Boston to… Madison

Covered with wet snow. Buds, slapped down by a winter mix the next morning. Even Boston has to endure the reappearance of wintry stuff.





Early on Monday, I made my way home, to my Madison condo. But not without detours. On my walk to the T (which would take me to the bus, which would then take me to the airport), I happened to be chatting with my ever vigilant doctor (well, actually her rep) and she suggested that I might perhaps want to pay a quick visit to Mass General or some such place before boarding the plane for home.

Ridiculous. I told her that’s her opinion and now, please, may we disconnect, because I have several flights to catch.

Ocean isn’t really about my interaction with the medical community, but I’ll say this much: the world of emergency medical response is not new to me. Maybe because I was raised in post war Poland, maybe because I had a tough time making it past 4 months of life – for whatever reason, I have had more than an average share of such medical one-on-ones.

I assure you that I will signal imminent demise here (insofar as I know about it) and any other dire circumstance, but cataloguing my various medical curiosities is simply boring and there are plenty of domains within which I can be boring without bringing out the health card.

Still, upon landing in Madison, I found myself being escorted (by Ed) to the ER room and I have to say that if ever there is a reason to love your town it is when you are in love with the type of medical care that it offers to the privileged who have access to it (me) as well as to those who are scratching at the periphery of affordable health care.

I spent some seven hours in the ER room last night (why so long? Because, quite frankly, in any triage worth its weight in lives saved, I would be at the bottom of the heap). I was not what you would consider as “near death.” I was not even a broken limb. I was merely pursuing the recommendation of others. And so I waited for care.

Ed waited with me. Willingly. Our ER waiting facility has WiFi after all.

In the examining room (where we spent 5 out of the seven hours there), Ed and I watched cartoons (his choice) on his laptop, in between my being wheeled to one place or another and then back again.

It’s so Madison over at our ER room! Why do I say this? Well, by comparison, I am recalling the hours, nay, days I spent in a Harlem hospital as an undergrad. I was writing a paper about people in ER rooms and I have to say that I had enough material for a 24 volume series. Blood was commonplace.

And, I am no stranger to other ER situations. I lived through my very own special brain explosion (of blood) and a number of other little episodes requiring that trip to the hospital rooms reserved for those with gunshot wounds and horrible influenza (equally treatable in regular clinics, except if you don’t have health insurance; I would venture to guess that last night, 75% of those in the ER room were there because they did not have health insurance).

So, Ed and I waited and we read and we played with our computers and through it all, I kept thinking – Madison is truly and uniquely a wonderful place to require medical intervention. And when the technician came in to administer test number 26745, I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a UN strap for his UW Health ID. You interested in the UN? – I asked. Yeah! Really! I want to work there or at an NGO when I am done with school.

Basically, Madisonians want to save the world.

And when the nurse came in and he asked Ed – so you’re????? ...and I said, he is Ed, because you know, Ed is best described this way, the nurse was not phased. And he is…??? I knew the nurse was asking for a relational definition and I was about to say that Ed was my Occasional Traveling Companion, but Ed beat me to this by saying – I’m her chauffer. The nurse wrote it down without batting an eye.

But it was the doctor who was the culmination of my small city’s best of the best. He came in late, just before midnight (again, I was in need of care, but hours would not make me or break me). He sat down and apologized for taking so long to get to me. Ed responded that we were doing ok on our own and indeed, that the doc was just now interrupting our viewing of the rerun of NBC evening news.

I, of course, felt that at least one of us, preferably Ed, should apologize for that remark, but my ER doc laughed and explained that he was not your conventional medic. I think he thought we’d caught on already, what with his shaved head and two diamond studded earring studs, and maybe we should have, except I was too busy admiring his patience and willingness to answer the million questions that I always have for doctors when they are within spittin’ distance of me and my medical issue du jour.

I do so love my little city.

Tuesday – I paid the price for my protracted recline on the ER bed the previous day. I had classes and endless meetings and appointments to get through and it was a tight fit. Luckily the day ended with a glass of wine with my most happy friend. I suppose you don’t remember my suggestion that mental health requires putting in hours with happy people? I did that tonight.

Sunday glow

As if one Saturday of solid warmth wasn’t enough! Sunday outdid itself by adding to it a sky of blue.





And so it was no surprise that the snowdrops were now joined by crocuses.





We walked the Minuteman Trail, my daughter and I. Out of Cambridge, past the Spy Pond…





…past Arlington, sharing the path with bikers, hikers and scooter riders. It’s too early to see even hints of green.





But, I swear I saw plump buds on a magnolia tree. And of course, the ground bulbs have moved beyond the green bud stage. Boston may have tumultuous days of storms and cold weather, but it never gets as freezing, never as bone chilling cold as in Wisconsin. The growing season on the coast of Massachusetts, therefore, starts just that much earlier. Lucky dogs. I would welcome a few weeks more of flowering bulbs and shrubs back home.

In the evening, feeling well centered from the Yoga and well exercised from the hike, we set out for the city’s best pizza (Cambridge,1, off of Harvard Square) and then we did what would normally be a summer thing – we walked over for ice cream at Christina's (off of Inman Square).

For me to eat ice cream outdoors, after the sun has long set, I have to have reached a level of internal warmth that is solid and trusting. Of course, walking these familiar blocks with my little one at my side, I have a different take on life than, say, standing on a corner bus stop in Madison, waiting for the heated interior of a salt and mud spattered bus to defrost my own interior.

Sigh...

Monday brings with it a return to the routines of Madison. Pleasant, yes, of course, very much so, but sadly far from the Cambridge glow of the week-end there. And of course, predictably, a lot colder.

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...