Alone

I’ve just come back from a reception for the 30 participants in the Summer Program at the Law School – a program that teaches the basics of the American legal system to foreign attorneys and those seeking to further their legal education in the States. Thirty people, many from Asia, some from South America, a handful from Europe, including one from Poland, all here to take part in this intense course of study. Most are in the States for the first time. One lawyer from Korea is here with his entire family – wife and two adorable children; another lives in Berlin and works in a town that borders with Poland. And the Polish participant – she’s here after just barely finishing her legal studies in Poland. She lives in a small town outside Wroclaw. Most Americans have never even heard of Wroclaw. (She was shocked when I came up to her and started speaking Polish.)

I am impressed with the lot of them. To travel to a different academic setting, halfway around the world is difficult. [Been there, done that, and I never had the language issues to worry about.] To leave people behind in the close communities that you grew up in, be it Berlin or Tokyo is nearly impossible. I can guarantee that this evening will stand out for them for a long time, perhaps forever. The first 24 hours you spend in a completely alien setting is like that. You are alone, completely, utterly alone where no one understands anything about your life, your culture, your home. You are here for a purpose, but in the initial moments you can’t quite get a grasp on what the purpose is. You feel like you are totally out of your element.

Sometimes those impressions come back to haunt you even when you are no longer a new transplant. In later years, even when you know how to pretend otherwise, you understand that you are not part of this world, you are an outsider.

Sunday rain

A summer rain on a Sunday afternoon... What to do?

1. Work on my lecture notes.

2. Listen to Ann on WHA radio talk about blogging (check her blog here -- she said on the radio she took pictures of the studio and so I expect a post any minute now) and give very good responses to caller comments!

3. Make use of yesterday's Market berries (see below). Chocolate is such a good companion to fruit.

strawberries put to good use 

Low tolerance for good things?

For some time now I’ve been worried that people are liking “nice” less and less and “rotten” (at least in small doses) more and more. [I am not worried that I am too nice. I am worried that the rest of the world will get off the niceness kick and turn more and more icky.]

I have two examples just from this past week. I was discussing the weather yesterday with a friend and he said “it’s too sunny and nice.” I responded with something not so nice, like “you are out of your mind!” But he countered with: “I’m not the only one. I was at a store where the clerks were commenting that they didn’t want to go downtown to the Art Fair because being out in this nice weather was no fun at all.”

In another instance of something that I think is quite related, I heard an NPR interview with an expert on classical guitar. He was talking about Andres Segovia’s charismatic playing and how much it had transformed that instrument into something that could be used in the classical context. I was listening to this with a good deal of interest since I am a fan of Segovia and have a scratchy, much overplayed record of his music.

The person commenting on classical guitar said, however, that in many ways, Segovia has been surpassed; that this generation of classical guitarists plays with a precision that Segovia lacked (if you listen to Segovia, you’ll inevitably pick out the “woosh” oh his shifting hand or the tweak of a string vibration that shouldn’t be there). The NPR person responded – “but that’s no good; isn’t it better if there is a demonstration of human imperfection, so that the piece doesn’t, in fact, come out flawless? There is such a thing as being ‘too good’ at something.”

Of course, my scratchy record hid Segovia’s flaws from me. But I would actually like the scratches not to be there, and listening to snippets from the young guitarists, I liked their ‘overkill on the perfection thing’ just fine. And I like bright weather, nice words and good designs, or at least attempts at getting as close to them as possible.

So uncomplicated and so beautiful

Tomorrow is the 100th birthday of the late Pablo Neruda, perhaps the most beloved and widely read poet in the world. I am certainly a fan. From his simple odes to his love sonnets and everything in between – I like it all. I wanted to pick a favorite for the blog, but I have no favorite. It is the entirety that is, to me, so appealing.

“No theme would be beyond my orbit,” Neruda once said. And indeed, his collections are a testimonial to his remarkable versatility. In his “Odes About Everything” he describes what inspires him and what he puts down on paper:

…Odes
of all
hues and sizes,
seraphic, blue
or violent,
to eat,
to dance,
to follow footprints in the sand.

I might mentions that there is a Slavic connection to Neruda – for one, he adopted his name in honor of the Czechoslovak poet, Jan Neruda; for another, he was intimately associated with Poland’s Czeslaw Milosz – at least until their falling out over Neruda’s persistent support of communism.

Today, the Washington Post has an article by Edward Hirsch on the life and work of Neruda. It is well worth reading (here).

Ahh, Neruda would have been a fantastic blogger!

Saturday: point by point

Trivial points are exactly what a Saturday needs. Interspersed with Market color.

1. A visitor who had not been to Madison for a number of months flew in last night. As I pulled into the driveway (having picked her up at the airport) she looked out and said: “wow, what happened here?” I looked surprised and then concerned. She answered “the flowers! They’re a jungle! You can’t see the house, they’re so tall!” I explained about the spring rains, I pointed out that in daylight she would see a proliferation of color and texture and it would amaze her. “Can people make their way up the path to the front door though?” She asked, seemingly bewildered. Yes. I provide a hatchet and clippers. Jeez!

And, speaking of flowers, take a look at today’s, at the Market (yes, less wild than mine… hey, there’s room on this planet for all kinds):


orderly, kempt, colorful 


summer gold 

2. I have an internal alarm that I do not understand at all, it makes no sense, it is irrational. But I trust it: I always wake up just a few minutes before I have to get up (meaning before the alarm would sound if I were to set the alarm). I know many people recount similar experiences, but I think mine is an extreme situation because indeed, even if my waking time varies greatly (as it does depending on whether I’m teaching, or working at L’Etoile, or traveling in other time zones) I will always wake up about 5 minutes earlier. I’ve had this internal alarm for as long as I remember.

But today, I woke up 5 minutes AFTER I was to get up. This is so unnerving that I’m wondering if I should have a talk with a medical person. [But what do I say: I need an appointment to check why my internal alarm was 10 minutes off today?] I truly do not know what to make of it.

I made it in time to pick up (for myself!)the first blueberries of the season and the first Wisconsin corn. And these huge, flavorful strawberries – perfect for dipping in chocolate:


everyone should get a sixpack 


how many ears per person? 


SO impresssive. eat with chocolate! 

3. Tory is the Chef de Cuisine at L’Etoile. Within the restaurant hierarchy, that puts him just below Odessa. If you eat something absolutely delicious on your night there, chances are it had Tory’s mark in some way. He is a fantastic, conscientious cook. He turned 29 today and it is remarkable that he has developed such skills at his young age. He told me that he first started cooking in his grandparents’ diner in Racine. He did his training at the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan, then, for seven years, he apprenticed at a wonderful assortment of New York restaurants. But he didn’t care for the people who came to the eating establishments in NYC and so he moved back to Wisconsin, just to catch his breath.

I just have to say this about him: Tory is a supremely kind person. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re eating there – you could very well love the food prepared by a mean lowlife. Still, I’ve seen staff come and go at L’Etoile and Tory is right up there, at the top of a select handful. Working with him, as a result, is total pleasure. And no, he does not read my blog, so I am not sucking up in any way. But if you do go to L’Etoile to eat, look for him (he’s there every night)and tell him that you heard he is super nice. Here’s a picture from today, just so you know who your man behind the stove is:


happy birthday, Tory 

4. No, L’Etoile is not the only place to grab a nice bakery item on the week-end. Since I am not paid to stay loyal and advertise its unique virtues I can say that my eyes do stray often to other baked goods at the Market. These blueberry scones looked wonderful:


with a latte, with hot chocolate, with anything! 

And in the end, I went with my out-of-town guests to Marigold Kitchen. How can you resist blueberry pancakes with orange butter and cinnamon granola? They’re not too sweet (you have pure maple syrup for that) and the taste is heavenly. Highly recommended.

5. I will not blog about Art Fair on the Square. I could say, I suppose, that for me, it made for a trying day because as a result of it, the Market had to downsize and move to Wilson Street. A shame for the framers because these weeks are their absolute peak in terms of produce.

Yes, I walked through the Art Fair briefly and yes, it has beautiful pieces and ugly things and all ranges in between (Ann, c’mon, cave in and blog about it!). Most people go just to look and on a gorgeous day like today, the Square was packed. Am I the only one that finds the prices, for the most part, insane? Much as I’m in favor of supporting struggling artists, I’m not sure these guys are struggling. And yes, I know that lawyers charge more for an hour of dribble than these artists do for an hour at the easel. One insanity, however, doesn’t justify the other.


(from the Art Fair) the glass is greener elsewhere 

On a scale of 1 to 10, how thrilled am I with this?

The NYTimes has an article today (here) about the expansion of high speed internet access. Yes, its availability is expected now in hotels, cafés, airports. But trains? Planes? Automobiles?

The article addresses the difficulties of establishing Internet connections in moving vehicles with metal “skins.” Still, I think the expectation is that soon, the world will be one big hot spot.

Do I welcome these developments? Hard to say. I am thrilled that I can now work on my computer at Borders bookstore. But why is that so? It’s a bookstore, darn it, why do I feel compelled to take my work or my Internet surfing to a bookstore? Shouldn’t the ethicist speak out about this? Am I in any way contributing to the sales of books? And how about cafés: I like taking my computer there as well. But wait: what if my favorite cafés in France had a row of laptop users pounding away. Here, take this photo (below, taken just last year) and use your imagination. Place Parisians with computers at all the sidewalk tables. It’s WRONG!

Yet, just me sitting there blogging about the joys of people watching in Paris – I can make an exception for that…

I’m inconsistent. I want the options for myself but I want the rest of the world to take heed: laptops on long flights? Maybe. But not in French cafés. Please, let there be a few sacred spots in the world.

Paris now, before Wi-Fi 

A seasonal adjustment

Sometimes when I post something here, I cannot wait to post again, just so that the previous post does not stand out with its atrociously glaring title. Now is such a moment. Christmas on the blog is significantly out of place when I am chasing mosquitoes as I walk. So, just to appease my inner sense of balance let me post three pictures from this morning. They were taken in a place that is a five-minute walk from my house (Owen Woods). Whenever I groan too loudly about life in the suburbs, I am reminded that I have Owen Woods while New Yorkers have trees growing out of concrete slabs every thirty blocks and then I become quiet. [Until my next unhappy suburban moment.]

The prairie restoration project at Owen Woods is wonderful enough, though I think I want to set limits on what in the prairie I want restored. For example, the Black-eyed Susan and Echinacea are just fine, but the bugs – oh the bugs! They are obnoxiously intrusive and if I remember correctly from reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books, they caused one of the girls in the “Little House on the PRAIRIE” to go blind. So, yes to prairie restoration, but can we please do it with an eye toward plants that are repugnant to insect life? [Is that even possible?]

prairie flowers and grasses (and bugs) 

only in nature does this pairing of colors work 

happy looking Susans 

Christmas, communism and the return of the kid with the classy shoes

BoringAng is blogging about Christmas imagery and JeremyF is linking to Christian websites that warn against associating with atheists (might that include Communists? Do these websites see them as overlapping sets? Probably). Putting the two posts together reminds me of the FAQ that came my way (though not recently, and not in July): how did we deal with Christmas in Communist Poland? Given the prevalence of Catholicism even (or especially)in postwar Poland, was it celebrated? Repressed? Berated? Condemned?

Though as I have said before, my non-Catholicism kept me out of the churches during the holidays, I certainly did not mind otherwise horning in on Christmas celebrations. And Poland did (still does) Christmas in a big way, centering it mostly on feasting, but with music, tree-trimming and St. Nicholas thrown in as well (though St. Nick does a disappearing act after St. Nicholas Day early in the month, so as not to detract from the birth of Christ theme around the 24th and 25th). The churches appeared to me crowded year-round and so repression of religion has to be viewed as being somewhat at the level of abstraction. And governance, of course. Government offices had no religious iconography or ornamentation and I never saw a Christmas tree anywhere near the Communist Party headquarters. [Contemporary Poland seems to now scorn the “quaint” idea of separation of church and state.]

I do have to say, though, that I was a jaded kid. Did I “believe” in St. Nick and his sack of presents? My mother tells me I stopped when I was 5, immediately following the visit to the Warsaw Department store where my sister and I had this picture (below) taken. You can see the “yeah, sure” look on my face (I’m on the right). I am told I went up to “St. Nick” afterwards and told him loudly “you are SO not real,” much to the dismay of the children in line. I am quite ashamed of this now – what a spoiler. Note, as well, the postwar Poland haute couture. I don’t think I realized that people wore shoes for reasons other than protecting the feet from mud and sharp objects until I traveled to the States at the age of 7.


Warsaw, Poland, December 1958 

A musing

Occasionally, in a moment of musing about your past, you google a memory. Indeed, this is what must have happened, as I got the most remarkable email today from someone who reached this blog by googling the lyrics to the “United Nations” song that I used to love so much back in my elementary school days at the UN International School.

The reader writes: I googled "United Nations on the march" and found the lyric at your site. As a youngster at a bungalow colony day camp in the Catskils in the 1940s we sang the song. Sadly, I haven't heard it since.

This, then, is the power of the blog. It allows you to get close to people over “blogger dinners.” It allows for friendship to grow exponentially. And, it allows you to talk to someone who, 20 years before your own elementary school days, was belting “Take heart all you nations swept under!” at a camp in the Catskills.

Happy bloggerversary to JFW, the blog that gave me a leg up on this blogging business.

This has happened to me!

I opened the New Yorker this afternoon to the following ad from a credit card company:


(nc: poor Glenna -- she takes the plunge and then gets mocked for it by a credit company!) 

Alongside the photo were these words: It didn’t seem right to us, either. We thought it a little odd that Glenna from Duluth would spend $282 at the Screaming Needle in Hollywood. With Fraud Early Warning, XX can recognize unusual spending and stop it.

Now wait a minute! There is a clear insinuation that a 50 + (okay maybe a bunch of pluses) woman living in Duluth is staid and priggish and that she lacks an irreverent side that would cause her to hop on a plane to LA and get herself a tattoo.

Maybe. I don’t know Glenna. But then, does XX Company? And what else do they know about Glenna? Is there a person who goes through her every receipt and says “Yep, that fits, that’s Glenna!” or “No way would she buy something so gauche, so risqué, that Glenna, she’s no spring chicken now is she? And from Duluth, too.”

I’ve had my card rejected in places and so I know the feeling. I have been warned by operators whom I have frantically called to avoid the embarrassment of being arrested for non-payment, that next time I would be well advised to call ahead, to warn the company of impending odd expenses in weird and out-of-the-way places. It’s for my own protection, after all. What, from myself??

Cost – Benefit Analysis

Last night I attended a blogger dinner: five bloggers (representing Boring, Bed, SirEP and Ocean) sat face to face and talked about the trials and tribulations of life in the big league (of work? academia? blogging? all of the above). Why call it a blogger dinner? Why not just dinner with friends? Because this, like my dinners with Mother In Law and with A, B & F, would not have happened were it not for our blogging. Indeed, in this case, I would never have met the people at all. There is unquestionably a sizable social benefit to this blogging thing.

However, there is also a cost. I have noticed that one side effect of blogger dinners is that people feel terribly anxious about posting something about the event afterwards. It’s as if we have to be especially witty and clever and insightful, we have to stretch ourselves beyond our normal boring selves. In other words, we have to put out a spin that exceeds our capacities.

Well NOT ME! I will not let this become a permanent liability, a cost, a burden, I will lead by example, set the pace, storm ahead with a DUMB POST ABOUT THE BLOGGER DINNER!

Keep that in mind as you read my not especially profound observations about last night:

1. It was one of those interesting situations where you’re sitting there waiting and only one other person shows up. Many minutes pass and still it’s just the two of you. You wonder, have I posted something recently that offends? Did they all get pulled over by a police car and are now talking themselves out of a jail sentence for speeding? What? [ans: the latter.]

2. This was a sober bunch. It’s been a while since I’ve been out with a group of people where the dominant and most popular drink was water. I did not cave in to peer pressure. I stayed with my rule that if it’s a dinner where the entrees cost more than $5.99 per plate then there should be wine.

3. Talk fast or be prepared to move when the waiters start putting up chairs on tables, hinting that you’re overstaying your welcome. It’s Madison: the chairs on tables routine begins at 10. What would this town do without the Barnes & Noble café, which stays open until 11…

4. My devious subtle testing revealed that the bloggers have been reading Ocean. They knew, for instance, that I had misspelled “hardy peasant stock.” [it appears as “hearty” in the blog – something that I affectionately preserve only in part because I don’t retro-edit posts that are more than a day old.] Or, they were good at faking it.

5. The bloggers I met are terrific. They are witty and smart and funny and cool. The lesson: if your blog is good, you’re no dork.

6. A photo. There must be a photo. The Ocean rep took it and so she is missing from the pack. The rest-- here they are, the whole boring, beddy, sirepy bunch of them:

closing down Barnes & Noble 

too much text, too little color

In late winter, I would post spring updates here, pulling photos off the web to illustrate where my garden was heading. Then I stopped. There was so much color elsewhere that I did not need to sprinkle the blog with garden photos. But today I noted paragraph after paragraph of blog text and decided it was time to jazz it up some with flowers from my garden. They thrived this year on neglect. I hardly tended them. Reliably, they came back to show off their true spunky grit and spirit.

they climb like mad 

fiesta rose