sunshine

Oh, the pressure! Trying to fine tune a stay so that we can see everything that I wanted to see, take every walk, touch every blooming almond branch -- a week's worth of stuff -- into one day. The one and only day that we are to have good weather. Today is that day.

I don't know how the weather forecasters could all speak with such certainty, but they do: they say heavy rains are coming our way.

And so we have to reap this day of gold and make good use of every minute.

But how? It was to be a leisurely pitter patter through the coves, forests and villages. A bus ride here, a hike there... How do you do this in the space of ten hours?

Ask a local about best hiking options and you get a blank face. Local people work, they drink tea with their friends, eat meals with their family, play backgammon at the village cafe. They don't take hikes on search out signed trails. That's foreign tourist stuff. No one I ask knows of trails, no one really thinks that hiking on one is a great idea. So I am on my own piecing it all together. I do know this: the mini-bus travel has to be scrapped. It's not possible to visit more than one place and connect with a public transportation system we do not fully understand. A missed bus could leave us stranded on the other side of the peninsula. I'm not keen on that.

And so, very reluctantly, we rent a car for the day. Our hotel manager gets his friend to bring one over for us. A good rate, he wont make any money, we just want to help! Ha!

But it is a good rate and the car makes us feel immediately at home: it's an old Fiat, not large at all and it's nice and used. Mud splatters on the outside, a bag of chips and some old plastic bottles within, a tear here, a paint job there. I am quite sure the manager's friend is really not a car rental guy but has, instead brought over his own machine for us to use. Extra cash is hard to come by in the off off season in Datca. We're happy, he's happy.

So we set out. And I would tell you the names of villages and describe in minute detail how there is only one road along the peninsula and the further you go on it, the more potholes and twisty curves it has, but hey, that's a tedious amount of details. So let my photos speak for this day.

And it was a glorious day! A memorable one, with plenty of hiking, eating, smiling at the passage of people and animals through this mountainous and beautiful land of beehives and coastal coves.

Let's start with breakfast. Breakfast is basic here, at the Fora Apart-Hotel. Bread and cheese and a hard boiled egg. But the honey -- oh, the Datca honey! It makes a royal meal out of anything!



honey, thick and flavorful


Ed fills up, I hang back a little. It's often like that. We can coordinate in most any way when we travel together, but eating meals has been tricky. Especially in places that serve big breakfasts. Good, not good -- it hardly matters. He eats and then we struggle to come up with a common meal plan for the rest of the day.

Okay, forget about breakfast. We are off!

The road is quite empty here, toward the far end of the peninsula. And still, it's slow going. With many stops.












Many stops.



coming





going



The villages are few and far between. Hamlets really. A handful of houses, a mosque, a few tables calling themselves a "restoran" where locals sit and drink tea, maybe a "pansyion" (guest house) or two, closed for the season.





These hamlets are away from the coast. Pirates terrorized the villagers here well into the twentieth century. There are too many coves and places to hide along this coast. The people backed away from the shoreline to protect themselves as best they could.

We take a winding "road" down to the water's edge. The sun is absolutely brilliant! How could it be that there will be storms and downpours henceforth?! Never mind: the turquoise waters of many hues sparkle on this day. We walk the length of the beach, picking up bamboo reeds as hiking sticks...



camera on a timer













...and then turn inland, picking up the graveled road by the shore. Up the mountain it goes, then down again, winding, winding, offering magnificent views each step of  the way.






But after an hour of climbing, we turn back. There's so much more to do, to see, to explore!






(While the goats, oblivious to the passing of weather systems, simply graze and gaze and graze some more. By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea...)






We left the car right by a pansyion that appears to be undergoing winter renovations. But wait -- there are tables outside. With napkin holders. How could that be?!

I ask -- are you open?
To eat? Yes.

It's so evocative here! So perfectly casual and out of the way, too. We sit down, not out of hunger for food, but out of hunger for this perfect moment, out here on the terrace of this crumbling (for now) house by the sea.

For once, our server knows a bit of English and I ask -- can we have something small, something light?
We just have one thing: pita. With meat, or with vegetables, And cheese.
Wonderful. We'll split a portion. Without the meat. And some gas water. Perfect. 

Such great people watching here! No, not the patrons. A few come by, but they are outnumbered by the family that lives here. Four generations of family.






I ask our waiter -- do you expect tourists now? It's January!
No, not at all. We are not really open now. Just today. Because we bake pita once every two weeks and it happens to be today. So we serve it for lunch. 

Yes, I see that. Locals come to eat this fantastically fresh, warm, thin, crusty pita breads.





And the grandmother and great grandmother go to the truck that pulls up with fruits and vegetables, and they pick up foods for the family, and the grandkids do grandkid things, and it's just this perfect confluence of good things that land in your lap every once in a while and I am sure that this hour over warm pita bread is going to be one of the highlights of this trip.








honey and almonds in their kitchen window



We move on. (The goats are done with lunch as well.)


 



My goal is to get to Kniodos -- the tip of the peninsula. For the view, the lighthouse, yes, all that. But also for the archeological ruins. This is one of those tales that leaves you sad: there once was a world of great art, culture, commerce here. And it thrived. And then it died. What we see now are the remains: the amphitheaters, the temples -- stones, not nearly as well preserved as they are in Ephesus (see last year's Turkey posts) but nonetheless very real!



an overview (with the lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula)


We spend a while wandering up the paths of this great place of past gloriousness.






Along with a handful of cows.  


 


How inappropriate! I comment.  
No, how appropriate -- Ed says. The grass is so neatly trimmed. 





Among the ruins of the amphitheater, a woman stoops and picks handfuls of green plants. She explains -- we eat these. With olive oil, cooked. We like them very much.





A young boy and his father herd the cows toward the higher elevations, the woman shouts down to a friend who also carries a sack for the green plants... How can I explain the feeling of homeyness here? It's not a museum, it's a place where people still find a slice of life to be lived here, among the ruins.



We're not done yet. There is still the lighthouse. But it's a climb and a descent and then another climb away! Do we really want to do it? 

Yes. No. Yes. Yes!

(From the summit, looking back toward the archeological site, barely visible at this distance...)






It's empty now on the tip of the Datca Peninsula. Maybe it's always just that much emptier here than it is elsewhere along the coast. In the quiet of that emptiness, you can let yourself gaze forward, but always with a nod to what was once here.  The greatness that faded into rubble. So often it is just that.






I drive back, Ed dozes. 

I make many quick stops. For the goats, donkeys, cows. For the bees. For the sunset. For the forest.



(sharing the narrow road in the warmth of the near dusk)





(a man's best friend here)





(in an olive grove)





(among almond blossoms)





(last rays)





(painting the trees gold)





(looking toward the end of the Datca Peninsula, with a band of mountains from the Greek islands behind it)


Back in Datca (the town) now. We pick up oranges at the market and baklava at what is now our favorite bakery. And we stop at a coffee shop. I haven't had my daily cup of coffee, even though it is nearly 6 p.m.. We order additional cookies. A group of men (one who is the owner, or related to him) sit to the side. They take out a bamboo flute. A huge one. The guy plays it. It's a low, raspy sound. Full of melancholy and pathos. He says with a smile -- like this, pointing to our bamboo walking sticks.

You could infuse a lot of meaning into those two words.






In our room, Ed falls asleep again. He is always tired in the first days we are in Europe. And today, we surely had our fill of climbs and hikes. But he doesn't wake up for dinner and since he ate most of the oranges we purchased, I'm doubtful that he'll want to eat another meal.

So I go by myself. 

It's still warm outside -- maybe in the low fifties. I pass an older couple on a bench, looking out at the lights over the Datca bay. It's 9 in the evening. The little park where they sit is quiet.






But the handful of restaurants are not yet done for the day. I go to the fish place that we should have gone to yesterday.






And yes, it's delicious (red snapper) and I remember to ask for it to be grilled and I point to a few veggie plates as well -- all that with a glass of Turkish white wine -- it is the most wonderfully fresh and honest meal, even if I do eat it alone.

Tomorrow brings changes and adjustments as we ready ourselves for the onslaught of rain. But I hardly mind. We had our grand day. That was today.

Datca

Someone in the dining room is singing a song about the playing of the violins, only the vocalist is singing it in Turkish (an educated guess on my part). It's evocative and so I forgive her ,even as her rendition is a bit loud. A singer should not feel compelled to project, especially when there only two diners listening. (For the record, I doubt that Ed forgives her: he's not a fan of 'loud.')

Why are we here at all, in this empty room with a too-loud singer? Well, I wanted fish. I wanted it so much -- a plate of freshly grilled fish from the sea. In the Midwest, we can never have that. Never ever. So I pushed hard. Even when Ed identified another eatery, crazily busy, with many food options on it, and with a warm fire blazing away as if we were in some northern place -- I ignored it all and got stuck on this one fact: the fish is really fresh here. Our hotel guy said so.

But being stubborn is no fun. I glance at Ed's tired face and I recoil and want to send the fish right back to the sea and leave this place quickly and forever.

Ah well. Remorse.

But again, I'm ignoring the beginning of the day! -- the travels that got us to Datca.

Do you know Turkish geography? The Datca peninsula is a thin, wildly mountainous strip of land, jutting out into the sea at the southwestern corner of the country. Right in the middle of this peninsula, you'll find Datca the town.

Datca (pronounced dat-che) is the place of the three ba's: almonds (badem), fish (balik), and honey (bal). You can see the blue bee hives on the ride up. The almonds -- they should be in bloom in about a week or two. The fish? Yes, well -- I'm eating several of them tonight.

And the trip? How was it? How were all those tricky connections? Well, the upshot -- very long but with only positive outcomes. Let's just recall the basics. Breakfast. Copious and delicious. A good blend of Turkish (olives, greens, cucumber, tomato, halva)  and continental foods. Here's my plate (with yogurt and apricots at the side.)






After, we managed to catch the elusive free shuttle to the airport and once there, had no trouble at all getting on our domestic Turkish Airline flight. Do note the crowd at the gate  -- many people use these extremely cheap flights (less than $30 for ours today) to move from Istanbul to the more remote parts of the country.






Turkish Airlines, as always, gets top grades for comfort and service. It's a fifty-five minute flight and we still get a lovely meal!

The flight is to Dalaman -- an airport that serves many of the coastal communities in southern Turkey. ('Coastal' here does not mean flat. The landscape on the approach is anything but level.)






From there, a bus takes us to the resort town of Marmaris. It's not a short bus ride. A good hour and a half. Past so many orange groves! So many! And orange stands too! (Just one photo, taken at a fast spin past one such stand.)






In Marmaris we're to catch the little local van to Datca. And we would have missed it (our bus was late getting out of the airport), but the nice, super nice mini-bus driver waited, just in case, and there we were! Boom! On our way, on the van now, weaving through the mountains to Datca  town (another hour and a half ride: yes, it's that hard to get to Datca!).

And so now more on Datca. First of all, before we even put our bags down, Ed introduces himself to the cats of Datca.






A few steps and we are at our cheap, super cheap hotel (perhaps I overdid it here -- the place is fine, but has zero personality). It's right on the water and so our stay here should be just about perfect.

There is, of course, the "just about" qualifier. The big one is that the hiking trails are not that easy to discover. There is a massive long distance trail (marked and described by a British hiker), but it's clear as anything that  the locals aren't really keyed into it and  it will be hard to locate it let alone shuttle to it. Secondly -- my expectations for these port-side towns are huge. (I was spoiled by Chania, Crete.) Datca grabs you, yes it does, despite its ordinariness. But you have to give it a minute befoe it works its way into your bloodstream.

We take a walk along the shore and here, we find plenty of lovely views onto the sea and, too, the fishing boats that routinely plow their way out over these waters..













nets




the man fixes, the cat unfixes the nets



It is, of course, just an ordinary January day and the kids are now returning from school and that's always fun to observe. (It's all about girls in my after-school photos toady!



friends




best friends




cat on a scooter


We  then stop at one of the numerous shops selling almonds and honey (and locally dried immortelle buds)....



 



And we end our walk with a pause at a delightful bakery, with the best baklava and a charming young woman serving these delicious little honey cakes...






...and so that will put anyone into a state of loving Datca, sort of by proxy.


But will we stay here the full five days? I have a very  "let's wait and see" attitude. Maybe. If the weather holds and the trails turn out to be accessible. (I'm reading that the rains are coming in a few days and that they are here to stay for a long long while.)


So now let's get back to the dinner tonight: the fish was served. All six of them on my plate. Fried, because I forgot to say the magic "grill please" words.


 


And the singer took a break -- how good is that! And three boys outside were just delightful as they tried to figure out if we had lost a dog collar (or a dog -- it was a bit confusing, not helped by the fact that we didn't speak each others language).



through the restaurant window


There were a few other food related confusions -- none of them tremendous and the evening ended with a lovely dessert of almonds and baklava in our room. And the fact is, you don't really notice stark interiors in the evenings. Not when the lights start to twinkle over the water and your windows look out on the little bay...





...and the warm breeze blows in, and you think you really are in some place of great magic. And maybe you are. Maybe we are.

Turkey: arrival

THE TRIP

It snowed in Detroit -- a fast, furious flurry of snow, reminding us that this is a winter trip, even if the destination has a winter unlike our own.

We traveled to Turkey last winter too and it was a good time to be there. You can't list many places in Europe (well, Eurasia in this case) that will give you decent weather in January. In Turkey, along the Aegean coast, you may get some winter rain, but you'll also get winter moderation. A pleasant change from our weather back home.

So we'll head south and then further east, though not so close to those sadly troubled borders that it would make my daughters back home nervous. (There may be snow there, but again, southern snow. Different from a Wisconsin chill.)

But that's too forward looking. Let's consider the trip thus far: first, I must note that the Air France flight to Paris was half empty. I cannot remember when I last flew on a plane where we could get up and effortlessly switch to unoccupied bulkhead seats. And of course, since I have in Ed an ever delightful seatmate, my personal space has grown, as we can spill over and intrude on each other and in general get more wiggle room. Bliss! (Okay, maybe that's not a big issue for you, but I'll take any extra benefit that would promote the likelihood of at least a modest hour or two of sleep.)

So, overseas flight: superb.

The Paris layover was shortened by a slight lateness of arrival. Most people would not view thirty minutes until take off as an invitation to pause for a cup of coffee at the airport. But I would. And did.






And again, the flight to Istanbul is one third empty, giving us a nicely vacant middle seat so that we can spread out. Especially useful at lunchtime. Because yes, Air France (and most European carriers) still bothers to serve a good (and free) meal, even though the flight is only three hours long. (The attendants assumed that we would want the offered wine. Whether or not you drink it surely depends on whether you're able to reset your internal clock fast enough so that it doesn't seem like you're sipping wine at what is for you 6 in the morning.  After hesitating for a second we decided to make the required conversion to "afternoon." And yes, the lemon tart was excellent.)






From start to finish, it was a dream trip. I couldn't have imagined a better one.



landing in Istanbul


Of course, the real challenge comes tomorrow, as we navigate the internal transportation systems of Turkey.


THE STOP FOR THE NIGHT

I hesitated on where to spend the night, I really did. No one loves airport hotels. And yet, in the end, I chose a place that I suppose qualifies as such, in that it's just 3 miles from the Istanbul airport. It seemed stupid to drag ourselves to downtown Istanbul for the night when we have an early morning flight tomorrow. So we are at the Gonen -- a choice that is guided by price (tonight it's cheap!) and by a minimum of hateful reviews. (I take hateful reviews of these airport places with a grain of salt: people are tired, they're in transit, everything irritates them. Lack of a smile on the face of a hotel desk clerk will unleash review words you don't often see in print.)

We're tired, sure, but for God's sake, we're in Turkey! So we check in -- nice, very nice in an everything-is-a-shade-of-brown sort of way (keep in mind -- a bargain!).





And do we plunk down and fall asleep? Tempting! Maybe after one quick look outside, just one peek out there and maybe, too, after we grab something to eat. Yes, definitely that.

We are in a commercial suburb. This is what you get when you stay by the airport. A big outlet mall glares straight at us from across the street. But the hotel proprietor, after trying hard to sell us on the restaurant on the premises, does note that we'll find places to eat up the hill.

Out we go. We pass Little Ceasers. We pass Dominos. Things are looking bleak. Then, a few steps further, we come across a tiny place, diner-like in its use of bright lights inside. Gulagaci Kebap.

The proprietor is super welcoming. I'd forgotten the standard Turkish greeting. Hello! Where are you from?

We settle in. The menu is full of kebabs -- lamb, beef, the usual. But it also has chicken and salads and we're a bit choosing in the blind, but what comes to us -- one chicken in a hot iron pot and another in a yogurt sauce with tomatoes and peppers -- they're wonderful! The spices are just right, the meat is tender. With a typical raw grated salad salad on the side. And a fresh from the oven flatnbread. All for a total of $20.






We watch the men come and go (it's so rare to see women congregate in the way that men do here), some sit for a while, some eat, some pick up food, especially the flat breads to take home. If I showed you a vignette of this, without any indication of where I am, you could have guessed Turkey, yes, maybe, but also Syria in better times, or Lebanon or any other country that is so close to where I am that the habits of the people surely don't change just because some years ago a border was drawn between one group and the next.






We pass a bakery on the way back to the hotel. Should we? Of course!






So we're in Turkey.

Now, wish us luck on Part 2 of the journey tomorrow. That's going to be tricky. And therefore fun.

traveling

If you want that airfare -- the one that's at $600 for a round-trip between the Midwest and somewhere across an ocean, these days you have to begin your travels in Chicago. For one reason or another, Madison departures are out of favor, or maybe their cheap fares are snapped up too quickly for my greedy hands to get to them. So we gratefully steal a ride with my daughter to town, take that (three hour) bus to Chicago, and there we begin our flight travels.





You are not allowed to complain when you travel for pleasure. That's my rule. You could have stayed home, you could have had your comforts and delights right there on the couch, but no -- you chose this and no one wants to hear now how imperfect your life is at the moment.

Except, truthfully, I have no complaints. Oh, I get frustrated with the occasional hold up here and there (though not today!), but at home, I get frustrated with the roof icing over. Frustrations are there for you to feel like you are a living human being rather than a robot moving effortlessly from one set of instructions to the next.

In travel, I find that most often, everything works out beautifully in the end. Except on those rare occasions where everything, everything goes wrong and you are stuck in a vortex of mishaps and you know that they will continue until the day ends and you bury your head in a pillow and forget it all and hope that the next day starts with a clean slate.

So today nothing has gone wrong and I'm here with Ed in Chicago (Ed's coming along, how cool is that!) waiting for that first flight which will take us -- of all exciting places -- to Detroit. From there, we catch the overnight Air France to Paris, where we will spend no time at all and the connections will continue and I'll write more about them once we've crossed the Atlantic.

As always, teşekkür ederim for your comments (I'm zoning into a new language for the days ahead). Yesterday's and those you're thinking of writing in future days. I'm even more grateful for them when I travel and familiar words and known faces are far far away.

Sunday

It is a beautiful, sunny day. Not too cold even. Yesterday's snow is clean and delicately placed over the icy fields of the last weeks' winter heaves.

I had stepped out before sunrise, to look at the moon and now I am stepping out again, before breakfast to admire the first wisps of sunlight. Though I see that deer have been here again, and the snow has given in to their deliberate paths...






I sweep the porch roof almost daily and I do so now, realizing that perhaps this really is the end of my clearings.

And I clean the farmhouse. To get it ready. For what? Well, for out return.

Breakfast in the sun room today.






...though it's a tough call. In the front room, the orchids are exploding with blooms. Ed tells me -- you're going to miss these days of flowers.





Well yes. And he will miss Isis and Isis will miss us and the opossum will miss my reliable compost additions...






...and I'll miss my daughters and this is the way it is. Trips take you away from people and places and things that you love.

And yet, they pull me like that compost pile pulls our furry farmette inhabitant.

So, I give a nod to my girls -- to my older one who is here with her husband for dinner, but without a photo -- they're tired, they're worn, I haven't the heart to take out the camera...


...and to my younger girl, whose true birthday it is today (stay happy, my little one!)...



(with fiance, from the Christmas archives)


...and to the cat and to all that is familiar and wonderful and I pack my bag and Ed packs his and come Monday morning, we'll wave to the cat sitter and slam the door behind us.

It's no longer a mystery as to where we're going. I told Ed just a few days ago. Of course, he hardly thinks we're adventurous and certainly there wont be enough challenges for him, but by now we've done enough travel together that he has come to recognize how utterly giddy with excitement I can be at the thought of waking up in a new and unfamiliar place.

And so we're off.

Be patient with Ocean postings. The travel part is complicated. A bus ride, three flights, a layover, another flight, two more buses -- all opportunities for missed connections and WiFi snafus. You can be sure I'll write as soon as I'm able to do so. From way over there. Where they drink apple tea by the gallons and where fishermen still bring lunch home for the family meal. Yeah, there.

Saturday

The chicken is stewing in a tomato-citrus sauce (I know, weird sounding, but so good!). The cauliflower is roasting. The salad is ready.





And I'm ready as well. But how can this be? Through vast swatches of your life you run, run to make it to the end of the day and suddenly, you need run no more? Can't we invent a more balanced approach to the span of life?

Fanciful thinking. I know that. But how can you not feel guilty for having time to do all that needs to be done when others are panting to get to the finish line?

So let me not belabor it -- it was a day of getting things done, slowly, methodically, thoroughly.

Starting with breakfast.






Onto errands (big item: finding cat food that Isis might like), while the snow covered the roads and fields around me.






Then home again.





And that's it for today. I'm feeling too mellow to grind through details. I'll save those for the days ahead. 

luck

Well, it was going to be a rerun of Monday! Light snow, a frozen car, a morning appointment. This time, I did leave the farmhouse quickly, right after breakfast...





...but halfway to town, I realize that I'd forgotten my folder of papers -- those very papers that I spent a whole afternoon preparing -- for my employer, for the State Bar, all ready to be filed right after my appointment, except that they were on the kitchen counter and not with me, where they should be!

I turn around to get them and now I am again rushing like mad not to be late.

Except, here's the thing: all the lights begin to be in my favor. I approach one -- green! Another -- same! And so on.

My appointment is at UW Hospitals and Clinics -- the place where there is always a long search for parking. Not this time. Someone pulls out, leaving me a space to pull in. And so I am actually, miraculously, on time.

Getting this appointment is a piece of luck as well. A scan of a lung on Monday sent my doc into a tizzy. A spot. With a possible diagnosis of hystoplasmosis -- something that we Midwesterners can readily get by working in the soil or with farm birds. I surely qualify. I spend the summers digging up the farmette! My doc insists I see a lung specialist before taking off into the hinterlands next week. Miraculously they have an opening today.

And the specialists that I see are the type that will sit down with you and address every concern you may have in the most sincere and compassionate way. And they tell you that the scan was read by a superb radiologist who - how lucky is that! - really knows hystoplasmosis when he sees it. (Because otherwise, one would worry that it's something much much worse.)

Because I am in good health, I need no treatment. Just a recheck to make sure all is fine down the road and that the diagnosis is a correct one.

Of course, the fact that I get a good medical outcome isn't really a matter of today's luck. That's more a matter of being born into one family rather than another, with a bunch of other lucky and deliberate events that build on that particular good fortune. But the fact that on this day I could see such wonderful, caring doctors is, I think, sheer luck.

And then, flying, flying as a result of my overall good fortune, I park briefly by the Law School to deliver some papers and I do not get ticketed! And then I park even more briefly by the Union to pick up discount Union member bus tickets for our trip Monday and again I get no parking ticket! And one more time -- I park by the State Bar Examiners office downtown and I would have paid the meter but I had no coins and again -- no ticket!

These are small details of course. And on other days, you feel that you get shot down at every turn. I have to remember then that there are days like today when surely you'll agree -- luck is riding along, right there besides me.


In other news -- in the matter of Isis. Honestly, I think he has an eating disorder. He is tantalized by smells, by the prospect of food when he wakes up. I give him something. He eats a little. A little while later, he meows for more. I give him a little. He comes back. And at some point, he throws up and we start all over again.

We do have a cat sitter for when we are away and I have to coach her to be tough with the old boy because it is quite obvious that Ed and I are both spineless.





(In answer to a commenter's Q -- Isis is old, but we don't know how old. He seemed old when Ed took him in some ten years ago. And it's right that he should be indulged. He's retired from mouse hunting, from climbing trees, from exploring the far corners of the farmette. He sleeps, he eats. And he meows when we ignore him. Retirement behavior, I swear.)

on a snowy winter day...

Let me say a word about breakfast. I know too many people who pass it by, or grin and bear it, or think of it as something to slog through on their way to better foods later in the day. As I sit here and write this, I'm thinking -- hey, that was once me! I hated breakfast as a kid. Absolutely hated it. Even if we were traveling and dining out -- a rare treat indeed! -- I would look at the menu and cringe. Eggs, cereal, toast -- all gross.

But I made an exception: during the summers in the Polish village, at my grandma's house, I devoured it: sour borstch, oatmeal, dark bread and cheese, berries, always lots and lots of berries -- I loved it all.

I think, now, it was all in my head. 

When I was a young mom and working and going to school -- all three at once, breakfast was a blur. It was all about getting them to eat and be out the door on time. I can't remember anything else.

These days, as you well know, that morning meal, for me rules. It starts the day with a coming together of great foods and it is the one meal when Ed and I eat without distraction.






So where do you fall on the breakfast continuum? Indifferent to it? Spring out of bed for it? I wonder...


This afternoon it was time to take to the ski trails again. We had our doubts -- all that melting and freeing, covered by only a marginal layer of fresh snow? It can't be great.

It wasn't. At least that was Ed's verdict. Pretty? Yes, that. And at 34F, quite warm. My cap came off quickly enough. But the skis clumped the snow and when we weren't sticking, we were sliding precariously over layers of ice. Ed suggested early on that we call it quits.
But it's so nice outside!
We can walk instead...
In ski boots? Carrying skis?
To demonstrate that this was not as ridiculous as it sounded, he took off his skis and trudged alongside me, just barely keeping up.
I talked him back onto his skis and we finished the loop, but I have to say, it was an effort.

But the forest was, as always, quite beautiful.











Even as for skiing, we need more snow.

A great stack of paperwork waited for me back at the farmhouse. And, too, a pesky Isis who now likes to be fed many times, in small amounts, and preferably with someone holding the bowl up to his level and petting him while he is eating.

The cat is so indulged!






But then, so are we! Starting with that breakfast, which I am already imagining, even though it's still nearly twelve hours away.

I tell you, it's all in the head.

that quiet day

It was a sweet and kind day. Cold again, yes, quite cold (though not polar vortex cold!), but gentle in the wake up, slow and peaceful at breakfast...






...and then terrifically productive at the kitchen table, writing, writing as the sun poured in.











In the afternoon, I drag Ed out for a walk up the rural road (he does not love walking for the sake of walking as much as I do).






Cold, but it's to be expected.






And then, again in the afternoon, sunshine pours in and we make good progress on our various projects. It could not have been better. Well, one thing: I suppose I would have been happier if I hadn't learned that I need even more appointments in the few days that remain in this week. All squeezed and hurried, all needed before Ed and I take off next Monday.

On the upside, I have time. For both. For my beautiful, quiet writing spurts at the kitchen table and for the occasional interruptions that inevitably push their way in and try, unsuccessfully, to mess with my good time.