rowan & maple

Several days of pure work coming up – I’m warning you!

I took one photo today. Red berries, red leaves.

From my bus stop, waiting to go home.

It struck me as pretty. Nothing more complicated than that. Rowan meets maple.

from New England: color capers

How brilliantly clear! How astonishingly gorgeous! How embarrassing.

No, nothing left.
But, I booked on line and was approved for the smallest size!
We don’t know how it happened, but all we have left for you is the very largest. We’ll give it to you for the same price, of course.
But how will I look driving a Lincoln Town House luxury sedan? In white?
Wave to people. Be proud.
But the gas!
We’ll knock off $20 for the guzzling you’ll do.
But I wont be able to squeeze into tight parking spots!
Where are you heading?
Vermont...

What are you gonna do.

The car takes control. A mind of its own, wired in ways that I do not understand.

We head north west, in search of New England autumn foliage.

Massachusetts is still mostly green. It’s been a warm season. Still, the air is so astonishingly crisp that you needn’t fret about colors. It’s autumn alright.

We cross the Connecticut River…





The road weaves through villages that are hardly tourist draws. They’re just small towns, looking simple and lived-in. In one such place, we drive past a sign that causes us to swing (I use this term generously; one does not “swing” in a Lincoln Town House luxury sedan) around and take another look.

Scribbled on a board: Boston Globe says we have the best Polish food this side of Krakow.





They don’t know who they’re dealing with. I know pierogi. My grandma made fantastic pierogi and I’m not easily fooled by doughy tasteless imitations. We park our white tank and step up to the trailer/diner/best-Polish-food-eatery and order a plateful.

Here, take a look: a diminished portion (the mouth was faster than the camera).





I tell proprietors: best pierogi EVER. (Except for my grandma’s, but then, she’s deceased.)

Next time, try the kapusta! (cabbage stew)





We continue north. Vermont now. And the colors begin to emerge.





We pass maple syrup shacks and general stores and so many white clapboard church spires that you almost want to yawn but for their loveliness. Eventually, we leave the white tank and stroll up and down a main street of a small town in south central Vermont. A café is open and the proprietors have just baked a batch of apple turnovers. We buy one in addition to the maple twist already before us and we munch on these in the late minutes of a perfect afternoon.





It’s time to head back. One more look at the Vermont hills from the ridge of Hogback Mountain and the patches of sunlight moving from one summit to another…




Okay, still another… how can I resist?





…and we wind our way east, through New Hampshire, along route 9, heading… home.

New Hampshire isn’t as colorful here, in the south. Good thing we drove to Vermont.
It's lovely here...
I mean, if you want to see fall colors, you may as well invest the extra time, no?
Look, though, isn't it lovely?

(an hour later)

Did you say southern New Hampshire isn’t as colorful? Look outside!
(a brilliant display of red, yellow, honey brown…)

And look now! They colors are so intense!
You have a point...

I think to myself – maybe it’s the setting sun. Maybe. Still, it’s damn gorgeous now…

Why do you suppose the car indicator says we’re heading north?
I don’t know… This road isn’t on the map you printed out for us…
We’ve been driving for a long time. We should be in Massachusetts… All I see is dense forest.

Where are we??

Apparently heading north, getting awfully close to Canada.

It’s dark before we locate a road that promises to take us back to where we came from.

A star, another, the smell of burning wood, one small town, then finally, a dozen more and eventually, many hours later, we are in Cambridge. Barely in time for dinner.

I give the white tank one final slap on the butt as a parting gesture. It served us well after all. Though I will say we got our share of glares from those behind us. I would have glared too. Pushy white tank. Who the hell drives that kind of a car up north? Who indeed.

The day ends with a pear berry crisp, with ice cream.

from Boston: ocean air

The title of this post may be a little perplexing as I went nowhere near the ocean yesterday. But I’m referring here to this Ocean.

I am asked: do I like Boston? And I answer: I have always liked Boston.

Oh, I hear the arguments: Stiff. Snooty. Expensive. Crazy traffic issues.

But since the first time I set foot here as a kid and even before that, when reading about it, seeing pictures of it, I felt that to the visitor (of European birth), Boston is kind. And indeed, if you ask others who, like me, feel the tug of their native continent, they, too, will tell you they like Boston. (And California, but that’s a separate post.)

There is the North End – that’s an obvious. Italian communities in the States make Italians feel at home. Big deal.

But Boston has, on full display, its history and it’s a history that’s long enough and architectually satisfying, to satisfy even a finicky European who likes to brag that her own country’s past extends over a period of more than 1000 years.





And Boston has good parks. So does New York, of course, but then Europeans do not dislike New York (nor D.C. – for its wide boulevards. Like home!).




And it has people out and about, and good coffee is easy to come by.





And the food? They’ve been cranking out good seafood and creamy desserts since the first boat of immigrants hit the shore and decided it’s time to put a cup of real pastry in an American’s hands. Boston cream pie was born here, was it not? And how about this lemon soufflé tart!




We spent the late afternoon and evening strolling. And that’s the beauty here: you can stroll in this city without being trampled over by the rush of pedestrians trying to get through on narrow sidewalks (eg New York, Lexington Avenue, at rush hour).

The sun is setting, and the sky's a crazy mix of gray, blue, orange and pink. Beautiful place. Manageable too. I’m a fan.





The Tibetan cabbie who later drove us to our eating place had moved here just seven years ago. He felt the same way – easily at home. Though I’m not sure what in Boston reminds him of Tibet. It seems a stretch to me.

from Cambridge: in school

There is much to be seen, much to be experienced on this teasingly Fall-ish day out here, on the coast.

I flew in late last night. Boston was shrouded in fog and drizzle. My flight, for only the fifth time in my life (and I fly a lot) missed the landing and revved up the engines so ferociously to reclaim height that the flight attendant (to be fair, it was only his second week) recoiled.

But leaving the airport, I remembered why Boston feels less cold than, say, Madison. It is sixty now. It was near sixty last night. It was sixty this morning.

I toyed with the idea of completely taking the day off, but chose, instead, to go to school. It is an intense pleasure for me to sit in on a good law class elsewhere and the one I attended was better for my soul than any workshop on teaching could ever be.

And so you wont get photos today of New England foliage or foods, you wont get stories of hikes and explorations. But my morning couldn’t have been more satisfying. Even if I permitted myself only one photo. Of class (or, of the handful who arrived early), where I was again the student.

in transit

So it will be brief. I am in Minneapolis, heading east. It makes no sense, I know. But my travel choices rarely make sense to anyone.

I am listening to a guy making flight arrangements to Beijing and then somewhere south of that, still in China and I'm amazed at how commonplace this is now. You are no one in the business community if you do not have ties in (and occasional trips to) China.

This isn't as random a thought as it seems. Minneapolis is a stopover destination -- more common for those bound for China than, say, for Boston. And not too long ago I remember sitting in this room with a younger daughter -- the one whom I'm visiting this week-end. We were then returning from China. In transit. Waiting for the storms to pass.

There are no storms here today.

I’ll write tomorrow, from Cambridge, MA.

comfort

Suddenly, it’s so cold. I wrap a scarf twice around myself.

I can’t take the time to bike, to walk. Up early. Hearings, meetings, classes. Good, yes, it’s all good, but hey, did anyone notice how cold it is outside?

Ed says: let’s eat pasta. (Actually he first says: let’s eat Mexican, but I haven’t the time to drive to Madison’s newest attempt at south of the border fare.)

Comfort food. I rarely eat it anymore. And it isn’t because I haven’t the need for comfort. Especially when winter is hovering.






At the restaurant, Ed does what he is so good at doing when he is comfortable. He dozes off.





Food, soft light, cold air outside. Who can blame him.

midweek blues (and yellows)

Too much work again. The best I can do is give you two photos of bottles I came across today.

Are you complaining? Do you understand how hard it is to take a photo of anything in and around Whole Foods? Really!








Beyond that – nothing, Oceanwise. I didn’t even bike home by the lake path. I walked home along indifferent, if not repugnant University Avenue.

forest follies

I need to stock up on cider.

[Ed and I joined forces – however you may define those forces – two years ago, at an apple orchard; I mark the passage of time with his annual purchase of cider. Twelve gallons of it: one for each month, I guess.]

Like last year in mid-October, we head for Ski Hi, near Baraboo (so which is it? Ski, as in the sport or as in the celestial heavens?).

And you guessed it: at this time of the year, they’re all about selling apples and apple foods. Including very amazing pies, sky-high with apples.











And cider.

We walk through the orchards – beautiful at this time of the year. Markers of autumn against other markers of autumn.










looking down Ski Hi Road


It’s Sunday morning and it is still warm. Summer weather. Cider and pies are spread out on the back seat of the car (I buy one pie, Ed buys four. The man has an appetite for pie).


Ed has mapped out a hike for us and I just want to put this question out there: how is it that you can get freaked about getting lost when you are hiking within fifty miles of Madison?

Answer: ask Ed to map out a hike for you.

We’ll start cross country, through the forest.

There you have it: bramble and berry canes tearing at your clothes and skin, prickly spurs sticking to your socks: an Ed kind of hike.



Ed, in search of trail




finally, a clearing


Adventuring. He can never have enough of it. I’m fine with that, so long as it ends with a café at the end.

Thinking back, I forget about the branches hitting your face and the rotting logs that crumble as you lean against them for support. But I remember the still gentle colors of a season that can’t quite make up its mind.





We finally get lucky and stumble upon the Ice Age Trail which we take all the way up to Devil’s Lake.









Every Madisonian knows and loves Devil’s Lake, especially on a warm fall day that also happens to be Sunday. I would say that it’s as close as we get to having our own city public space, even if it is some fifty miles away from the Capitol Square. It’s worth the trek. And you can always find a quiet spot for a rest. With a view.





By this time, we have been hiking for many hours. We hadn’t planned on pausing by the lake, but that cool water is just too tempting on a warm day, even if it’s an October warm day.

Ed dives in.

I follow.





There’s still a good number of miles of hiking trails for us. We shake ourselves off, like wet dogs whose skin and fur have been doused with water. And we slog on.

There’s no café at the end of this run. But there’s a car full of cider, and a gorgeous sky, first as seen from on board the Merrimac ferry…





…then over the fields of Wisconsin farmland.





It’s evening now. We pause and watch a woman shucking dry corn. Getting ready for the season. Pumpkins and squash, corn and hay. She smiles for the photo and goes back to her work.




A beautiful day. One gallon down, eleven to go.

oh, Madison

Biking home last night from campus, along the lakefront, I had to tell myself that this is indeed October. I was remembering when, ten years ago, on October 9th it snowed. Yesterday, at dusk, no one was thinking of snow.

morning

It’s warm, it’s lovely, it’s all the things you’d want of a week-end day. And I am inside, at a conference, from morning ‘til dusk.

I could post photos of rows of tables. Of water bottles with the printed labels of the UW Extension Conference Centers. Of serious faces. And a folding table with the usual hot water, decaf and caf jugs.

I wont do that.

Instead, I’ll take you for a quick sunrise run to the Westside Community Market. It’s been a while. And the colors in the morning light were pretty near perfect.



red squash, green squash



hen of the woods




my flower vendors




catching the first rays


Tomorrow is the last day of autumnal warmth and terrifically sticky and soothing sunshine. Not anything and not anyone will keep me inside.

story writers

We’re that. Mercilessly spilling it out.

So there I am, biking to work. The long way. Ten miles plus.

It is the underbelly of autumn now in Madison. Brown rather than red or golden. And really, mostly still green. With a rare burst of color.





I bike and I come across the geese. Always the geese. Fly south already! (I’m much less scary than I appear.)





They stare at me and stay put.





Why is it that none of us can ever leave? We hover, and we land, right back where we started from.

Oh life.

encounter

It's almost dusk. I walk into the field.

What's your name?
Nina...
Nina? Do you live here?
Yes... (why do I say this? Perhaps because today, after a long week, I choose not to be a strict constructionist)
Good! Not many people nearby... Here!




She hands me flowers she had only seconds ago cut down.

For you.
Thank you.

late afternoon

By late in the day, I can't stand it. I leave my office and head toward the bike path.

You can do that in Madison -- hit the trail within minutes of your central digs. Past the lakes...




... with only minor obstacles. [I imagine in the polar regions, people feel about penguins as I feel about geese: too omnipresent to be noted for their beauty; so move out of my path, already!]





Back in April, I blogged about the Hmong farmers, renting land on the periphery of Madison, growing foods, flowers. Now, in early October, the harvest is winding down. Still, the work continues. Squash, green onions, cosmos. Long list. No more bugs now. Just a beautiful day to be outside.









One more look at the wetlands, now in dusk, with the same old geese looking regal now rather than pesty.





A good ride. It's so easy here: the bike is unlatched, the helmet is on and there you have it. So long as the weather holds.