a Midwest summer: red

Dry, hot air. It should rain. People talk of storms.

There are no storms.

In the evening, the sun turns a fierce red. Defiant. Tomorrow you'll get more of me.




And we do.

a Midwest summer: week-end's done

I sit at the back of the Honda CM200. One curve, another, the hot air pummels my face, my bare arms, we're there. We get off and watch.

It's the end of the day. Trucks back down toward the water. Time to haul in the boats…





Back on the Honda, following the shore road along Lake Waubesa. Up ahead, Christie's is drawing a crowd. Beer, baskets of fried this and the other.

Or, for some, just a cool beer. In a plastic cup. And thoughts of the week ahead.





Replayed, at countless places around Wisconsin. All summer long.

confusion

Reminders. You're here, but your mind drifts.

And sometimes, you're flooded with recent images. Like, when you see these: where am I? In Nice?





No, no. Madison's market.

But wait. Ocean author is carrying her Languedoc shopping basket. Is this Pierrerue? And isn't that fennel? The one from Sicily maybe?





It's a Languedoc basket alright (more like Moroccan, sold everywhere in southern France). And it's fennel. But it's Madison again. At the market.

Fennel, did you say? Oh, that pale gold and green of fennel! Like this? Is this a field of fennel? In Sicily?





No. Very similar colors, different plant. Dill. Just outside Madison.

And this: could anyone have doubt? These guys are ours! France, get your own purple flowers. Oh, that's right. You claim lavender. Well, we claim these:






Sunday. It's Sunday now. Day of repose, right? With a few well-built, well-coordinated cyclists hitting the roads. France comes to mind, no?





No. It's Madison.

Though I don't know about the "repose" part. I am just outside Madison now and I come to a field that for years sprouted the ubiquitous corn and soy beans. This spring, it has been rented out to local families, in search of a place to grow things. Hmong farmers, working the land the hard way.

I watch. Such a hot day. The children run between one adult and the other. One creates shade for the mother (is it the mother?). She's hitting the hard soil with the hoe. Fresh air, tough work, vegetables growing. A Wisconsin scene, to the core.

tomorrow

I need a day to catch my breath and make sense of the mess before me. Tomorrow, okay?

from Paris/Madison: charmed

This day. Ask, and you shall receive.

I leave Paris sadly. Oh, so sadly. I live here in my soul (do we have souls?). Occasionally, I have been here with people whom I love. Mostly, I am here alone.

I am troubled. I have to now face the task of taking the Turkish carpet back home. The heavy carpet. In a broken suitcase that may or may not hold it. And, I have an additional suitcase that I have purchased here, to hold everything else. Including the just purchased, couldn’t resist it, yes I know – how stupid of me, rosé. Lovely little new suitcase. Blue and orange, like Nice colors. It has a problem. It drags its goddamn bottom every time it hits an uneven surface. Like sagging flesh, scraping the sidewalk.

But I am determined to take the metro (RER) to the airport. I can do it! Two suitcases (one that drags), a camera bag with two cameras, a laptop case, a purse. So what. I can do it!


My arms ache. I am tired of watching out for dog shit. Three blocks have never seemed so long.

I forge ahead.

I am counting on that French handsome man who will help me carry two suitcase (and then some) down the blasted long steps of the RER stop. No one around.

I lug it all, first the one, then the other (I am so happy to have purchased the Turkish carpet. Yes I am! Just not at this moment.)

The train is crowded. Many men rush to help me get the suitcases on board. I am in France.

At the airport, I check in and ask the usual. May I have an upgrade? I’ll spend miles. I have hundreds, thousands of miles. An upgrade maybe?

And I am told the usual: go to the ticket office and ask.

I go to the ticket office.
No madame. You have the cheapest of the cheap tickets. You cannot have an upgrade.


I go to the tax rebate desk. Gulp. It’s always tense here for me. I do not bring all my purchases for their inspection – they are all sent through, waiting to get on board to Chicago. That is against the rules. But I always hope. See, in life, one should hope.

And she waves me on. Okay – here are your rebate papers! Bonne journee!

I pass through customs. OH!!!!!! They have finally opened the new terminal at Charles de Gaulle! Just this week!! No more multiple buses and long corridors and ramshackle spaces. I have stuck with Air France through it all, when it was worse than bad to connect through here because of the construction and now I am rewarded. The new space is lovely!

I sit in the lounge and I drink champagne. Business class travelers drink champagne in flight, continuously, but us mortals, even though we have collected enough points and miles to send an entire Italian family to New Zealand and back, we can only indulge in champagne here, in the lounge.

And I do. I love champagne to death and can never afford it back home, but here, in the Air France lounge it is free free free free and so I sip. The hope is that it will zonk me out on take off and I wont wake up til landing. It’s just a hope.

It is boarding time., My check-in agent had said that when I pass through the last ticket check, I could again try for an upgrade. You naïve person, you. I have done that in the past and have gotten glares from the harried ticket checkers: People are boarding the plane, Jesus, just live with your status!

But I ask, because of all those glasses of champagne I suppose and there you have it. I am charmed this day. The carpet is on board, I am on board and we’re both flying business! At least I am. I hope they’re treating the carpet well.

The plane has a brand new interior and business and first are merged into one and the seat stretches this way and that and on take off I am offered champagne again, only I cannot drink it all because it would zonk me out for the flight and in this beautiful space, I want to stay awake.

In that lovely new interior, the sound system breaks down. And so, no one has music or video or any other form of entertainment, but this is just fine by me, because I have books and magazines and for nine hours I read and and eat and read and these nine hours have gone way too fast.

The plane comes in early (the predicted storms never materialize), my suitcases are among the first on the belt. I make it to the Van Galder bus with ten minutes to spare.

On the way to Willie Street Co-op to pick up some milk for a morning café crème, I stop and take this photo, thinking – it has elements of Paris (the sky) and of Bodrum and Nice (the water) and really one cannot complain because each place has its photographable matter and you just have to look for it.




I mean, Nice has the colors, but that's just a subjective and silly proclamation, since there are colors the planet over. Right?

I am happy to be connected to people that matter again, I am happy to be home. And still, I wish I were going back for a week-end in Nice, like the Belgians in the restaurant. Not just now, but maybe next weekend? It's just a hope.

from Paris: changes

I tug my suitcase to the Nice train station. The Provence wind is kicking in. The skies become violently blue, nothing is stable. I wonder how it would be on the beach on a day like this.

Move on. Away from the sea. Past buildings with balconies.






The train ride is, as usual, fast, magnificent. In less than six hours I am in Paris. Paris -- where everyone is looking up at the sky: will it be rain again?





I take a cab from the Gare de Lyon. Within minutes, the answer is obvious. Rain.





Oh, but wait, this is unpredictable Paris. By the time I set out for an evening walk, things look considerably different. Nice-like maybe?





Not quite. Nice was the city without flowers in window boxes. Nice had enough color elsewhere. Nice had scores of people eating at outdoor restaurants. All day long they ate and drank. Informally, buoyantly.

It's not that Paris can't compete. Here's a fellow sitting outside.





Paris, through and through.

Myself, I eat at les Editeurs -- a place just down the street where I always have breakfast. It's sort of like eating dinner at Borders (with shelves of esoteric books). Its rosy tones and warm familiarity suit me this evening. I'm not interested in anything complicated. Steak and pommes frites. Oh fine, and a jug of Provence rosé.





The last evening in France. Thursday I return to Madison

from Nice: accustomed to her face

So the city grows on you. You find your favorite beach, the best streets to walk, the place to return to for good seafood and it all fits.

And, too, there’s the market. Unlike in many other markets in France, where the vendors are engaged in the serious business of selling and visitors whose main purpose is to take pictures are barely tolerated, in Nice it’s different. Never too crowded, used to tourists, with constantly agreeable weather to boot, sellers smile at those who stop by. Even if it’s clear that there’s not going to be a sale.

Nice has a square that is stunning – closed to traffic, it is a great, spacious communal space. The first day I walked across it (it’s not a café-laden thing, it’s just a regular old square to pass on your way to somewhere), I paused for a moment and heard a little boy say to his dad as they first stumbled upon it: elle est belle! (she’s beautiful!)

She is that. Every day I would enter it and every day I would try to take a shot of her magnificence – but I hated all of the photos. You’re stuck with this last one. No more days in Nice. No more chances to try again.



Place Messena


My last day here. I don’t have to be wordy – you know exactly how I will have spent it. Chasing the blues of the sea and the golds and reds at the market. Wolfing down huge portions of fresh seafood. Drinking rosé wine. Ending with a berry napoleon and a noisette.


But my last notes here will be about the beach. (Yes, I go back to it now, as I’m speeding on a train to Paris.)

I’ve never hung out at a big city beach before. Coney Island, sure, but I was a kid and didn’t know any better.

For me, beaches are best when they are pristine and empty and golden and pure.

I was a beach kid once – I have always loved the sun, unfortunately, given its negative health associations. In various sea destinations, I would roll out a towel and resent the intrusion of others. Keep away from me! One hundred feet is too close! Move, already!

In Nice, I was right smack in the midst of it all. I mean, granted, I paid for a chair, so I had my wee little oasis of quiet. But I chose the chair closest to the public space. So that I could get a sense of Nice there, on this rocky strip of city beach.

And I did get a feel for it -- listening to the conversation of the old women who came regularly, watching generations of mothers and babies and grandmothers find a spot by the water…



three generations


…getting exasperated by the teenage boys who came late in the afternoon and threw pebbles at each other when the ball game got to be too much.

And I watched the visitors mingle with this slice of Nice and I saw the rules unfold – the keep this place clean! – attitude, so that no one left garbage behind, not the kid who finished his chips, not the adult who bought a beer from the peddlers that went back and forth. There's too much garbage already out there in our lives. Let this beach stay clean.

At the end of the day, the sea would always spit out several big waves that went further than all their predecessors. The people closest to the waterline would get drenched. Bags, towels, all of it – soaking wet. It was so predictable, that, around four, I wanted to walk along the edge and say – watch it, the sea is going to play a joke on you in a moment!

But of course, I didn’t. I’m just a passerby. Let the Mediterranean play its game – who am I to interfere. All I can do is keep my camera ready and record the moment. Here it is, the last big wave, creeping up to the woman who, like me, was trying to get some reading done by the water.



it's coming...



...it came



And here’s the rest of my Nice day. Told in the colors of this Provence port.


the market




































the sea









recording joy




salade Mediterranee




empty now



the dinner



leaving the hotel: Provence colors




dinner menu: colors of the sea




crustaceans




berry napoleon




walking home: various stages of closure

from Nice: stuck

On my last days now. I have got to tear myself from the adhesive that glues me to a beach chair each day. One town. Let me visit just one other town outside of Nice.

Okay, clouds in the sky in the morning. Good. I’m going to go take a train (all of fifteen minutes of it) to Cagnes-sur-Mer. Oh, damn. Sky is clearing. I’ll just hike over to the beach to tell Stephan not to hold the chair for me. It’s only right.

Warm breeze tickles me this way and that…

Maybe I’ll tell Stephan to hold the chair for the afternoon. I’ll be back for a few late hours…

Tickle, tickle…

What if it clouds over? I’ll have made him hold the chair and then I wont use it. Maybe I’ll sit on it this morning, for just an hour or so.

Caress, tickle.

Two hours. No more than that. Then off I go! Exploring!


The chair is there, waiting. Stephan hovers, wishes me a good day, I feel the glue taking hold, drying.

How could it not? Mornings are the best, out there, on the rocky waterfront. The older women of Nice come then. They lay their mats down and they swim a little and then they rest. By noon, they’re out. The younger set takes over, it gets crowded.





Mornings. Mists hang over the water. Little children are held tightly by papu, mami. Kissed and smiled over.





A cloud comes at 1. It’s a sign. I have to get up and get moving. I take my books back to the hotel and set out, by train, down the coast.

I’ve picked Cagnes-sur-Mer. Why? I’m still searching for a good spot to return to. I went from little Pierrerue, to big Nice. Shouldn’t I, next year, try something in between?

Cagnes has always attracted the artistic crowd. I’m in awe of that. Simone de Bouvoir wrote here. Renoir took one look at the village (it was then a village) and said “this is the place where I want to paint until the last day of my life.” So, lucky devil, he bought a house and it became to him what Giverny was to Monet – a dream place from which he could paint, sculpt and probably boss a few women and children around to wait on him. French painters of that era seemed especially skilled in that domain.

I had hopes especially for Haute Cagnes – the older part of town, perched on a hill, a bit of a hike up from the sea.





I pictured myself sitting on a terrace with a spectacular view toward the mountains of Provence...




... sipping a café crème and then maybe hiking down to the seaside, books and all, and then, toward the end of the day, writing away right back at the pretty café, where today I settled in for a lunch.




But in the course of the afternoon, I changed my mind about Cagnes. Sometimes you have to see a place before you can embrace/reject it. Cagens fell by the wayside. A beautiful place to visit. For an afternoon.





I did spend a little while at Renoir’s house, miffed again at the photo ban, but enjoying the feeling of quiet. Giverny’s gardens attract millions. Renoir’s little country home stands empty (of visitors; it has plenty of his paintings and sculptures) even now, at the height of the season. An interesting statement, though I’m not quite sure what it is a statement of.








I came back to Nice on the commuter train. Hot, crowded – a good way to travel. With those who do it on a daily basis. To work. From work. To the beach. To shop. To eat.

Oh yes, the matter of dinner. I am still processing it. The food was okay. Fine. Not off the planet spectacular, but fine. But I had a waiter with negative chemistry and by the end of the meal, he and I were glaring at each other. That has never happened to me in France, where a waiter’s tasks are routinely carried out with a professional flair, even in the smallest village brasserie. Sure, service can be slow, mistakes happen (at lunch, the waiter in Cagnes dropped a big salad into the lap of another diner. She laughed, we laughed – it happens), but waiters are very very adept at relating well to the customer. This man and I just had a tough evening together, which only goes to show that you cannot make generalizations about anything or anyone, my post of two days ago to the contrary, not withstanding.

But let me end on a sweet note. Berries and cream kind of note. I say this without reservation: dinner in France is always an event to anticipate with pleasure.

from Nice: the last Sunday

At some point, one has to pack up and return home.

Many would roll an eye at that, given how many days I spend on this side of the ocean. I’m beyond explaining the hows and whys of being here so often and for so long. It’s just the way it is. Though, at some point, work and resources (or lack thereof) kick in and the period of staying put in the Midwest has to be far longer than I would want it to be. Like this next season. Sigh.

But right now, I have a Sunday in Nice. The best thing that you can do with a Sunday in France is to do nothing grand, nothing stressful.

I’m good at that.

Naturally, I head for the beach. And watch young men do their usual pick up game of volley ball. The one who misses a hit gets dunked.





In the afternoon I visit several parks. The one on the Rock, with the view toward the beaches..





…and toward the water, which on a hazy afternoon blends into the sky so perfectly that it looks like a boat is suspended between the two.





…and I go to the park with the merry-go-round…





…and the one with all those different palm trees.




None of these are grand, but each and every one offers a quiet space. Children playing, yes, but even that is muted, like some distant rumble of happiness. I may miss Sundays in the parks even more than baguettes and fraises des bois and glasses of rose wine, shared with countless others.

Sigh.

So long as I am writing about tourists and visitors from other nations (see previous post), I may as well add that this city has been a favorite destination for Russians for a long time. Like, during the days of Tsars and, subsequently, after the Revolution, for those who felt they should save their necks and live outside their homeland (Russian aristocracy comes to mind).

And so it is not really surprising to come across this, one of the lovliest churches in Nice:





I went there as well, but I am put off by places that forbid cameras and so I spent more time on the outside, admiring the domes and the flowers that grow in the gardens.





In the evening, I eat a good seafood selection (with baby artichokes!) and end with a variety of strawberry treats.





A Belgian group is at the table next to mine. Here for the weekend. How nice. Nice for two days. A Sunday down south. In Europe, it is so easy to forget that travel home requires, for me, many many hours chasing planes and buses and who knows what else. To be endured, because there’s no other way.

Sigh.

I take their picture and so they insist on taking mine. I will include it here, if only because it may be the only time the flash was used on my camera. [And no, I did not betray my man Jason, the hair king back home; all my life, my hair has turned blonde in the summer - it may be the only good thing that befalls those with fine Slavic hair.]