in Boston

On any fine spring day, but especially on this fine spring Saturday, the thing to do is to walk.

... to cross Cambridge...




...get on the Red Line...





...to cast one glance at the Charles River...





...make your way to the South End...





...for some hearty Shakshuka eggs (with North African tomato sauce and polenta) at the Beehive, where strains of jazz create a sweet backdrop for a comforting meal.





... and walk. Among heady blooms and the promising light green buds of the most inspiring season.





... and then walk some more.





...noting the many ways we all welcome spring.






My daughter an I finish with our usual circuit. This time, the park pond is with water, the skies are blue, the grasses are as green. Such basic pleasures.






In the late afternoon, she suggests a museum that is unknown to me -- the Institute of Contemporary Art.  It's in Fort Point, across the waters leading up to the Harbor.





We have a fine hour looking through the exhibits, liking especially the candid photographs, yes, very much so, but loving also the views from the beautifully modern building.









Just a few blocks away, on a street of tall brick warehouse buildings, is a place that serves drinks on demand (aptly named Drink).






Tell us what you like, we'll come up with something to suit your cravings. I say -- spring like and refreshing! I watch mint being crushed with citrus juices. Sinfully good.





... and maybe with a bubbly addition? Such talent.





The sun is almost gone by the time we find the T stop and retrace our way on the Red Line across the river.






We eat at Helmand in Cambridge. The most satisfying pumpkin dish, followed by spicy meats and herby veggies.









In the end, a day to savor. Spring in Boston. With a daughter. What more could you ask for...

moment of joy, morning of sadness

We ate at the counter of Boston's O Ya. Plates of food that astonish and please all the senses.




The rain has stopped. We walk to the South Station T stop, pausing just for a split second to contemplate the perfectness of the moment.



I wake up to a bright and beautiful day.

...and I spend the hours reading all the Polish press online about the tragedy in Smoleńsk. Eighty-eight precious lives. A president, senators, military leaders, the grandchildren of those who died nearby, in another tragedy not too many years before I was born.

Today, it's hard to be a Pole.

from Boston

I’m in Boston tonight. Ed asks – why are you going now? You’ll see her at the end of May...
End of May! As it is, this will have been the longest time I’ve gone without a visit with her (I saw her last at Christmas time).

And it’s a last, of sorts. Sure, I’ll be back in Boston for her graduation, but this is the last East Coast daughter visit for just me. Her older sister is already back in the Midwest. And now this one is finishing her East Coast years as well, returning, too, once school is done.

So I’m in Boston. Wrapping up eleven years of being mom to one student, then both, and now just this one. And in a few weeks it all ends: from preschool, to high school, college, law school. All that school! Done!

I walk in the drizzle from the T to her home in Cambridge and think how there is much to like about this place. The university is a presence – overbearing, some would say – but I like its historic countenance and I like that history here intrudes in other ways as well.





And the modern angle – I love that! The food. We’ll be eating a mix of everything – from Japanese tonight to Afghan tomorrow and modern-ish New England Sunday. With New American and Middle Eastern breakfasts.

I meet her, finally, and we walk to Petsi Pies for a predinner nibble and a cup of coffee.





It’s a wet day alright. But so lustrously green and pretty too.

pushing luck

No one I know would admit to being a pessimist. People tend to view themselves as generally optimistic about their own lives (even as they may feel everyone else’s is falling apart). A small handful may tell you they’re not pessimistic exactly. More like realistic. Non-delusional.

Okay, but here’s a true indicator that generally, I belong completely to the band of optimists out there:

Perhaps you may remember that my purse rolled out of my backpack, most likely on the flight from Milan to Paris. That was Monday. Four days later I still have not cancelled my credit cards.

(If the finder of the purse and cards and licenses googled my name and came across this blog – let me assure you, there is a reward for a prompt return of everything. If you’re thinking you can use the cards – don’t go there. That plasma screen TV is not worth it. The New York Times reported that money and in general, the acquisition of consumer goods do not bring happiness. Returning missing goods, on the other hand, does bring happiness. The NYTimes did not say that, but I know. When I was 8, I returned $40 dollars that I found on the ice skating rink of Rockefeller Center. I still feel really pleased when I think about it.)

Why am I holding out (on canceling the credit cards)? Because I believe in the eventual return of the missing bag.

(I did buy a new bus pass. I can’t live without transportation. Though I did not yet get a new driver’s license. I can live without driving.)



So, yes, the jonquils will recover from the overnight snow cover, and yes, the tulip will release it’s tight hold and bloom its heart away for us.










At the core, I'd say  I'm an optimist.

the return

Well, it had to happen. After a break, the deluge.

Madison is under an April siege of shower activity. Rain when we arrive, rain this morning as I wait at the bus stop (without my bus pass – one of the casualties of the lost purse), rain when, last night, I pick up my daughter, here for a quick visit.

Work – there’s another deluge for you. April is a wonderful month alright, but it also wraps up a year of intense classroom preparation. It’s a month where you want to work at half speed, knowing damn well you need to work at more than full speed.


Spring turned cool today, but you can’t get discouraged. Notice the flowers – drooping and wet with beads of cold perspiration, but still flowers, on my way from the bus stop to the office.















Anyway, I am back. Over all, that's quite wonderful, even as I think back to my days there, on that scraggy island where people care more for where they are, and whom they eat with -- more so than about logging in endless work hours and amassing great wealth.

Life can be a challenge...

remembering Paris

This post is written in snatches, during the chaotic hours of the last day of travel. Not all chaos is miserable, but it is true that an excess of it can inspire a headache. The challenge is to contain it.

The day after Easter. We’re heading home. We have quite the pleasant flight from Milan to Paris. With magnificent views of the Alps.





I feel so buoyed by it all that even work seems pleasant: I take out my papers and spread them on my lap for the short duration of the flight.

We land. I gather my papers and stuff them in my pack. I retrieve my little suitcase and we take the metro to Paris.

...Where dusk is setting in and people are out and about.





One short evening in Paris, and then we're gone. We have a very early flight back home. But, one short evening can be one fine evening on a night when the air is crisp, the people are still milling around in a pleasant post-holiday disposition, and the cafes and restaurants are crowded with a seemingly content clientele.

We’re trying out a new little hotel with a new face and an old name (De La Sorbonne, right next to – you guessed it – La Sorbonne) and fabulous prices. We are given a room with a gorgeous view toward the Pantheon.









We are happy to be here, happy with our week in Sardinia, happy to be returning home.

...until I notice, up in that lovely little room overlooking the Pantheon, that my backpack does not contain my black little purse. The one with all my licenses, credit cards, IDs and with all the cash that I had allocated for our stay in Paris.

I don’t leave things. I stumble and break cameras fairly frequently, I worry that I toss away papers I don’t intend for the trash, but I don’t leave things in hotels or airplanes or at the security check at airports. I am too compulsive. I double check and cross check and I zip packs to the very end.

Still, things happen. A passport fell out of my pack on a train ride to Milan four years ago and now (oh, cursed Milan!), on a flight out of that same city, my purse falls out somewhere near seat 18A and I am here and it is God knows where. Dubai maybe?

For one hour we try all available search tools. I make calls, leave messages, send emails. Getting nowhere, I put the issue aside.

It’s late. Time to give Paris at least a half-smile.

Stores are closed, wine shopping has to be put aside for another day, another visit.

We walk in the Odeon area of the 6th Arrondissement. It’s always so lively here. I like that. It makes me believe that in this world, people feel connected to one another in good ways.





We stroll past the oyster stand – Ed is always tempted by it and this time, perhaps feeling just a touch sorry for purseless me, he suggests that we take in a couple of big ones from Bretagne.





Standing on the sidewalk, with a swig of wine from the Loire. Heaven. I grow mellow.

We walk on, trying to decide where to eat. A grocery store is still open. I’m at least able to pick a rosé or two for home, but my heart isn’t in it. Who knows where my credit cards and cash are. Perhaps on a whirlwind shopping tour in Hong Kong. Or Copenhagen.

Again I put these thoughts aside.

We go to dinner at the possibly best comfort food place I can think of – Polidor.


I order a fish terrine and steak au poivre, followed by a tarte tatin. Ed asks for escargot and a chicken with morels. I’m regaining my balance. Life is fine, the evening is beautiful, what will be, will be.




















In the wee hours of the morning, we make our way back to the airport. The streets shine after a morning scrub. Paris is fresh and ready for the day ahead.





We catch the RER train and turn our backs to the city. The sun is almost up. Almost.






At the airport, we encounter the French bureaucracy in full swing. Ed grows terse (a rarity). Because we're here, and there is a room with objects left on planes,  but I cannot get to it -- not in person, not by phone. I must fill out an official form and it must be processed and eventually it will make its way to that room and someone will check to see if indeed it’s there. But by that time I will be in Chicago and sending it will be complicated and expensive. And, of course, one has to cancel credit cards and reapply for licenses, because one cannot assume a good outcome.

And so we fly back and I work on the plane and the irony is not lost on me that if I did not always insist on working during flights, I might have my purse in my pack right now.


Still, for a short little interlude there was Paris. In April. Lovely as always, but especially now.

Milan, reconsidered

We wake up to a beautiful day in northern Italy. We have only a few morning hours in Milan, but, despite my reservations about the city, I want to use them well.

I calculate that if we take the tram to the Duomo (the magnificent cathedral, with most certainly, Milan’s best pubic space in front of it), we can pause there for a little while and then walk over to catch the public city bus to Linate – Milan’s smaller airport. (Only DC offers as good a bargain in getting you from downtown to the airport efficiently and cheaply.)

Ed gallantly pulls my little suitcase, we hoist our packs and set off.

Our b&b is by the old canal of Milan – an area worth a stroll at another time.





Not today though. We are still at the tail end of Easter week-end. Not only is the cathedral a destination in its own right, there’ll be people watching opportunities on the square.

Indeed.





We walk toward La Scala...





...and through the quieter streets in back. We come across a gelateria and I cannot resist a cone of what they call seasonal flavors: strawberry and pistachio. Neither strike me as particularly April, but the ice cream is delicious with the strong colors of the warmer seasons.






And now it’s time to head out.

My next post will be tomorrow, from Madison. Even though between Milan and Madison, there’ll be the handful of connecting hours in Paris. I’ll take a handful. There’s something about April in Paris...


P.S. The unexpected twist: what would you do if you lost your purse on-board a flight to Paris?  Freak out? Stay calm and purchase wine?

I'll give an update tomorrow. From Madison. After work. It's as it has to be.

Easter in Sardinia

I wake up to the sound of corn popping. No, that can’t be right. I listen. Rain, gusts of rain hitting the tiles of the roof. Then silence. Followed by a muted clap of thunder and then silence again.

That’s a surprise. My periodic checks of weather.com didn’t reveal rain for the day. But then, my periodic checks have been for Sardinia, Italy. As if that were a town or a zip code! Sardinia is large enough that what happens in point A may be completely unrelated to what takes place in point B. When I asked David, the hotel proprietor what’s the Sardinian language like, he tells me that there are actually four that developed. With regional variations.

When I first imagined a trip to Sardinia, I thought we’d at least do one major excursion outside our central region. It turns out that there was enough to see and do in the province where we were that we didn’t have to drive much. (Which, considering our different tastes in styles of driving, is a good thing.) And when I think of returning, I think of coming back to Rialo, the village where we are now.

I’ve grown attached to it.

By the time we’re up and about the rain has stopped. The air feels clammy and the skies are gray.

At breakfast, we see the traditional Easter tarts: with ricotta cheese and raisins – we had them last night at the bakery!





After breakfast, I hear a boom again. And then rapidly another. No, that’s not thunder. I walk out toward the main road. I look down the road (as does she...)





The Easter procession to church has begun.






The villagers follow behind. But unlike the older generation – most are in smart jeans. Tight-fitting, trendy jeans. Sardinia has jumped on the wagon of modernity here. Even as it is displayed at the most traditional of ceremonies.



We haven’t much time left. Enough for a quick walk and a meal. I had asked David about an appropriate Easter lunch. It’s a challenge, as I want something traditionally Sardinian. A place where I an likely to see people from the island.

He tells me: I’ve made you a reservation at the Agriturismo in the next village. [Agriturismos are rural places where you can stay simply and eat whatever the hosts prepare for the main meal; you can also participate in farm work if you're so inclined; there are many, many agriturismos in Italy, as there are in France – though they’re called chambers d’hotes there, and I'm not sure the French imagine you'd want to do anything but eat and sleep during your stays.) They do a fantastic Easter meal. And I told them Ed doesn’t eat meat and that you have to leave by 3 because of your flight.

Never in all my travels have I come across someone so completely keyed into the needs of his guests as David is. La Lucrezia is beautiful enough, but add to it David’s concern for the wellbeing of visitors and you have an absolute jewel of a place. At Sardinian prices. (People who remain in Sardinia don’t expect to make great money here – David tells me earlier. You want to find wealth, you go to the mainland. Here, people stay because they love the island, their friends and family. No one expects to grow rich. There is no real industry. Income differences between islanders are small.)

David has seen us get lost so often (did I tell you about the time we, unknowingly, drove through the pedestrian streets of the provincial capital of Ortisano? Winding up on the main square on the sidewalk? No? Well, it happened...) that he takes great care to sketch out the directions for L’Orto, our Easter lunch place.



We finish packing and are out of the village of Rialo by noon. One more walk along the coast – I tell Ed. We have about an hour. Let’s look at the quartz beaches.

On any day these beaches – just ten kilometers due west – would appear eerie. The white pebbles look almost like salt crystals. (In fact I asked Ed to sample one just to be sure they aren’t salt.) As if someone had taken shaker and sprinkled it generously across the land.





But today, on this warm but gray day, they present a landscape that is starkly different from all we’ve seen thus far.

The pebbles are hard to walk on (perhaps easier for kicking a ball around, especially if you don’t mind falling on the graveled surface)...





We quickly retreat to the path. And push beyond the time we should allow for this walk. I don’t want to be late for our meal and so we hurry back to the car.

Except I can’t find the directions to the Agriturismo. I can’t even remember the name.I feel like the dotty old person who needs to have things written on the palm of her hand -- like reminders on where I may have left the car.

A quick search does not magically produce the needed sheet of paper. We have no choice but to head back to our village and sheepishly ask for a repeat of the instructions. Knowing, too, that we will now almost certainly be late for the meal.


With ears burning, we walk into the dining room of L’Orto. The proprietor, Francesca greets us so warmly that I am able to put aside the deep embarrassment of being the most difficult guests in the room (the ones who come late, leave early and wont eat the baby lamb or the baked pig).

There are maybe fifty diners, seated at half a dozen tables (and then there is our little table for two). Families. Generations of them.





Francesca and her staff are bringing out plates of food and we quickly catch up. Plate after plate of the freshests, most exquisitely honest food.

Crayfish, artichokes, salami (for me!), pickled onion, eggplant, peppers...





Oh, and octopus! (I have recovered.)





The second course has the Sardinian pasta, fregula (slightly larger than couscous) with loads of artichokes, as well as a platter of spaghetti with mussels and clams.









And finally, a fish course – grilled, deliciously fresh. One fish for each (Just one to share! -- Ed asks. One each -- Francesca tells him. I'm the boss here.)




We end with local sheep's milk cheese -- hard, salty, delicious!





...oranges and of course the Easter tarts.





Francesca is a wonder woman. We are completely happy.


The drive to the Cagliari airport is, well, fast. But it’s easy. David told us the roads would be empty (like during Super Bowl in the States, except the Sardinian Super Bowl is unfolding around tables) and he was right. I’ve had the wine so I leave the driving to Ed.

We make it in fifteen minutes before they close the gate.



We’re in Milan now. The evening is wet and cold. Our b&b (Villa Magnolia) is chosen for its prettiness and price. To get both in Milan you have to go far from the center. We get off the bus from the airport, make our way to the subway, get off and look around for the correct city bus. Finally. The rain is gentle, but cold. The number 47 pulls up, we get on. Only to learn we’re heading in the wrong direction. We get off, wait for the one on the other side of the street and wearily make our way to a warm room.