a Boston Saturday, rolling into Sunday...

When I am visiting here, in Cambridge, sometimes we are ambitious and we cover half the state and the one next door. Other times, we can hardly get ourselves to walk to dinner – it is that damp and chilly. The coastal winds can do vicious things to the region.

But always, we make a point of taking the T downtown. Boston’s not a huge city and on a good day, you could hike from south to north (passing through South End, Back Bay, the Royal Mile, the Garden, Beacon Hill, the North End, the Wharves, Faneuil Hall) and back again in the scope of an afternoon. Today was a good day.

You need lots of food to get going though. At the South End Beehive, we get lots of food. The jazz trio plays cool tunes and we wolf down eggs shakshuka. And that’s after we've nibbled on the beignets.


eggs over spicy tomatoes and creamy grits at Beehive


And outside, the temperatures are climbing. Boston, for once, looks good and warm.



South End




outdoor tables




snowdrops!




Beacon Hill


Warm enough to draw crowds at the outdoor market, where shoppers buy crates of tomatoes and oranges. Others pause and slurp. Some are brave, some are timid and need a helping hand. Still others watch.




















You can cover a lot of ground and not sea the water in this city, even though it is so much part of this city’s defining history. You tend to stick to the inland trails.



North End sights


And then again, you can seek out the shore and wonder why it doesn’t draw bigger crowds. There isn’t a soul here, by the bay. Just my daughter and me, watching planes take off across the water.





Retreating now, up the hill, we encounter men of old (and a woman of more recent persuasions), commemorating the Boston Massacre of 1770. Later, I tell Ed about this and I can just sense the eye roll over the phone. Not a massacre – says the man of precision. Merely an event.





And now we are on the T again, heading home.



riding the T


Not for long though. We head downtown again for dinner at O Ya. At the counter. To watch chefs prepare miracles.













warm eel, thai basil, kabayaki, Kyoto sansho




fried Kumamoto oyster, yuzu kosho aioli, squid ink bubbles





shima aji and santa barnara sea urchin, ceviche vinaigrette, cilantro



Are you surprised that the post didn't go up last night? And not first thing this morning either. Active daughter has me at the Yoga Center before I even have time to pop an espresso into me.

A beautiful sun is in its noon position, I'm sitting down now, just for a quick minute. I may even have time to load a few photos. Good day, patient readers! And, for those who take note of the date -- happy Woman's Day.

on a roll

It's time. I haven’t seen either girl since the very first days of January. Too long. (I know I am spoiled. But you’d have to know my daughters! Truly, they can knock the shadow out of any sucky day.)

This week-end I am in Cambridge.





After the east coast snowstorm. So that flying in, I feel I am diving into a Midwestern winter. But wait, this isn't Madison. I'm by the ocean! And the snow is melting.





A curious thing happens (foodwise) when I land on the east coast: suddenly, I crave regional fare. We’re smug back home in Wisconsin about the goodness of cheese and brats and brats and cheese, but I really do miss coastal fare. And so within minutes of my arrival, my girl and I head toward the Summer Shack, so that I can bite into a lobster roll with slaw on the side. Oh, oops: and a Massachusetts oyster sampler.















A noticeable difference between being 24 and 55 is that at my age, there isn’t much that you can get me to do after dinner. My daughter takes off for the remainder of the evening and I retreat. This is where we are in life, right? She’s still exploring. Me, I want time to sit back and think about all that I’ve seen today.

moving

A friend at the university is retiring this month. Wednesday was my last professional (and possibly any) encounter with her and I lingered after our work meeting to get a sense of how she feels about the next stage of her life.

She spoke about her commitment to volunteerism at her church, and about past work that she and her husband had done for Habitat for Humanity down in Kentucky. I asked if she was thinking of moving south and she indicated that her husband’s wood working would most likely keep him (and thus her as well) rooted here – the place of his workshop.

What keeps us rooted to our home base when a job is no longer a consideration? Family – that’s the most typical response, no? Some would say they wont ever leave because of friends, but I doubt they mean it. People in this country move all the time, despite claims of tight friendship networks.




But maybe with age, your dependence on friends changes. Maybe in twenty years, I will have given up even on the idea of friends. On my most recent visit to Poland, my father, who has retreated almost entirely from an active social arena, said that he no longer missed friends. He shrugged and told me -- I said to them and they said to me all that could ever be said in life and so what’s the point? Is this just him, or am I (are we) also likely to hang back thirty years from now?




And what about the prospect of my moving? Naaah, I’ll stay here, in Madison, for reasons of family. I don’t actually have any family in Wisconsin, but I am convinced that none of my closest family members (daughters!) would visit me anywhere but Madison (they love the Farmers Market here) and so I will not move.

I think about this as I load marinated mushrooms onto a plate. Homemade marinated mushrooms. Made for friends who are stopping by this evening.




Still, I know what I;m wrestling with: setting up a home elsewhere is, to me, as tempting as rescuing a dog (warm climate, pooch running outdoors, mmm...). Neither really fits with my life and yet I consider both, quite frequently actually. Once I run through the options and difficulties associated with such monumental changes, I breathe a sigh of relief that it's all in the realm of fantasy.

40s

It’s over. Not officially – that doesn’t happen until later this month, but for all intents and purposes (or, as I misheard for years, having learned English haphazardly, in spurts – for all intensive purposes – which, by the way, is a far more agreeable phrase), it’s over.

What? Winter, of course. The season that pushes good people to move from here to Florida.

Why do I say this? Because each month, once it properly gets going, has, in my mind, an “average” aura. March, in southern Wisconsin (where I live) is all about the 40s. April is mostly a 50s thing. May revs it up with readings in the 60s, June pushes 70s and July and August spiral into the 80s. I recognize that there are vicissitudes, and snow showers in May, and warm spells in April, but generally you can expect the pattern I describe.

March got going today and so for me, winter is but a memory. A week of 40s followed by another and there you have it – daffodil time around the corner.

One past March, in my high school years in Poland, I remember taking a bus out into the country. I walked along a dirt road flanked by willows – they signal spring before other trees join in (it’s all imagery and imagination, of course: yellow willow twigs look more spring-like than, say, the dark bare oak or pasty birch). I listened to birds and I let the mud cover my reliable brown shoes (when did black leather take over the shoe world?) and I thought that March was a fine month, a balmy month, a good month in spite of dirty city streets and bare strips of sod covered by dog crap.

Balmy forties. No more blaming the weather. Time to get going, discover the world, write your novel.

The one thing I’ll say about winter – you can move slowly, or not at all and you will be forgiven. It’s not your fault, it’s the damn cold! In spring, staying frozen in one place sounds like what it is – laziness. Or ineptness. Or both.

to do or not to do

Do most of us know what we are really good at? And if we do know, should we be putting more effort into that gig? Or, instead, may we give ourselves permission to do nothing? Or at least nothing grand?

One life, right? So it should be the latter, no?

No.

Isn’t it a drag that there is this feeling of obligation? That if you’re born singing opera, you accept the burden and take to the stage when the time comes?

I’m safe: I don’t have an opera voice. It’s good, but it isn’t anywhere near opera. Indeed, I always said that I do many things and I do none of them fantastically well (thank God). And still, I wonder if perhaps I should have tried to do some of them with even greater effort.

the great indoors

A long while back, I thought this about people who used mall doctors: it’s like using the ER room: you go there spontaneously, when in need, and when you’re without resources and (therefore) without the ability to develop a continuing relationship with an established medical professional. In other words – not me, not if I can help it.

But the fact is, my medical insurance does not cover eye care and so for the last half dozen years, I have shopped for the cheap and convenient. And so I bought my eye care at the mall.

Like fashion, mall docs come and go. I’ve never had the same palate to choose from. I look at the list and tell the receptionist – put me down for the best one! I always wonder what she does with that.

If you think these are second rate docs, I'll tell you you’re wrong. Actually, I don’t know one way or another. I do know that a number choose the mall venue because of the work hours, others – because of the easier billing structure, and still others – because of the client base. The previous mall doc told me this – I really like the people who come here. (What, he likes mall people? But I’m not a mall person! I wish people had other places to congregate; not here, not by stalls of junk food and racks of stuff we don’t need!) I had thought then that it’s an odd place to like your patients – chances are you’ll never see them again.

Today, I felt I did my bit by giving a young mall doctor her necessary experience to make it in the world of eye care. She and her (equally young) assistant were enthusiastic and seemingly very competent in using the multitude of machines that are now (I guess) standard testing fare. Wonderful people. May they do well.

Afterward, I looked to purchase new glasses. But, the price of fashionable frames was out of my range. I decided I’d simply knock out the old glass and put in the new lens. Ed tells me he wouldn’t recognize me if I change frames anyway, as he has only known me in my current ones. He’s no judge of what’s fashionable (remember – he’s happiest with t-shirts he gets for free from odd sources), but I can’t worry about that.

Ed suggested we head for La Baguette for a pick me up snack of a quiche and café. I felt better. There, I chatted with Madame and took photos of the warmest looking furniture anywhere. With an Orangina at the side, the shot reminded me, in a red(-ish) and orange sort of way, of yesterday’s photo.

elements of a day

Still cold. Spent day cleaning condo. Inspection (for assessment for refinancing) next week. Better get ready – every dollar in value counts. Hope that assessor (who calls me Ny-nah) is easily mollified by sparkling surfaces.

Late afternoon. Ask Ed to come up with a diversion. He dozes. Let’s just say we’re both uninspired.

Set out for Borders. Coffee, flipping pages of books with cool photos of adventurous people.

Not us, not today. So, what photographic moment stands out? Noticing the red water bottle next to an orange. A warm scene, don’t you think?

undulating fields

By three in the afternoon I was still in pajama bottoms. My project of switching to a MacBook and to the newest version of Photoshop was stalled. Photos were getting lost, egos were getting bruised.

One hour later not much had changed and so I set out for a farewell spin. No no, I had no intention of ending it over a bungled computer setup. I just wanted to give a solid wave to February (and therefore winter). To note the passing of months (and therefore, in this case, seasons). The ground is frozen, but in that miraculous way of a receding February, the land looks naked and ready for… something better.





Gorgeous. And quiet. Gold streaks and long shadows spreading slowly over the land to the left, to the right.










Who says it’s tough to be in Wisconsin in February?

waiting

Two weeks have passed since I filled out papers and put down a check to get the refinancing going for my condo. Nothing. I’ve heard nothing since.

I call my loan officer, Erin. You remember Erin? She had the magnetic toy in her office? Ed played with it?

Erin is not with us anymore…
WHAT??? She promised she’d be around, servicing my loan in much the same way someone would pledge to service my lawn! We talked kids and neighborhoods, I introduced her to Ed, for God’s sake! What happened???
I’m sorry, we cannot reveal personnel matters…

Erin, where are you??? What did you do???

Don’t worry, your application will be well taken care of.
Bullshit. I haven’t heard from anyone since Erin left town. Not from anyone.



I paid good money to have my new Apple laptop delivered today. Why? Because I have a relatively calm week-end. I want to use it to make the big switch to the little Mac. But I learn that storms have interfered. My delivery is being delayed.

I wait patiently for the next truck. Oh, UPS, I love you so! The Mac est arrivee! I promise: my March 1st post will be on the little Apple.



My office neighbor tells me that this winter has pushed her over to dreams of moving to Florida. My neighbor is five years older than me. I wonder if there ever will be a winter that will push me over to dream of moving to Florida.



I wait at the bus stop in searing cold. The winds lash out at me with brutal force. Finally, I get on the number 38.
Why are you turning here? You don’t go my way, do you?
You’d think I’d learn the numbers and schedules by now, but no. I get off and walk back to the beginning, where again, I wait.



In the evening, Ed and I are to meet someone for dinner. That someone is freshly in love and I warn Ed to behave. It’s pointless advice. Ed is Ed. Telling him to be one way is ridiculous. He’ll always be himself.

I arrive early. I want to put my name on the list for a table. I sit and watch the sliver of the moon grow bigger (I swear!)… I sip a glass of rosé and smile at the kid just a few paces down. He likes taking in the bar scene of the local bistro. So do I.




UPDATE: I should explain for those not accustomed to "Ed & me" stories: Asking Ed to behave means asking him to don the shoes of a socially enthusiastic person. I have a social persona. Ed is just Ed. Most always.

choices

Three and a half years ago, when I was on match.com, I received emails in one day from two people. One wrote suggesting we get together over a glass of fine wine. He understood that I liked wine and he offered to treat me to a glass of the best in Madison. I said no.

Instead, I spent an afternoon getting to know Ed.

Yesterday he and I shopped for wine at Trader Joe’s (don’t you like this Chilean Chardonnay? $3.99!). Today, Ed lost himself in the Bucky Book of coupons. I buy the book each year from students who do fundraisers (okay, this year I got Ed to buy it) and typically it never pays for itself – that’s how little we use it. But this year, oh, this year is different.

Ed has discovered the community of coupon traders over at Craig’s List.

He flips through the Bucky pages. This one wants the flower store and a car wash. She would like all the PDQ cappuccinos. Do you think two games of golf are equal to one free dinner? Do you trade coupons by their number or by their dollar value?

Outside, it’s raining. Hard. My office neighbor tells me – it’s atmospheric, isn’t it? A friend writes on my facebook wall – looking forward to your weather post. I get thoroughly wet on my run down the hill for an espresso.





I’m buying a new computer tonight. The rain is flooding Madison streets and pavements. I finally chose a new laptop.

café thoughts

It’s not unusual to get cold days now. Or sunny days. Or wintry mix days. Or blizzards. Or, to get a reading on your balcony thermometer of 69.3 (true, said thermometer is catching a bit of the afternoon sun at the moment; it’s really in the mid-forties). But what’s insane is the volatile swing between all the above in the space of days.

And so, as a result, you’re happy, you’re discouraged, you’re wistful, disgusted, enchanted – like in a constant mood swing of a terribly troubled person.

Virginia may be for lovers; Wisconsin? Damned if I know. Maybe for those who love a wild ride.


(today: shops placed buckets of flowers outside)

still thinking about love…

…and how it manifests itself for people.

I head down to the bus stop. A young pair scoots in front of me. They're holding hands. You can’t really see her face here – she’d almost passed by the time I whipped out the camera, but can you at least sense the beam?





At home I listen to Fiorella Mannoia. I picked up her CD in Florence and have since shared it with my family and Ed. (The former loved it, the latter – well, he can’t quite feed his soul into it.)

My phone is ringing. A friend is talking of a love interest of another friend.

Love. In February, it seems like it’s a tease, a terrible tease, there to torment, without promise, without respect.

And yet, you see this pair walking together, you have a coffee with a friend and listen to her explode with love, you turn on the Fiorella CD once again and the tragic elements recede. Spring love. Love born of spring. Not any of my loves, but love nonetheless. Real and forever after. Or, for as long as you want it to be real.

signs of spring, signs of love

Surely this is a good sign? On my condo balcony this morning, despite the persistent chill, there are signs of spring love:


Here I am! Look at me!





I’m coming!





Wow. Oh, my God. You're so beautiful!





Sweet little one, don’t be shy…





Come closer. That’s better! Kiss me...




Love is, like spring, so beautiful to experience, or even just to watch, as it unfolds before you...

river walk

Is the Mississippi frozen now?

I know Ed is remembering our trip up to Quebec several Februarys ago. On the list of favorite sounds for him is the sound of a ferry pushing ice on a river overwhelmed by chunks of frozen water.

We walk along the edge of this most American of all our rivers and we fight off the truly arctic blast of air. Here, in St. Paul, the body of water does indeed appear to churning southwards under a layer of ice and snow.





I suppose you could even walk from one bank to the other, except few would dare. It is the immense Mississippi after all. Besides, in places, you see this:





As we walk along the ridge, whipped by the winds that race from one shore to the other, I think that I can tolerate just one last day of pure winter, but that’s all. I am more than ready to embrace the idea of daffodils. Or at least crocuses. Enough of the snow covered spruces. Beautiful, but so yesterday.





We eat lunch at one of the numerous low key/great food places in the city. Our hosts know them all, I think.





Neither is a Minnesota native, but they’ve taken on the job of introducing the state and their city to us southerners. God, that feels good – “us southerners” – as if, when we return home, we get to reenter a truly southern climate!

We are given a driving tour of the city of St Paul and then we retreat to their home, where Ed quite comfortably falls into the shoes of a houseguest again. (Or rather, takes off the shoes and climbs back under the covers to watch DVDs recommended by our ever thoughtful hosts.)

Me, I’ve been a houseguest a lot in my life. I admit it -- I’m not especially a good one. I enjoy too much not having the worry of fixing meals and making someone else feel comfortable and I can hardly tear myself away from sitting down and doing nothing. I offer help in dinner preparations only halfheartedly and I am thrilled when my wimpy offerings are turned down.

Later, I retreat under the covers too and there I remain wonderfully unfrazzled, worrying about nothing, not work, not condo refinancing, not even the bus ride home tomorrow. After all, we could very well have a great driver, who loves his job and tries to keep the wheels of the bus on the strip of road intended for driving. It's possible. And in any case, we should be off the highways, in our southern city of Madison before dark.

up north

The bus to St Paul was one hour late picking us up. This would not be hugely significant, except for the fact that waiting at the bus stop on a day where the temps were well below freezing was bracing. I did a little side step and chanted this is good for me most of the hour.

I may have otherwise bonded with all the students waiting with us (Madison and Minneapolis are quite the student exchange towns), but I forgot to be friendly as I considered the possibility of freezing at the Dutch Mill park & ride. Many bragged of past multi-hour waits and the prospect of competing in the future in this kind of exchange was frightening.

When the bus did come, I was sure to get on right away. Why go on a long bus ride with your Occasional Traveling Companion if you cannot sit next to him? The bus was already half full with weary travelers from Chicago, but being near the head of the line (it helps traveling without luggage – Ed and I are good at that) landed us seats together in the front row.

Unfortunately, I decided this particular driver needed help and so I took on the task of driving right along with him. When he spoke on the cell phone (extensively), I made sure to watch out for cars. When he chose to steer with his elbows (frequently), I sat taught, ready to take over and move the bus in the right direction should the need arise.

Halfway to the Twin Cities we paused at a truck stop. He said this was a lunch break (clearly the man suffered jetlag, among other things), and that we should use the next twenty minutes to eat at Wendy’s. The entire bus emptied out and came back with French fries and such. I stayed behind and remembered what it felt like when I went to Catholic camp in Poland and everyone went to church while I stayed at the campsite minding the tents. I’m not saying that Wendy’s is like church, although surprisingly, for the purposes of this post, the analogy holds.

I thought now how easy it would be to jump into the driver’s seat and pull away when they were all gone.

The driver took more than twice the allotted (by him) time to purchase his own snacks and so we were, in the end, quite late pulling into Minneapolis. My friends were waiting for us. It was snowing and I can only hope that sitting in a car and watching flakes come down was, for them, sort of romantic.





We spent wonderful moments at the table eating and drinking and talking and I hardly noticed when Ed slipped out and retired upstairs. In any case, they know Ed well enough to understand that unusual periods of retirement are part of the package,

This morning, while the house slept, I looked out to see what Minnesota is like on a February 21st. You’d expect tall conifers and white snow, wouldn’t you? Hmm.