markets

Waking up in a new city is better than great. Get going. Explore. Breakfast in a café! Fantastic.

Waking up in my new condo is not significantly different. It’s six! In an hour the market opens. Right across the street. Reason enough to live here.

I go early. Before the official opening at 7.

I take pictures. The sun is just touching the tent tops.


And then I get a scold. Don't take pictures without persmission!

Whose? In anticipation of the perfect shot?

We have a brief exchange, but it is pointless. I never argue much with people who find themselves within range of my camera without wanting to be there, even if I have all the rights under the sun conferred upon me.

But it caused me to consider this: when I was in Nice, a million otherss were there with me. Most everyone eventually made it to the market. 99% took photos. Imagine a vendor shooing away someone with a camera! Can't be done. You'd spend all your time alianating the bulk of your crowd.

On the other hand, take a village in Brittany and you, the photographer, are on thin ice. For instance, don't even try to chase photos of meat vendors. And do not elbow your way past crowds who are buying. Or else.

The market across the street from me here, in Madison, is like Brittany. The market on the Square is like Nice. So I guess I am back in northern France. Only the sun is hot and the people are speaking only English.

(setting up)









(watching)







(selling)

the week of The Move: condo love

Truth is, I love it here. No really, I am blushing inside. I love my switch to this place.

Late last night, I paid the two men (with their truck), gave them one last gulp of organic raspberry juice (they never tasted anything so good, I am told) and went looking for food. The restaurant orbit changes here. The east side is farther. The west side, my home of two years back, I still regard as a smudge on the culinary map of Madison. A Chipotle’s burrito will do. With several glasses of champagne – a gift from my builder.

Everything feels new. The way the light falls on the couch, on the computer. Wow. Stunning. The way the brushed steel hasn’t been touched a million times with olive-oil saturated fingertips. The way the channels don’t match the previous ones, so that Tour de France is no longer on 28 or anywhere else.

Ah, but newness is good.

The carefully configured corner, from which I am now writing.



And, waking up to contemplate the view from my bed for the next months. (This:)




To walk to the grocery stores. To meet neighbors. All that is good.

I unpack slowly, deliberately. I don’t mind discovering deficiencies (four cabinets—no interiors. Oops.). It’s part of moving here: it’s new, the interiors are fresh.

My balcony door is open. I listen to melodies played on a harp. One of my neighbors who teaches harp, moves her instrument outside to practice.



Why would anyone not like it here?
Ed says: the place reminds me of the buildings I so happily moved away from in New York.

Does it?




Okay Ed. Those are your devils.

Me, I don’t feel one way or another about highrise trappings. Indeed, some are sublime.

And I have to smile at the fact that my condo building is considered a highrise on the Madison skyline. It is 12 stories tall.



I take a moment off from unpacking. I walk over to the store, pick up a copy of our local weekly, the Isthmus. An unexpected surprise – a photo I had sent on a lark (one from this day – guess which one?) got a prize. Good sign. My photos are doing okay. I’m doing okay.

And from the rooftop, where neighbors gather each evening, the view is not all that removed from what I left at the loft. So there.




Ah, love.

the week of The Move: …and a truck

Packing, finally. Stacking cardboard boxes. People like me, who have collected cooking paraphernalia all their lives, have a tough time of it. There sure is a lot of stuff. All fragile. I feel like packing none of it.

Moving is a lonely business. And sometimes it feels especially lonely.

I call Ed and convince him that any dating material on the planet would not go out biking when the other was packing, stacking and generally feeling exhausted by life.

Ed comes over, we eat sushi, watch the Tour de France. Up and down, pedals go up and down. I zonk out.

And suddenly it is midnight. I need to be up and packing, I am wishing it to be ten days from now.

At 2:30 at night we drive the pick-up to the condo. A load of fragile stuff that I do not want to box.

It’s Ed’s first visit to the finished condo (and perhaps only second or third visit there at all). He mumbles something about it having entertaining potential and retreats to the balcony.

Yes, I know it -- Ed hates the condo. I try very very hard not to mind.

In the morning, I close the deal. I am a condo owner.

The movers come. Nice guys. I ply them with organic raspberry juice which they tell me is the best on the planet, the best, the best, almost as good as the tip they will be getting from me.

Two men and a truck. Plus one woman and a truck, for I have borrowed Ed’s pick up to take over things that I just do not feel like packing.

It is a long day.

A very long day.

Wish I had slept some.

Truth is, though, I love the small little condo. It is mine not only because it is mine, but because it has just me fumbling all over it. So that it bears my mistakes. My shortcomings.

Two men and a truck. Me and a truck. Out of the loft. Into my new space.

the week of The Move: the last supper

Wednesday take out. Pots are packed. No food in the fridge. I go to Edo’s on Park – sushi. I want sushi for my last meal in my downtown life, even though the NYT beat up on us, the undiscerning sushi eaters, just a few days ago.

But I take the NYT admonition seriously. I sit at the bar and watch the cooks, so that they can engage me, tell me about the fish they have available for the day… Okay, none of this “engagement” happens. But I sit and watch, even though I know the sushi will be the same, whether I watch or not.





Back at the loft. Pack and run. Soon. Not yet

I can’t remember now the last night in the family home (from where I moved two years ago). Did I sleep? Did I look out at my perennial beds one last time? And wish that the new owners would take them to heart?

How did I leave? In the morning? Happy to be done with packing? Terrified that none of the move would proceed smoothly?

And now? Why would I miss an apartment that was mine for two years only?

What will I miss most? Sometimes I think it is the closeness to the water. I never put a single toe into the lakes downtown, but I watched these peaceful bodies of water frame the gracious capitol of ours and always, the sight would make me smile.





But truthfully, that’s not it. I’ll miss the feeling of hope.

I called my Chicago friend and asked – how is it that I managed to get it all here, to the loft, two years ago? I feel so overwhelmed now…

He reminded me: you were so excited, so enthused then.

I was so excited, so enthused then. I’m not any of that now.

Everyone has an image and a reality. The most productive people, the most creative ones never let the latter catch up. I’m thinking that they live in the image. And perhaps in time, that image takes more and more characteristics of the every day, so that it is a blur, so that it all becomes indistinguishable.

I got so carried away by an image and then it became a bust: it’s not possible. Not any of it. So it’s back to the grindstone.

I’ll miss the loft because it was so removed from past mishaps. A lofty loft. Where friends were best friends. And life was to be reinvented. And then, I proceeded to live in the way that one lives: by falling into more mishaps.

But, the capitol dome was always visible. I’ll miss it.

the week of The Move: fifteenth

I suppose this isn’t huge by American standards: my fifteenth move, big deal. I have friends my age in Poland who have only moved twice in their lives: out of their family home to a small place of their own and then, when they felt more prosperous, what with a market economy and the spirit of capitalism, to a second place, bigger and better than the first. That’s it.

My moves resemble a board game – from one state of being to the next: up the ladder, down again, up up and then plunge. And now, settling into a space that I regard as up, but within a very tiny enclosure. So that if you take the Edwards’ new home and divide it into 25 little homes, one of them should overlap with the likes of mine. [Of course, there’s more of them, but I do accommodate family reunions, at which time we are almost equal in number. But for the live-in help. I haven’t live-out help, let alone a parlor maid or whatever else it is that the wealthy find indispensable.]

In travel, I love packing to go and hate unpacking on the return. In moving, I hate packing and am okay with opening boxes and hiding things in closets.

This is why once more, instead of attending to the packing, I placed myself on my condo balcony, where I built an blue tiled table that doesn’t really match with much of anything else there and I stuffed two more Italian clay pots with even more perennials (shhhh!!!). I swept the spilled dirt down below, appreciating the fact that I am on one of the lower floors (aka cheaper units) and so I cannot offend anyone with my showers of dirt.





Oh! And let me explain to those in the dark about condo life. We condo inhabitants, we do not have apartment numbers. That’s for lesser mortals. I learned this the hard way: every time I filled out change of address form, the system bounced back my address as not “apt. 308” but “unit 308.” We live in units. And yes, there is an omnipotent master of the condo universe who looks after things of this nature and makes sure condo people are well treated by important entities such as the postal service.

And, while I am on the subject of postal services, let me explain the real reason for my move: my soon to be inhabited condo has a concierge. It’s a classy sounding name for what is really a doorman in NY parlance, except for the fact that this dude actually sits the entire morning and opens no doors. But he does accept packages from UPS and postal types and for this I am grateful.

I must pack. To boxes now. Tour de France, keep me company. Thank you.

the week of The Move, cont'd

Two years ago, I did it: I went through a move to top all moves and I was as tough as both the Two Men and their Truck, and then some.

I was a bulldozer. I forged ahead and made decisions left and right and within days of the move I had a housewarming event and it was all so… without contemplation.

This time, I have more space and time to consider what I am doing.

Ed asks daily: Why the sad look?

I answer with a sigh. Amazing how many questions you can deflect with a sigh. (And how annoying this is to the person who asks.)

This move should be easy. I downsized hugely two years ago. And today, I drove off with another truckload of STUFF to St Vinnie’s.

So why is it not easy?

It is a move of choice, not of necessity. I have my own self to question and beat up on. It’s as if all the moves of my life, including the grand one, to come here, to the States, are right before me and I am judge and jury to them all: what if I had skipped that one? Stayed there instead? What if? What if?

It may be that this is my last move. It may be that I am to be in a building that has all the geriatric elements of condo life: an elevator, someone to take care of common spaces, so that all you have to do is tend to the life within. You lock your door to your unit and no one will notice the stacks of newspapers and pet food you accumulate until your door is broken down because of the odors seeping into the hallway.

Somehow, I don’t think so. I live with a demon inside that always is looking for a chance to pull me out of my home life and place me back in some little hut in the south of France. Or, more likely, I’ll move some day to a hotel room and become on of those eccentrics who thinks their art cannot survive unless they have their bed turned down each evening and their cigar dish emptied regularly. I don’t smoke, but you get the picture.

Forever displaced. Forever ripped from a community (what community? Where is it – in Poland? New York? Madison?).

It is no wonder that topping my "to do" list each day is the imperative to go out and get even more flowers to plant in my already too crowded patio. (And I haven't even moved yet!) So that I can at least get myself dirty again. You can't question dirt under the fingernails. People who lose themselves in pulling weeds and transplanting strawberries from one spot to another understand that. Working the soil makes you untouchable. Especially to your own self-examination.



All this is not to say that I am oblivious to the absolutely enchanting canvas that is life in and around Madison in the summer. Yes, I pause and I look, every single day. How can I not notice it? Minutes away from either residence -- the old, the new -- the meadow that holds it all together for me.

the week of The Move

It was to be a day of packing. But, I had stacks of work to attend to, and the sun was out, so I sat dutifully all morning long and read the New York Times.

...Occasionally looking at the butterfly that could not get enough of my French sun screen.




In the afternoon, I finally turned my back to the paper that had me in despair [after reading endless tidbits about the state of imported seafood in this country (do not eat it!)] and finally settled down to write class notes (I teach a summer course. Coming up. Yes, I know, all good things, etc etc.).

My work spurt didn’t last. Within a couple of hours, I was in Ed’s pick-up again, zipping down to my favorite plants people this side of the Mississippi – the dedicated growers over at the Flower Factory.


I grew up on that place. It started small, I started small. It expanded, I expanded. It continued to expand... me, I retracted. I left my perennial gardens and moved downtown two years ago. Sadly, I no longer had reason to visit the Flower Factory.

Still, life changes and so do planting potentials. As of Thursday, I am a woman with a balcony. All else is irrelevant. The condo is nowhere near finished. The plumbing isn’t in, the cabinets aren’t built, and yet still, my little patio already looks like a place to write home about. At least to me it looks like that.

And so today I buy more flowers…





…and I skip along through the greenhouses, remembering how each year on Mother’s Day I forced my kids to accompany me here as I spent endless dollars building perennial beds.

I should have taken photos, but I was too busy selecting perennials (Shhh! I know perennials do not belong on a patio – I’ll move them later). I did take one or two, of the plants that are consistently photogenic – the waterlilies.





Oh, and the pond with the fish. That’s always fun to focus on.





I go to the condo in the early evening. I leave the under $1000 truck just outside the overpriced condo and I carry plants up the fancy elevators to the unfinished unit, where I again put things into soil for hours and water it all with the help of toilet bowl water.

By the way, thank you for your words of encouragement, you emailers and commenters. You’re the best. And thank you to the Tour de France, which, each evening, has managed to distract me with its steady routine as 79 men have continued to rotate wheels of bicycles up and down. And up and then down once more. So relaxing to watch.

Really.

dance

When my oldest daughter graduated from the university, the master of her college used, in her commencement speech, the lyrics of the song, “don’t sit it out, dance” as a kind of youthful metaphor for pushing forward. I liked that. Don’t sit on your butt, dance.

Four years later, when my youngest graduated (same master, same college), in her speech, the master again, oh so casually, brought up the lyrics.

And each time, I cried.

But, fact is, sometimes you have to sit it out.

Today, I could have been kayaking down Wisconsin rivers. I could have been sitting on a Pierrerue patio and watching the sun pass over the grapevines. I could have been (oh, how sweetly close it feels now!) at a Mediterranean bay, watching people let loose on a summer day.

None of the above. Instead, I ride my bike out on the Capitol City trail, past my favorite field of dancing black eyed susans (and that is the only dancing you’ll read about today, here on Ocean),




..past fields where the farmers still hoe their land,





… to Ed’s place, where I leave my bike and take over his under $1000 Ford pick-up.

I’m in the Midwest. Driving a pick-up on a warm Satruday afternoon. I’m moving this week and I take pride in the fact that I am moving myself, by myself.

The very first items transferred to my new place? Terra cotta pots. Soil. Flowers.





The unit isn’t actually finished and so I water the newly planted flowers with toilet water, scooped with a Styrofoam packing piece, left over from who knows what.

It’s the 14th. I go back to the loft, fix a dinner with French bread and watch the Tour de France. With rose champagne, gratis Ed. Thank you, Ed.




I’m not dancing this week. Bear with me, okay?

a Midwest summer: the big city

Ed, I need to go to Chicago for a few minutes.

Silence.

Would you like to go with me?

A curious look.

…with your truck?


Bright day. No rain in the forecast to dampen the bowels of the pick-up. We are setting out for Milwaukee, then for the northern suburbs of Chicago.

He asks, reflectively (and belatedly): Why did you buy a piece of furniture in Chicago?
Cheaper there.
How much?
Cheaper.
How much? Less than the cost of the truck you want to use to drive down in?

Probably not. Ed’s truck was purchased for significantly under $1000, as was his car, as was his motorcycle, as was, come to think of it, most everything in his life. Possibly even his residence.


It is a brilliant drive. Ed works on his laptop going there, I work on my laptop coming back.

Driving Ed’s truck is … unique. Envision: truck with woodchips. Because they are everywhere. Inside, outside. Ed uses his truck to spread woodchips around his farm. It is a woodchip carrying case. And now it’s me, Ed and woodchips, heading for Chicago.

I open the door. Woodchips spill in my lap. Moreover, a dozen wasps fly at me. There is a nest in the hinges of the door.

Ed shrugs. If you close the door, they wont bother you.
No. They have to go. Or I don’t go.
You have to put your foot down with people who feel they are at one with wasps.


I drive the truck with a bravado befitting of one who thinks it may be an adventure to get somewhere in a vehicle held together by scotch tape.


And finally, we are in Skokie. Or Northbrook. Or both. Who can figure the suburbs of this sprawling town.

I take the truck back to the loading dock of Dania Furniture (the place where the Russian language is as common as it is east of the Urals). Ed is engrossed in his laptop.




Shouldn’t you help?
Ed leans out and waves a hand at the men at the dock. Thanks, guys! – he tells them.

Dania is a cool place – an ethnographer’s dream station. Accents, languages, phrases thrown back at me -- none of it is Madison. I'm in the sharp, punchy city now.
I ask to use the bathroom. And your friend? - the clerk asks, knowing there is a guy in a truck outside.
No… I answer. Just me.
A piss on the side of the road kind of guy, eh?
Right. Sure. I am in Chicago.

We are done. I turn the truck around and search for the ramp onto the highway. Curiously, I wind up, instead, in the service entrance of the Chicago Botanic gardens. We are in a truck. A battered, under a $1ooo truck. We look like Botanic Gardens service people.

Oh, the flowers! In the late afternoon sun.





We kill time driving along the paved paths reserved for service people, until someone throws us out.

And so we drive back to Madison. The plastic cover flaps against the chair in the rear of the truck. It’s a good sound. I am hauling my own. I am in control. My God, I am, for once, in control of my life!

We stop in Milwaukee for a meal of Indian food, So hard to find good Indian food out here in the Midwest. This strip mall has it – we are grateful.

It’s dark, we’re in the truck again. Almost there now. I can see the dome.





Can I store the loveseat at your farm for now?
Sure! My cats will love it.

I am grateful for the plastic cover over the piece of furniture. Cats don’t like plastic covers. And if they do, I’m okay with that.

The sky is black now. I’m heading home. The greatest sense of accomplishment comes from executing a task perfectly, completely. Even if it as simple as picking up a chair in Northbrook. Or Skokie. Or wherever.

a Midwest summer: beyond the obvious

Wrapped still in thoughts of status and its role in daily life.

Here’s the thing: when you are biking out here, in the Midwest (as I was today), it is oh so easy to miss the dear. You look to the side and you see a field of spent corn stalks or maybe dry grasses. Brown stuff, you say. No, a dear, I say.

[I'm right, aren't I? There is a dear, isn't there?]

dating material

If you would rather not engage in delineating your status vis-à-vis someone else, you can run into trouble. People and institutions demand it.

Last Saturday, I went to a wedding reception. My occasional traveling companion (there! a status!)...




...agreed to run me up the hill to the Café Soleil where it was being held and I insisted he come in with me. I told him it’s absolutely fine to show up at a wedding hoopla in cut-offs and a free t-shirt with some language on it about a bike club in town.

I introduced him as Ed, even though I know people always wait for more detail there. It doesn’t help that his name is so short. Ed. Would you like to expound a little? Give some background?

I did not provide any. Ed doesn’t have a status. And being status-free is okay by him. By me as well, the only difference being that I believe in internal status delineation (don’t ask) and he does not.


Yesterday morning I taught a seminar at the Dept of Justice. My colleague there watched me hop off the motorbike (thanks for the ride, Ed!) and said: did I see you hop off a motorbike? He knew and I knew that I had done just that and I know that this was his way of asking for more – like, who is it that gave you a ride over? But to say “my occasional traveling companion, Ed” would have sounded odd just before a seminar at the Department of Justice and so I just stuck to an analysis about how one gets helmet hair riding on a motorcycle.

Today I had a brief hospital visit. Not to worry, just one of those things. The most notable bloggable event came actually the night before, when, during the mandatory fast, I flipped on the TV and watched 4 hours straight of the Tour de France. If you’re not allowed to eat, you may as well dull all your other senses.

Checking in at the hospital this morning, I had to name a person who would be taking me home after all was said and done. Earlier, Ed had willingly zipped me over, waved a cheerful hand and went back to work. (He is such a good sport about these things, if a bit unsentimental.) I had gotten him to promise to zip right back and pick me up at the tail end and so I answered: Ed. Question, fired at me: And what is his status?

This was a natural question, but what could I say – Ed doesn’t have a status. To mention that he is an occasional travel companion seems all wrong when you’re checking into a hospital. To call him (as I do to his face) “dating material” sounds somehow tentative. You are entrusting a pick-up in the hospital, to someone on a motorbike whom you refer to as dating material?

Still, I do just that. When you are away from home as often as I am, close friends recede from your daily life. They cease to follow your minutia and you theirs. It is peculiar that this happens especially with the proliferation of cheap phone services, but believe me, when you cross the ocean, your phone contacts go dead, except for those who are geeky and know how to work the system so that it costs them virtually negative dollars to call you.

And so rather than calling a friend out of the blue and telling them: hey, I’m back! Want to take me to the hospital? I ask my dating material to do so. And he is happy to oblige. But it raises questions.

The registering nurse and the nurse after her and the one after -- all inquired tactfully who this person was in relation to me, but they got nowhere. No, we do not share a residence. No, not married (not likely ever to go down that road again), not anything. Status free. Dating material.

Like I said, status in this country is everything and people ask. If you’re in a similar pickle, try using the terms dating material and occasional traveling companion. Only you must travel with that person first, or else you’d be lying.



(waking up)

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