Marseille

The Marseille Meal

I'll introduce Marseille to you through her food. Not because it was so over the top that it left me speechless (though it definitely was very, very good!), but because it was my breakfast, lunch and dinner -- all rolled into one. It just sort of happened that way.

I'm not sure the proprietors at Chez Madie (where I ate) where thrilled to seat a new diner at 2 p.m. That's a late hour to start churning out food (France eats lunch between 12 and 2. Not before not after.) But, they sat me down and in the end, one of the waiters even cracked a smile. And almost apologetically, they treated me to some small extras, as if to say -- we want to go home, but, as long as you're here, we want you to have a very good meal.



(at the table next to mine, winding down the meal, in that rich Marseille sunshine)


And I did have a very good meal. Artichokes, stewed with lardons.






Fish. (As always in this country -- it's all in the sauce.)







Creme brulee. With thyme.






So now that we're all satisfied and satiated, let's roll back the clock to the travel part of the story.


The Trip

Why does it feel like the middle of the night? We are only beginning to cross the Atlantic. It seems like we've been bouncing around the east coast for a very long time.

I am on an Air France flight from Atlanta to Paris and it's with a 3 - 4 - 3 seat configuration. Rare. Most of my long flights are 2 - 4 - 2. Where would you sit, had you the choice, in a 3 - 4 - 3? For me, it's always going to be window, toward the front. But it means that I have to climb over the laps of two to use the facilities. So, who are my two seatmates? One 42, the other (guessing here) 16. They don't know each other, but my oh my do they have a common thread going: one is traveling to Moldova to set up a youth bible camp and the other (the younger one) is traveling (with parents who are elsewhere on the plane) to Africa to establish Christian camps. I ask him where in Africa. He says tentatively, as if he weren't sure, Tanzania.

Why do I choose Air France going to Europe and Delta coming back? Well, because Air France serves abundant champagne with quite okay food and I get to listen to the captain (and anyone else who commands the loudspeaker system) speak French. On the way back, Delta gives me good old friendly American pilots who explain every bump along the way and, too, superb flight attendants. (But the food is on the low end of indifferent.) A flight attendant has to have real seniority on Delta to get the coveted Paris route. So on Paris flights, you get the best of the best.

And here's the truth (because maybe you haven't yet figured this out): I really am only a fair weather flyer. I only like it when the plane doesn't shudder, shake or do other things that in my mind, planes should not do. For example: on this flight, we had a lot of initial turbulence. Now, I know that only one Air France plane in recent history managed to plunge into the ocean when the bumps got out of control, but still, I prefer relatively smooth rides. When the bumps get crazy (this is rare: 95% of my flights are just fine), I remind myself that at least if the pilot messes up,  my daughters will inherit life insurance proceeds, should the unexpected happen. And really, this is the best time EVER to crash, because once I officially retire (January), my life insurance will disappear. So -- crash now or crash later? Obviously now is the preferred choice. I sit back and enjoy the rest of the flight.

Here comes an attendant, all ready to pour the champagne. I once read a story authored by a seasoned reporter who wrote that his idea of a good flight was to drink lots of champagne at take off, fall asleep thereafter (presumably as a result of all that champagne) and wake up when the landing gear is engaged. Okay, but as I grow older, I realize that all that Air France free wine and champagne are probably what keeps me from sleeping for more than a few minutes -- between Greenland and Iceland, but not otherwise. Life really does seem to be all about choices.

On this long flight, I do eventually have to climb over the laps of the two men heading out to instill God in the hearts of people living far away. It's awkward, but I do it. And then I get stuck in the aisle behind the cart that's slowly moving down to pick up trays. As I pause by a row, waiting for the cart to resume its journey to the back of the plane, a passenger leans over and asks me to ask the attendant for more white wine. Ha! Guess who wont be sleeping well tonight! Dutifully though, I ask, but the Air France attendant says they ran out.
Would you like red wine? -- she asks the thirsty passenger and it sounds French even though it's in English.
The passenger answers - how about a gin and tonic instead?
Can you blame her? Here we are, in the air for two hours, with some violent turbulence thrown in for your entertainment and we have yet to start crossing the Atlantic! Overseas flights from Atlanta are always discouraging: it takes a while before the plane actually begins to head east.

But the transatlantic flight, though long, wasn't really causing me headaches.

 Nor am I too concerned about the short connecting time at the Paris airport. I plan on picking up a coffee and a croissant, even if there are only a handful of minutes between flights. I do a lot of running between terminal E and terminal F.  And I do pick up the coffee and the croissant, but then I kick myself for stupidly risking the connection and abandon the project in mid-bite. I post this picture as living proof that I really did try to grab a breakfast, and, too, because it is the first time that i am holding a copy of the International NYT (it was still the International Herald Tribune when I was last in Europe), and because the front page story and photo are about the winds blowing through northern Europe. But these are not the Mistral. The Mistral is purely a southern France deal.


 


And wouldn't you know it, the vicious Mistral has been in the forecast for this one day for a long time now. With gusts upwards of 50mph.

The captain on the final Marseille bound flight comes on to whisper to us (Air France captains whisper; French people must have better hearing than Americans) that the flight will be a short 60 minutes, but the landing will be rocky. The Mistral, he says. You need go no further. Everyone knows about le Mistral.

But here, luck is with me: the wind doesn't kick ass until after noon. We land with a few shudders -- nothing more than that.


So do I really love going overseas so much that I can toil through these flights that are so long and so often not without issues? Yes. I love it that much.


The City

When I stepped off the final flight and looked up at that wonderful blue sky, I really, for the first time, understood how tightly I'd been wound up in the past months. It took that ocean crossing for me to finally begin to stop clenching my gut, fist and brain all at once.

Of course, I did not sleep much and so I arrive in Marseille tired. But the good news is that I combat tiredness by walking. Walk walk walk and look and think nothing at all, just look and walk and slowly the life of the city (or village or wherever I may be) will take over and the tiredness will recede.

But first, I must find my Bed and Breakfast. I take the metro to almost the last stop. Here's a photo of probably the busiest station (Saint Charles is Marseille's train station). Different from Paris, isn't it?






Les Acanthes

I'm staying  at a tiny (3 rooms?) bed and breakfast: Les Acanthes. And it's a wonderful place, run by the ever chipper and helpful Odile.

By accident, I got a splendidly sunny upstairs room (in a moment of absent mindedness, Odile gave my lesser room to another visitor). Thank you, Odile!






Marseille, like all the Mediterranean towns and villages, boasts 300 days of sunshine. I'm getting plenty of it this weekend!



(from my window)


Along with the wind. Odile says -- we had all the leaves on the vines yesterday! Today, they are mostly gone.






Back to the City

I'm settled, I'm washed up, I'm ready to go. But first the meal. You read about that already. Next comes the walk.

Do you know Marseille? The focal point is the old harbor, extending like an elongated U around a protected water. You can't help but think -- are there this many boats in the world? Really this many?











I could have headed into the narrow streets of the old town, but I put it off. Instead, I walked a long long way along the water's edge, pushing against the devilish Mistral. Not surprisingly, there weren't many people out and about. But every once in a while, a car would pull up and someone would pop out with a mobile phone or i-tablet to take a photos of the raging waters. The hair is flying, the wind slashing at the face... and still, you want to get out and get that photo!






You don't often see the Mediterranean in such an agitated, hazy crazy state.






Even as if you looked inland, you'd never believe that we are having a monstrously windy day.






If I continued walking along the coastal path, in about eight hours I would come to the town of Cassis. Five years ago, Ed and I spent a terrific winter break there. It's tempting to do the hike tomorrow or the next day, but I'm resisting the impulse to always leave a city that I am visiting. Marseille was named the European Cultural Capital of 2013. She is in her glory now. I should give her a fair hearing.

Even as I am a little disappointed at how cleaned up Marseille is. My associations have always had this city on the edge. Sort of like a European version of Tangiers: spilling over with commerce and trade from Africa and elsewhere. With cheap rents and rickety chairs around wobbly tables in cafe bars. And neighborhoods to avoid, like in Miami. Instead, it seems so... orderly. Eh, I need to walk inland more and save my judgment for when I will have figured out what it means these days to be from Marseille.

In the meantime, a few last photos for you. Of the bakery where I bought cookies for evening supper back in my room. Not these cookies, but still, close enough.






...Of a fragment of a skyline, picking up the hues of the setting sun.






...Of the ferris wheel, now adding light and movement to the old harbor...






Time for me to get back to Les Acanthes. Nearly fifty student emails to attend to. And a post to write.

The moon -- or a quarter slice of it -- shines brightly over this windy city tonight.

leaving

Oh yes, I'm off now. The funny thing is that I planned this little trip (and bought tickets for it) before I decided that for sure this would be my last semester of teaching. The trip parallels my typical December pattern of exiting immediately after classes end (and before the exams come in for grading). Though in the past dozen years, the goal had been to be in Poland. This trip is as all others, but without the Poland part.

Well, no trip is as all others. Yes, I'll be in France, but I will be stopping first in Marseille and I've never spent time there -- it's been a pass through place in the past. Because I'm without Ed, I'm concentrating on the more urban places, but with possible quick exits into the country. I'm leaving that open.

Leaving that open -- that's a lovely phrase. As if the burden of something has been lifted. It feels that way, even as right now it's just another end of a semester, and another trip to clear my mind and refocus. Which, for me, is best accomplished when I look at life as it is lived elsewhere, by others.


At the farmette, the fog has lifted and a deep chill has set in. Ed comments -- if you stayed, we could go skiing as soon as there's snow! We torture ourselves in this way on the occasions that I go off without him.
There is no snow -- I remind him. And of course, I'll be back in ten days. Plenty of time to take in any snow then.


I wish I could give you a photo of the beloved farmhouse...

...and of our beloved breakfast...

...but I am at an airport where uploading is not possible. Imagine them! Remember them!


So I'm off. Via Paris, to Marseille, where they say the winds are gusting fiercely. The Mistral is having a hellish time of it, just as I arrive!

I'll write next from the other side of the ocean.

[A note to all the lovely comments and emails that came from you: I smiled at them all! Thank you.]

stars moons and hearts

Oh, I've been thinking about it for a long time -- what will it be like? To stand before a roomful of students one last time? Seventy faces (today's class), some very familiar, from multiple previous classes, some just for this semester, a fleeting encounter and puff, gone?

I woke up early and thought about it.

And as I worked on the final draft of the exam (done!) -- I thought about it.

Too, at breakfast.






And on my drive to Clasen's Bakery to buy multiple dozens of hearts, suns and moons (chocolate covered gingerbread that they only sell for three weeks out of the year -- it's a treat that I associate very much with Poland, where they sell it year-round), I thought about it.






During office hours, I had a delightful trickle of students asking numerous questions. They lingered, commenting, as always, on the gorgeous view from office onto Bascom Mall. I thought about that as well. And about other singularly wonderful views in my office.





Cards trickled in from thoughtful students, emails from friends. A gift of chocolate peppermint candy. It was that kind of a day.

My office neighbors on my floor baked a cake and brought it to me. Various sundry others showed up...





And the emotions were beginning to swell.

Yet, when I taught, the emotions subsided. They always do. When I teach... or rather, when I taught -- it's in the past now! -- my one focus is on the job at hand. Even though I have often thought that the job at hand is hard to define. Am I teaching them material? Or to learn? Or anything at all? Maybe I am teaching them nothing more than to be enthusiastic about life! (Because people will tell you -- if I am anything... if I was anything, it was that I am/was enthusiastic!)

They ate hearts, moons and stars and I ended my lecture with Szymborska poems. I've ended a class with poems before, but today they had meaning beyond the words. Poems. Remember me for the poems! (Which ones did I give them today? Well, one was on Death. Whaaaaat? -- you say. Well, it's a class about "Trusts and Estates" after all. We've mentioned death a lot this semester! But truly, the poem is more about life. Here, judge it for yourself.)

On Death, Without Exaggeration

It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.

It can't even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.

Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.

Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!

Sometimes it isn't strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.

All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.

Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.

Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.

Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.

There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.

Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.

In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
cannot be undone.


And because life moves us forward, the class hours ended and I tidied up a bit and picked up my pair of good shoes and packed them in my bag to take home. I wont be vacating the office until January 10 (150 exams to grade!), but I wont be needing good shoes there anymore. That act of packing shoes felt final.

Life moves forward to the next hour and the next. Late in the evening I go to help my girl with the Christmas tree.











We eat Laotian food and listen to Christmas songs and Goldie the cat looks on.






Yes, as far as I've come cannot be undone...


[I fly out tomorrow. Be patient as I navigate a travel schedule. I'll post, but there may be hiccups.] 

drip drip, tic toc...

I wake up to a bit of fog.





And as the day progresses, it thickens. Pea soup? No, worse. Cotton.

Well, that's okay. After breakfast...






...I'm glued to the kitchen table again. And pressed for time. Really pressed for time. Class preparation, coupled with exam finessing, coupled with responding to student queries. Brutal.

Afternoon. Time to head for campus.

And class. Next to the last for me (tomorrow afternoon is the last one). And already I'm feeling sentimental.

It's so late when I finally go home. Outside my office,  Bascom Mall is eerie.






And in the dark, the fog seems impenetrable. I don't drive, I crawl. (And I'm feeling grateful that my flight out is just after this sequence of foggy days passes.)

Home. Ed and Isis are there.





The chili is ready: yesterday's preparation. A salad, a glass of wine. Exhale. Just for a few moments. The next 24 hours will be a whirlwind. But I wont remember that part. In future years, all I'll remember is that it will have been my last day of classes.

pathetic

I went nowhere, I did nothing, nothing at all except eat, take quick Internet breaks and sit at the kitchen table and work.

So that all you could possibly eek out of me tonight is a photo of breakfast. Or rather of Ed at breakfast. What would I do without his kind acquiescence in the morning!





I even skipped the Law School holiday party because I just did not have the time for it.

My only consolation, only consolation is that I will never have such crazy Mondays again. Or, at least they wont be crazy for reasons of work.

I have to say,  it is mildly sad that I did not go to the party -- will I even see most of my colleagues again? I'm not one to hang around when I have made the decision to leave...

No matter. Work certainly swept its grimy hand over my waking hours.


And so there you have it: a pathetic posting where the biggest news is that my butt hurts from sitting on a hard chair all day.

a blurr

Crazy Sunday.

Intense cleaning at the farmhouse: I had Ed take apart the drain in the bathroom so that we could do a thorough swipe of any grime. (It was a messy job.) And the usual dusting and vacuuming and who knows what else. When we finished, it was lunch time. Even as for us, it was breakfast.






It looked to be a nice day, but we had almost none of it. Except for a walk to the compost pile.






Later, I help my girl pick out a Christmas tree for their home.






We speculate whether their recently adopted cat would knock down a decorated tree.  
Nah... (I'll let you know if I'm proven wrong.)

Finally, in the evening, I speed through a few hours of work, then a spirited game of bowling with Ed and finally an easy spaghetti dinner with my girl and her husband. In an unusual move, I suggest we pull up our plates and watch the sort of insane but nonetheless fun show Amazing Race.






Are there any hours left in the day? I don't think so. Oh dear, that's not good. I have quite a bit of work left for tonight!

Sleep well, Ocean friends! Back to my tasks now...

dawn to dusk

At this time of the year, it's easy to catch the first glimpse of the rising sun from our east facing windows upstairs. If there are wispy clouds hovering at the horizon, the range of soft colors can be lovely.




Saturday.

A little work, a quick tidying effort, grocery shopping. Ridiculously picking up a handful of leaves off the porch roof, leading Ed to ask -- do you enjoy going up there? ...And me to answer -- I guess I sort of do...

A short while spent on the exam, an even shorter while on the lectures for this week.

A very long time on syncing iTunes music and creating my first ever playlist. I just never bothered before.

Breakfast -- a little different today because Ed has a craving for scrambled eggs.











Outside, it's warm, compared to what we had the past week. Surely in the mid thirties (I know -- how much my expectations have fallen!). Yet, when we drive by the lesser lake, we see the first batch of ice fishers.





I cannot imagine the ice being firm yet, but here they are! Ed wonders if maybe the water there isn't too deep. A pause, then home again.

I have soups and chilis to make in the next few days. I'll be leaving on Thursday and if I put into the fridge good soups and meals, Ed will feel compelled to finish them off. If not, he'll buy Subway sandwiches. His Thanksgiving meal was a leftover Subway.

I look up and notice that the sun is setting. Our west facing windows show it off well.





Take a deep breath, hold it and the next thing you know the day is done.

Friday after

When the holiday is that big, that beautiful, that long in the planning and intense in the execution, the afterglow spills into the next day and the day after.

It was a leisurely wake up. I didn't want to rush my departure. My little one and her fiance indulged me. A slow breakfast out...






Kind tolerance for my quick photos...






A time to talk -- they indulged me there as well, as I describe my vision for the first year of retirement.






And then I'm back on the El and back on the bus and there's Ed, waiting to drive me home. Where I unpack leftovers for us to share.





With Isis.

Thanksgiving

It's different this year. (Of course, in one way or another, it is always different.) I mean, we set about it differently, even as the enduring powers that propel us are the same.

I wake up at my little one's house and always, always on these holidays I am the first one up, but not this time! They're already putting things in the oven and my older girl and her husband are just minutes away. Well now. That's different!

You'll see a lot of food passing through this blog post. Not all of it (in fact not most of it) is mine. We each bring things to it. I wont attribute every dish: just know that we've all worked hard to make this Thanksgiving absolutely perfect.

And it starts with breakfast.















Ahhh! Wonderful!

Our collective thought is to skip lunch. After all, the Big Meal is (planned) to be early. But someone suggests a charcuterie tray of midday munchies. And it grows. At first, a cheese, a sausage. Then two sausages. Then someone brings to the table pheasant and venison jalapeno meats. Then another cheese. And a vegetable. And a fruit. And of course, the home made crackers.





One daughter stirs one pot, the other daughter frosts something -- each dish put forth with such enthusiasm. And love.

















Then the big meal. Preparations. The girls' dad comes over. Many people, accessing the burners of the stove as best they can.






Finally. We sit down and eat.






And it is such a good meal. The pumpkin soup, the brussel sprouts, the corn, the scalloped potatoes, the gingered cranberries, the wild rice.... Such a good meal! Best ever!

My girls spend a moment with their father reviewing the wedding album of my older one.






I sit back and think about life's transitions.

The holiday season is magical. Truly it is. And just when you are starting to feel the seriousness of it all, someone brings out the cake and the jubilations pick up all over  again.

I call Ed. It's quiet at the farmhouse. Isis is, as always, asleep on the bed. I smile at that. Yes, all is right with the world. And I, for one, am so very grateful for that.

day before Thanksgiving

It's not unusual for me to take my turkey on the road, so to speak. I've packed turkey racks and meat thermometers and basters and traveled with them to Chicago, even to D.C. in the past. Where there are daughters, there will be Thanksgiving -- is my working slogan.

But there is a catch: if I take the turkey out of the farmhouse, Ed will not follow.
You go be with your girls, he'll tell me.
But they like you and wish you were there too!
Focus on them. You know you miss them...

And so I wake up on this cold cold day...






...make sure I have everything with me (sprigs of freshly cut rosemary -- check; Wisconsin cheese -- check; Wisconsin cranberries -- check...), have a rushed breakfast with Ed...






...and head for the bus for Chicago.


Of course, I'm not the only one. Living in a university town, you get used to the emptying out that happens around holidays. Kids go home. In all directions they scatter, the faster and earlier the better. Still, the bus is comfortable -- too comfortable in fact. It now has plug outlets and WiFi and I have no excuse not to work on proofing my exams. Three hours later, I am done (with the first proofing -- there will be more of this) and we are pulling into Chicago's airport, where I take the EL to where my girl lives.






And I walk in on her baking crackers for tomorrow's platter of afternoon foods (hello, cheese from Wisconsin, etc.)!






We have a grocery store outing before us -- and of course, it seems that all eight million Chicagoans are shopping too, but that's okay. The atmosphere is jovial. I claim the big bird -- he's my responsibility, and some things for breakfast. She picks up her ingredients for whatever she and her guy are making and truly, it is as if we were living in the same town again. Shopping together with a daughter is a rare treat.

We take the bus back to her place -- she, me and mr. turkey...






 -- and I fuss with the bird now, so that it will be at least partially brined and ready for the oven tomorrow.

A few more errands, and stops, and then it's time for dinner. It's the three of us: she, her fiance, me  -- again, these meals are so rare now, that they feel like a holiday when they do finally come to pass. We go to Azzurra, an Italian  place right in their neighborhood. Remember when having an Italian place around the corner was warm and comforting, especially on a blistery November night? It's like that now.





We walk home and talk about who gets the oven when tomorrow, and for how long.

I truly hope that every one of you has a beautiful Thanksgiving holiday. Large or small, turkey or no turkey -- it hardly matters. Stay happy and focused on the one(s) you love.