arrival

Milan minutes

People may disagree with me on this, but I find Milan to be a very somber place. Yes, you can argue the beauty of the main square, the rare magnificent church, the frescoes, the fashion, the design, but I just can’t be convinced. To me, Milan has always been a pass through town. The few times that I challenged myself to stay longer and like it, I left thinking – well that failed.

Maybe it’s because Italy spoils you with the biggest concentration of mind-numbingly beautiful cities in the world. Or maybe I have developed a particularly strong aversion to cities that haven't especially cared about planting trees and developing green spaces. I live in Wisconsin, I have come to expect an encounter with nature. I feel cheated otherwise. And here, you have to agree with me – Milan is hopelessly indifferent to nature.





Ed and I have less than an hour to kill in Milan and not wanting to risk missing the bus to Bergamo (Milan’s third airport – dominated by Ryan Air and other discount flights) we decide to waste it walking the blocks around the Stazione Centrale. That kind of a stroll is not going to do the city any favors.

But I’ll say this: where cities fail to provide greenery, people will try to compensate. On balconies, for example.





And in any case, it’s the week before Easter so you’ll find color alright – in the candy shops, at the Sicilian bakery – places that make you smile in spite of it all....














We pick up a few Sicilian pistachio paste cookies and make our way to the airport to catch the late flight out.

We’re heading for Sardinia.

Midnight in Cagliari

It’s the last hour of a long day. Our Ryan Air flight came into Cagliari on time (they play a horn fanfare on the audio system when that happens) and we’re checked in for the night at a nearby hotel (the T – very sleek, very modern, very colorful, and very inexpensive now in the off season).





I am hungry. The town seems closed for the night, but we’re hopeful. We’re in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Surely there is food to be had at this hour. I ask for a local pizza place.

Cross the square, walk for a block and you’ll see it.
Is it good? I ask. I’m willing to walk farther for good.
It’s fine. It’s pizza, the people are nice.

The place is not just hopping, it’s jumping. Animated. Families, groups of young people, groups of older men, couples. All with the dark dark hair of Sardinia.





We eat a seafood antipasto and we each have that wonderful thin crust pizza – mine with Sardinian mushrooms – the one that makes you weep because it is so simple and so good.









I ordere the half liter of the Sardinian white wine (at 4 Euros for the jug, it was meant to be), Ed orders fizzy water. An unopenable bottle of fizzy water.

I call the waiter-owner-boss over and ask for a replacement. He picks up the bottle and looked curiously at it. What’s wrong with it?
He can’t open it, I say. And he’s pretty strong.
The waiter-owner-boss looks at Ed, smiles and gives the bottle one mighty twist. It flies open.

A Sardinian challenge if I ever saw one.





I wont say who won.

Sardinia. One hour, and I’m in love. But love often happens that way, no? One hour, one night and you’re smitten.

I watch the slow awakening of Cagliari from the window of our hotel room. We’ll be leaving this afternoon and heading north. But for now, there is the stillness of a sleeping city to admire. Good morning, so happy to be passing through this week.

eating on the fly

Our taste buds have been getting quite the work out. I’ve hardly been gone a day and really, all I’ve done is eat, sleep and read (in that order of importance).

Travel collapses normal dining hours. We arrive at O’Hare and we snack before boarding. Of course. We’re hungry and it’s free. In flight, we start with a meal and end with a meal. Somehow there should have been a twelve hour night period between dinner and breakfast, but there isn’t and so you make do.

In Paris, waiting for our next connection, we eat breakfast again. It’s free and so we eat a large breakfast. A large second breakfast. And within two hours, the lunch trays are out and we’re eating again.



Charles de Gaulle airport


Of course, there will be food on the plane. It’s a short flight, but Air France does not skimp on food. In the layover in Milan, we’ll likely pause at a café just to pass the time. Over maybe a late lunch or a predinner something.

Thank God for Ryan Air. That’ll be the last leg of our trip (out of Milan). No food there. Not even water. It's been rumored that they are considering charging for bathroom use, so perhaps it’s good to give the taste buds a break. They’ve had ample stimulation. They’ll do well with a two hour rest.



Charles de Gaulle airport

on how my traveling companion, who would never ever ever spend a penny more on travel than he has to, flies business class to Europe

There is irony in the fact that when you try your damnedest to not spend money, you get rewarded. The fact is that neither Ed nor I would ever use dollars or miles on comfortable travel. Oh, sure, I love upgrades when they are offered. For free. But long hours moonlighting will not be frittered on comfort.

On transatlantic flights, upgrades are rarely offered. I haven't had one for years. Us sardines, even those with golden frequent flier marks, points and statuses, will stay packed in the tail of the plane while the business class section stands empty and that’s okay with most airlines. You get what you pay for.

But today, Air France was feeling flush.





Perhaps it’s the airline’s jubilation at having just narrowly averted a strike this week. Perhaps, as Ed tells it, the clerk at the counter found him a formidable presence (must be the jeans: for once he agreed to leave the Farm and Fleet pair at home). I’ll never know the true reason for today's nod to my unwavering loyalty, but the clerk asked me if I, along with my partner (blessedly, neither of us corrected her on that one) would consider a free upgrade. As a favor to the airline.

Oh Air France, I take back all the bad thoughts I had about your sometimes stern crew of attendants. I’ll stay loyal, really I will. For that leg room alone, Ed (who is 6’4”) thanks you as well.

counting

If I am allowed 15 kilos to send through (33 lbs), and 10 kilos (22 lbs) to carry on, and he’s allowed only 10 Kilos to carry on (being the frugal person that he is), and if my little suitcase weighs 10 pounds and my laptop is 4 and his is 7, but my cameras, at 3+, more than make up the difference, and if my clothes weigh 6 and his weigh 5 (I know, I know, but he’s just not that fussy about how he looks), but if, in addition, a carryon cannot exceed a width of 20 cms, then what exactly can I take, and how many bottles of wine can I bring back?

These calculations have pushed me on and off the scale all day long, with a tape measure and a calculator nearby.

If you have ever flown the discount airline, RyanAir, you’ll understand. Their flights are so cheap... unless you step off the straight and defined. You want to sit next to your traveling companion? It’ll cost you! You have a duffle bag that’s more than 8 inches wide? Oh, now you’ve just doubled your airfare! And so on.

Ed is, of course, tickled at having to travel ultralight. I’m okay with light on the way there, but less than okay with knowing that one bottle of wine weighs 3 pounds. How will that affect the flight back?

But numbers are just that and the more significant calculation is, I think, about minutes: how many minutes does it take for a bus to... alright, I’ll not review these travel details now.

Tomorrow Ed and I are crossing the ocean and making many complicated connections. At the end of it all, by Monday night, we should be almost there. Where I have long wanted to go.

I’ll write as we navigate the complicated but thrilling for me trip. Spring break. Yes, break.

Finally.

the rush

Even Ed admired my work habits today. In the final push forward with tasks, I did not just work – I flew through everything with demonic speed. As if a life was at stake.

And maybe it is: my life. The one with balance, where I can take time away. Valuable time. Spring break time.

For me, spring break begins Sunday. Today I am still speeding, hoping to build a cache of spare hours that will let me, just for a few moments, slow down.

spring, continued

Let’s continue the seasonal theme.

How about this caption: I have my love to keep me warm, as applied to this terribly under-dressed couple (I was wearing a coat and I was cold):




[Notes from a run down the hill for a quick espresso before my afternoon class.]

spinach days

I admit it – I’ll miss my cold, gray, biweekly walks home. The long way. Our CSA winter spinach deliveries will end soon and so will the need to walk over to the pickup spot and after, because there is no good bus connection, to walk home.

It’s a dreary walk. The camera hangs around my neck, but I am rarely tempted to use it. Oh fine, today, for the emerging colors of spring...





And sure, when I rest the spinach on a bench outside the pickup spot (we all received a gift: a dozen eggs – so beautifully brown that I’m planning the rest of the week’s menu around them!)...





But otherwise – no.

The walk is a transition thing: you can really loosen up around the edges if you keep the pace brisk.

Today I need more than the four miles and so I stray toward Hoyt Park – oh, add another mile or two. It would be tough to call it a pretty place now, in March, but to me, it has its gray calm.





Mainly, I need the extra miles. No, not airline miles, not today, but walking miles. Even if they’re almost colorless.


Approaching home, I notice the flowers again. I’m hanging in there. Spring break comes this week-end.




On my window sill, there is this bird and he just will not leave.

words

I trot down the hill to get an espresso before my afternoon class. Perhaps trot is the wrong word. This young woman trots.





By comparison, I saunter at a slow pace.

On the way back up the hill, I am even slower. Smelling the roses, so to speak. And I hear this conversation behind me. Two young men, discussing a love interest of one of them. She is, you know, just a very nice person. Really nice. The kind that you meet and say – I have dibs on her. And then they move on to a retelling of an incident in class where a professor asked for some ungodly amount of work from the lot of them.

I think to myself that I have never heard a relational matter summarized so quickly and, I suppose, so succinctly.


I'm remembering a conversation with my occasional traveling pal. He'd been telling me about an exchange he had had with a friend, concerning travels with, well, his traveling companion. After a few brief sentences, he paused. That’s it? That’s all you said? – I asked. What else more is there to say? – he countered, genuinely puzzled.


In the evening, I walk up to the Capitol Square, where I play with my camera and windowpane  reflections and all the usual nonsense that seems so fun when you’re doing it but utterly silly in retrospect.




Isn't that so often the case with reflections...


The day ends well. I feast in ways that I rarely feast these days.





And as I am with friends whom I see too rarely, I give a summary of my most recent thoughts on travel and traveling buddies, and I do this sparingly and succinctly (I think). I can almost hear someone asking – that’s it? Is that all you can say about it? And I have to admit that the answer would be yes.

Sometimes, you don’t have to say a lot. Sometimes, you need say very little and still it is brilliantly clear what it is that you’ve just said. Sometimes.

train

First thing each morning I check airfares. There’s an early summer trip looming, but the fares have stubbornly not budged from levels beyond what I would call reasonable. Ed’s tolerance is even lower. I shut down the various search engines and walk away without a booking.

What if we use miles? He asks. No, not for this. The taxes are so high that you feel scraped from all sides – goodbye miles, good bye savings.

What if we go this way... we trail off in speculative analysis of how to get from point A (somewhere in the Midwest) to point B (somewhere across the ocean) spending as little as possible.

So many combinations, so many frustrations. I give up yet again. Work pushes thoughts of fares aside.

But not entirely. The what if train keeps spitting out options and ideas and I click on this website and another, following strategies that some would regard as mildly nutty.

So many early hours of the day have been spent in this way! I sometimes wonder if the $100 saved in the end are worth the sheer effort involved. And of course, I’m now just a little more pressed for time as I dash out to catch the bus to campus.

...A bus that I manage to miss by ten seconds.

And so now it’s back to biking, even as I swear winter is nipping at my neck, just to show that it’s not entirely a done deal.

If I thought the lake would be ice free and balmy, I thought wrong.






Late in the afternoon, I push the bike up the hill home. In the condo, I take out the books I need for tomorrow’s classes, but I can’t concentrate. I call my occasional traveling companion. What if we took the cheap flight north, then south... He counters: no, what if we took it north east, then switched airlines...

Okay! I answer.
Just like that...? Okay...?

Yes, let’s just do it!

Let’s think about it.

The train that never stops.

a field of crocuses

A green day. My balcony is stripped clean of last year’s debris. I make way for the plants of spring!

The day is bright and honest. I honestly clean the house and brightly set out for a walk in the Shorewood neighborhood. (Ed and I stroll there when there is no time for an outing.)










Snowdrops, blue drops, fantastic, yes, utterly pretty.

But I’m looking for something else... Crocuses! Yes, I see the flower that first caused me utter delight, fifty years ago, on a springtime mountain slope of Poland.





I saw them then and gasped.

Today, you might conclude I’m more jaded. I’ve lived through 56 springs, I’ve seen my share of crocuses.


And yet, on the Shorewood hills, in the few minutes where I leave books and shops behind and step out to enjoy the brilliance of the day, I am, once more, utterly enthralled!





In the evening, I sit with shop friends at a neighborhood hangout and sip a margarita...





... and think – this is such a momentous day. Such a good day. Such a spring forward to crocuses day!

to spring

First day of spring. That should mean something, even in Wisconsin, no? I love this season that parsimoniously delivers increments of better times!

It’s a season that does not like to commit.

I woke up to this today:




When I was thirteen and in my last year of school in New York (I moved back to Poland after), our end of school year field trip was to Jones Beach. I wore my new two-piece swimsuit. Hardly risqué: the bottom went up all the way to my navel and the top is something I’m sure today’s kids would wear to school on a warm day.

We sang chuck, chuck, bo buck, banana fanna, fo (etc) and in the hot June air we thought we were the coolest in town.

My daughters took their “end of grade school” field trip in June, too. To Noah’s Ark water park. Wisconsin Dells. They sat huddled in their hoodies and sweat pants, not wanting to get wet in the 50 degree weather.


By midday today all snow had melted and I rolled my eyes in the way one does when one wants to appear in control.

Outside, the crocuses were a little droopy. But at least a handful withstood the tough night.





To spring, then! (And all the surprises that come with it.)

game

I’m at the shop, watching wet snow fall on passing cars. Of course, we all knew it would be like this, but still, it warms me not at all to see the bleak wetness outside.

Even this morning, I took a chance on one last ride (in March) to work, taking one last glance at the receding ice on the waters.





One smile for the worker taking down a sign on Union Terrace (so ironic).





One lonely person by the icy water’s edge.





I’m wearing a lighter jacket and pedaling home, I push myself to go faster, trading a windy ride for a more energetic and therefore heat generating workout.


In the late afternoon, the skies look dismally wintry. Ed says – let’s have a game of tennis. Tennis?! We haven’t played since Hatteras, North Carolina. What happened in the ten months since?

I’d forgotten how bad you are at it – he tells me, perhaps to goad me into trying harder. But my mind drifts to thoughts of the long-term. Beyond the semester kind of long-term.

I miss three more volleys and say – let’s go home.

still biking

And in one fell swoosh, the ice broke into jagged slates and sank into the lake’s depth.

That’s what I thought would happen. And each morning, I expect to see an expanse of blue water, and each morning, I see ice slowly recede, but not totally, Not just yet.


Spring break will come late this year. And for me, that’s a good thing. I wake up and I work. And it will be thus for the week ahead, until we all break for the break.

But, even as I bike furiously to work (I had a late start today), I allow myself a pause. Just for a minute, to admire those who are now swimming (they couldn’t have just a few days earlier).





And on the way home, again, I admire those who are swimming.









It's  quite lovely. Swimming, flying, all of it.





How wonderful that for a brief moment this last week, I could pretend that the season has shifted and I could now forevermore bike to work.

In the alternative, I would be stuck in my office, feeling envious of those who were outside. Me, watching the blue shirt against a blue sky and a blue window -- feeling blue all the while.




No. I watched ducks duck and geese fly and muskrats glide. Wisconsin is a good pace to be. When you have a bike. And spring runs ahead of itself. Fleetingly.

late writing

It’s late.

I should never write when it’s late. A night post is always one I rush to reread in the morning because I know it will have been influenced by a late night madness that, upon an early morning glance, appears slightly off the edge. I breathe a sigh of relief if it withstands the scrutiny of predawn hours. I correct a typo or two, and I get on with the day.



The day? Well, I biked again to work and that was fine, brilliant even. I appreciated how much of the lake had melted since yesterday’s photo. Take a look:









But give me a wee bit of credit: it’s still mostly a sheet of ice out there on Mendota, and horefrost on top of frozen waters means that it really looks not unlike the Arctic  (as best as I can imagine that to look).





And note, too, that we are, this week, bedazzled by unseasonably warm temps. Fifties, sixties – wonderful stuff that typically belongs to May.





Yet, don’t be too envious. Fact is that when I ride the bike next to the frozen lake early in the morning, the air is chilly. A touch below freezing. And that’s before the wind strikes my face and gives it a good lashing.
 
You can say this about Madison in spring: mornings are not the same as afternoons. Sleeping time is not the same as waking time. Night posts are not the same as posts written in daylight hours. And yet, it all spins and tumbles, and ultimately you cannot separate one from the other. (Except for this one obvious truth: mornings are colder than afternoons.)

expectations

The switch to spring, no matter how temporary, leaves me discombobulated. A student tells me that the spring semester has been harder because, well, winter is just so tough for people who need to bear down and work.

Except now, suddenly, it is spring!

Am I ready?

Sure, I’m biking to work now. That’s good.





The lake, half solid, but in places, quite liquid.


My noon sprint down Bascom Hill for an espresso is easy. Pleasant even.








[Just curious: what would you do if you spilled half your coffee on your white shirt minutes before going in to class?]

At the same time, the “no excuses” season is suddenly thrust upon us. Don’t sit still. Don’t not make plans. Look hard at what your next six months will be like. Because after that, it’s winter all over again. And the inevitable return to sleepy time.

But now, in March, aren’t I supposed to be leaping forward? Producing at the next level of energy and grand inspiration?


Thank goodness next week promises to be cool again. I'll get my bearings then. Because really, I’m not yet primed for this bout of good weather. I'm still throwing cold water on my face.


Biking home along the lake shore path, I think how transitions are tough. Though not for everyone. I pedal past the rowing house and I notice the team's out and practicing. Not on the lake yet. Something about the fragile ice cover perhaps. But they're ready. Even if it is mid March, they're ready.




Oh, to shake off that coffee soaked shirt (so to speak) and get the muscles working again!

Soon. It just takes me a while to figure out the pulse of the new season.