the Fourth

At the Saturday market, I overheard one of the vendors say – when I was a kid, Fourth of July meant decorating my bike with red white and blue streamers and then riding it in a kid parade. And fireworks, of course. We had to have those.

So, I guess not much has changed.

On Sunday morning, the neighborhood kids decorated their bikes and rode them to the park up the street for a parade...









...and last night, I watched from the rooftop of my condo the Rhythm & Booms fireworks display. Six miles away, but still lovely to see. To my right, the Capitol. To my left, explosions of color.










In my mind, the Fourth is also a time to acknowledge that we are a nation of people who love to heat up those little coals outdoors. A week ago, when I was chatting to a German expat living in France about a possible future apartment rental there, he said – oh, and we have just the thing for you! I worked at a military base in Germany with Americans, so I know that you all are really into outdoor grilling! We have a grill you can use!

He was shocked and disappointed to learn that we weren’t likely to use one while vacationing in France.

But here, the habit of grilling has somewhat rubbed off on me and we do have a small imitation Weber on the balcony and I intend to put it to firey use tonight. Grilled everything: turkey brats, corn, onion, potatoes, tomatoes, asparagus, peaches...


That’s for tonight. This afternoon, I'm taking a stroll through the park where the Hill Farms Neighborhood Association (I live just at the edge of Hill Farms) has brought together families from our community for a spirited celebration. The men are, of course, grilling.





The kids? They know all about celebrating. Tell them it's an outdoor birthday party for America, and they're happy as anything to fully engage in the event. Today, they came in red, white and blue and as they ran races and had their faces painted an asked for the balloon man to make them an animal, I thought to myself – we’d be a somber lot if we did not have kids running around underfoot reminding us to lighten up. Kids and kegs of beer. And grilled burgers and watermelon.



























Happy Fourth of July to all!

a Saturday

What Ed and I do well when we are home, back in Madison, is grab a day like today – a brilliantly sunny July Saturday and fill it with outdoor treasures. And there are two treasures that this region throws open to anyone.

The first is the Saturday market (for us, it’s almost always the Westside Community Farmers Market – because it’s just across the street and because it offers everything that we could possibly want, with familiar faces and tremendous energy running through it).

I’ve been gone for a whole month of Madison markets and I can see that I’ve returned in time for my favorite part of our growing season – when the cherries and berries are ready, and the greens still dominate, and the flowers are superb. (Perhaps our sunflowers don't serve a commercial purpose, but they do serve a "decorate my table" purpose... even as today, I chose the sweet sweet pea. As I told Ed -- it's the cheapest bunch. And quite possibly the most fragrant.)

















Oh, let's not neglect the tomatoes. They're expensive still, so I am happy that my pot grown plant survived my absence. Though I must admit that my balcony crop doesn't even meet the demands of one dinner. Ed and I consume not a small amount of tomatoes.














The second treasure extends actually beyond just southern Wisconsin. It’s the Ice Age Trail and a longtime Ocean reader will perhaps remember that we have both worked on the trail (Ed much more than I) and have hiked many fragments of it – at least those that are within a short drive from Madison.

Today, we walked the part that’s perhaps one of the closest to the city, yet so bucolic and lovely that you could be transported in your soul to a far far more remote area of the state (at least when the trail cuts away from the nearby roads that forever insult the quiet of the land with a stream of road noises).


















The idea is to walk maybe four, maybe five miles and then to return. (The Ice Age trail doesn’t loop – it continues.)

I should say at this point that I am a complete fan of the Ice Age trail project. The idea of creating a path with the help of communities of willing and sometimes quite passionate volunteers, a trail that eventually becomes one continuous scenic walk through our entire state, is, I think, tremendous. And what’s more, the trail is beautifully done – always with an eye toward the most scenic route, the most carefully positioned bridge or signpost – and, for those of us who get easily lost, it is extremely well marked.

The one issue we had today was with unwelcome companions in three short segments of the trail.

Unwelcome companions are a bother.

I don’t mean this guy – who saw us and came running our way, leading me to shoo him back toward the thicket. (Ed asks – why did you scare him? For God’s sake, Ed, the guy comes running at us – that can’t be good!) No, this woodchuck was in his element and he, ultimately, left us alone.





We had a less favorable reaction to the companions who made their presence known every time the trail spun through the forest.





Yes, the Wisconsin villains, the most obnoxiously persistent mosquitoes. Even though it was windy, even though it was still daylight – they were there in sufficient numbers that when it was time to return and retrace our steps, Ed said – how about if we take the road instead?

And we did. We shunned nature in favor of asphalt and, to add insult, we stopped at a gas station to refill our water bottle (four times, we were that thirsty!) and to buy an ice cream bar (what a deal – 99 cents! – this, predictably, from Ed).

Still, thinking back to the hike along the trail, I can now only really remember the stretches outside the forest – beautiful now, when all the flowers are in full bloom in the gentle way that happens only early on, when summer is fresh and rich with new and lively colors... yellow, purple, white...

over the hills

Yes, it is an early flight out of Barcelona. The kind where you have to set your alarm at an hour that for some, is a few minutes short of  bedtime.

But the flight does offer a provocative view of a sunrise over the port of Barcelona.





Did I mention that Barcelona is a commercial hub? Catalonia is no sleepy backwater place.

But why am I writing now about Catalonia? Once you fly over the Pyrenees, you are out of there!





Heading north. We are going the long way. To Amsterdam. To Minneapolis. To Chicago. And finally, by bus to Madison. No stopovers this time, no, too much in a hurry to get back.

Thirty seven hours after leaving Barcelona, we are home.

And it is a difficult return. Ed’s cat, Larry, died in the weeks when Ed was away. A neighbor found him. Most likely, he was hit by a car. The cat sitter had warned us that Larry was gone, but Larry often wandered off and then returned. Not this time.

Me, I only have paperwork to wade through. But it is a mountainload.

Did I  say mountainload? What’s the weather like in the Pyrenees at the moment? Is someone running down a hillside in the hope of beating a thundershower? Will there be a meal waiting for them that’ll push away the bad scare and replace it with the mellow joy of being safe, in the company of loved ones? With Cava? Will there be Cava?





In one final effort to create a mellow return, we buy a bottle of Cava for supper tonight. Ed comments – you packed twelve bottles of wine from the Languedoc and Spain (and six jars of spices and two jars of dried mushrooms and three tapinades with anchovies, and one bottle of Banyuls vinegar, if you want to be precise, and yes – this all fit in my carryon, which, of course, had to be sent through and no, nothing got damaged, and yes, you are allowed to lug home all the wine you want so long as it’s for personal use and it doesn’t exceed the weight limit)... So why aren’t you opening one of those??

He must be kidding. Never! There are memories in those bottles! Of climbing down and finding a winery instead of Argeles, of finding a rosé at the local grocer’s that is so good it makes your eyes water, of... oh, well, I'm rambling now...

Sigh...

and in the end...

It is the evening of our last day in Europe and we’re eating tapas at Catalana, a very beloved restaurant in Barcelona. We have a tough time choosing dishes. There are some translations provided for just some of the plates, but even in translation, the foods are shrouded in mystery. Andalusian this, Catalan that. I walk up to the front counter where at least some of the dishes are out in the open and I ask the name of one and another. I write down the answers (phonetically), but I really haven't a clue as to what we're about to eat.

Still, we do well, more or less. Out of the seven dishes, we probably would order at least four again were we to come back.

Were we to come back. Well, that’s not such an incredible idea, given that Barcelona remains one of the less expensive ways to enter Europe.

But that’s thinking ahead to another vacation in another year. I’m not there yet. I am still in the thick of this one, even as the hours are trickling away so that only a handful are left.

Then, as we are about to polish off the final plate of food, Ed says something. Four words, a response to some wistful thought I had about vacations, and it is not something that he hasn’t said before, but somehow it comes to his mind at this moment and in that second the vacation ends and the reality of life sets in again. It’s funny how quickly that can happen.

Of course, summer is a gentler reality. For one thing, I like warm days and breakfasts on the balcony. And I’m teaching “only” two classes and they are consecutive and the second one isn’t even in Madison.

Still, there is a mindset of being away from work and being in the thick of work and now I have returned to the latter. (Ed, retired, forever is suspended in the former and so we are different in this way.)

And now as I think about this day, this last day in Spain, in Europe, I think differently about its beginning – on the farm somewhere not too far from the shore in Catalonia, where sunflowers and wheat fields present an exquisite landscape, extending to the Pyrenees in the distance...










...and where old villages look very very old, so old that a road does not just run through them, but meanders in some illogical fashion so that even within a few blocks it is easy to lose your way...





And I think differently about it’s middle, where we mechanically go through the motions of returning everything to its place. We drive the car back to the airport, take the shuttle to the terminal, take the next shuttle to the airport hotel – all this requires a lot of waiting, and this is normal, for travel always means you are going to be waiting for something to move forward or to arrive.





And I think still differently about the early evening in Barcelona.

Ah... Barcelona. Remember her? She is one curvy beauty! She is a handful!





Barcelona is crowded. Ed comments that he hasn’t seen so many people out on the streets even at times of political rallies. An interesting analogy, considering how these streets not too long ago were not without unrest and blood and protest. It's a far far more peaceful scene now.














Barcelona is cosmopolitan and hip. And so damn fashionable! The women -- they stand out, I'm going to say it -- even ahead of their French urban counterparts. No no, don't judge by the photos. The very best flew by me in seconds and thus were beyond the camera's reach.









And, in places, Barcelona is very old.





Very very old. Roman wall and medieval churches old.









But no matter. The young look super cool against the background of the old towers and dark walls.





Ah... Barcelona: too sharp and edgy perhaps for the everyday (tor maybe not?), but sure as hell beautiful for short spurts.

And the food! Oh the food!



can you guess the contents? so delicious!


So that's early evening. And then there is late evening. We're done with the tapas and the Cava. (I miss the tastes of the Mediterranean already!). We take the train back to the industrial area where we’ve returned to the hotel of our previous Barcelonian sojourn. Cheap and convenient for a 6 a.m. departure.

But why wait until then to "leave?" Why not let your heart switch beats and rhythms earlier, so that you can already say to yourself, riding that train back after such a good meal – vacation? No more of that. Now’s the time to get serious. Day is really done. June is over. July began some time at the dinner table.

on the coast

If the Spanish Sierras had skies that changed from deep blue to stormy gray in the course of an hour and then, by evening time, to blue again, the coastal plane of Catalonia remains stable and unchanged. Like Languedoc in France – it invariably offers sunshine. So much so that even I start looking for shade.

The farm where we’re staying has (among other things) chickens strutting around the olive trees and so you know you’re going to have a good breakfast of eggs and cheeses and breads.





And we do.

We have only this one day in the area but a day has many hours and we fill those hours with splendid swimming in the sea, with strolling through Cadaques, and with a tour of Salvador Dali’s uniquely beautiful home in Portlligat.

My comments will be brief as we are anxious to get on with our final day in Spain.

First – on the subject of beaches: it happens that both Ed and I love a brief moment by the water on any day that has good weather and we have had our share of exquisite beach moments on this trip. The Spanish Costa Brava beaches are perhaps slightly more developed than the beaches of Languedoc, but they are equally fantastic in terms of sparkling clear waters and, in the case of the Sant Marti d’Empuries beach where we dallied for a while, they provide a nice shallow stretch, where you can play to your heart’s content. Or, simply stroll and watch the fish swim around your feet.





We swim, we walk, we build sand castles and we people watch. We’re so close to France, but the houses and vegetation too are completely different here. The land seems drier even now, in June. As the morning moves forward, the beach space fills with umbrellas. It's colorful and pretty and very family friendly. We hear Spanish, but also French. Jump the border and swim in the same sea, only with Spanish flavors.





And while I'm comparing the two, I note now that I was wrong to think that toplessness was a French thing. Not only do women shed their tops on the beach, but they push the limits by shedding them in boats and kayaks and while strolling along the water’s edge even in busy bustling towns such as Cadaques. Not to be outdone, I suppose, one older man decides that he, too, needs freedom from clothing. He is developing a deep tan on all parts of his completely naked body. Nobody seems to care much. There are other, better distractions – such as the absolutely delicious swimming in the sea.





In the afternoon we find ourselves driving north along the coast, up through the barren hills of the Parc Natural del Cap de Creus...





We pull off the road and each our packed sandwiches there, on the crest of the hill. The last hill on the horizon marks the border with France.





And now we wind along the scrubby hills with an occasional olive grove on it, down to the tip of the small peninsula -- to the pretty little town of Cadaques.





Here, you can certainly take in the lovely colors of the Mediterranean (and I mean more than just the sea). Like its French neighbor, Collioure, Cadaques also attracted artists throughout the previous century, making me wonder if this is a thing of the past and if we no longer have communities of great artists in the small villages along the Mediterranean. In having developed holiday homes and vacation opportunities for a greater number of people, have we scared away great art, or have we merely pushed those who do great art away from the coastal areas?









Dali, who is from this region, is a national hero of sorts, though perhaps not for everyone, as he had indifferent and therefore questionable politics during the Franco reign.

But forgetting all that, I have to say that his house in Portlligat (a precious small cove just up the road from Cadaques)...





...is now one of the most delightful museum experiences I have had. The house is really a series of fishermen’s homes, joined together to form one carefully orchestrated entirety, where he and his wife lived for most of their years together.





We had to wait a while to enter as they only admit a handful of people at a time, but you hardly call it wasted time. We walked along a coastal path and looked out at the sea and listened to the chatter of gulls.





Back in Portlligat, a small group of friends who, I'm thinking, must live here, or at least hang out for some portion of time, were just finishing a protracted midday meal. Surely this is how it has always been here, in Portlligat?





And now the museum. A quick peek will give you at least a sense of the place, I hope. (The first photo is from his studio. The "canvas" was a work in progress. When his wife died, he stopped work on it and shortly after, moved out of the house.


















By evening time, we make our way back to the wee village of Siurana. With stops along the way. Here, they often look like this: Ed waits, I snap a photo, we drive on until the next such moment.


 


Some scenes are not really worth stopping for, but others are.


 







There is only one café bar and one church in Siurana and I suggest that we sit down for a while and sip a glass of Cava and contemplate life from this quiet table (not much activity here to speak of). Ed doesn't really contemplate life as such, but he does enjoy looking over newspapers that people leave behind in cafe bars.





Dinner is at the farm: salads, rice and egg, a fresh fish and a flan.













And so it ends. (Except for the last day which will be in Barcelona.) Without fanfare, without drama.

Day is done.





(Thanks to all commenters whose notes and words I have loved, even as time again has been too tight to allow for a more personal acknowledgment of your generous and thoughtful reactions.)