vote

I have this bright, but quiet photo for today:





Greece, you think?

No, it’s Madison: just by the Law School. It’s the only photo I shot today and I offer it without comment on my day. Instead, I want to mention something else.

I went to law school when my oldest daughter was just three weeks old. Halfway through, my youngest one was born. It was tough alright.

But I did not have cancer.

And (to my knowledge) I still do not have cancer.

Kim, whom I met some three of four years ago, does have cancer. And a bunch of kids. And she’s going to law school. And she keeps up a blog that is so honest, so energetic, so well written, that it is one of a handful I check each and every day.

She has been nominated for a scholarship based on the quality of her blog. She is one of a bunch.

Go ahead, check her blog – it’s been on my side bar for years. Then vote for her. Not because she could use a financial boost (even though she could well use a financial boost). Vote for her because she is just a damn good blogger.

Click here to check out her blog and to follow the link to the voting page. And give her your thumbs up. She’s number seven on the list.

Cool. Thanks.

destruction

All month long, the buildings just outside my condo have been crumbling. Rubble and twisted steel. (I face away from it all or else I’d go mad – it is extremely dusty out there.)

My walk home each day from the grocery store (yes, I am of the generation and place of origin where one goes to the grocery store every single day) becomes twice as long if I want to bypass this entire block of new development work.

And more often than not, I take the long way. Destruction is far more depressing to witness than construction. You can quote me on that.

fishing

I don’t fish. I eat meat, I eat fish, I eat, eat, eat. But I don’t want to engage in the act of capture.

This is quite common – a cowardly stance that allows others to do the dirty work for us. I’m not ashamed. I’d let others do a lot of dirty work for me had I the resources for it. Cleaning my house comes to mind.

Still, my fate is that I will sooner be the one cleaning rather than the one cleaned after.

But I will never enjoy catching fish.

And yet, I am mesmerized by others engaged in this activity (see previous post). And so it should come as no surprise that I should also be entranced by places that breed fish to fill lakes and streams so that the likes of you, you, and you can be out there bringing in the catch.

All this to say that I had a couple of hours between classes today and a very very fragile voice, ready to abandon me at a snap. So I needed a break.

I packed my books and headed for my favorite café (it’s outside of Madison, south of the city, just off of Fish Hatchery Road.; if you go there, you’ll recognize its superiority, I’m sure).

I called Ed for a ride and he obliged. He’s cool about being interrupted in the middle of a work day, especially when I tell him my vocal chords need mending.

But on the way to my (close to) Fish Hatchery Road café, he detoured to the (just off) Fish Hatchery Road fish hatchery.

Trout. Bred and raised here, minutes from the Capitol, from the Law School, from the epicenter of all that needs an epicenter in this state. Fish. Half a million of them will make it from here to places where you, the Wisconsin fishing person, will throw out a line. So that it can then be placed on a plate. My plate perhaps. Fresh and honest.

Beautiful, elegant trout.













Life is so weird.

musing

I never post photos taken several days back. Unless there’s a reason to compare and contrast, I stick with whatever comes my way each day. At worst, you get nothing.

But, the day was busy, the week will be busy and I hate to waste a shot that’s barely 24 hours old. I took it on a ride past the lakes yesterday afternoon, at a spot where, not too long ago, I used to idle away minutes watching fishermen (and occasionally women).

Yesterday I watched them again and considered whether, at that moment, I too would rather be fishing.





No, I guess not.


Today, on the other hand...

feeling lost

If you really are not lost, if it is geographically impossible for you to be lost, might you still experience the shudder of feeling lost? Sure. And a cell phone in your hip pocket wont make a lick of difference.

So innocent, I thought. Ed, always on the lookout for interesting hikes, rides or paddles in our region, suggested a kayak trip down Token Creek.

A kayak trip with Ed always means getting the bikes and boats into the truck, leaving the bikes at the takeout point, then driving up to where we put in the boats. You get it, right? We go down the river or stream for several hours, then pull out, bike back to the starting point and bring the truck around for the boats.

I felt rather complacent about it all. I was heavily into kayaking back in Poland. Today we’re to take on wee little Token Creek, flowing into Cherokee Lake which is a sneeze away from Madison proper. What’s the big deal. The review said it’s twisty. I can twist.

We drop off our bikes. As we’re pulling away, Ed asks – did you note the markers to look for? When we’re paddling down the final stretch? I glance back and think – sure – a lamppost, a tree – easy.

We launch our boats. I slide into mine with a splash of water. Nice. I haven’t even left and I’m sitting in two inches of melted ice. Or so it feels.

But the creek is stunningly pretty. It’s narrow, but it’s fed by many springs and in the end, it is said to contribute more water to our Lake Mendota than the well recognized by Madisonians Yahara River.





Still, it’s curvy alright.

The current feels rapid. Tame. A knot and a half, Ed says. Thst's his opinion.

We pass two men sawing off logs.
We cleared it to the rail bridge… beyond that, you’re on your own.

Let me explain, through photos, what it means to go down a creek where timbers have deliberately chosen to fall over the river, rather than, say, to the side of it (yes, death defying photos, taken so that you can feel like you’re on board without ever leaving your computer):









And just as I think – we’re done! It’s wide and free of logs now…









…we go around the bend and there’s a snag:





Lean forward! Ed shouts.
You’re lower in your boat! I cannot.
You want to portage?

No I do not want to portage. I try to back paddle, to take it slowly, but I’m pushed right into the thicket again and again.

Two men, wet and resigned are paddling back up stream.
We give up… they say.

But with Ed, one doesn’t give up.
Famous shrug and on we paddle.

And indeed, we are rewarded. Just a handful of hours later, we float into the beautiful, wide, tree-free Yahara.

Only, we’re in the Cherokee marshes.





Where the hell did we leave our bikes? Cherokee Lake, but...
What markers do you remember?
A lamppost and a tree…





The wind picks up. We’re splashing a lot of water into the boats. The coast looks rural. I don’t remember rural. I remember a suburb with a lamppost. Did we miss a turn off somewhere? Neither of us studied the map with much care. I mean, if we keep on going, eventually we’ll wind up at the UW Memorial Union, but that’s an awful long trek and the sun is pretty low.

The feeling of being lost without really being lost. Images of possible outcomes: landing in darkness somewhere. Walking for miles along the coast in search of bikes. Asking strangers for a lift. Not eating dinner til after midnight.





But the good thing about feeling lost and not being really lost is that eventually you find it: a strip of land, a row of houses, a lamppost (I exaggerate here; I never did spot the lamppost). Happiness is knowing that all you need to do is ignore the wind, paddle like crazy, and soon you’ll have the luxury of land.





On our bikes now. Load the truck. And drive into town for dinner. Don’t forget about dinner (see previous post).

recovering

...from losing my voice (that was Thursday). From reclaiming it in a heated debate over the virtues of Supreme Court justices (that was last night). From biking at night, in a drizzle, with a broken head beam (last night again). And therefore from losing my vocal capabilities again (this morning).

And recovering from being lost on a river. (How can one possibly get lost on a river? Ed and I can do it. Easy. Read about it. Tomorrow.)

Finally, from not celebrating Ed’s birthday (today).

It’s been a full day. But nothing that a steaming bowl of fish soup could not cure. (At El Pescador on East Wash. Delicious.)

wisconsin vignette

Come out to the country. I’ll buy you a cappuccino and we’ll get some honeycrisps.

Them’s enticing words.

First, because my favorite place right now to have a cappuccino happens to be outside of the city and second, because honeycrisp apples are the royalty of all apple forms in my mind.

Still, it’s cold. I’m cold. I have a cold.

I’ll treat.

There you have it. My cup runneth over.

May I suggest you head down to Eplegaarden sometime before the end of November? They’ll have honeycrisps until then. They love it when you pick your own. They’ll chat you up some and shake your hand if you’re the friendly type.

And, well, it’s just so Wisconsin around their place. Ten minutes out of Madison and you’re there.

And say hi to Vern for me (Betty’ll be too busy selling apples). Tell him you got the tip to drive/bike out there from that Polish woman, Nina and her NYC-born (occasional traveling) companion Ed. Who can never get enough cider, apples and local county gossip.

poem

Sometimes I am moved to contemplate the world in poetic terms. Within me. Phrases appear, suddenly, athen (thank God) disappear in a flash.

I really cannot write poetry. Not even haiku. Every poetic thought I ever had looks extraordinarily stupid on paper.

I think it’s because of my upbringing (that’s the excuse, anyway). I left the States to return to Poland when I was 13. We were only beginning to read serious poets in New York and pfft! – I left it all and began the process of deciphering the Polish greats.

You might say my talent for creating verse, in either language, got dumped somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, during one crossing or another.

Reading poems – I go through phases. I remember a Neruda phase. Everything was a Neruda poem. Avocados, lemons, all of it. Man, Neruda wrote about that too! Or Oliver. Such sweet images of nature. And Szymborska, of course. In translation, of all things.

But returning to my first thought here – I do think in poetic phrases in moments of great wonder. For example, looking up at the sky over the fields just outside of Madison this afternoon, I thought – this is it! A poetic moment! Come and gone.

Only the photo remains.

opposites

What’s the opposite of a view from Bascom Mall on campus toward the Capitol (I post this view quite often, because it’s pretty and it’s just outside my office)? Maybe a view from the top of the Capitol toward Bascom Mall?




I was giving my Capitol Square seminar today (a once a semester affair) and I seemed to have hit on 1. A morning with a beautiful sky, 2. The downtown Wednesday Farmers Market,





...and 3. A day of protest – by those who are angry at taxation in general (I don’t know how else to describe them) and, on the opposite end – those who are angry at Wisconsin lawmakers for causing the stalemate in budget deliberation, thereby making us the last state in the union to approve a state budget for the year. I would say their (this second group's) anger also extends toward the first group of angry people. I can also admit that my allegiance is completely with the second group.





I took a few photos of all three hits, though not many. (Here, one more photo of the Market, in context:)





My mind was elsewhere. On work in part, and also on the concept of opposites – whether they indeed attract or push away the other.

fog

By seven, I’m done. I put away lecture notes and look outside. Not light yet. When does the sun rise on a foggy, late October morning?

Outside, the workmen are at it. Cars throw beams of light, passing quickly. Madison goes to work early.





I don’t want to go to my office just yet. I head toward Picnic Point for a walk on this wet day. How do you photograph fog and a vague feel of drizzle?

The lakes are dusty gray. Everything about this strip of park space is muted, colorless. Understandably.





Ducks move across the water. Great numbers of them. Passing each other, searching for something. What?




Dripping moss, dark branches. Where am I? Madison, right?





A boat. A faint presence of color. It spins in a circle. Nobody's on board. A duck swims by.





Gray portends November days. Once the chill sets in, we’ll be there. For now, the cloud cover is protective. It's not really cold. Only wet. And gray.

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.