twelve snails

Yes, you can read it on the bottle label: we are in the land of snails and cider. We are in perhaps my favorite corner of the continent. We are in Brittany.

We’ve hiked the Granit Rose Coast of this province some years back and not too long ago we spent splendid days at the western most tip of Brittany (Finistere – or, appropriately, land’s end). But when asked where in France I would most like to return to in the short, wet days of December, I thought at once of the River Rance (at the eastern end of Brittany), just as it completes its final twists and turns before spilling out into La Manche (the Channel).


the old river port of Dinan (our apartment is here)


It was a sleepy drive out here. Not wanting to navigate the indescribably complicated roads and alleys of Brittany late at night, we choose to take the quick highway route. I drive, Ed dozes, Ed drives, I doze and so it continues for five hours as the rains come down and the music of Rogers and Hammerstein fills the car. It is an odd choice of radio station in France, I know, but there is much to be said for a rousing rendition of when you walk through a storm, keep your chin up high... as the wipers of our sweet and Smart car automatically adjust themselves to the rain and splash of passing cars.

[No, no, don’t cry again! This from Ed, who is too used to seeing the tears well when music fills our spaces.
I can’t help it!
Indeed. I grew up on Carousel. Or at least on Jan Clayton singing every song that there is to be sung from Carousel. I had asked for the movie soundtrack when I was a kid and my mother, not knowing that it mattered, chose this discount version for a buck at Sam Goody's.
And now I start in on the familiar what’s the use of wondering, if he’s good or if he’s bad, he’s your feller and you love him, that’s all there is to that!
Ed shakes his head. I now see what the problem is here: you picked up the needle of the record player and replayed your favorite songs over and over, until you started to believe the lyrics!
Really. My occasional traveling companion thinks he has me figured out.
I go on to my little girl, is half again as bright as girls are meant to be...
I didn't buy into all of the lyrics. Just the ones that had to do with boys. And walking through storms at night.]


As we approach the town of Dinan, I'm thinking that the drive had a smooth middle and a complicated beginning and an unresolved ending.

At the car rental desk, we stubbornly reminded the clerk that we booked a mini. No upgrades, please, please no upgrades! We love the little car on this side of the ocean and if we have to rent, we do want just that, even if it takes the agent a while to bring one down from some far away lot and even if we have to relearn how to drive it.

[It’s automatic shifting! I tell Ed.
I mean, I think it’s automatic. There’s no clutch. But wait, there are gears and the dashboard is flashing warnings that I should switch!
Try that button!
Switching gears by the push of a button. Cool. Oh, and look, if I press this button, it goes into Automatic! Clever!]

But some things are just too smart for any of us. Not Ed, not myself (small wonder), nor the rental agent can figure out how to open the hatch. We give up and stick the suitcase in through the window.

Some 450 kilometers later, I slow down at an intersection. I stop. The car stalls. At the next intersection I stop again. The car stalls again. To be resolved: how do you stop an Eco Smart sort of automatic but sort of not without stalling? Or, will it be like the hatch? Forever a mystery?


And so we are at the old river port of Dinan. And the apartment is as good as the Internet promised it would be.




And at night, the holiday lights twinkle and the old stones glisten after the rains.

from somewhere on the other side of the ocean

Picture this (but do it without a photo in front of you): the plane takes off, leaving a field of sparkling city lights behind. The champagne rolls down the aisle, then the food trays with wine from the Pays d'Oc. The movie selection is large and Ed loses himself behind his screen. He wont emerge until the breakfast trays are put before us. He's comfortable. We have finally managed to get the precious to him bulkhead and exit row seats. His legs stretch out so far that the attendant has to ask him to pull back a little. She needs to sit down for take off and landing just about where his toes touch the wall.

And this: the clouds are misty, diffuse. The land below is patched with brown and green fields. The tall trees along the roads are skinny and bare. Their shadows fall in even rows -- visible now, in spite of the hazy morning air.

We land. We pause at the airport to shower and eat good breads and drink rich coffee, with a wallop of milk. Oh, and melon juice at the side.

That's my last handful of hours. Nothing more, nothing less.

two snails

And so we’re off. At a turtle’s crawl. I submitted my final finals, I cleaned, I packed, I googled driving routes for tomorrow and then I looked at the clock. An hour to go with nothing left on the list. This is so unlike me!

I wait.

Ed shows up with his backpack – the same old sack he lugs through the Rockies, through New York City – the one size fits all bag that must be as old as he is.

We have found a way to use public transportation to get to the Madison airport, but it takes time. Our bus meanders almost grudgingly. A poky, Sunday bus. Letting out passengers, one, two at a time, until, nearly empty, it arrives at the north hub, where it then waits lackadaisically until the hour seems right to head out again.






And now we are at the airport. Going through the rituals of travel. Hand over bag, show pass, take out everything, take off a lot, pass through, find gate, sit down.


This is how the day lolls along. Swaying to the music of a quiet little song.

I’m in Detroit now, waiting (five hours! Oh the beauty of finding the best fares!) for our late flight out, enjoying the graciousness of the Delta folks who have decided to open up their lounge today for us (I’d been barred for several years now; nothing personal they say, just my uncool preference for a frequent flyer program with an outlier airline; what can I say, they reward me faster over there!). Feet up, book next to me, crackers and cookies on a plate nearby.

Leisure. Two weeks ago that word was so foreign to me! Let me repeat it, because it sounds so strange and beautiful – leisure. A brief interlude of time, before it disappears again.

reviewing the possibilities

A number of weeks back, when we were both in New York, I asked my occasional traveling companion, Ed, if empty Manhattan apartments should perhaps be converted into furnished short terms rentals.

Not so easy – he tells me.
Why not? – I want to know. Hotels n NY are outrageously expensive. Personally, I would rather have a small apartment at a better price, so long as it was clean and in a good and safe enough location.
Not so easy – he repeats.
But we live in the age of the Internet. Couldn’t a landlord list availability there? What could be easier?
Scams. It's a problem. Say you're Internet savvy. You want to make a quick buck. You pick a Craig's listing, you put it up as your own, you collect the money in advance and you disappear, leaving many befuddled renters without a place to drop their bags.


Remember. This was s few weeks back. There is an updated version of this same conversation and it goes something like this:

Sweetie (that’s what you call your occasional traveling companion when you know you're stepping outside his comfort zone) – the landlord for that rental next week? He would like a damage deposit through paypal.

We have already paid this dude up front everything, and now there’s this.

He’ll give it back if we don’t damage anything...
Nina – (that’s what you call your traveling companions when you want to let her know that perhaps her actions aren't of the prudent sort) how do you know this guy’s for real? And not merely a scam?

I do not have an answer to this. I mean, I trust that he’s legitimate. Capitalism would not develop if you didn’t enter the marketplace with a trusting heart.


Now, speed forward to this day – the day before we leave, ready to lay claim to an apartment, rented over the Internet, without any guarantee that the place really exists.

But I can’t worry about that. I have a mountain-load of work to do. And a good half day of work at the little shop. And a tree to purchase and gingerbread cookies to procure for the holidays.








Once again, it is late as I sit down to write here on Ocean. But I think this is the last of the sleepy posts for the year. Tomorrow, I stop the cycle. I’ll be on the road. Or in flight, or actually both.

Until then, good night.

on finding the going to be icy

Icy tones, brittle surfaces, sharp edges, slippery surfaces. How unpleasant!

Some people are not bothered. Snow? No problem. They soldier on.




Me, I’m bothered. I know, I know. It’s not as if there’s one huge iceberg out there.





Not even bergy bits.

Indeed, even the little lake remains fluid.





I noted this driving to work from the airport. I’ve made a lot of trips to the airport lately. Daughters coming and going – that kind of thing.

Looking at the lake and shore from the east is lovely if you’re used to always gazing at it from the lake path on the west. I like the change.

Still, it’s cold out there. Absence of birgy bits notwithstanding.

winter

I admit it: it’s been hard to get a decent night’s sleep around here lately. It has been so intense that I’ve given up.

The end of the semester. I tell myself that the calm I normally associate with this day will eventually take hold. But it's not here yet. There's too much commotion. Too many disturbances. My daughter says to me (as we listen to the Christmas choir) -- I don't feel at all that it's the Christmas season. I agree. I hold her and we listen anyway.


I enter the law building before the sun fully wakes us up. It’s empty here now, except for the sole reader, hoping to get it done before class...





I know you're having a rough time of it, but let me tell you – me too! I am exhausted!


December 3rd. I remember so well the first day of the semester. When I first met my two new batches of first year law students (and my other class students). We were not friends then. Strangers. With indeterminate habits and personalities. And then suddenly, we were friends.

I come in to my very last class of the semester and the room is decorated and there are treats and there is jingle rock playing. I see torts, no, excuse me – tortes, cakes, and cupcakes, with banners screaming “Camic relief!” It is the last straw. Overwhelmed, I can choke out nothing beyond a quiet thank you.





It’s over. My small groups are dispersed. I already miss the daily rituals.

Outside, the air is remarkably tart. I leave school, hurriedly, because, well, you know, a daughter is passing through on this day and I want to see her, listen to her talk about her own day. On Bascom Hill, the snow falls and falls and suddenly, we are in winter.

sweet dreams

They are the ones that come in the daytime. And this week is vulnerable in that it offers many opportunities to dream.

Last days of class. Last meetings with small sections of first year students. They’re tense now, of course. Me, I want to tell them that with that anxiety come the rewards. Such a semester we’ve had! And now, I rest. With sweet dreams of their glowing futures.

First days of holiday melodies. I play Carols from Clare College at home because in December, the delicate sounds sweeten the cold air.

My daughters are on the move. Not literally. Well yes, in one case literally. They’re building their castles now. Splendid ones, with strong foundations. And I just marvel at how talented they are! And spirited. But also how down-to-earth and unfussy. Build away, girls of mine! Let me sit back and admire!

I am on the move as well. Or I will be. Finally. A long longed for flight over to that other side of the ocean for a brief while. Soon.

But not today. After class today I walk up State Street thinking that it doesn't look too bad now, in December. I watch people retreating from campus. Going home.





I pick up a scented candle at the little shop where I work. Essential oils of almond. I never burn candles. Too artificial for my sensibilities. But I’ve seen the effect of our sweet (natural!) fragrance on customers. So many come into the warm interior, take a deep breath and say – it feels so good to be in here! And as I take off my coat and throw off my boots, I say it now too, at home: it feels so good to be in here!

for the birds

It is remarkable how many posts I can write on the subject of being terribly hugely monstrously busy.

You would think that I am squirreling away my writing talents (or at least ideas) for better times.





And I am.

Today I am ending my 2009 teaching and moonlighting combination days (teaching ends for me on Thursday). I remember the years when I taught and combined this with evenings of restaurant cooking. I thought then that I had exhausted my capacity to do double work of any kind. And so I feel somewhat triumphant that I put in an entire semester of work and then more work all over again. Without sinking. True, little corner shop work is easier than burying my hands in an industrial strength oven while others dart in front and behind me in a cramped kitchen.

But I am also a half dozen years older. And I’m teaching nearly twice as much as I was then. Ahh, the travails of the moonlighter...






So I’m thrilled to know that I can still drag home late at night and feel more or less successful at haivng pulling out two 2-hour lectures, followed by a 4-hour stint of introducing customers to the magic of Provence (our shop sells Provence-based items).

But I’m also thrilled that I have a month and a half ahead of me where I will maintain a saner schedule. Because, really, writing near midnight is for the birds.

when night becomes day and day becomes night and in between there is confusion

I take one daughter to the airport just as the sun throws color onto the emerging day.




During the ride, we talk about her week ahead. It’s loaded. New York this, DC that, and then, for work reasons, she comes back to the Midwest. See you in a couple of days, daughter, you with the quick pace and quick mind!

Later, I retrace these steps with my younger daughter. We are airport bound too, though with her, I review the week behind us. I listen to this once child, now wise woman. I hold her just a little bit longer. Three weeks will pass before I see her again.

At home, I have my stack of papers. Large stack. And the brief for Ed’s court case needs a final review. But really, I just want to sleep. I’m under the quilt now, drifting, maybe sleeping, maybe dozing, maybe something inbetween.

But not for long. Daytime, noontime, I’m working now, full steam ahead, onwards and upwards, tally forth! (What other words of encouragement might I use to push me forward?)

And now I am at the Law School, teaching, and now I am not. Homeward bound, where my thought’s escaping... No, you know what’s escaping? Daylight. I walk to the bus as the sun disappears and for a minute, not more, just a minute, there is profound color on campus.





Most people are returning home from work tonight, and I am too, except that I am also going to work, at the little shop where I moonlight. It's confusing and not altogether rational. I know that. I hurry. It's cold outside.

food, part two

During the semester, I often cannot write here, on Ocean until close to midnight. I will have just finished dinner (yes, it comes that late on the four or five days that I spend moonlighting at the shop), put away dishes, told Ed to switch from sleeping on the couch to sleeping in a bed, turned on music, placed my laptop where it belongs – on my lap and begun the transcription of vague ideas – ones that I would have tossed around in my head while working with customers or even on a coffee break earlier at school – onto the blog.

At that hour, I drift in and out of full wakefulness. I am alert, I am not, I type a little, I wish I would think faster, more clearly, without half hour pauses of no thought at all.

Of course I am looking forward to a time when this kind of pattern is put to rest. To a time when I write, like now, with light streaming in from the south facing windows. To a time when I am sure that what I am thinking is well synchronized with what I am writing.

In the meantime, the whirligig continues. One more week of midnight posts with incomplete thoughts weighed down by heavy layers of tiredness.


Though I confess that today was a remarkable exception. How many people past the age of thirty sleep in until nearly noon? And think they could continue if guilt weren’t pushing them out of bed? Without being sick, without having partied at all the night before? For me, it’s a first.

It’s the last day of the daughter visit and each of us has a stack of work, but we take the time to go to Marigold for brunch. Because food can jumpstart a workday as much as it can calm you at its tail end.


the essentials

food

There is a burst of energy that comes when the skies are at their bluest, the air has the bite of early winter, daughters are visiting, the semester is in its last week, Ed’s little piece of litigation is nearing an endpoint, the shop where I moonlight becomes preholiday busy.

Though today was slated to be consumed by work, when all was said and done, I could tell that there would at least be a warm meal at the end of the day.




At the Old Fashioned, on the Square.

so yesterday

The turkey meal, the list of accompanying plates – talking about it today is like playing Auld Lang Syne on January 1st. We’re on Friday now. The day after. Shopping time. We don’t review the success of the side dishes from the turkey dinner the night before.

So here are the side dishes form the turkey dinner the night before. And the pumpkin dessert.










Oh, such a story in its own right! Thanksgiving dinner... I remember when, during the day, one daughter asked – shouldn’t we be putting the turkey in the oven? I answered – I’ve cooked this dinner enough times to know that it will all eventually come together. Without worry. Even though, in the midst of preparations, it may have appeared stressful.





Today felt very much like the day after the big blow out. We went for brunch down to Marigold. Closed. We went for dinner at the Old Fashioned. Closed. Wow... our town has a holiday hangover.

But not at the little shop on the corner. This was Black Friday – the day when every retailer is expected to break sound barriers in terms of sales.

And we did.

The day after was a fine day.

Thanksgiving

To my American readers – my you have a delightful holiday, a truly happy Thanksgiving. To my other side of the ocean ones – let me explain to you about this day: it’s a time when you go to a lot of effort to make a colorful meal out of foods that tend to orbit around shades of brown and mustard yellow. There is a reason why every cook worth her while will put on the table cranberry sauce.

I shopped with Ed yesterday. He wont be joining us for the meal itself (I don’t do Thanksgiving or everyday is a birthday are common answers from him should you inquire why), but he promised to come around for leftovers the next day.

The store was pleasantly crowded and welcoming (samples everywhere).





It must be said that Ed was rather taken aback by what I put in the cart – both the amount and type of food were over and beyond what he is normally exposed to when we shop.
You eat bacon?
On Thanksgiving morning, yes. Can you find a can of pumpkin puree please?

Like I said, all shades of brown and mustard yellow.


Late at night, with daughters home, I roll out the dough.





And in the morning, I don’t even bother looking outside. I turn on the oven and begin.

conversations

The pre-holiday chatter. And what are you doing for the holiday?

You’re allowed to ask. Were it a regular day, it would seem awkward. Huh? Why do you want to know? But you can do it before Thanksgiving.

From a colleague: We’re having friends over.
That’s nice!
Well, we were late to invite and so people were all booked up. So it’s just one couple and us. Seems kind of puny to me.

From a student – my mom injured her ankle, so my sister will be cooking. It’s going to be bad.
Can you help?
I’m going to be holed up in my room working on outlines. Except it’s no longer my room. Ever since I left to go to school, my mom turned it into a “guestroom.” She tells me I can’t sleep on the new bed there. So she puts in an air mattress for me on the floor.

From another – we’re meeting my sister’s fiancée. It’s going to be awkward. I’ll be doing outlines upstairs too.

Yes, for students, this is a time of intense preparation. Around town, café life is, more than ever, concentrated around tall glasses of caffeinated beverages and stacks of papers.





From my daughters – we’re all packed! We’re coming home! [But from my younger one, who is now in her last year of school: is it okay if I spend time working on my paper?]

From a shop coworker – my whatever he is [nc: may I suggest occasional traveling companion?] will be in town. With his dad visiting. I’ll be at my parents.
That’s good, no? Can your whatever he is come over too?
Not really. Not with his dad. That would be awkward. Especially since he’s from Canada and they don’t do Thanksgiving there.

And who is doing the cooking?

From a student – my mother!
Is she good at this?
She's okay... [nc: is that what all children think? are they merely kind when they show pleasure at your efforts?]

From another student – my mother!

From another student – yeah, my mother!

And another – my parents joined this gourmet cooking club decades ago. So, as usual, they’ll be doing a gourmet meal for us.

And another – I’m doing the turkey.
Any interesting variation?
Upside down, to keep the breast meat moist.
I like to stuff herbs between the meat and skin.
How do you do that?
Gently, with your fingers prying the skin loose...

And one more – I’ll be baking lots of pumpkin bread.


Tuesday night. I close the shop where I moonlight and stumble home. I am very tired. I pass a mall where music is piped to the sidewalk all night long. Santa music. That holiday! I hum along.

It's here. The season of pre-holiday chatter, post holiday regrets, that holiday music, family travels, food.

early

Did you know there is such a thing as a New York subway schedule? And that, according to it, the No.6 leaves the Bleecker Station, heading uptown at 4:36 a.m.?

By 4:30, we are at the station. Ed is making sure I get to my proper subway/bus connections at this horribly early, or horribly late hour (depending on your habits). As I slip in the money for a subway ticket, we hear the train stop and then pull away. Six minutes early. And now it’s a mystery as to when the next one will come.

The unreliability of these early hour trains and buses causes me to give up on total frugality. I wave to Ed (who’ll be traveling later that night) and catch a cab for Grand Central, where I wait for the first airport bus. Forget about the whole subway to M60 bit. This time I am like one of the anxious in a hurry New Yorkers who can’t be late no matter what.

Even as in New York, it can be tough to be in a hurry.


The streets are almost empty still. Down in the Village, I would come across the occasional dispirited person walking away from someone’s apartment, or the restless night person who sleeps on a different schedule. Here, in these downtown blocks where no one lives, I only see the occasional person who waits, like me, for the working day to begin. Or who is starting to work. Or who waits for work.




But New York is never really quiet or dark. As the bus approaches and I get ready to board, I take one last look.





For a long long time, this was pretty much the America that I knew. Like for so many here, there was only New York, and then some nameless other regions beyond it, they say with purple mountain majesties with oceans on either side. I’d driven through them, I even occasionally stopped for a week-end or a week. Quaint places where I could see more trees or ripples of ocean water, but then I would return to the city that was, for me, the familiar America.


One last look. As the plane taxis in the hour just before sunrise, in the black and white world of a cloudy hazy morning.





I take out my papers and focus on the day ahead.

welcome to Ameryka

In a quote from an immigrant from the economically depressed Europe of the early twentieth century, I read: “we didn’t know of it as the United States, or even North America. We knew it as America (“Ameryka” in Polish) where anyone could make a new life.

If Ed is my occasional traveling companion, would it be correct to say that I come from a family of occasional immigrants?

My grandfather was the first in my family to travel from Poland to America. He came in what was the busiest year for Ellis Island (where immigrants where processed) – 1907. But he didn’t stay. He went back, then came again, only to return for good to Poland in 1951.

My grandmother crossed the ocean to join him here, then she returned to Poland, then came back and stayed until that return trip to Poland in 1951. Except that twenty years later she came back to the States. She died in California not so very long ago.

My mother is another back and forther. She landed on Ellis Island first in 1929, then again in ‘31 (with Poland in between). Some fifteen years later, she is back in Poland and then, in a surprise move, she winds up in California. I doubt that she’ll ever need a passport again.

I’ve always thought that this unsettled nature of my family’s travels was a tad out of sync with the prevailing trends. I thought people who came to America stayed in America. But today, I read this:




For all my ocean crossings, I am actually more stable than these previous generations of family. I considered myself thoroughly Polish until the 1970s, and since then, I have regarded myself very much as an American immigrant.

And yet I am the only one in my America-bound family who did not come through Ellis Island. The place closed down as an immigrant center in 1954 – a year after I was born. But in the 60 years leading up to that year, so many immigrants passed through Ellis Island! (The majority from Eastern Europe and Italy.)


Today, Ed and I took the ferry to Ellis Island.

It couldn’t have been a brighter day (though I would have welcomed a warmer wind).

We left Bleecker Street at an hour where New York streets are empty but for the serious visitors who are anxious to fit it all in. Oh, and the newspaper buyers (there are still those). And dog walkers. And fans of buttermilk scones for a Sunday breakfast.













We are lucky with the ferry. Just as we hike up to the pier, one is setting out toward the open waters. If you’ve done this trip, you’ll know that the boat first pulls up to Liberty Island.





You want to get off?
I don’t know... We don’t have tickets to go inside Ms Liberty...





But we do get off. How can we not? Liberty Island, Statute of Liberty – aren’t these as much a part of the immigrant experience as docking at Ellis Island? Or passing through the Verrazzano Narrows? (I passed through the Narrows on my first voyage to the States, even though I was not then an immigrant.)





We walk along the perimeter of Liberty Island and look up at the green robes of the statue. It’s a dazzling monument from close up. Especially when I am so intensely focused on immigration to this country via New York (as experienced by my ancestors).





We board the ferry again and head for Ellis Island. Twelve million went through the immigration screening here. I keep thinking that: twelve million. Including my grandfather, grandmother, mother.

The wind is even more forceful now. I think about huddled masses. And boat passengers braving the weather. And having, finally, a full view of Manhattan.








Once on Ellis, Ed allows me to take the lead, to take the museum at my own pace.

We join a small group that wants to tour the hospital wing. But I’m restless. I want to cut loose. I can’t feel the place through the words of the young guide. He’s too sing-song, too bland. These are not bland stories! Talk by example! Tell me an anecdote or fact about a Stefania or Wojciech (my grandparents’ names), or anyone else – the doctors who worked here, the people who stayed, those who were turned back.






In the end, Ed and I make our way through the great halls of the arrival building alone. The places of great waiting. Waiting to cross, waiting to land, waiting to move on.









The best, for me, are the photos. Faces, families, so often from Poland. How is it that they came from Poland at a time when there was no Poland? I don’t understand. Could they state country of origin based on a past remembrence? Or a future hope?




And faces of orphaned children, coming here to find a new life. These move me no end. And the woman from Poland who took work scrubbing floors. That could be my grandmother. She cleaned apartments during the day and baked during the night.




Immigrant stories. There aren’t enough of them, I don’t think. I want more details – I can’t have the details about my own grandparents, but I’ll settle for those of others. What were their days here like?

We take several hours to walk through the few rooms with exhibits. This is where they were inspected for health problems. This is where they were checked for legal permission to enter. This is where they were given the literacy test. Or the psychological test. This is where they stayed if they failed.

My mother recalled being scared that the officials would find lice. Would she be sent back? Would her mother be sent back then as well? Do others have similar recollections?

By midafternoon I am intensely tired. There is a chill in the building and I am wishing I had an extra sweater underneath my coat. I tell Ed – let’s head back to Manhattan.

We leave Ellis, swing around Liberty and head home.







And now we walk agaom toward Bleecker. The long way. Past the court house where Ed spent so many days during the trial. Past Chinatown too, and a playground full of families from Southeast Asia...





...and on to Orchard Street where Ed has found the best pickle shop in the borough. (Guss' Pickles; but they're moving to Brooklyn after the new year.)




... and little Italy, where we stop for an espresso and biscotti.










... and finally home. If you can call floor space home. I can. For this week-end at least.


Late in the evening we go round the corner to a local Italian place. The waiters are kind and the food is comfortably good and as we ease into the evening, I’m thinking that this city has been especially gentle with me this time around.

It continues to treat me well. One daughter is calling – the one who lives in Boston. I’m in town, just a few blocks away! The restaurant is closing, but the proprietors are delighted that a daughter should show up. They pull up a chair for her and now she is there, eating a plate full of pasta even as we have already polished off our own dinner and dessert.

And then the other daughter calls: I’m done with my meetings! Can I join you? Sure! The proprietors smile and pull up a fourth chair and now I have my daughters around me and the night air is warm and the wine is mellow and who, under the circumstances, could be anything but enthralled?

Last moments in New York. In a few hours I’ll have to make my way back to La Guardia for a predawn flight to Madison. I have classes to teach and moonlighting work to round off my Monday. It will be a long day. But I’m okay with that. I’ve had my two days.

Two days of thoughts about other places, other generations, another era, another family. That’s all it takes to get myself ready to face the last two weeks of the semester.