The day Ocean's author was rocked into silence

I went for a run early this morning. I do that occasionally just to challenge myself, because between Mr.B and my walking partners, I have pretty much taken off my running shoes for the year.

How good a runner am I? If I take on a hilly terrain and brisk-walk it in 50 minutes, I can do the same at a jog in 40 minutes. So pretty lousy.

I was greatly discouraged. The rest of the morning was spent at locking myself up with lots of reading material and ignoring my physical self.

As a result, blogging was out of the question.

When I rejoined the world, my favorite phone caller was there jingling away. That caused me to hole myself up all over again.

I'm out again, but in a few minutes some kind folks are sweeping me away to Summerfest in Milwaukee. I was reluctant to go. NO ONE SHOULD REGARD ME AS GOOD COMPANY RIGHT NOW! But they persisted and so I'm off. A real post will follow. Tomorrow.

Eastward ho!

This morning I set out for the east side. You might think I was stalking this guy who lives out there, but no. I had another meeting at Mother Fools coffee house and I thought Mr. B might enjoy the adventure.



Hey, what do Ocean and Mother Fool's have in common?

For non-Madison readers, let me summarize it thus: east side people have this thing where they are in love with their ‘hood. Willie Street to an east-sider is like the Black Madonna is to a Catholic Pole. East side people don’t typically like to admit to any great affection for west side people. Phrases like “stuck up” and “snotty” come up. “Homogeneous” is another. And the dreaded word: “suburban.” West siders are soooo suburban.

Within the west side bunch, you have near-west siders, who think they are more like east siders in their funkiness and then you have far-west siders. Near-west siders don’t like far-west siders. They want to distance themselves from the suburban image. And that funkiness complex, too: it comes up.

At this moment I live on the far west side. I got news for you, near-west siders: you’re not more funky than I am, you’re just more rich! Your house costs twice as much as mine.

Me – I like the east side just fine and today I absolutely loved it and felt a great deal of jealousy, verging on rage: they have one of the best bike paths running through it and it is level! No hills, no ups and downs, none of it: flat as can be. Mr. B and I were in heaven.

So there I am, wiling away the morning hours, when a familiar sight comes right into my field of vision:


Oscar? Note the (empty) glass of iced coffee... It has to be!

If this doesn’t appear familiar to you, take a run through cyberspace here.

No, no, Oscar was not stalking me nor I him. It’s just that east siders, they like to band together in public spaces.

My Mo Fo morning made me very very late for the farmers market. So late that Anne of Fantome Farm no longer had any goat cheese left. How can one eat 6-grain crackers without goat cheese? The good thing about being kind to the farmers is that they give you the shirt off their back and, more importantly, their sample containers if they don’t have anything to sell you. Anne: you saved my crackers for the week to come.



Mr. B was happy enough carrying the whole loot home. Uphill -- it being the tiresome west side.

Where Ocean’s author gets in over her head, in rough waters

I recently met someone who is an extreme sailing enthusiast (in addition to being an in-his-spare-time Hoofer's instructor, for those here in Madison who know a Hoofer when they see one). When he found out that I’d been sailing only once in my life on some little nothing boat in Poland when I was maybe 18, he began coaxing me into coming out for a sailing lesson.

I resisted for a while, but finally and I admit this without shame – I thought: why not? It will at best be the adventure of my life and at worst: a terrific blogging opportunity.

So today I sailed.

I’m sailing away
Set an open course for the virgin sea...
(song sung by Ocean author at the last karaoke attended by her)

My instructor pal is terrific. Moreover, he may at some point log onto this blog and so I will not convey here the full passion of my (negative) feelings toward sailing.

for the love of sailing

In truth: it was not his fault. He is so good at yelling at the crew to get their shit together. And he caught me when I almost was pulled by the rope and tugged viciously to the raging waters below.


is that the Capitol? So far away...

And maybe my attitude was tinted by the weather: today was so goddamn windy that the choppiness I am sure would make a mermaid seasick.

note his task: it was mine for 90% of the hours spent on the sail boat

I did not mind the heavy work either. The bending, hoisting, pulling, swinging down as the sail swept its way across the boat threatening to bang the hell out of anything or anyone in its way – all this reminded me somewhat of working in a restaurant kitchen (another one of those things that took my fancy a few years back) – except that it was like working on plating appetizers on a rocky, swaying floor, where if you did not grip tightly with your shoes, you would be thrown into the oven with the powerful force of a room that refuses to stay upright.

You know when I hit bottom? When I got off the boat, swaying my way in total stupor up the Union Terrace steps and realized that my Summer Without Car meant that I had to peddle Mr. B all the uphill way home.

A Whole Foods moment, part 2

Generally, I do not take over the counter supplements – of the type that are supposed to boost your everything, from the immune system to your sexual pleasure. It’s not that I do not believe in them. I’m sure turmeric, green tea, cloves and ginger really give a nice dose of anti to your oxidants, but when I last studied the ingredients of a leading supercritical antioxidant supplement (in addition to the above, it had parsley, peppermint, rosemary and, I kid you not, extra virgin olive oil and yellow beeswax), it sounded more like a list of salad ingredients than effective device for increasing your cell protective activity. Bottom line: I’ll focus on throwing together a salad instead. And anyway, there’s something grossly wrong about me paying money to counter free radicals. I was raised in a different political culture.

But yesterday I reconsidered. I had been talking to someone who is involved with pharmaceuticals and oncology and all those other important medicinal matters and he was rather shocked that I wasn’t blasting away at detoxification with greater force.

And then he said – I know you love wine. Surely you take milk thistle? I do not. I do – he tells me – at least once a day, I put it in my coffee.

Put something putrid in my coffee?? You have got to be kidding! My pricey latte should be bombarded with a foul seed extract that purports to counter the damage the caffeine (or wine) is about to inflict? No, it cannot be.

On the other hand, I had to admit that my rendition of a salad lately has been to open a bag of mixed greens or arugula and eat them straight from the plastic container. I don’t even take the time to give it a fourth rinse (believing all that garbage they write about it being already triple rinsed), I most certainly haven’t been putting any turmeric, green tea, ginger, parsley, peppermint or rosemary into it.

And, not surprisingly, I found that you can, these days, get everything in a pill. Everything. Forget about pouring putrid liquids into a great latte.

Okay, so now I have these pills that will save me from sure death by tomorrow. But just for July. After that, my life is all about purging and getting rid of things.

A Whole Foods moment, part 1

Are you one of those people that gives an honest answer when someone runs into you and says “how’s it goin’?”

Because you know you shouldn’t do that. People don’t want to know. 99.9% of the time the bump on your hip and the slump in your demeanor and wit will make them uncomfortable and they’ll quickly review their options for a hurried retreat.

Give them one. If you must unload, give them a chance to walk away. Throw out a gift of “oh, but you know, that’s just the way things are, so must get going now to experience some more of life’s bumps and bruises.” They’ll love you for it. Watch the big grin appear, the hand, poised, ready for a parting wave, relief, palpable relief evident in their entire demeanor.

I am puzzled though. If most people really do not want to know, why do they ask? After all, “hi there, how’s that blog of yours?” works equally well and generally one can say at least one honestly pleasing thing about one’s blog.

the Gates, visited

I recently met someone who lives in Madison’s (one and only?) gated community and today I finally agreed to come over at lunchtime so that I could inspect it from the inside rather than give in to my immediate inclination to dislike it site unseen (or is it sight unseen?).

My host gave me the password that would open the magic gates. Initially I had intended to bike over, but one look at the hill that I would have to ascend on the return trip and Mr. B bowed out. So much for my great protector. So I took the Great Old Van (“GOV”) with me in case I needed to make a hasty retreat.

The gates were imposing and the GOV stopped, almost refusing to go forth, afraid perhaps that he would be arrested inside on appearance alone. I assured him that he would fit in with other construction type vehicles which were freely getting across the great divide, most likely filled with south-of-the-border laborers ready to do the dirty work for the wealthy on the other side.


GOV mirror eyes gate with suspicion

Inside, there were faux waterfalls and matching mailboxes and many outrageous looking houses (chalets, plantations, every rich person’s fancy). My host is a guy who hangs with the less affluent and so I was surprised at the comfort level he demonstrated toward his immediate neighbors. But then I suppose he doesn’t see much of them. One recent addition to the community is a house pegged at $9 million, belonging to the daughter of the Farm & Fleet CEO. This was to be her summer residence.

summer cottage

neat and tidy

I suppose I can forgive my host for living there. I, too, am comfortable with diverse lifestyles. I try not to shun the affluent nor those who live behind gates (in this case there is a perfect overlap). But when he proposed a walk to the state park across the highway I was more than ready. I figure I had made my sacrifice and breathed the ChemLawn-ed air enough for one day. I needed the prairie breezes and nicely smelly waters of Lake Mendota to lighten my mood.

from the park looking south: across the waters


where is Monet when you need him...

close-up: hangout for butterflies

Quick, tell me some things about Polska

I am so very impressed with this list of ten memorable things about Poland. You're on Oscar! Here's my list:

Off the top, ten things that stand out about Poland (not necessarily the most important and most certainly not in any particular order of importance):

1. Pansies instead of marigolds. In public spaces and private gardens, Americans go for the gold. Poles plant pansies instead. Everywhere. Lots and lots of them.

pansy mania

2. The food. Okay, it’s heavy. There’s lots of cream and butter and meat. And ice cream and cake and poppy seeds. And sausage. Oscar notes that Polish people have avoided obesity. Someone recently said it’s because Poles don’t use couches as much as Americans do. But they sure have the potatoes.


light fare: cabbage stew, mushroom soup, sausage, beer



first choice: sour cherry- apple, in the middle.



yeast cakes and doughnuts.


highland hut strung with roasted kielbasa.

3. A love of the outdoors: the mountains, the waterways, the forests, or just a scrawny bit of land on which to plant flowers and grow berries. See, after you get yourself a TV, you save up for a car. It can be a cheap car. Next is a scrap of land with maybe a shack on it. That’s where you spend your leisure time. It’s more important than having a washing machine. Of course, there’s a problem there, but we’ll keep hygiene off the list. Don’t want to give the wrong impression …


forest walks


mountain air

4. The market economy has not taught sales people manners. Oscar observes that they can be rude. Indeed! Kep had commented that there are only two types of people – those willing to be engaged in the lives of people they encounter and the sulkers. It was said that the sulkers were the byproduct of communism. I’m beginning to think that it’s deeper than that. They pout and sulk and pick on their nails or smoke a cigarette and ignore you.


pretzel man with an attitude; and a cigarette.

5. Good coffee AND good tea. This theme’s for you and you (even though I do not have a photo of the tea; pretend!).


there's great coffee beneath that great foam. Oh, and don't forget the poppyseeds on the breads and in the cakes. Lots. Carry a tooth pick.

...and quit staring at the sour cherry jam; it's all in the coffee


6. Manipulating the outcome: Poles use all sorts of devious tricks to get by in life on very little. How enterprising – you may say. Yes, if you are not the one that has been manipulated in some way.

7. The parks the parks the parks: Polish cities are all about the parks. It’s more than just the beauty of these places, it is that they are public spaces that draw every inhabitant in, creating a communal stomping ground, a social place where you can be alone and yet not alone. (I have posted enough pics of Polish parks on Ocean. move on.)

8. Religious symbols, churches, chapels – they’re everywhere. No, really. It’s like the Vatican has decided to make Poland its second home. Jesus indeed. Or more like Mary. Poles are more into Mary than Jesus.

in the highlands; for some, it's worth the long hike.

9. Women attend to their skin. I swear, there are more cosmeticians than lawyers. Maybe that’s a good thing. Polish cosmetics, btw, are first rate. And there are lots of them. None of this simple body lotion: there’s anti-cellulite lotion, anti-wrinkle cream, stress-relief lotion, and topical cream for your newly implanted tattoo. And no, I do not know why deodorant isn’t nearly as popular.

10. Café conversations. Poles either like to walk and talk or sit at cafés and talk. Yes, the common denominator is the talking thing. But if you see the thousands flocking to cafés each day you’ll wonder if maybe the café, not the conversation, is the draw.

dogs are okay. as long as you feed them. sugar.

cafe life: generations.

P.S. thanks to Ann for encouraging me to finally move on to Flicker, and to Oscar for working with me through the conversion.

Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme

My calling voice this morning was the voice of work. But I haven’t the stamina from last winter. After two hours of pre-dawn lecture writing (I have a class to present this morning), I crawled back to bed.

And then I did what I do just about every morning: I watched the morning come in.

Some days (today) I am more awake for this than on other days, but rarely does this hour pass without me noting its stunning beauty.

I keep the curtains open in the bedroom. It is completely private: only the white pines that I planted years ago can witness what takes place inside this great room. And I keep the window open. Not in the dead of winter, but at all other times.

And so the day starts with a bird chorus and a misty green outside – gray at first, and more translucent as the sun breaks loose.

In all my travels, no wake-up scene has impressed me more. And I know that it will no longer be with me when I begin my mornings at Bassett.

This morning, just before dawn, from my pillow: sublime.

but soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

My God! The Stars were not aligned for biking giants last Wednesday!

Thanks for emailing me this! I deeply appreciate knowing that Lance and I were both at odds with the gods of cycling (within minutes of each other last week, he and I crashed).

It seems that his injuries were smaller than mine. But I am reassured: if he can get back on the saddle to do his Tour de France thing, I can certainly not hesitate about resuming my touring de Madison on Mr. B. Which I most certainly did in the last days. To work, to the stores, and then again, last night at dusk: it was all about cycling.

The great divide*

A friend sent me a song with these lyrics:

I've been siftin' through the layers
Of dusty books and faded papers
They tell a story I used to know
And it was one that happened so long ago*

He suggested that it may be a good accompaniment to my forthcoming move.

I’m switching neighborhoods soon – placing myself in the midst of Bassett.

Tonight at dusk I set out for a ride with Mr. B. I loved last night’s amble, so why wouldn’t I love it tonight? Why indeed. My relationship to dusks is unsettling, unpredictable, almost always an issue.

I headed for something nearby, comparable to what I found downtown at Bassett: a body of water and railroad tracks. Only the pond here lacked bike access. And the railroad tracks crossed uninteresting terrain.

But it had a train. Moving fast. Toward me (not to fear-- I am a careful watcher of trains). Almost as exhilarating as speeding down Old Sauk Hill, keeping the hand loosely on the break (I am careful on the bike as well). The suburbs make you do these vaguely daring things I suppose. Maybe I’ll calm down once I’m downtown.

* by Kate Wolf

migrating geese love this place in the fall... 

hey, slow down, I need a photo! 

Simulblogging a real estate agents’ luncheon in my own home!

The sign out front says OPEN HOUSE. And it is. In fact, all the windows are open even though I should have the AC on. I’m no fool. I know real estate agents like to feel cool in an open house. Unfortunately, the AC died on me this morning. Probably from under-use.

[…and wouldn’t you know, I just dished out some money on a home-owners’ policy on all appliances yesterday! I’m reaping the rewards of foresight and prudence!]

Today is the first day that this house is on the market. Me, if I had to show case one thing about it, it would be this room:

can one have crushes on rooms? I do... 

But my agent cannot get over the size of the master-bedroom: you can party in it, she writes. What kind of people have parties in their bedroom? What is she saying about me?

I smell Olive Garden.

I hear very nice a lot and wow it’s huge. Okay. Fine. But you are also trampling down my freshly vacuumed carpets. Can I sneak out and vacuum in between agents? Will they mind? Can I say I am the Polish maid?

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. But I am, fascinated by the concept of a Free Lunch Open House. Because that’s what this is all about – my agent is getting them in the door with food. Ahhh, the Polish way.

Okay, in the midst of it all, the guy comes to fix the AC, further trampling down my now-not-so-nicely vacuumed carpets. And the verdict: there is nothing wrong with the AC! Maybe it just didn’t feel like giving out cold air yesterday. Oh, right, fine – I have a temperamental little number that may have gotten insulted with all my AC bashing.

More agents. They are now eating lunch everywhere – living room, dining room, my place has become an Olive Garden Extension. Lasagna, salad, bread. I’m not even hungry, the stuff smells like take-out usually smells: part plastic, part tomato.

And the agents keep coming. How many agents in Madison need a free lunch?? Are they all not making enough money? They dress well and drive fancy cars – not cars I like, but still…

I like my agent. She is peppy. She’s obviously trying to make a go of this career. I fell for her zip and vigor, even though she is a woman of no real estate experience. Gotta support the up-and-coming. Maybe someone will hire me as I apply for additional work someday as a barista. [What, do you think, I lack barista talent?? Take a look at what’s been written about my passion for coffee here and here!]

One more hour of this. I’m going to quit blogging and go for a walk. Listening to others talk about the home you love is like eavesdropping on gossip about your children. You enjoy the praise, you do, but you sweat listening for that little dig that you feel will surely come. I definitely would fly downstairs and land some punchy blows on anyone saying one unkind thing about this house of all houses. So, off I go.

Time, summertime, this time

Since it’s just Mr. B and me, out and about, I have to configure time differently. Before: Borders Bookstore to the far far west side = 10 minutes. Now, it's closer to half an hour, depending on how forcefully I attack the hills between the one place and the other.

I was, therefore thrilled to have configured time so well tonight: I arrived at place MG at 6:59, one minute ahead of schedule.

Okay, let me start with the denouement: where am I and what am I eating??

Mediterranean shrimp on arugula 

I am not ashamed to admit it: I am eating at a place that has elicited the following comments: disgusting name! whoever grills macaroni?? Or: I wont set foot in that chain if you paid me!

The fact is, the price is totally reasonable and food is good. No, really, for what it attempts to do – it is delicious.

I am to meet a certain someone here for dinner. A quick look tells me that I am perhaps too prompt. I am seated at a booth and I wait. And wait. I look at the menu and I am reminded that the previous time I had been here, someone wrote a terribly accusatory post about me simply because I called attention to this:

...for sensible people