arrival

Snapshots for you today. Fleeting observations.

For instance this: Ed is catching up on sleep a lot. So that the goal of rising early and getting a good morning’s walk in Barcelona fails. Instead, we barely made it out for a stroll in the neighborhood. Not that this was lacking in pleasant vignettes.

The shops. This one subscribes to bold advertising.




The park. Miro park. Where wild parrots nest in the palms and make screechy noises when you disturb them with your presence.




You know how occasionally, you like to take a photo of your partner and he’ll do the same for you and its all so convivial and sweet? Here we are: the compliant one and the difficult subject.









And then it’s noon and we pack our bags and walk the long long four blocks to the car rental place. To clarify: long, because when the two of you are lugging two packs, a suitcase and a foldable canoe (with paddles, etc.), each block is like a mountain.

And we get our wish: the smallest of small cars, the Smart for Two. The agent looks at our bags, looks at the car, looks at the bags and says – it is a small car. Yes, yes, we know. That’s why I took a thin suitcase. If we set the canoe sideways, and the bag next to it and one pack on top... No, that didn’t work. How about if we put the suitcase on its side and the canoe underneath and one pack on its end... Better. We tell the agent: it’s only for a day like this. She waves us on.

We head north. Out of Barcelona. City of balconies, right?




...and of buildings that make you take note.









Ed’s feeling sleepy again. We switch drivers. Radio’s on, the road’s familiar, two hours later, we cross the border. And the music changes. To French. Cherie FM...

And because we are staying in the foothills of the Pyrenees not too far from the Spanish border, it doesn’t take long to pull into the big grocery store just outside Sorede. Ah, changes. The big grocery store is now bigger. More aisles, more grocery carts, new systems in place. Even more rosé wines to choose from. We buy the wine, the apple juice (like no other), the juice from wine grapes (which is different from grape juice or wine), and the cheese. Necessities.

And now we do the final couple of kilometers along the country road to the village.




Yes, here at last. So darn familiar! Park the car, go to the favorite bakery. This late, you’re hoping there’s bread left. There is.





...and yes, still a mille feuille remains. Just for you Ed. Thank you for agreeing to come back.




This time we’re staying toward the hills some. Up there, past those houses.





It’ll be a twenty-five minute walk to the center of the village, but I would do much for such a walk in my everyday life.

Gunter and his wife (our hosts) are waiting: here’s your apartment (It’s the back side of their house), all is ready.

We unpack in this lovely little space that’s so clean (so different from last year’s!), where the Internet works (so different from last year’s!) and there’s space to settle in (so different from last year’s!).

In the evening, we walk down the hill, passing the wee vineyard...




dazzling, still dappled by the fading sun...



...and the village houses. Ed notices the cats, I notice the dogs, nothing’s changed, all wonderfully reassuring.












On the main square, the Bar Pizza place, THE Bar Pizza place is alive and noisy. A family next to us: one boy is a little on the ill side, his sister doesn’t like the lack of attention. She goes off, as she can, and sits at the other end of the square.





People watching. I look over at another group where, in my eyes, she looks like a portrait Renoir would have painted.




More people watching. All under the canopy of flags, Sorede flags, or really French and Catalan flags and European Union flags. Little dancing flags, like children dance, so do flags, out in the breeze of a June night.





A pitcher of sangria (a beverage we can share!) – this one is spicier, more tart with citrus, equally delicious. A pizza, mine with anchovies from nearby Couilleures, a salad – huge young greens – wasn’t there a drought here? No, not here, more in the east of France.






Sorede. It’s been such a crowded year. It’s so good to breathe the air of a village where nothing seems particularly crowded or rushed.

Barcelona

Night in Barcelona. Just one night. After the long trip, Ed falls asleep the minute we reach the hotel.

The skies are cloudy and the temperatures have dropped to the cool sixties. Eight o’clock, nine, nine thirty. Ed, we cannot pass on a dinner in Barcelona.

A night meal in the city. Hundreds of places to choose from. Last year, Ed took on the task of picking with a zest. Tonight he’s still groggy from travel. I have some ideas, but nothing fixed. He searches, we confer reviews, confer some more. Got it. Just a two kilometer walk toward the center. Taller de Tapas.

Barcelona in the late June evening, just a little wet, just a little cool. Men wear scarves, women – eh, women, they wear all sorts of things. Me too. I clash colors here, because it’s crazy fun to not harmonize, not be perfectly in order.

Balconies. The city of balconies.





Then of course, tapas. Catalan food is at the top of the best, in my book. Tapas let two people run through a lot of food. There are the wild mushrooms. The greens with bits of cheese. And anchoivies on eggplant and peppers. And langoustines in saffron. And mussels. And a pitcher of sangria. Ed, who drinks maybe a beer every two weeks at home, pours sangria as if it were water. Delicious, zesty fruity...








And when you think I'd had enough, I point to the scrambled eggs with prawns and seasonal vegetables, and what the heck, it’s small plates, so that too.

Barcelona. Something about this place makes you let go. Eat with spirit. Then walk home in the warm light rain, in the shadows of the night, while others keep on eating, drinking. Seductive city. Almost dark now. Almost.

a plop and a fizz

Do you remember this quite popular Alka Selzer commercial from forty years back? (Plop plop, fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is!) Yes? Well, I can’t say that I am plopping white tablets into a glass of water right now, but I am plopping down on a white bed at a hotel that, basic as it is, still provides a welcoming glass of fizzy Cava.



Oh, it was a singularly uncomplicated trip. There was that tight transfer in Amsterdam, but the last flight was then delayed and so we were fine. The delay was due to storms rumbling through Barcelona. The western part of Europe has been without rain for nearly three months. Finally, today Spain and France get the rain. I am happy for them. Between e.coli scares and the drought, farmers have had a brutal season.

So, we are in Barcelona. First, at the airport with the quitest and shiniest spaces imaginable.



Then on the metro, to the city itself. Oh my, it feels abruptly different from where I now live!

Perhaps the most difficult part of the trip was the walk from the metro station to the hotel. We trusted directions. They were wrong. We made a large loop around the area (a residential one)...





...and could not find our street. This is not a big deal if you’re just toting your backpack or carryon. But we are also carrying equipment.

Momentarily lost in Barcelona, with a slender suitcase, two backpacks and a portable canoe (and paddles of course).

The plop and the fizz now feel very very lovely.

up up and away

The day of departure. Why is it that I have always enough to do to fill the exact number of hours, but wish desperately I could have just five minutes more?

Yes, I could have skipped house cleaning. I understand that most people don’t vacuum before going overseas. But the idea is to create a welcoming place for the return, no? Then too, White Flower Farm, the flower place that I turn to in February in anticipation of spring, sent a box of perennials to apologise for much confusion this year with my order. They arrive this morning. And I already have nasturtium to transplant. And weeds to pull. Rains cause weed proliferation like you wouldn’t believe.

We do some spot cleaning outside as well. Ed picks up the fallen limbs after yesterday’s storms.





The last step is throwing everything into a suitcase and hoping that it’ll close.

It does.

So, a note as to where we’re heading. Our trip has three parts to it. The first, by far the longest, is having me do something I have never done in my life since childhood. I am returning to a place I loved – Sorede. If you don’t remember, or hadn’t read, it’s in southern France: just at the border with Spain. To the south and west are the Pyrenees, to the east the sea. After a year of such crazy hours and momentous change, I am so very happy that for once, I opted for stability. Predictability. Quiet.

After, well, we’ll get a little more adventurous. We’ve packed our gear. We’re ready. I think.

The last, third snippet is a bit of an unknown. This itself is new for me. I typically like to know, plan, evaluate significantly in advance. Not this time. We'll see what evolves.

And so we’re off. Actually, as I write this, we are already somewhat into the trip. I'm writing this from Detroit, waiting for our flight to Amsterdam. Tomorrow afternoon, if we make our ridiculously tight connection, we should land in Barcelona. Always know that I do my best to get on line daily. I nearly never fail. But sometimes it just cannot be.

Off we go. 'Bye Isis. Ed misses you already. Travel makes you understand how important are those whom we leave behind.

the order of things

It’s the afternoon. I know that in twenty-four hours, we’ll be flying out of here. It’s a difficult trip to pack for, because at different times, we’ll be doing different things, some requiring sport equipment, some requiring nothing of the sort.

And there’s the matter of my exams. Still a handful to read, grades to submit – all that, obviously a tremendous priority.

So why is it that in the early evening hours, I am back on the porch, sanding, painting, sanding painting?





Don’t be fooled. This is not the smile of a happy person. The painting is hugely difficult and I would give up a lot – including a night’s sleep to get it done before we go. If the mosquito population explodes as it did last year in our June absence, this is not a chore I would like to have waiting for me in July.

So I paint and scrape and paint some more and somehow I do finish the task just before the last light fades.





It is right about now that Ed tells me – I think I’ll do the Wednesday night bike ride.

Say what? We have severe weather warnings up and down the corridor. Ed, really?

I am reminded of how much this man does not run from danger. I think about the travels just before us and I know he regards most of them, not all, but most as rather timid. Staid. And I think – that’s okay. Because I like a good amount of timid.

Ed goes off to bike, I settle in to work, but not for long, because I'm hearing distant sirens and, too, the TV is giving forth monstrous warning noises. Within seconds, the TV dies and the lights go off.

I sit on the basement steps and I contemplate life. I do not know where Ed is. I have a handful of exams to grade. I do not have a ready flashlight to help me with this, I do not have food for tonight. Outside, the winds are ferocious.

Time passes. I note that my cell phone's battery is nearly dead. I think how next time a tornado is about to rip through this part of  the world, I should remember to have a charged cell phone with me.

And then I note that the winds have calmed.

My older daughter calls me. Come over – she tells me. The tornado warning has expired.

I eat pizza at her place and sip a lovely glass of white wine. The porch is painted, the exams are just about done. Nothing’s packed, the house is a mess, but Ed is back. He’d spent the tornado minutes at Walmart. Having gone in for a quick purchase, he was hustled into their tornado quarters. Whatever I think of Walmart, I'm grateful that they lock down the store in times of fierce storms.


It’s quiet right now. Storms have passed. Tomorrow I’ll walk the farmette and look to see what trees were affected. I know the farmhouse is undamaged. Though I do wonder how the porch fresh paint held up to the torrential rains.

heat wave

It is far harder to leave a farmette for a long spell than it is to leave a condo. There are the sitters to arrange. House sitters. Cat sitters. Garden sitters. No, forget that, let the garden develop on its own. But grass sitters for sure.

We’re leaving Thursday and I still have a handful of exams to grade. How did that happen?

In the meanwhile, we are in the thick of a heat alert. Last night, the second floor of the farmhouse was toasty warm and predictably, we fell asleep downstairs. At 3 at night I woke to find Ed on the floor, myself on the small couch and Isis, the cat, on the large couch. It was an awkward time to disinvite a comfortably situated cat, but I did it. Go outdoors, already! I pointedly brushed off the couch, to demonstrate that there may well have been a cat hair or two that needed my instant attention. By then, the upstairs was cool enough for a restful sleep and we finished the night in a more suitable sleeping arrangement. In case you hadn't known, Isis does not have night privileges at the farmhouse.

In fact, surprisingly, the farmhouse does have air conditioning.  But I don’t like air conditioning and I doubt that I will have the need for it so long as the night temperature dips below 80. For all the windows, or perhaps because of all the widows, it actually stays quite cool. Except for the upstairs at the end of the day. In Mediterranean homes, there would be shutters to close against the heat of the sun. I don’t have that, but believe me, upstairs curtains will be drawn today. You know, those nice, delicate linen curtains with a delightful sway at the slight whiff of a breeze? Better delicate linen than nothing. (A commenter suggested an attic fan: yes, that is a project that remains in the state of arrested development.)


In the early afternoon, I began the grueling job of painting the porch.

Outside, the bees buzz, the dragon flies dart and the flowers are beyond sublime.

future trips

I ask Ed – are you sure you don’t want to go to Poland with me next winter?
Yes.

Why not?

(I’ll not provide his answer, lest you might think -- hey, that's not a fair response. I don’t want that.)

fate

Something that sticks in my mind:
Two years ago, I say to an innkeeper on the Isle of Skye: I am so sorry that we are here for just this short stretch.
He tells me – it was good that we met. Fate may have it that you will return.
I have not returned. What does that say about fate?

night update, from the northern Midwest

I say to Ed: it’s hot upstairs. Must be nearly 100.
Did you open windows? -- he asks.
Yes...
What’s the temp outside now? (Nearly 11 pm)
81.
Ah. So less than 100. I’ll go open more windows.

wheels are churnin’

...on the hottest day thus far.

And you know what? I love it. A sun that heats the earth quickly and forces me to turn the hose onto newly planted stems -- it's okay, it's okay!






A few things to note on this day:

I decide to pay attention to Facebook. I had joined early on. Daughters -- they thought I should. But I basically ignored it. If someone “friended me” I mostly said OK, but I never posted, never logged in, never even noticed it – with the exception of those long evenings when I moonlighted at the little shop, and a minute of reading a social network felt less lonely, less like I was constantly trekking on some mill that was too fast, too distant from where I wanted to be.

So today I actually posted something. Not anything significant, in fact not anything an Ocean reader wouldn’t have already seen here, but still. Kind of cool to limit yourself to a sentence or two. A different style of writing – another challenge.

Then, too, it was hot.






I grade exams – I have to. This isn’t about self imposed deadlines anymore. Ed and I are taking off this Thursday. We have a lot to do before then.

And I look around me and I think – good, this is good. I have plans. I have a path to those plans. It’s good.



We pick up my older girl at the airport. She’d been away for the week-end and the blast of warm air catches her by surprise, I think.


And late at night, I listen to Beatles music. In Poland, when I was in my teens, I challenged myself to sing in exactly the right diction/intonation/breath intakes as on the Beatles records that I had from my years in the States. You should hear me do Fool on the Hill! I knew every pause, every upswing, every hesitation!

I’m 58. So many decades since a high school classmate would ask me -- sing Strawberry Fields! Sing your favorite Beatles song! Let me take you down...

Many people can trace their childhoods, their friends and family through Facebook. I cannot, really. There are very few people from my past who are on Facebook. My ignited interest in it is a nod to the future, not to my past.

But there will always be the Beatles. My bags are packed. I’ve said good bye to all my American friends. I turn on the old box that plays 33s for me. There are places I remember...

Sunday at the farm

It is how summer days should be: a cool shaded outdoor spot, tables covered with casual, colorful cloth, dishes stacked.

Maybe two pans of spring vegetable frittata. Maybe some chicken sausage on the side. And bowls of fruits. And a rhubarb coffee cake, drizzled with rhubarb compote.





Your friends should be there – at the farm, escaping for the week-end, with their dog, maybe. And it’s good to have at least one daughter there, with her friend, to vary the ages a bit. Two daughters would be over the top great, but one is good too.





At some point, someone on the porch will fall asleep. I’m guessing the farm man himself. People that live and breathe the outdoors get sleepy after big meals. Others will continue eating, or taking pictures, or telling jokes. He’ll snore just a little.





But eventually someone will propose a walk. It’ll likely be the cook. Cooks like to get out of the kitchen for a spell after they’re sure everyone is well fed.

The friends have to leave – it’s a long drive to the city up north. The daughter and her friend will leave soon, too – it’s a long drive to the city down south. But they humor the cook and they take that walk and they’re rewarded with a field of lupine and a view toward fields of gathered hay.





Yes, Sunday at the farm. It’s best when there is food with friends and family. Really it is.

summer days

The living is pretty good, if not easy. And yes, the flies are starting their heat-of-the-day buzz. How did it get to be this green, this pungent, this idyllic, this quickly?

I’m up early. The garden to check. New plants to water, six more that came in the mail, revisit the ones who have been prone to wilt, note bugs attacking my tomato heirloom. Ed’s caulking the porch, getting it ready so that I can paint it tomorrow or the day after.

Breakfast. Outside, of course.





Isis, the cat, hides. Karma, the dog explores.







After, I tell my visiting friends -- follow us to the market!



(photo credit: dianalouisa)


And they do. To the downtown market, where we meet these guys...





Yep, the younger daughter’s in town. One daughter at the market one week, the other the next. Funny how that goes.

We sample sweet stuff, spicy stuff, cheese stuff, bread stuff...





I buy asparagus, oysters (mushrooms; we’re in the Midwest, remember?), one more plant, just one more...



Early afternoon. I join Ed by Lake Waubesa. He’s checking out a used partly inflatable two person canoe. He needs me to assess its wobbliness (I don’t like tippy boats). We take it out a bit and talk about its potential to take us down adventurous rivers in far away places.



photo credit: dianalouisa


Not bad. Okay, okay, we can do this. We'll navigate it down the river in a few weeks, okay. (Gulp. More on that later.)



Late afternoon. My visiting friend and I take a walk along the lake. So quickly! The summer came so quickly! Like a season that grew up from infancy to adulthood at the blink of an eye lid.


 


Or, like your baby kid. The one who now eats cheese bread with you at the market.


A sandhill crane screeches and guards her young.





Calm down, quiet, we'll not bother you.



Evening. We go in to town for dinner. Second time to the city in one day!

We’re at Underground Kitchen – a place that, too, has ties to my law school friends (one friend's daughter’s partner is one of the an owner/chefs). Such good foods (and drinks! try the no. 44!), from beginning...





to end.





Superbly intoxicating stuff. Or, is it that the predinner drink was superb and thus intoxicating and all that followed was a rollicking run of good flavors and seasonal ingredients?



My visiting friends, Ed and I, walk down State Street to the Memorial Union terrace.


 



The younger daughter is there with her friend. The sun is setting. The Union chairs are packed and so we sit at one of the decks, jutting out into the lake.





A superb sunset.



You’d think that this is where I end the day. But no, the sun has long disappeared, the night stars are visible, and there we are, walking up Bascom Mall to visit the Law School. My friend hadn’t been back since she graduated in 1986, a year ahead of me. You have to think how heady this all is: my law school pal and me, walking through hallways together now, 25 years later, with lawyer daughters grown (her daughter, too, is a law school grad), and landlords, or is it traveling companions, or in her case, husbands at the side, walking now through the office rooms and class rooms and spaces that were just so different then, when we were both starting out.

Such a night. June night, warm with the smell of lakes and the sound of someone starting a motor on a boat again and again and again until eventually it kicks in and sends the little thing chug chug chugging up Lake Mendota.

company

Company’s coming for the week-end.

I should not really say “company,” – it’s so retro, no? My parents used to say, when they were in the diplomatic circuit – we’re having company for dinner. It was never fun company. I would step in and be introduced as the child, and company would ask how old I was, and how school was going, and after answering both, I’d retreat to watch TV in mother and father's bedroom and eat a Swanson’s TV dinner on my lap. Like I said, retro.


My company this weekend is actually such close friends that you could say it’s really like family, but still, I prefer to think of it as these two (plus dog) urban folk who are driving for hours (all five hours) down to spend a few days in the fresh air of rural Wisconsin.

So, time to snip into the lilacs again...





... plan a good menu, and greet them as they drive up the dirt road and walk up the brick path. Hi Karma!





Hi friends!

routine

The sun is setting now – I can see it, but I haven’t the inclination to go out and photograph it. Yawn. Another sunset.

The orange color announces itself out the west-looking window. I can see the flash of color, through branches and bushes.

Comings and goings. The sun is up, the sun is down. One daughter returns, then leaves again. Other daughter coming up for a brief moment, to return home soon after.

And through all this, we, Ed and I, are the ones who stay home. Comings and goings, sunsets, sunrises – it’s all distant. Remote. We’re up, sometimes very early, sometimes out immediately, sometimes working hard for hours before a breakfast at 10 or even 11.

Today was like that. Ed is ripping the porch up and nailing in treated boards. I’m weeding and grading, weeding and grading.






Yesterday was (for Ed) a biking day, today is (for us) market day. So there is a difference between Wednesday and Thursday. Good thing, or I’d get terribly confused as to where I am in the passage of time.

June 1st

As I have said before, for me, June 1st will always be International Children’s Day. I grew up with it in Poland and I continue to recall it, in the same way that I recall July 22nd as post war Poland’s national holiday, and May 1st as Labor Day. It seems that by switching countries, I have gained a number of memorable dates. I've added Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. Sort of like an expanding family adds birthdays. Curiously, I have, at the same time, shed quite a number of birthdays to remember. A classic case of winning some, losing others.

So perhaps it is not surprising that I behaved like a child today, given the date.  I failed to meet my self imposed grading deadline. It was to be June 1st, even though I knew that it would be a struggle to finish this early. It was more than a struggle. It was not to be.

It may have worked, had the days been less radiant, less beautiful. Had I not told myself again and again  – these are the best, the very best days on the farmette, when you can still enjoy the outdoors, when you can plant and watch things grow (as opposed to wilt, shrivel and retreat). No bugs, no office time, plenty of sunshine – bliss!





And, of course, Ed and I are still struggling to make progress on farmhouse projects. The porch is now finally under attack. Rotten boards are torn off, new ones are cut to size. I have to paint what’s there, Ed has to measure screening material and eventually nail it down. It’s a huge undertaking.






One adult element of this day is the evening on the town with my older daughter.





It's good that I am out at the farm. It's great that the farm isn't too far from either daughter's more urban home.