Toulouse, and what happened when my eyes were on the train

I bought a train ticket from Toulouse to Albi even before I left Wisconsin. The idea of spending an entire Sunday in a big and closed up for the day city (the French avoid doing commerce on Sundays, unless it's food related) seemed wrong. Albi is one tenth the size of Toulouse and offers gentler rambles. But I left it to my feelings and inclinations on this day to decide whether I would actually take that train ride.

I make the decision over breakfast.

It's a go. It's a super windy day (that's why I actually choose to eat inside), but it promises to be very warm once again.

So, I take a protracted walk through Toulouse to the train station, quite aware of the fact that I just arrived and am now immediately leaving! I'll get back to exploring Toulouse tomorrow, when it's more open for business.

On the way, I do take a detour to the Victor Hugo Market. Open six days a week. And it is fabulous. Meats, sausages, prepared duck confits -- all that Toulouse stuff, but also many stalls with incredible seafood! The French really are nutty (in the best of ways) about food. 

I detour as well to another kind of market -- an antique one. Or perhaps more aptly -- someone's old stuff in the attic, for you to now admire. And then yet a third market -- a mish mash of pet stuff, jewelry, bags, scarves and other nonessentials. (Here's where I find the perfect Toulouse souvenir for myself: a small, imminently wearable,  pink stone bracelet.)

Did I say no one did any commerce on Sundays? 

(No French town I know of lacks a merry-go-round.)

(Cities to the south all have plane trees. Here's a little boy by the canal and by a big tree.)

Okay, finally. The train station.

The train ride to Albi is relatively short: one hour. And the countryside is so pretty!

Initially I had thought I'd stop at Galliac -- it's a wine producing place and no one loves walking the vineyards more than me. I'm glad I didn't. You need to walk a bit from the town to get to the vineyards and I am doing a hell of a lot of walking already. The "stroll" to the Toulouse station alone is more than 30 minutes and then of course there were the markets and importantly, the walks I'm about to take in Abi. So, vineyards, limited to admiring from the train window.

And Albi itself? It's a gem! Once again, like Toulouse, it is the rare French city where the buildings are predominantly made from brick. 

The main sites include a Gothic cathedral (embellished, as they usually are, through the ages) and the Bishops' Palace of Albi (Palais de la Berbie) which currently houses the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum. (For this I also bought a ticket in advance.) Both these building are on a vast square that is regarded as the heart of the city.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born in Albi (in 1864) and the museum is home to about 1000 works, by far the largest collection of his art in the world. Let me get back to it in a minute. First, let me give you a quick peek at the town itself. The historic sections are a UNESCO World Heritage site, so well worth your while!

Along the River Tarn...

It's just stunning! And relatively calm. And I hear only French. Not to say it's not a tourist town -- it is. But the strollers here seem to be French and that of course is very lovely when you are a foreigner and want so much to immerse yourself in their world.

Back to Albi's famous artist now. Whoa, not so fast! The place dedicated to his art is closed for lunch! That means only one thing: I must eat lunch as well. Easy peasy. There are countless eateries in and around the main square. I pick one (Le Hermitage) which is the most packed (a dangerous game I play when in doubt, since others play it too, leading to a domino effect, where one follows the next, and then they are followed by more, and so on). 

Well, this eatery turns out to be magnificent. Luck is with me. (So far.) I order stuff that I would never, ever order back home for lunch and not only because it would not be available say in a Wisconsin cafe. When I am away, I try so very hard to do stuff, to eat stuff that is unusual for me. So, in Albi I order a salad Albigoise.  It has duck confit, it has foie gras, it has gizzards. Well, okay, I ask them to skip the gizzards. I used to eat them when my grandma whacked off a chicken head and boiled everything imaginable for her chicken soup. But, these days I'll pass unless the situation calls for me to clean my plate. 

Here's my beautiful salad, made larger by an effort to please: since I skipped the gizzards, they insisted on loading on more duck confit.

So long as I am going all out, I order their dessert of the day -- a blueberry tart. This is an unfair choice on my part. The many blueberry tarts I had in Morzine last February were fantastic! This one could not compete. 

And indeed, it isn't as good as the others. But if we'd only quit comparing things, always comparing things, always sorting and sifting between the greats and the also rans, we'd come out loving a whole lot more in life. So, I liked this one quite a bit!

And now for the museum. The only one from this trip "down south," as Toulouse's art museum is closed for renovation. 

A word first about the artist.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born to an aristocratic family. Had he outlived his father, Henri would have had the title of Comte de Toulouse-Lautrec himself. Unfortunately, he lived a mere 36 years. Now his was a troubled life! He had any number of health problems (some of them attributable to a genetic condition passed on among family members. The Toulouse-Lautrecs did a lot of inbreeding between cousins), the most noticeable ones affecting his stunted growth: his torso was adult sized, but his legs stopped growing at a young age. So, a man of five feet, disproportionately developed. 

Perhaps because he felt himself to be a freak, he found solace in brothels and among prostitutes. (Or, here's a thought: maybe he simply liked the community of women he found in those places. This was suggested at the museum today.) He did also drink. A lot. In the end, alcoholism and syphilis killed him. But his artwork, so much of it created out of an affinity to Impressionist artists (he was pals with Van Gogh), has had a substantial following then and now. Oh, not everyone loves his stuff. Why? Well, some claim that the people he painted or sketched were never at their showiest or gaudiest and oftentimes he would leave you with mere contours and outlines of figures. (The Toulouse-Lautrec art you're likely to remember best are his posters, without a great deal of attention given to the subject's face, for example). Some have criticized him for being dispassionate in his style. 

Me, I've always found him interesting, perhaps because he is so... French. Of an era, to be sure. But still, bearing the imprint of his own country's artistic community.

Let's walk through this incredible gallery, housed in the Palais de la Berbie.

Okay, back to Albi walking.

And eventually I make my way to the train station to catch the 15:49 back to Toulouse.

There are a bunch of people at the station and I try to position myself in such a place where I will have the least competition for a seat. So, to the rear of the platform where the end cars will be. Oh, here comes the train!

It's a short one. I hurry forward, to get to the doors. 

I don't know how it happened, to be honest. Perhaps I had my eyes glued to the doors of the passing train. Maybe someone stepped out of my path quickly and I didn't notice. Ed will say -- you're just clumsy! 

I rammed into a metal post -- one of those thick ones that supports the overhang at the station. Head first. Hard!

My immediate thought was -- crap, I'm going to pass out at the station in Albi and it'll be such a bother. But, I did not pass out, so I quickly made my way with the throng of others onto the train. Except that it became painfully obvious to me and to all those others that my head is gushing blood. 

The conductor is on the scene instantly and he almost had me get off to seek emergency assistance, but I told him I was fine so instead he went to get a medical kit. Many wonderful people sprang into action (I have to say, they were all women). Someone told me to press hard with the gauze to stop the bleeding, someone else ushered me to the front of the train where I was given a good seat. And someone else took bandages from the conductor and bandaged me up.

This last person insisted that I see a doctor. You''ll need, how do you say.... (she googles it) -- stitches for sure. The conductor asked if I wanted a medcin (doc) at the station. I shrugged. What do I know. I can't even see my head. 

In the end, he couldn't reach one and I was feeling okay enough to tell him to stop trying. "I'll go to the pharmacy in Toulouse and ask them if it's really necessary."

Good plan. Now try finding a pharmacy on a Sunday afternoon that is open. I mean, I'm sure there is one, but googling for it produced nothing. Not on Sunday afternoon. Around midnight? Yes. But I can't find one now.

So I walk to the hotel, stopping at a grocery store (remember: you can always count on food stores to be open on Sunday) and pick up a whole bunch of bandaids.

Oh! I do also pass a city fragment of the Canal du Midi! 

At the hotel, the lovely people take out antiseptics and bandages and I feel myself to be doing just fine until I call Ed and he tells me that I really should have it stitched and cleaned. "I never have had a wound that long and wide" -- he comments to me after I give him the measurements of mine. If you were here, I could glue it for you. Anything to pull the skin together. 

I give this some thought over a drink in the hotel's garden. This one is called "Tiny" and though the bar person tempted me with describing it as having a splash of champagne, some thyme, sage and lemon juice, I'm nearly certain it also has a dash of vodka. Had I seen a doctor, I'm sure she would have said that that is a very good thing to have at the end of such a day.

Had I seen a doctor... had I seen a doctor... should I see a doctor? 

I go back to the front desk. She tells me -- you know, we had a guest bang her head on our front door. Bled like crazy. We sent her to the hospital to have it checked out. It was a good idea.

How far is the hospital?

A twenty minute walk. Just across the river.

This is how I find myself walking yet again, this time at dusk, and to a neighborhood I never expected to visit.

The hospital is small. I quickly look up EMERGENCY on my phone. Urgance. In my fifty years of solo travel, or any travel actually, I have never had to visit a doctor or go to a hospital while abroad. A dentist once, in Scotland. And with Ed -- the ER room with him, when he was bitten by a wild dog in Cappadoccia, Turkey. Me? Never. 

I enter this one. Dark corridor. Guard at the entrance. he points me to the end of it. Go there, he says. 

Door opens to a waiting room. Two men there, no one else. Are you ahead of me -- I ask. They give a very long explanation which I do not understand, except for the upshot which is no, they are not. There is a tiny "interview room." I go in, a nurse eventually shows up to interview me. And within five minutes I am in an examining room. Down the hallway, a young girl is coughing so violently and so constantly that I have images of Covid flashing in my head. France's Covid came after Italy's, but they, too, were hit very hard especially in the first wave. I hear a nurse shout to someone "Negatif!" Must be about the coughing girl. Must be a Covid test.

Nurse comes in, cleans my head wound. She apologizes for the wait. We change doctors in ten minutes so you have to wait for the new one. 

You are apologizing for a fifteen minute wait in the ER room? Who are you?? When I go to the ER back at home it's a many hour commitment. But here, they probably don't want you to occupy valuable space. The doc comes in shortly after 8.

He examines my head. Asks me where I'm from. The U.S. Which part? Wisconsin. I'm sure you've never been there. We Americans, when we travel in France, we tend to visit coastal towns. On the Mediterranean. On the Atlantic. On the English Channel. You French, you do the same. You go to New York, you go to California. Maybe Florida.

He smiles. It's a rare thing on this very serious face (he is about the age of my daughters). It's true. You Americans go to Nice and Biarritz. I do not tell him I like both Nice and Biarritz. And it's also true, I do not know Wisconsin. You know which cities I love in the US? Washington. And also Atlanta. The people are so friendly there!

Oh man, your criteria are so incredibly sweet!

I ask him if he was working in ER during the height of Covid.

Yes, but I was actually in Madagascar then. The first wave -- they weren't hit so hard. But the second -- it came from South Africa and it was rough.

Heroes. All of them. Total heroes.

He, too cleans my wound, then says -- I'd like to seal it with  biologique stiching. I don't know how you say it in English (he has switched to English now. People here who speak it like to practice it in the same way that I like to practice my French. So often, I ask in French and they answer in English).

I'm fine with that. He does his work then tells me -- I'll write up a report. I'm sure you'll need it for your insurance. We both have a few choice words to say about the insane health care payment system in the US. 

And I leave. I would have hugged him, but I dont think that's appropriate.

The waiting room is now full. I'm glad I'm relinquishing a space. I go to the little interview cubicle and ask if maybe I should pay. They shrug. If we need anything, we'll notify you at your address. I remind them that they don't have my address. Just the hotel. Another shrug. You can go. I leave, paying nothing.

It's nearly 9. The Old Bridge is illuminated. Beautifully.

Dinner, at Patio de la Table Ronde. I should have skipped it. Three big meals a day is a lot for me, even if I have broken all records today in the amount of walking I have done. Still, to pass up a dinner in Toulouse? I can't do it. But I did cancel my reservation at a far away place and the hotel staff came up with something good, but very very close by. Le Patio, at three minutes by foot, checks that important box. I'm warned it's very simple, but very Toulousian. 

I take the three course menu at some low 30s price, all inclusive. Eggs, soft, with pieces of foie gras. Fish from today's market (this is how the menu describes it), which to me is an irresistibly persuasive selling point. It comes with dark rice, probably from the Camargue and cabbage. I did not think I'd leave Toulouse without eating cabbage. And dessert? A huge concoction of cream, meringue, red fruits and ginger. 

All three:

I walk home with a throbbing head, a full stomach and a sense of wonder at our world. People, taking care of each other. And all searching for the same: genuine and sincere friendliness. Just that. It's what makes for a good day and so by that yardstick (and really, by all others) I had a tremendously good day!

But I need to sleep. No longer worried that I'll bleed up the bed linens, I plop down on the big bed, finish up this post and close my eyes.

Good night!

arriving in Toulouse

Well that was funny! I had just finished typing (yesterday, at the Madison airport) how I was aiming for everything to be completely calm, unrushed, and here I was in Detroit, less than an hour later, dashing to the gate of an earlier flight to Amsterdam, working my best smile to get them to put me on it. Since I have only a carryon, they let me do it. Whoa, I suddenly needed to quickly wind up the day's Ocean post and send it flying before my own takeoff!

The flight to Amsterdam was especially lovely because I was so pleased to be on it. And it was fast. Good winds and all that. But sleep was not going to come easily (try: at all), given the fact that by my Madison clock, we took off at five and arrived in Amsterdam shortly after midnight. You want a chance at sleep, stick with the later flight.

In Amsterdam things came to a grinding halt. Yes there is an earlier flight to Toulouse. No they wont put me on it. "It's overbooked" -- says the agent. I get out my computer, go to the KLM airline website and show that I could purchase a seat on that flight right now. So how can it be overbooked? Blah blah blah, catching up with things post Covid blah blah blah. Had I been on the phone, I would have hung up and tried for another agent. At the airport, this was not possible.

So the question is, should I sit and wait the now six remaining hours? (It took an hour to figure out that I can't fly out earlier.) Or should I go into town? In younger years, I would have chosen the latter. Indeed, I have gone into town here, just under these circumstances many decades ago. Those were days when dragging a suitcase through a city was nothing to me. When jumping on a tram was a breeze. Days when you didn't have to go through a tedious security check before reentering the gate area. 

Still, six hours? All those lovely museums, canals, coffee shops...

No, I stay put. Masked. Nearly the only one at a very busy airport hiding behind a KN95. Reassuringly, the agent tells me -- you're not the only one stuck here for a very long time. Well fine, but you could have had one less person at the busy airport had you let me get on that flight.

(busy airport)

In the afternoon I'm on the plane and I think how grateful I am that everything has been so uncomplicated. Early arrivals, departures, no line at passport control -- all this would have been golden for anyone passing through Amsterdam this summer (I have read that the chaos here was.. remarkable). So, I sit back in my comfy seat and look out the window and in the space of an hour we fly over the Netherlands, Belgium, and finally France, and l'Occitane.

(It's hazy to the south, but still, I see that band on the horizon: the Pyrenees, touching the clouds with their jagged peaks.)

Toulouse. Time to say a few words about the city. First impressions are always important and Toulouse is easy to warm up to because for one thing, it's toasty warm here (and it will remain thus til the end of the month). 80F plus (28C). I take a taxi to my hotel (a very short and very inexpensive ride). I'm staying at the Soclo. It's a fairly new place (in an 18th century building)...

... and I've been curious about it ever since I decided to come here. The people I've been corresponding with seem super enthusiastic. They offer their favorite eating suggestions which honestly sound a lot better than what you're likely to find yourself, doing internet searches. And the hotel itself? Lovely. Very understated...

(my room)

(my view...)

... but with stunning public spaces. Including a garden in the back with lights and tables and a calm that you would not expect in a city this big. 

The hotel person tells me -- you can swim. Our pool is still open. I didn't bother even bringing a bathing suit because normally the pool closes in September.

So, it's not typically this warm in October?

No! This is a first. It's scary.

I take a brief walk to the Capitole. I want to ask a few questions at the tourist office there. So, a few pictures of the heart of older Toulouse. (There is definitely also a new Toulouse -- the city is home to France's aerospace industry and Boeing's competitor, the Airbus.)

Initially I think -- my, but the old town sort of looks like Krakow. 

Until it doesn't look like it at all.

There are such crowds on the main square that I give up on taking pictures. Can't be done. Besides, there is a wine fair right smack in the center and so much of the open space is taken up with makeshift tents. For now, let's just look at the side streets.

I head then to the river. I'm definitely hitting the hot spots here for Saturday afternoon strolls. Everyone is taking in the unusually warm sunshine.

It's really getting close to dusk by the time I get back to my hotel. This brief walk is all I can afford to do today. But, I'm here for three nights. And I may do a side trip out of town. Or not. Toulouse itself offers great walking possibilities, including by the River Garonne and (this is definitely a bonus in my eyes) along my beloved Canal du Midi. (It's not really mine, but I fell in love with it the first time I set foot in Languedoc, excuse me, in l'Occitane now 16 years ago.) I'll decide tomorrow. 

For now, I  go out to the garden and have a Negroni. Not exactly a L'Occitane special but close enough.

And I exhale. It was a very long trip!

At 7:30, I make my way to Franquette, where I eat my first Toulousian dinner. The restaurant describes itself as a restaurant locavore et sans chichi: for locavores and without frills. Tables, packed solid, spill out onto a small square. I notice mostly young people. Like, half my age or less. Of course. The university is nearby. And maybe the oldsters are all tucked in for the night.

It goes without saying that, after a yummy appetizer of an onion tatin, I'm going to choose a very regional dish. It reads on the menu thus: Côtelettes d'agneau de mon ami Gérard Rispal, persillade, salade tiède de haricots Tarbais aux herbes et crème d'ail. In translation: lamb chops (sorry, lambs!) from my friend Gerard, a warm salad of Tarbais beans (these are the delicately thin skinned white beans from France that are traditionally used in a cassoulet) in garlic cream.

Dessert? A raspberry mousse with a Breton cookie and a basil coulis. All this glorious food  -- three full courses -- comes to you for 35 Euro, which at current fabulous for Americans rates of exchange is an utter steal.

And now if you'll excuse me, I'll read myself to sleep. I'm in the middle of a very good mystery story that takes place in... southern France where they eat cassoulet and foie gras and and drink good local wines and ... yawn!

Good night!

to Toulouse

People are traveling a lot this Fall. I see it on social media, I read about it in the press. I suppose I'm part of that crowd: October still seems relatively safe. Who knows what the winter will bring. Spring is far away, the years are ticking by, the pandemic gave us all a lot to think about.

So quite a while back, I planned to take a week off and to fly back to Europe toward the end of October. The only question was -- where to?

I have funny post Covid (insofar as you can call this post Covid) criteria: somewhere warm-ish. Somewhere where if I got sick, I could hope for decent care. Somewhere pretty, where I can walk, with good coffee shops, where I can pause. Even with all that in mind, I doubt that you would have guessed that I would start my week away in Toulouse. 

Toulouse is the fourth largest city in France (a mark against it in my book!), but it is its location that pulls me like a magnet. It's in the Occitane region -- so, to the south of France. This in itself can be very confusing, since until some five years ago, I would have said it's in my beloved Languedoc. Indeed, as you can see from my sidebar, Languedoc has beed a big draw for me for a long time. But no one calls it Languedoc now. Along with Midi-Pyrenees, it's now part of L'Occitane -- a nod to history. But let's get back to Toulouse: from this city, go for an hour and a half south, and you're at the foot of the Pyrenees. Same amount of time to the east and you're by the Mediterranean. But I don't want to sidestep into either of those places. I want to see Toulouse, affectionately called La Ville Rose (the pink city) because it has a predominance of the pink brick architecture of the region. (So not really pinkie pink, but more like ochre rose.) And I want to eat its foods. They're not delicate. This is the land of cassoulet (basically meat and beans, slowly cooked), of foie gras, of cabbage soups. But also of candied violets and chocolates and cream puffs. 

The trip there is a little complicated because my penny watching side had me pick flights that don't make this an easy journey. Long layovers: four hours in Detroit, then four in Amsterdam. But, if you knew my goal for the week, you'd understand that this is okay for me. I'm thinking that I have before me a week where I will turn off all concerns and strategizing and scheduling. I wont worry about being one place or the next. I will look deeply at all that is around me. I will learn stuff. Layovers? No problem. I hope to use them well.

All that begins this afternoon. In the morning, I do the usual morning animal care. It's really warm today in south central Wisconsin! Can you tell? Brittle air with gusty hot winds. An interesting way to bring in the tail end of October.

Ed and I have our last breakfast together for a good many days. I give him a list of things he cannot forget to do before he leaves. I've done my bit, now he has to work through his.

Oh, how I do love this guy! 

Just before loading up the car with my carryon, I ask him to help me with an eye drop. I dont really need his assistance with it at all, but I'd rather not trudge upstairs to our bathroom mirror. So I tilt my head up for him and in doing this, I see brown patches on the kitchen ceiling.

Damn. We have a leak. Looks like it's from the shower. 

And this is where I say -- sorry, I have this flight to catch, while he scrambles to figure out what's going on. All I can say is that I'm glad I noticed it today and not in a week or two.

I arrive in Detroit early. So... a 4.5 hour wait for my connection. Wait, there's an earlier flight to Amsterdam. Can you switch me to it? Yes? True, this will give me seven hours at the Amsterdam airport, but hey, an adventure is an adventure! See you then and there!

With so much love for all those beloveds at home, for all of you!

Happy both days to you

He is 72. We have been together for 17 years. Today marks the day for both -- the birthday, the anniversary. Today is also the last day we have, to be in each others company. For a while anyway.

In thinking about all this, I was tempted to plan nothing special at all. Indeed, in glancing back at the last handful of years, I see that it became almost routine to do nothing much. We seem to have always gone for a walk in our local park (something that we do maybe 200 days out of the year). And oftentimes on October 20th we'll make a point of eating take-out, to free me from planning and preparing a dinner. And that's it!

So maybe this year we can just say happy birthday, happy anniversary and return to our regularly scheduled programing?

No, this year, Ed nudges us into something else. Let's do some trail clearing. And then grab a lunch. And maybe take-out for dinner? And pick up some chocolates at Candinas and maybe I'll make flan for dessert. I've been looking at recipes...

That's a lot of initiative and ideas from someone who doesn't really plan out our days! Any one of these things might be found in our possible repertoire, but doing all, in one day, on his suggestion? Incredible.

The fact is, we are getting older and we find time to be precious. We are way more thoughtful toward the other than we were 17 years ago. We pay attention to feelings and sensitivities in new ways. Ed knows that I wont let October 20th slip by without some expression of gratitude for all that we now share. 

We make it special.

(the sheepshead, where he lived before I agreed to move to the farmhouse; these days it's mostly home to the cats)

(our cheepers)

Breakfast, with a time-release selfie. 17 years of breakfasts. And dinners. And all those hours in-between.

And now we join up with the guy at Brooklyn Wildlife Area who does much of the trail maintenance and prairie restoration in and around that particular segment of the Ice Age Trail. He's doing a fire break so that the DNR can burn the adjacent prairie. This means saplings and dead branches must be removed from a swath of land. We help in this. 

From there, it is but a short drive to the chocolate shop. We wont be sharing the chocolates until he and I are both back from our travels, but still, picking up chocolates here is quite the intimate act for us! Our box will be waiting for us.

Now onto Paul's Cafe for lunch. Oh, but it's been a long time!

As usual, he reads the paper, I read whatever I have on me. And in this too we find our intimacy. 

And now it's time for me to pick up Snowdrop.

Tired girl! We take it easy, concentrating on favorite books and lots of snacks.

Finally, much later, I pick up take-out Thai and Ed and I settle in for a meal on the couch. How I love these evenings where we eat, read, watch together, knowing that we come from such different starting points and yet, here we are -- completely at peace with the world we have created here at the farmette.

Happy Birthday, Ed. Happy Anniversary to us.

With so much love...

Wednesday

This morning, while the air outside crackled with cold, Ed and I went over the information he will be providing with the registry of the emergency beacons that he's taking on board the sailboat he'll be sailing (along with three other less experienced sailors) out into the Atlantic. He's not going until just before I return from my own travels (so in about ten days), but we need to coordinate everything now, while he and I still overlap here at the farmette.

I tell him that by the time they search and rescue his capsized or disintegrating boat, he'll be long gone from hypothermia in what must be chilly waters of a November Atlantic. How little I know. It's between 70F and 80F in the water along our route! -- he laughs at me. Well alright then. Just keep yourself afloat until someone finds you. With Ed, it's not hard to imagine that he would do just that. The guy's not prone to panic or hysteria.

But secretly, I do have to smile at him. He has long accused me of over-planning my travels. (Meaning I think about where I'm going to sleep and where I might eat before I leave.) But here he is, for weeks now preparing the navigational technologies for his own trip. Talk about advance planning! All to minimize unfortunate situations while en route to the southern seas. Well now, doesn't that sound familiar! Travel without the headache of constant stumbles and misfires. Yep, we all aim for that.

(Breakfast, with the last of the farmette nasturtium, lilies and phlox)

I do eventually go out to get most of those bulbs in, the chilly weather notwithstanding (35F, or 1.5C out there!) but it's getting tougher because I've blistered my digging hand from pounding that shovel into tough soil. Nevertheless, I have to do this. It's my last solid day for gardening work. 

And I get it done! All bulbs, 150 of them, jonquils and crocuses, in the ground! There will be one more shipment of bulbs coming in, but it will be small (just two dozen) and working them into the ground will have to wait until after I come back from my own trip.

More stuff to check off my to-do list: mow down the meadows. I'm never sure when the right moment for this is, but I think now, after the first deep frost, is as good as ever. So I get on the big mower tractor and plow through a season of tall grasses and now spent meadow flowers. I wish I had thought to wear gloves. My hands are freezing!

(the last of the tub blooms...)

And then I go down to my daughter's house where I spend a few hours with various members of the family: Snowdrop, Sandpiper, eventually their mom. (The kids had a flu shot after school and it made no sense to then bring Snowdrop to the farmhouse for a short while only.)

("hey Snowdrop! I have your brush!")

(oh, kids...)

I can't say that I'm rapidly shortening the list of things that MUST be done before the end of the week, but the big jobs I think are behind me. The farmette lands are more or less ready for their winter rest. (And I am too!)

At home -- reheated chili on the couch, with a candle, and a movie, and a shared bar of chocolate to end the day.

With love...

Tuesday

I'm never going to get anywhere (in my tres busy week, or in life in general!) if I let myself be carried away by such time-sucks as searching out interesting Advent calendars on the Internet.

For many years now, I took it upon myself to pick up pretty Advent calendars for the kids. Initially they were merely pictures, where you opened tabs to reveal a cute addition to a holiday scene. Perfectly satisfying and very evocative. But then one year I added the sweet element. So now the kids would open up little boxes and a chocolate or caramel would pop out. At least one set of parents shook their heads in dismay. A child does not need another source of sweet stuff around the holiday season where sugar seems to pour out of every nook and cranny from Halloween onwards. Still, they were so priceless, those little treats! And what's a grandma for, right??

Now there are five grandkids and at least four of them would enjoy an advent calendar. Well, one of the four would probably deconstruct the thing by the end of December 1st, but still, should I find something that would really tickle a child's sense of wonder? Should it be sweet or playful?

I plunge into a search of what's out there this year.

And I am somewhat shocked at how this market here has exploded. Every company appears to do an advent calendar! There are calendars for cats. There are calendars for whiskey lovers. Chocolatoholics have many choices! Playful legos abound. Cosmetics, candles, cookies, cooking utensils even (from William Sonoma)! All tucked into 24 little containers for kids and grownups to open on the days leading up to Christmas.

I did not come to any decision. There's too much out there. The beautiful winter village pictures that I used to pick up in French bookstores seem so... quaintly dated. The chocolate ones? Too sweet. The toys -- too much stuff. I am overwhelmed and the holiday season hasn't even begun.

*     *     *

It was cold at night. The water in the animal drinking dish underneath the crab apple froze (chickens and cats share in this so it must be filled) and so when I step outside this morning to feed the animals, I have some trepidation about plunging into planting bulbs.

(Our oldest cheeper Peach has gone through so many winters!)

Nonetheless, I give myself a stern lecture and before returning to the farmhouse, I put in 30 bulbs. I have maybe 100 more to go, but I call this progress.

As Ed and I review all that we have to do before we each take off on our successive trips this month, my guy shakes his head and says -- we are farmers. We have a list of farm projects and that list never ends and it includes a lot of planting and animal care.

I haven't been calling this place a "farmette" for nothing.

(Breakfast, where he decides to add more foods to the fruits and croissant I put out. He makes an egg salad, stuffs it into a tortilla and takes out my opened bottle of Prosecco for a few swigs. A champagne breakfast! -- he tells me. Who says Ed is predictable!)

*     *     *

I return to bulb planting in the early afternoon. I must. 30 more go in. The bag with bulbs grows lighter, but there are still too many in there. Uff!

*     *     *

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. Yesterday she seemed to be fighting a bug, but I think she prevailed because today she is full of energy and enthusiasm. 

It is ballet day, but getting kids to their scheduled places is becoming a talent of mine and so I am feeling a bit smug about getting her to class on time. Until she says -- Gaga, can we get there like ten minutes earlier?  Say what??? Ah, she wants to have time to hang with a friend in class. I turn on my full speed ahead motor, but even so, I can only manage three minutes earlier.

*     *     *

And in the evening I make my daughter's chili, modified only to reflect our over abundant storehouse of farmette tomatoes.  An orange rhubarb candle glows, giving that hygge feeling to the farmhouse that I love so much.

With a smile and with love...

Monday

With the three Madison grandkids, I had three tries to get school drop-off to work perfectly smoothly. It was hugely more complicated because I was dealing with three kids, two different schools and three lunches and snacks to send with them. Here, in Chicago, I am charged with taking only one child to school and she takes school lunch so there's not much prep to worry about.

However.

It's Chicago! Her school borders on the downtown area. There is rush hour traffic. And the parents aren't out on vacation, they're stressing over their younger one's ears, so I don't need to add to their worries by getting any drop-off details wrong.

The solution? Go over the plan in your head, especially the routing, many times, and do this in the middle of the night so it stays fresh, and get up just after five to give yourself a whole hour before the girl herself has to be up. 

Talk about over-preparedness!

Still, as a result of excessive planning, it all goes smoothly.

Breakfast, brief play, all of it.

It is freezing cold outside (in Wisconsin we had a dusting of wet snow) so it's time to take out the winter jacket and winter cap.

Primrose is agreeable, tho she notices the utter silence in her house without little Juniper (or her parents) in it. I shake things up by pretending to be traveling granola. She laughs all the way to school.

And now it's time for me to drive back home. 

(With a pause for a Chicago morning coffee at La Colombe)

Turns out that Snowdrop has another school-free day (who knows why) and so she (and working parents) is waiting for me to get back to the farmhouse so that she can come over for a visit. I tell her that can happen as soon as I get home, but only if can plant bulbs in the early evening. Those bulbs HAVE to go in today and tomorrow!

But in the end, I put in zero bulbs. The wind is blustery and the occasional snow squalls are enough to send you inside. 

Okay then, tomorrow for sure! In the mean time, she and I do our read-play-eat routine in the comfort of the warm farmhouse.

And so it's a full day. Beautiful in all ways, though as always, it's hard to leave behind the Chicago bunch. Primrose had asked if after I'm with Snowdrop today, I could come back and do a pick-up there, back in Chicago. She wasn't totally serious, but there was a wistfulness in hearing her muse like this, certainly on my part. It's not easy to leave those you love, even for short periods of time.

Still, I have before me a few days with Ed (before we go off on our own adventures later in the month) and there's no doubt that this is wonderful. I'm not allowed popcorn yet, but we have our shared time in the evenings and it, too, is priceless.

With so much love....