day before the day before

2:30 at night. My phone is ringing. No good news ever comes at that hour.

Except this time it is indeed good news. The man calling in is outside, delivering the suitcase and the duffel bag.

I won't try to guess their journey. One bag has a suspicious tag bearing the name Taiwan Speedy Travel Service, with a foreign phone number below. I look at them as one would look at wayward children. What on earth have you been up to? Never mind, let's get some sleep and I'll deal with you in the morning.

Morning. They're still early these mornings of mine. There's lots to be done before Christmas which, for me, will be celebrated on the Eve.

Predictably, the day begins with breakfast.





But just as I then get to making a to-do list, I get a message. One of the flights from our forthcoming trip has been cancelled, setting of a stream of consequences that we have to address.

I put it all aside and go to yoga.

It's cold outside and Ed has resurrected his 90% rust and 10% car vehicle. My own car is being inspected and so I borrow that thing, that piece of scrap metal. I cannot believe that there is a vehicle uglier than my sweet donkey car, but indeed, the Geo is uglier. I remember when I first met Ed seven years ago: I met him outside my home. He'd driven up in this same Geo. I wondered -- what kind of a man drives a rusty red car with peeling pink and purple stripes on it?

After yoga, I'm back at the farmette.


 






There, I attack the travel bags. Laundry, gifts, cookies that crumbled, memories, I have memories of times when I shopped for all this thinking it was all so pretty. At the moment it all just looks squashed and slightly tired from days of compression and travel.

But slowly the house is returning to an ordered state and as I am one of those who thrives on order, I relax. We reconfigure our travel itinerary for the forthcoming trip, then  I put on my puffy ski pants as Ed digs out our skis and we head out to our local county park -- a mere couple of miles from here.





Ah, Lake Waubesa is freezing over.





It's the first ski outing of the season. It may be cloudy, it may be close to dusk and it may be, therefore, without much color, but the landscape is, nonetheless, gorgeous. You can see from where the storm came. On one side, all tree trunks look like birches.





The snow is deep and very perfect for a ski run.






Through it all I keep thinking how truly lucky I am to be living in such beautiful country.





I tell Ed this, more than once today. When I flood him with good words, he turns shy. Okay, gorgeous becomes the standard response.

It's nearly dark by the time we get home. I take out rolls of paper and start wrapping the presents that had been buried for so long in a suitcase.

...with daughters

It surprises me no end that there is no snow in Chicago. It's plenty cold, but somehow that drop in temperature did not coincide with any precipitation and so the streets and sidewalks are dry. Though isn't snow only a burden in the city? Downtown,  does it have any virtue at all? Any aesthetic value?

Of course, most people, my Chicago daughter included, don't live exactly downtown. Chicago, unlike New York, has the largest concentration of people living not in high-rise apartments, but in buildings that are relatively small and squat. Walk-ups, most of them.

My girl lives with her guy in one such place and as I tend to be up earlier than anyone in most any household, I have a chance to look around with greater care and admire her artistry in designing their interior. (In another life, one that is purely imagined by me, that is what she should have done for a living -- design interiors). It's not that she buys things to create a perfect setting, it's that she'll use what she has in ways that are so creative that I sort of wonder where she got this talent. No one in the familial generations before her has especially demonstrated such gifts.

There's a Christmas tree and holiday touches throughout.





One of the nice things about visiting her (and, too, when her sister lived away from Madison, she and I did this as well) is that we go out to brunch. Ed and I never do this. Ever. The closest we come is when we travel and stay at hotels that have included in the price breakfast buffets and we stuff ourselves silly so that we don't have to eat again until late.

This time my youngest, her guy and I go to Nellcote, a place that is just west of the river downtown. It's well regarded for the food and for the funky atmosphere. Yes, I'd agree -- those are its notable features. A movie is in progress in a few screens so that if you want, you can enjoy Love, Actually with your food. And the food is total heaven!


After, we walk downtown, pausing at a pastry shop for warm up drinks and treats.





And, to make the joy even more complete, we're joined by my older girl and her husband, who have driven down to start the progression of family holiday events here, in Chicago (they're all having dinner with their dad tomorrow). The five of us stroll through a very crowded but very festive Christmas Market. Mom's with the camera. Sometimes that's a good thing.





(Throughout the day, I pester KLM about the suitcase and finally, in the late afternoon, I learn that the bags made it to Madison. From that airport it's just a hop skip to the farmhouse and so my confidence that we will be reunited before the holidays surges!)

It's a mid-twenties kind of day in Chicago and I am reminded how the wind here kicks down those readings a bit. But, there are warm up spots and happy crowds and I feel so totally grateful that my kids would spend their precious free time in this way, hanging out with a person who is old enough that she repeats her stories, not infrequently (just ones told the night before!).

In the evening, I catch the El to the airport…





...where I pick up the bus to take me home. It's a three hour ride and yes, I'd prefer a train, but this is good enough. And as we pull in, Ed's waiting and we pick up Chinese take out on our way home where there aren't any suitcases yet, but I feel their presence in town and that, too, is good enough. Life isn't perfect, but in my corner of the universe, it's feeling mighty close to it.

short day, late post

There some things that are just so predictable. That the temperatures would eventually plummet in Wisconsin. That when KLM told me I'd see my suitcase and duffel bag a day later, they didn't mean it. That heavy snow would cause branches to fall and tree tops to lean (luckily away from the house).





And that a sunny day would make it all much less burdensome.





(Less predictable was seeing this cardinal outside. I chased him all the way to the old barn -- he just would not sit still for a photo!)


 


It's the year's shortest day and, on the upside, aren't we all relieved that the tide now shifts and each day will be longer? Doesn't that make us all think spring thoughts? (To a point: it really is cold outside.)


There's an upside to the missing suitcase situation as well. I learned two years ago that when an overseas airline messes with your luggage, you can get back at them by sending them the bill for the inconveniently missing necessities. So that as I packed a little backpack today for an overnight in Chicago and realized that my winter cap, my best pants and all best shirts were stuck somewhere in Detroit (why Detroit? and if there, why not on the next available flight to Madison -- because there were many such flights on this bright blue skied day? I can't even begin to understand...), I knew it was time to treat myself well and send KLM the bill. I forewarned them that the bills would start multiplying and they conceded that this surely is justifiable, within reason. Me, I'll choose my own definition of what is within reason. Because I'm not sure an airline that is sitting on luggage without signs of moving it out and onwards is in a good position to discuss reasonableness with me.

And so after a productive grading morning, I hopped back on the Chicago bus and went downtown to shop. Silly things (but missing nonetheless) like a hairbrush and essentials such as that what you'll find at Victoria's Secret (no kidding -- all my good ones are in that suitcase). And, though I typically do not like shopping, there is some small pleasure in doing this on someone else's bill.





(On a bus from the El Blue Line to Michigan Avenue,  I listened with a smile to the conversation of these two beautiful young beings. It put me right back into the high school frame of mind. In a good way.)





Time flies when you're looking for a warm cap and decent underwear. Or is it that darkness comes early on the shortest day? Probably both.





I'm in Chicago obviously not just to shop. It's been a while since I came down to spend a few good hours with my little girl and her guy. Close as this is to Christmas (at which time I will see them, albeit briefly, up in Madison), it is worth every minute to just be with them on their own turf.





We eat dinner at the fantastic Trenchermen -- a place that has such a creative flair that it nudges me again not to take too many shortcuts in my own cooking back home. That extra effort can produce memorable meals.

Later today (Saturday) I'll be back on the bus to Madison. Only to be on this same bus again next Saturday,  but with Ed then, so that we can finally take off on our long planned trip to... No, wait, that's next week's story.

short days, fat flakes

I take no risks catching flights home.  I leave for them in plenty of time. And so, shortly after six Wednesday morning, I'm pulling my little case up past the Luxembourg Gardens, which are, of course, closed for the night, up the slight hill toward the train stop to catch the RER to the airport. Still, I can't help pausing, just for a second. There is a neat display of 100 years of French political cartoons.




I thought Ocean readers (on any side of the political spectrum) might get a chuckle out of this one (from the postwar years), given what we think here of the French flirtation with socialism.



(we need to nationalize happiness)


And that's it. Good bye Paris.

I pick up a last little pain au chocolat at the airport, but then I concentrate on watching the clock. I will the plane for Amsterdam to take off on time.





And it does. And in Amsterdam, I have a full 55 minutes to connect to my Chicago flight, which takes off just a little late anyway. Packed jumbo jet. You have to feel sorry for flight attendants these days. Catering to the needs of so many in such tight quarters for so long can't be fun. They do it with panache. I haven't encountered a grumpy flight attendant for a long long time.

So I'm feeling plenty relieved. Until we land and my name is called and I am told that my little suitcase and duffel bag --you know, with all those gifts for the holidays-- were not put on the plane in Amsterdam and wont follow me home until the next day, maybe.

Yes, but the next day we are to have a blizzard and then there is the holiday itself!

It's hard to get incensed with the messenger of bad news. Here's a job no one should like: dealing with the almost tearful pleadings of travelers who cannot understand why their luggage didn't travel with them (given that it did for 500 others). I can only guess that the packed jumbo quickly filled the cargo hold before my little cases reached it from the connecting flight. Sigh.

It made for light travel for the rest of the trip home. And, on the up side, the bus pulled into Madison just as the first snow flakes began to fall and Ed was on time and I even had a chance to stop by my office before the Law School officially locked down at 9 p.m. And to go to the grocery store and to cook a light supper for Ed and myself.


Wet snow fell during the night and by the time I took these photos Thursday morning, it was thick and heavy everywhere.





And all this accumulation is before the official blizzard - which came in the afternoon.

Ed and I shoveled. And then we shoveled again.





We tossed around ideas about skiing, but the snow was too wild and furious. And wet. You could quite stand still and not be able to move much on skis where there are no trails, no slick places to glide. With a wicked wind holding you back.

So we walked instead. Tentatively at first, but picking up speed and enthusiasm even as the blizzard, too, picked up speed and enthusiasm.













It was an exhilarating set of hours.





And easy enough heading out: the wind pushed us forward.





A little harder coming back, with the sharp snow hitting our faces.










Finally: almost home. Do you see our farmhouse? Just a touch of yellow in a landscape that's quite beautiful, but without much color to it.





Yes, the kind of day where you can buckle down and work. And I do just that. Grade exams. Drink cup after cup of tea. Shovel again, make stew for supper. Miss Paris. Miss the little suitcase and duffel bag. But so happy. Because I'm home, warm and safe, while the blizzard rages outside, making the old farmhouse creak and groan at the bother of it all.

right to left then home

I'm thinking that there is a reason why the song Home for the Holidays became such a hit. It makes a good point: no matter how festive your surroundings, if you're away from home, you can admire all that pretty stuff -- the lights, the window decorations, but it seems (and it is) a world away from your holidays. It's someone else's show.

For those who think the Christmas season goes on for too long (I'm not one of them), I suggest taking a vacation break just before. It's very disorienting.

For me, Paris in December is the only time that I participate with pleasure in the act of shopping. Walking is a big draw. There is lots of walking, lots of looking, lots of looking, eventually picking up a few items -- holiday gifts, forthcoming birthday stuff, small treats for people who have done me tremendous favors lately. At least in the early hours, this was my right bank day.

Of course, one could shop at home. But Madison isn't a shopper's paradise (which is good: not much tempts and anyway the malls are crowded and the streets at this time of the year are cold) and Internet buying seems so instant and anomic. Click. I just spent $200! Without even running my fingers over the fabric and imagining what a daughter might look like wearing this scarf or that pair of socks.

Besides, we all know that our stock market does well when Europe shows signs of recovery, so in order to boost the value of your retirement savings, I may as well shop across the ocean. And the gift recipient is stuck with having to like and use said purchased items because there are no returns. That means a lot of thought has to go into the purchase. Which is a good thing.

But as I extol the virtues of December travel and being away and Paris and all that goes with it, let me mention a few things that I surely will not miss when I return in a few hours home. Smoking comes to mind. I must have inhaled the sum of a half a pack of cigarettes since I stepped off the plane in Warsaw and through my time in Italy and France. People in Europe just will not quit smoking. And because they've been kicked out of indoor public spaces, they smoke on the run. On the sidewalk. I can't count the number of times I held my breath and scooted past an offender. May I suggest M. Hollande (and all your European counterparts) that, after you've successfully distributed poop bags for dog droppings, put rental bikes on nearly every street corner, and given everyone free WiFi in the parks and squares, you launch a new campaign -- forbid smoking on sidewalks!

So, when I was not running past smokers, I did my right bank promenade. But first, breakfast at les Editeurs where I watch professorial types grade papers (knowing that this task awaits me when I get home).







 


Onto right bank. With a glance toward the Eiffel Tower against a, once again, dramatic sky.





I reversed my walk this time, taking it from the Louvre and ending with Bastille. That was a mistake, because the area next to Louvre and around Les Halles is so awful right now that it immediately put me in the mood to long for twin number one (the left bank). [Les Halles is where the Parisian market once was; the deteriorated set of blocks is being completely overhauled and in a year or so we will see a new and possibly competing with Lyon, market.]

But, there were highlights.

For example, people watching. I liked this couple, even though both the man and his poodle look terribly droopy.





And this man studying the foie gras on display.





And yet another guy, this one with motorcycle helmet in hand, examining for the whole time I was in this cooking store, the displayed baking molds.





Here's a photo of a car that I would  buy in a snap if I was in the business of buying new cars which I am not as my 93 Ford Escort is so reliable, even as I bought it two years ago and paid only $600 for it. (I can even see myself driving around with the painted "Noel with style" ad on it.)





Oh, and I am absolutely baking this cake for breakfast some time this week. Apple and cinnamon.





In one shop I couldn't help but notice this waif of a French girl, trying on an exquisitely white coat. A coming of age movie in the making! -- she has that deep eyed look that makes you feel for her tortured soul.





And finally I am at the Place de Vosges which is so pretty that it deserves three photos, including one that demonstrates the reach of Apple ads.














I finish things off at the Bastille circle. This is the only photo for which I take a longer pause. Waiting for the moment where the cars, trucks and buses clear out and the sole cyclist remains. 






Eventually I flip river banks. And it is getting late enough that I take the metro over.





...alighting near to where I ate lunch yesterday. There is a twin cafe up the block which makes for a good alternative for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. This time a salad with warm goat cheese.









These are the very short days of winter and you have to take comfort that in Paris it matters less as things look warm and pretty even after dusk.





And now comes my final meal in Paris -- a dinner at a place I read about in the NYTimes back in October (Pouic Pouic -- just three blocks from my hotel). I love it when someone goes to the trouble of discovering a wonderful tiny bistro, even as it means that in a city like Paris, where there are always a ton of Americans, you're going to then find on any evening a whole bunch of them at the described place.

The food is truly great and main courses were mostly under 20 (Euro). Since I decided on this trip not to eat desserts (it seems somehow sad to indulge in a sugar overload alone -- I really like to share desserts), there were, as always, two courses.

To the food lovers out there, let me describe first the appetizer -- a thin ravioli stuffed with langoustine and infused with foie gras (truthfully, I didn't really pick out the foie gras infusion, but the dish was delicious and the broth so good that I had to bathe a whole chunk of bread in it -- something I rarely do these days).





The main course was lamb chops. I hesitated over that one because lamb chops recall for me the 60s when they were the ubiquitous and uninteresting meat dish with mint jelly served in pretentious places. Besides, Ed always makes me feel bad about eating lamb. I mean, I have a weird meat eating justification thing going: I don't eat it at all unless I'm fairly confident that it was a happy (pasture raised) cow or happy chicken, but lambs never even had a chance at happiness. So there's a little bit of guilt there. Still, putting that aside, I thought the meat was exquisite and what I loved, too, was the huge red onion -- roasted and stuffed with mushrooms. Superb!





Aside from the NYTimes patrons, there were the Parisians and I hope you take a look at the two men to my left. They were gruff but jovial and the one who isn't cut off in the photo (hard to be discreet in taking photos in such intimate settings and in low light too) had the biggest Dennis the Menace cowlick ever.





What followed was the contentment that comes with a meal well eaten. And it leads me to think that Ed and I should not be so quick to watch library movies after (sometimes during) dinner. Some of the best moments of a meal come in the minutes after, when you sit back and think how good and precious life is.

And the minute I thought this, I remembered: the rush of a typical work day back home. Can I even imagine sitting back and doing nothing after a weekday dinner? Ridiculous, right? Perhaps that's why travel grips me so fiercely: I do the ridiculous.


So I sigh deeply when I leave Paris. No other city commands my affections in the same way. You could write a book about why this is so (and many have done so and filmed movies about it and written poetry and taken tremendous photographs). Me, I have this wee blog post where I can just state the obvious and let it go at that.