morning long. Nino’s was on break and no one wanted to come in just to fix us breakfast, so we headed to a café in the heart of Cassis, where we ate the biggest pain au chocolat ever. And watched locals come in, take an espresso and demonstrate great incredulity that it should rain.





After, I worked and Ed rested. It’s not unusual for us to find ourselves proceeding in this way.

And of course, when you are physically inactive, lunch is a welcome diversion. We head for a place right by Nino’s and find more than a dozen tables occupied by chomping French men and women. We joined them in one big national chomp, fondly referred to as le grand dejeuner francais. Ed and I both have salads, but we’re talking salads that spill over in their abundance. Mine, with seafood, is superb.





The plan for the afternoon is to search out the magnificent Cassis wineries. I have a terrific map listing them all, but you really need a car to get near most and, the drizzle notwithstanding, we are bent on walking. (I also want to check out a b&b for future visits. Nino’s room is beautiful, but he knows how to charge for this pristine oasis with views to die for. Especially in high season.)

I find neither the b&b nor the wineries, so in that sense, Ed is completely correct: we spent the better part of the afternoon being utterly lost in the stunning but wet Cassis countryside.

Yes, of course, I do locate the vineyards. And they are lovely.











I find gnarled vines to be graciously beautiful, sometimes reminding me of sage thinkers, sometimes, in their younger stage, of so many acrobats and dancers.












But as is often the case, the wineries and caves are away from the fields. Our country walk is invigorating, the garrigues (those fantastic stunted oak forests, interspersed with dense rosemary, lavender and thyme bushes – a combination found only in the limestone soils of this area of France) are fragrant in their wet state, but we come back tired and empty handed.


In the evening, we return to our lunch place for dinner. It is Monday, a common restaurant closure day and at any rate, we are by now without imagination.

Next to our table I hear, for the first time since coming to Cassis, spoken English. The couple is welcomed and kissed by the owners and staff, a curiously affectionate gesture, given that the couple appears to be absolutely loony. And I’m not just focusing on his pajama bottoms. They are indisputably the town eccentrics. Or rich and famous. Or both.

As the evening winds down, the dog of one of the French diners gets up, wanders a little, and lifts his leg. No one notices. Should I tattle? Of course. Monsieur, excusez moi, mais le chien a fait un petit pee-pee.

Ah oui. The waiter removes himself and discreetly brings back a bucket.

It is late. And still new people come in. A very wet threesome, obviously after a day at sea. Would you like a table on the verandah? No no! As far from the outside as possible!

The door opens and closes constantly. This is only the second week of the complete ban on smoking in bars and restaurants and I feel like I am in a new world, especially when in the tight quarters of small cafés. And amazingly, the smokers are observing the new law. They go outside. Waiters, proprietors and clients, pacing the quay, taking a few puffs then returning to their place.

A piece (three pieces actually) of cake and I’m satisfied. Body and soul, fully recovered.