from Italy: fickle

If you’ve been an Ocean reader for a while, you probably think that I’ve been a nut about France forever.

Not so. France is a fairly recent love (at my age, “recent” has generous proportions). In my other years, I was smitten with Italy. And, like the young love that it was, I overdid it. And then I moved on. Fickle me.

But, occasionally, and now with Ed, I have gone back. I sometimes think Ed likes Italy best. Italy is forgiving. Not fussy. Not demanding. When you’re hungry, you can always get a fantastic pizza.

We flew to Nice, but we didn’t linger there. The city bus, taking us from the airport to the train station offered a quick glance, but that was it. Oh, but I remember the blues of Nice! They don’t disappear in December.










The important point to make here is that I am, at least for this day, in the warm embrace of the sun. And in Nice, as we waited for our train, I felt warm enough to get rid of the winter coat.






Off one train, waiting for another. An hour to kill at the border Italian city of Ventimiglia. We are, for the first time, traveling with a cell phone, but it hasn’t a card in it. We thought we’d buy one locally. So much cheaper! – those are Ed’s words. He says now – you didn’t tell me we’d be traveling into Italy on Sunday! We have grown comfortable with this: it is the way we travel. With amusement at how different the other is.

We walk through Ventimiglia looking for a place to purchase the card, but everything that isn’t in some way holiday-ish is closed. No matter. It’s a lovely walk. We watch children enjoying the presence of a bizarrely inflated Santa Claus…










…and we pick up the Sunday stroll along the water’s edge.





And a few hours later, we are in Genoa. It’s late and we have only a half hour between trains. We make a hopeful detour to a bar in search of food. It’ll have to be a mozzarella tomato sandwich. Chased by a miniscule tumbler of red wine. The bar owner tells us we have to hurry. In a few minutes the game begins and he is expecting a huge crowd. It’s a funny way to eat a first meal in Italy, but I’m supremely happy we’re pushing ourselves to move on all the way to Levanto. Fifteen minutes in Genoa seems plenty.

The last train ride. As we move from one place to the next, from afternoon to evening to night, I start worrying that we’ll sleep through our stop. I’m in that drifting in and out mode where I can’t tell if the train is moving. Lights outside, Christmas lights, one colorful string, another and another.

Late, very late, we reach Levanto.

Our b&b presents insurmountable (even for Ed) problems with the Internet and it takes a while to get the heater to wake up, but we are pleased. The innkeeper urges us toward a pizzeria in the village (town? who can tell… it’s dark outside) and there really isn’t a person in the world, I don’t think, who can’t be lulled into happiness with a perfect Italian pizza. So what that they forgot the salads, so what that it took so long to get here, so what that it’s just pizza, it is a great pizza, a fantastically splendid pizza, a great ending to a very very long two days.





An old man engages the waitress, a group of young adults (or old kids, depending on your perspective) talks one over the other, the zebra striped chairs clash with the leopard dotted chairs, the air outside is cold and every one of the patrons wraps miles of scarf around themselves to brace for the near freezing temps. Winter in Levanto.

in transit

Two buses down, one flight down and, well, lots ahead.

I just want to note that there are only two states in traveling from one point to the next: waiting and rushing. We have had our share of both.

It's rush time now. Even as I sip an espresso at the Paris airport and pretend that it's otherwise.

Flight is being called. Off to Nice.

en route

You do not need another photo of Bascom Hill (UW campus, Madison, Wisconsin), do you?

But it was part of my day! And, I must say, with great pleasure I waved it a fond good bye.





It has not been a straight shot so far. On the way to bus no. 1, scheduled to pass by my condo in minutes (and, as it is the week-end, the buses that pass by my condo are few and far between), I remembered that I forgot crucial work papers (it is mostly down time for me in the next week, but not entirely).

And so I ran.

Which guaranteed a hacking cough for the next several hours (I am recovering from a cold). But I made it.

I stopped by my office, made sure everything would continue properly without me (we are so (in)dispensible!) and Ed and I boarded the Van Galder to OHare.

Just miles from the Chicago airport, we came to a full stop. Crawling now, with only one lane open. One hour to traverse 5 miles.

And here’s the thing: there was an accident. So that someone, probably more than one person suffered terribly. At the same time that a busload of people just wanted to move on and get to their flight. It struck me that this is the way we deal with the awfulness out there. We just want to hurry up and get to our flight. [True, were I in an accident that stopped the I-90 traffic cold,, I think I would feel bad that it may lead people to miss their flights, so there’s that…] Me, I'm deeply hoping that someday, someday soon there will be a fast train from Madison to Chicago.


At the airport ticket counter, my favorite clerk was there to greet me. [When you fly an esoteric airline always, the staffing remains the same – she has been there, at the counter, since 1997, when I remember having my flight to Paris (and therefore to Poland) cancelled. She was so calm and so helpful to all of us (it was a nightmare travel situation) that I have, since then, loved her tremendously. And most often, she is there. It’s amazing how one person can instill a sense of calm for others. She did that. Thank you favorite agent, whose name I do not know.]

I am calm.

I am not really worried that a dozen b&bs responded to my inquiries telling me that they decided to close for the season.

For God’s sake, I am on my way to Italy, let me unwind already!

Maybe we should have packed sleeping bags…

on the eve of

I never made it out of the pajama state today. And if you think this deserves a photo, I’ll respond – no, it does not.

Work dominated all my waking minutes and so I’ll pass on commenting more on this day.

Instead, let me tell you what’s ahead: tomorrow, I begin the usual convoluted travel package of connections that I can only hope will get me where I want to go. The goal? Ed and I are anxious to release our inner hiking demons somewhere in Europe where chances of sleet and snow are small.

So, we have before us this: one short bus ride, one long bus ride, one long flight, one short flight, one medium train ride, another medium train ride and finally, a short train ride. At that point (late Sunday evening), we should be in Levanto, Italy.

Where is that? It’s at the edge of a place that is so popular that I have never wanted to go there. The idea of hiking along with many others seems so antithetical to the entire enterprise that I shrugged and feigned disinterest for years.

But in December, nobody hikes the Cinque Terre – the northern coast of Italy. At least that is what I told Ed.

So, I’ll be back here, on Ocean, as soon as I am able. You see, the problem with Cinque Terre in December is that pretty much no one who runs a b&b sticks around to watch their rooms stay empty. Ed thinks we should consider packing sleeping bags just in case. I tell him Florence is just three hours by train. In case life gets tough and the skies deliver rain.

Now back to filling the backpack.

why write?

I have been writing on the side (letters, journals, stories, essays, stuff), in great quantity, since I was about ten. I know you link my writing to Ocean, but there is, unfortunately, so much more of it. When I eat alone (while traveling), I am always scribbling in a notebook. Most often, I tear these pages out and toss them out when I return. Every once in a while, I’ll preserve a copy of an essay. But the rest? Nah. Sure, my kid writing is fun to keep in a trunk and occasionally revisit. It’s so…youthful. But once I am at an age where quality begins to matter, I’d rather not leave behind pages of junk.

I write, of course, because the translation of thought to words on paper feels good. But, like most conversations, these monologues are best left behind as slight memories. There is no reason to preserve them.


This morning I once again visited my dentist. I was going to call it quits for the year, but yesterday’s dentist said that if I weren’t thorough, I may find myself chasing dentists in the small towns of Europe next week. He gave me a list of possibilities there, but he frowned as he did so. Don’t know many of them, he muttered. And so today I did one more visit, just to put closure on this particular set of dental issues.

And lo, it appears that this particular dentist is also a writer on the side. He favors writing letters. Because he isn’t sure that the recipients are so eager to read them now, he stores the letters on the computer until a time when he’s too old too care or no longer around to monitor the reactions.

I told him that I thought this to be a terrible idea. I already worry that we all leave too many papers behind for those who will have to sort through our stuff once we kick the bucket. Do you really want to leave your computer files for your loved ones too? What a burden! Forget it! If I think it’s memorable, I’ll pass it on now, or leave it in a special box with a red ribbon and a note on it: read it if and when you feel like it.

True, here, on Ocean, I write for a reader. And my Great Writing Project has an intended audience which now includes my dentist, as he promised to read every word (he’s one of those that dutifully finishes everything; in this, as in so many ways, we are different). But mostly, I just write.

On the way home I passed Owen Woods. I used to write here some years back. In a different season, of course. But it’s nice to go back to places where you once wrote even if those notes are long trashed.

winter spirit

I borrowed Ed’s little Geo to run a few errands. That is one light little car! And I never even worried about it, that’s how much I take for granted winter driving. And it was snowing. Significantly.





If I had problems on the road, they paled compared to problems that motorcyclists faced. I asked Ed if it was typical to ride in snow with your feet down. Yes, he tells me, if you’re the cautious type. [Is there an implication here that real men do not fret the cautious stuff?]





Ah, winter.

If you're into the mood of it, this surely was the day to buy a Christmas tree.





I’ve never favored big cars. I think big houses are unnecessary. Big TVs are, in my eyes, unattractive. But big trees? That’s not a preference, that’s a need. Wide and to the ceiling. I’m not sure why I imagine this kind of a tree. It’s the one place where I abandon minimalism and favor going all out. The tree, the magnificent, irrepressible, towering, exploding tree.

Ed’s along for the Geo ride now, keeping me company. Big Ed, little Geo, big tree. How does it all fit together?

At the nursery, the men are heaving a tree, attempting to control it and, more importantly, keep it in an upright position. This one, take this one, they prod me. We can’t figure out how to stand it up here. Take this one.





I look at the tree. It looks twice their size. I’m not sure it will fit… It’ll fit – they tell me. Because they know the dimensions of my living room? No, because they want to get rid of it. Okay. You’ll fit it into the Geo? They laugh. Geo? It’ll crush it. Tomorrow then, we’ll pick it up tomorrow. With a Ford pick up.



Across the street, at Classen’s German bakery, I stock up for the holidays. Some people bake a lot of cookies. That’s what you do around the holidays, right? Angels, Santas, reindeer. I read the recipes and I always think – that’s a lot of trouble for a cookie. And so I go to Classen’s and I buy their seasonal stars and moons and boys with m&m buttons running up their fronts (chocolate covered gingerbread) and over the years, I have convinced my daughters that this is the very best anyone could put forth on a Christmas plate at tree trimming time.





And if this day wasn’t wintry enough, what with the Geo in the snow and the tree left alone, in the nursery, waiting for a ride home, I had two more holiday-ish moments: first, watching, on the ride home, that splendid winter sunset that makes a bleak landscape look like a thing of great beauty…





…and secondly, a young Polish couple, interested in a condo here, in my building, came over to chat about it. [They found me through Ocean.] Being as Polish as apple pie, or, in the alternative, extremely kind and generous, they brought with them a Polish apple cake and a Hungarian Tokaji. And a winter bouquet.






We spoke Polish into the evening and I felt good about this, especially since this year, I am not going to Poland in the winter. I am done with bleak short days in sleety cold Warsaw. Poland should be a spring fling. If I go anywhere at all in December or January, it will be to a place with a kinder, gentler climate.

Oh, but that’s a story for Saturday. I’m not leaving until then.

my day, my day…

I was up early. Two classes today and meetings before and between. And you know, I still have this cold.

Typically I give myself an espresso break between classes and it is then that I worry about a photo for the day. But it was so cold! Still, I found one that for me, was evocative and meaningful.





And then I thought about a comment I received on Ocean a few days ago, where the reader accused Ocean of becoming too political because I occasionally mentioned things having to do with the past presidential election (see comments on November 26). And then I thought about how I never write about my work, because, well, I shouldn’t. And how I do not write about my family because it is of utmost importance that I respect their privacy. And how I don’t write about health issues that occasionally plague me because I never want to acknowledge that health issues occasionally plague me (colds do not count – they’re fair game!). And how I may reduce my writing about travel because it bothers some people that I travel and between the two – not traveling and writing less about travel, I prefer the latter. Just to let you know, daily blogging in the way that I do is a tough, tough enterprise.

And so, I thought, gratefully, that there is still this hill outside my office that permits me to take photos that have meaning for me without disturbing anyone.


I’ll say this about today: I finished the semester and as usual, I felt this tug at the throat for all that we had been through, my students and I (in both my classes). If ever I have to stop teaching, I will miss it with a huge part of my heart.


On my way home, I got off the bus too early. I was in a stupor – I was relieved that I did not get a cough attack during classes, the day was done, the semester was done – here I was, riding that warm crowded bus. And so I exited early. But it was worth it. For this lovely (to me) sight:

return

Yesterday, I looked out the window of my daughter’s apartment for a long long while. It was drizzling and raining and the colors were as one would expect – brown and sad.





This morning I arrived in a Madison that was snow-covered, but not really. The skies were unremarkable and the branches had shaken off all that they could of the previous night’s snow.

I didn’t even bother taking a photo. It was that disheartening.

winding down

One daughter leaves, one mother stays a tad longer, and the rain falls in a steady, relentless drip.

Distance is a funny thing. There’s distance measured in train or plane hours and there’s the physical count of miles, and each is too large for me to bear. When I travel to Europe, before the door of the Airbus closes, I am resigned to the heaviness of all that distance that is about to be multiplied many times over, distance between the place where I will soon sleep and where my daughters will be sleeping.

If daughters lived closer to where I am, perhaps I would not see them much more than now. I like to think that I give them space to create their own adult world. But we would share clouds and brilliant sunny skies and occasional Sunday dinners and I would not have to mentally add hours and time zones each time I spoke to them.

But they are here and I am there and so it must be for now.

And the rain falls, and it is a time to eat those eggs and grits and fried green tomatoes, and be happy that the next set of holidays is so close at hand.

the best of times…

Imagine: your daughters are grown, they’re heading forth in life, they’re fun, funny, wise, anxiously protective of you – all that, and you have this beautiful week-end together, imagine!

Don’t tell anyone, but I was sick, starting on the day I arrived. The kind of virus that I hardly ever get anymore. The kind that starts in your head and works its way to every pore of your body. The kind that you do not want to pass on to anyone, least of all your very busy daughters.

I always thought that it was a challenge to parent well when you yourself are sick. But it becomes especially so when you have so few days with your children.

And so I basically ignored the viral nuisance. And if someone will ask me whether I remember being sick this Thanksgiving, I’ll have to say no. All I remember, even now, are the mornings over cups of tea, over pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the walks, the music, the food, yes, most definitely the food.

And the walk this afternoon up and down King Street in Alexandria.

history, reopened

I have been happy that both daughters live in places that are full of history. The kind that belongs to the past and the kind that is very current.





Late this afternoon, we stood in line to enter the newly reopened Smithsonian Museum of American History.





We walked through the American Communities and the American Wars exhibits. There was a lot of history to take in before they threw us out (past closing time). Not all of the presentation was, in fact, uncontroversial.










Ah well. History is tough to take on an empty stomach. We quickly remedied this by eating a wonderful fried chicken dinner at Central.

blogging a Thanksgiving away in D.C.

Well why not. Why not create a diary of a day (updates will be added periodically to the bottom of this post). For the lighter Ocean post that deals with the singular issues that arise when you prepare food in someone else’s (spartan) kitchen.

6:50: I’m up. They’re not (“they” refers, throughout, to my wee family that has come from various Midwest places and from Boston to eat together on this day). This is a good thing. It’ll be a while before I get breakfast going. Advance prep failed last night, as I had energy to bake only part one of the required items (“required” refers, throughout, to the “you can’t possibly leave that off the menu!” items, in this case -- the spice cake).





Molasses, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg... I forgot to bring the allspice and cloves and believe me, no one will notice, as it's a densly aromatic little thing already. Great with morning coffee. Or afternoon tea. Comes from a ripped page of a cookbook. Don't know which cookbook.

7:15: Sunrise over Whole Foods. (I'm staying across the street from one. Bail out for when things start to go wrong.) No good photo to offer, but today isn't about good photos. You get the "whatever" part of a day.





8:45: Apple puff pastries done and ready to bake. Good thing. The crew is stirring. To add insult to the Thanksgiving breakfast table, there is a Starbucks next door. Don’t need to give up on a morning espresso. Will bring a few up for us. Total indulgence. Supporting the neighborhood economy.






9:20: All’s ready. Yes, with bacon at the side. This breakfast is all about good kitchen smells. In the morning, people can forgive a lot of food mistakes, so long as things smell good.











11:25: Well, I took a little pause. Couldn’t really bring out the bird yet, felt a little like slacking. Perhaps this was not wise. Bird in fridge, dinner off schedule. One of the diners has a flight to catch tonight so there’s no margin for error.

When you can’t quite focus on the main meal yet, it’s good to do the cranberries. Easy. Colorful. Essential. Think how blaaah the colors of Thanksgiving table would be without the berries.






1:15: Turkey is in the oven. Does every cook feel relief when this is accomplished? I needed to bake the cornmeal muffins before and we had issues with the herbs wilting overnight, but all that is less troubling than the sight of the raw bird on the counter when you know it should be turning golden in a hot oven.




And what is the weirdest component of the meal? Easy. The cornmeal muffins. By the time I was at the grocery store yesterday they were out of yellow cornmeal. But they had the blue stuff. So there will be lavender blue muffins with red cranberries in pink and yellow muffin papers. A real treat for those loving the pastel look at Thanksgiving.






But, the turkey stock is bubbling the collard greens for the mushroom bundles are wilting and I have a helper to peel and chop the squash. Life is good.










5:30: And so there you have it. The meal. Moments of doubt – too many wild mushrooms! No, too few! And the smoking turkey. And the need to bake the mushroom bundles when there wasn’t an inch of space in the oven. And so much roasted garlic for the potatoes, and this and that and then it all comes together and you feel so gratified!

It’s a blur of images, flying, one after another, served on a table cloth that has been in my family since I was a little kid in Poland, finished off by pumpkin soufflés. By 6:45 we were done, the dishwasher was on and the departing party departed.


















































What a beautiful day!

Thank you.

in the air

Families. One thing I can say for certain – there are lots of them. And they’re traveling today. My flight to DC was full and I think half the passengers were under the age of five.

It was wonderful.

On the metro into town, all I could take note of was the affection, the laughter, the comfort level between people who knew each other from the core. Take a photo of me – shouts one teen boy to his sister. It’s my first metro ride! Further down, a dad is pulling the cap over his daughter’s eyes affectionately.






Families. Children. Lovers. Friends. In DC, for this week-end.





From a rooftop, I see the monuments and, close to the White House -- the inaugural stage, under construction. Can I say this? It feels different in DC this time around. Out on the street, in grocery stores, at metro stops – it feels different.

Maybe it’s just me.

packing up

For the fifth time in a row, I am packing Thanksgiving in a suitcase and taking it to where others reside (04: New York; 05: Chicago; 06: Chicago; 07: D.C.; 08: DC). The humor is not lost on me: I am in all these years not only the principal cook, but pretty much the only cook. I take Thanksgiving to the homes of people who are not equipped to handle the burden of all that food preparation. At the most basic level, it means there isn’t even a decent knife on the premises.

Each time, I began fretting earlier about the enormity of this responsibility. This year, I’ve been tossing ideas and lists around for many nights (this is the stuff of sleepless hours). I blame the increased time it takes me to coordinate this on my progressing age. Ten years ago, I laughed at people who started laying aside things to take on a trip in advance of the trip. That was ten years ago.

As I wished my office colleague a good holiday, and she wished the same to me, we paused for a while to consider this ever intriguing force called “getting older.” At the end, before she waived a cheery good bye, she said – well, the nice thing about aging is that there are so many of us doing it.

Indeed.

And because I am getting to that age where an espresso in the afternoon is a solid must, I took a moment in between classes to pause for one here, by the lake that’s slowly freezing over. A last crack, an open seam and then it's a sheet of ice. For months.

Happy week of Thanksgiving, from Wisconsin.

different times

I worked at home today, enjoying the pleasure of staying indoors when the world outside looked rather gray, or at best, white-on-gray.




My only venture was to take the elevator downstairs to retrieve the mail. Typically, I open the mailbox and the trash receptor at the same time. Things pass from one to the other so quickly that I worry if someday I’ll neglect to pick out the envelope with an unexpected, but completely legitimate gift of cash from some distant friend. Here’s a thousand, for your unfailing loyalty. Eh, unlikely.

Today though I needed a break from stuff upstairs and so I took the time to actually leaf through catalogues. Nueske’s is begging me to come back and be their customer again. Hey, they’ve moved beyond just plain old bacon! And Pottery Barn bed and bath – so crisp! And Barney’s CO-Op – so ravishing! And one more -- Williams Sonoma. There were days when I actually considered upgrading juice tumblers. Such pretty juice tumblers!

I threw it all away of course. Even before the economy tanked, three things happened to put me into a state of purchasing celibacy: first, I overspent on overseas travel and must make up for the error of my ways; secondly, I intend to travel in the future, and so (here's a novel idea) I must save for this; and finally – I started hanging out with a guy who never wants to acquire anything unless it’s absolutely necessary and it is the cheapest such item in the entire marketplace and that includes searching Ebay. He cannot, for example, understand why I purchased a new cell phone when I could have bought someone’s old one on Ebay for one tenth the price.

And so I have not been buying much of anything. And mostly, the move toward strict purchasing frugality is a good one. Take an old pair of pants and pretend the shortened leg is on purpose! Or wear a boot over it. And a loose sweater to cover the fact that it doesn’t fit as well. Something to do with years of overwashing, or overeating, or both.

And yet…

Don’t tell anyone, but…I miss those days. Yes, sure, beyond my means excesses, sure, I know, I know, but I miss those days when it all seemed possible. A sweater from Barney’s Coop, pillow cases from Pottery Barn, because I once thought that torn pillowcases could be replaced rather than sewn up many many times and used ‘til they are virtually colorless from overwashing. I miss the moments of indulgence – the buying of a special wine to save for a special day. I have a wine cooler now, but it is growing empty as special days drain its contents and nothing of value is added. I miss buying art rather than trying to sell my own. I miss buying one hundred dollars worth of perennials for the yard, come spring. I did that in the past. Not often, but still, it happened. I miss buying a book at Borders for keeps and not for a day, after which reason nags at me and I reluctantly take it back.

It is, I know, unseemly to feel wistful while leafing through catalogues, when people are losing homes to which junk mail could be delivered. Or maybe it is exactly right to think back to the days when we felt endlessly optimistic and purchased creams that smelled of rosemary and lavender. Maybe now that we have sampled both excess and collapse, we can settle in for a happy middle ride, with health care for all and less taste for things that are beyond what the pay check can handle. Just an occasional sweater, one book, and one jar of cream. No more. I promise.

Sigh…