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Karen's toes and a sunrise, Tunbridge
Did you ever think about your life as existing on different planes? While hustling for a place to live in France and trying to rent my place out in the US, I've been texting people from worlds that will never collide, moving from one to another and then back again. Everyone fully enveloped in their own worlds, all going on at once, me lucky enough to dip into one for a bit, learn or observe something and bring it with me to the next. And then there are all those closer to home, one of which I dove into the other day.
The laptop I ordered the week after Tax Free weekend and in the midst of Back To School for college students was to arrive the other day, sometime before 9pm, requiring a signature. It was a long and boring day at home. At 8pm, an email arrived announcing that my order had been cancelled, a refund would be issued. Upon calling the store, I was told it would be waiting for me (in Framingham) the next day, which frustratingly turned out to not be the case, the woman who had promised it had apparently been in another country and had no authority to grant such relief. Lucas, who was trying to resolve my conundrum, did what he could to track down a different laptop, which because of shortages, turned out to be more figuring out what had happened the prior day and finding that particular order. After an hour that involved talking to many parties at the store in person, on his little mic and walkie talkie, watching videos and checking rosters, it was determined that the delivery person had absconded with said laptop and already had a warrant out for his arrest. Apparently. this is not uncommon, making me grateful for minimal brushes with electronics and deliveries.
But that's not why we're here, rather let's talk about a new favorite place, Tunbridge, Vermont, where Laura's farm/property, which has been in her husband's family for many generations, lies. After weeks of packing and purging, using both remaining neurons to work out sequencing and pacing of the current chaos, it was a gift to sit in the back of an air conditioned car, driven past trees, trees and more trees, with the knowledge that there was nothing to do for the next two days and that my phone had been safely forgotten in Boston.
Town green, South Royalton, VT
The Block, South Royalton, VT
After exiting Route 89 in South Royalton, it's a few miles north to Tunbridge, following alongside the White River and passing a charming General Store founded by said family above, the Tunbridge World's Fair where there was some kind of horse event going on, then a right where the covered bridge went left, a left up a dirt road that we found out the next day at the end of our hot and sweaty walk, is not un-steep. As soon as you make the turn into Laura's, there's a feeling of sanctuary that comes flying at you. A barn and house, a vegetable garden with cosmos and a sunflower big enough to enter the competition at the World's Fair. There are other plots for vegetables, though I didn't wander over because that's where the milk snake hangs out, a pasture with a beautifully mown path taking you to the pond, and layers of hills in the distance. When we arrived, Laura was characteristically in motion, work overalls on with many signs of industry.
Laura being inspiringly Laura
Purple cabbages that really are purple
Out on the porch, which is L shaped and has two Adirondack chairs adjacent to the most delicious swinging couch, there were signs of garlic work, which we happily took up later in the weekend. The thing was to first bang the dirt out of the roots, then cut the roots short, cut the stem and then peel that dirty layer off. It's the kind of thing I'd be happy doing, sitting and looking at that beautiful garden, for days on end. As my first ex used to say, "hands are busy, mind is free"
Pre peeling
Tools for garlic production
Laura can just go and go and go and go. She is famous for cross country skiing a few towns over during a blizzard to have a beer, or biking solo from one end of Vermont to the other. Some of the time we tried to keep up with her, but there were times that the white flag had to go up and a load be taken off. It seems quite clear that she was a farmer in another life as well as this one.
The mom of three boys, she is an incredible host and talented cook, making us blueberry pancakes on our first morning and then what I understand were killer omelets the other. But my favorite was our Saturday night dinner. As a young woman, she had lived in Budapest and continues to hold dear experiences and friends there. So when she said she'd make us goulash, there was no pulling out the Le Creuset and banging it on the stove. Rather a tripod with a large chain and hook with a copper cauldron was set up in the garden, as is done in Eastern Europe, dried wood was chopped and lit, a cutting table was brought outside, then she went to work. That we had a box full of just-picked vegetables from the neighboring farm to dive into was a nice addition, I observed her using a variety of paprikas, among other things, making a most perfect dinner.
Laura and her dinner potion, sublime
Aside from being spoiled, we went for a walk on what started out as a grey day. Soon after our circuit began, the sun came out in a humid and bullying kind of way, but there was nothing to be done but continue on, enjoying the views on the mostly dirt road where we learned to identify calendula, saw sheep hiding from the sun under a trampoline that had been specifically bought for that purpose, admired the Vermont state flag, and learned not to be fooled by the sign that said it was Covered Bridge Month, as it's apparently always there. A stop in the General Store proved a welcome cool down and hydration spot, along with a nice place to browse and for one of us, try a creemee for the first time.
And then it was time for the march back, in my case already with a shirt so sweaty it felt wet. Briefly along a road with no sidewalk, then up the aforementioned steep dirt road. When we were almost back, Laura pointed out her friend Wendy's Tunbridge Hill Farm. It was she who had brought the box of fresh produce for the goulash, and she who Laura had helped by bagging arugula (apparently jamming a little too much into each bag, but she got the hang of it) for the Waitsfield Farmer's Market Wendy sells at every Saturday. We stopped to admire the rows of obscenely healthy vegetables and chatted with Wendy's daughter, who was driving around in her mule, a sort of four wheeled golf cart. The sun beat down, but we dragged along behind Laura as she determinedly marched up the hilly pasture.
Vermont state flag
The ladies, on our walk
A neighboring farm
Wendy's farm
Tunbridge Hill Farm, garlic on a crazy scale
It was only later, after we'd cooled down after our walk and revived our senses of humor that one of us admitted she had been about to mutiny when Laura appeared to head into the woods to show us a tree or something. But we made it back and as Laura and I reached the crest of the hill and entered into the driveway, she breezily asked me if I would help her carry some wood. Outraged, I first replied NO! and then lightened up, following her lead. What did she do after, when I sat in an Adirondack chair, trying to dry off? Zipped up her charmingly steep farmhouse stairs to change into her bathing suit, put her paddle board in the back of her mule and took off for the pond with Jenn and her dog Elliot.
Later, she showed me where last weekend's wedding had been, up a hill through a pasture with mowed paths, chairs facing a most perfect tree. An area had been cleared for dancing and tables built for the pies that everyone in the neighborhood had made. Even though it was a week later, it was easy to see what a gentle, community, joyous even it had been.
And then back to the plane of large Tupperwares and moving furniture. Tunbridge was such a welcomed respite.
Due to logistical challenges I wasn't able to overcome, I'm leaving for France early, on 8/31, so likely won't write again until I'm back in the +33 country code. Happy summer all.
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Untouched photo, parking lot near Bloomingdales 7/15/26
There has been all kinds of freaky shit going on, weatherwise, a deluge just ended, a friend telling me that she had to wade through rivers to get home. And then there was that weird sky, which the Canadians told Donald Trump, was in honor of him, just as the green reflecting pool was in honor of Greenland, and that he should breathe in as much of the orange tribute that he could. It's better now but there's still that COVID smell in things.
World Cup, Wimbledon and then the Tall Ships. It has been a month of excitement swirling in the sometimes vanilla city of Boston.
If it weren't for Marmite, England might not have made it to the semis
I worry that Laura's scapes are going to strangle me at night
When early in my HR career I thought that resting my bare feet on my trash can was a way of make interviewees feel comfortable, I met a woman named Katharine who went on to be hired as the executive assistant to a man who'd regularly nip out for a few sets of tennis at the B&T. I'd met him on an errand to get a check signed in my first week on a summer Friday afternoon. Opening the door to his department, I was greeted by a whirring sound and his strawberry daiquiri stained tongue, which was regularly found hanging out of his mouth.
My boss, who had the habit of taking credit for work I'd done, was not a bad person, just likely dropped on her head as a baby, as we like to say. The first Christmas I reported to her, she gave me an acrylic brown and bright blue argyle sweater, with gold threads running through, three plastic gold buttons on each shoulder. I knew that she was proud of her purchase and took great pains to wear it once, but always wondered what in my regular office attire had inspired such a choice.
Katharine and I became friends, the same age and single, both enamored of a weekly column in the Phoenix about Alice K and Ruth E,, also two single women, one of whom was in the most charming way a tad selfish, while the other a victim of said selfishness. In those early professional years, we may not have respected our bosses, but understood they controlled our future and felt thus constrained, which was in great contrast to a rich life we both craved.
There was a feeling of unbridled freedom when quitting Symphony Hall on a summer evening, intoxicating. We'd walk in a vague direction, between us a tacit understanding that we'd end up where we were pulled. Filenes Basement was often a stop, with much determination to find that right size and color, only to put it back, the hunt being more appealing (and cost effective) than the kill. There were the people we'd recognize on the street who felt like placeholders; the Bikes Not Bombs guy with buttons all over his hat, the homeless guy with the dyed black or orange hair and our favorite, the Irish nun in brown who spoke quickly and poetically, almost in prayer, asking for money at the Downtown Crossing T stop. Boston was a rich and rewarding playground, enveloping us in the theater of life. A pastime it turns out has enriched not only both of our lives, but now those of our kids as well.
Last week we determined a time and place to meet, she coming from her house by the sea, me from my grass tennis courts, with some vague talk of the Tall Ships. We started with coffee and then ambled over to the North End. Finding every restaurant packed, we ended up at an old standby, Antico Forno on Salem Street, where for some reason, we've never had trouble getting a table. After a satisfying late lunch, we found ourselves walking down Hanover towards the water and, just past the Paul Revere monument in front of the Society of St. Joseph's, were distracted by a police car with flashing lights in the middle of the street. After taking in the requisite three plastic chairs outside the Society, filled by OG Italian men with large bellies and shiny dark hair, we saw a huddle of younger men, all with grave faces, taking orders from their elders to properly get the Virgin Mary, adorned with dollar bills, ready to be carried. The red and black attired marching band appeared, providing pomp and ceremony as they walked ten feet to the adjoining society. A bit of waiting ensured with that feeling that something was about to happen, so we joined the small scrum and watched as they then exited the second Society and began a march towards Cross Street. We silently said goodbye and thank you very very much.
I supposed we had both imagined but not articulated battling crowds in Seaport to get a tiny glimpse of a ship. But instead, we wandered to the end of Hanover and found an empty bench in the shade, looking out at the boats parading back and forth around the harbor, right in front of us. We chatted, admired, made inappropriate jokes at which our woke children would blanch. In concert, we got up, ready to walk, admiring spots we'd seen a thousand times, finding some docked Tall Ships. I was most grateful to be able to take photographs of four Chinese women my age who wanted to be captured jumping together in front of a Tall Ship, painfully wanting to ask them for a photo. But no.
After, a wander through the old Financial District, enchanting when empty on a summer afternoon, seagulls doing their thing and shadows making the old buildings look older, worn granite sidewalks that have been there for hundreds of years. We parted at Park Street, where wasted men are still harassing young pretty women, though no longer us.
Streetscape near the courthouse
Feet of a vet
Trying so hard to not take photos without permission. But loved this suburban couple, threatened by the big bad subway.
And yes, sorry again for not asking permission
A ship that is tall, disappointingly built in 1997
Italian men lifting the VM. Worst thing about World Cup is the prevalence of "the hair cut"
We'll always be in our late twenties in spirit
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Early morning reservoir runner
*****I have a new hosting service, Articulation, because Weebly wasn't cutting it. This transition has left me rowing through the cruel and choppy waters of technological adversity. My hope that putting this up on the website is not merely a mirage, but actual dry land. Because of said challenges, this is a very old post.
Carin asked early on in the summer whether I'd be going back to the Reservoir early morning walk ritual, and after thinking about it, thought I probably wouldn't because there was no longer any need to vehemently insert it into a day, not that time is abundant. But it turns out to still be an almost daily draw, an active contemplation rather than any kind of exercise, whether creative time, meditation, or plain old being out in the world. Today, it was creative, writing in my head. And along the way I laughed aloud, making more of a fool of myself than I already had by warming up my otherwise bare arms by keeping them inside my baggy t-shirt.
Back in the late naughties, I had a company called picture life books, dedicated to preserving individual and family stories and their photographs, in coffee table books. One of my clients was a young and beautiful couple from southern California who were both toiling away at what turned out to be a fruitless climb from minor to major celebrities. The book was intended to capture both their family stories and then theirs, so I spent a bit of time interviewing parents and grandparents. There were wonderful stories, including one about a piano transported across half the country on a covered wagon. But my favorite was about an Italian immigrant matriarch who lived in Chicago who incessantly told her descendants to watch out for falling flower pots, which were common on windows and porches. Yes, Ma, they'd say while figuratively rolling their eyes. Well, guess how her life ended? Flowerpot, square on the head, dead as a doornail. So maybe not all phobias are crazy.
Some picture life books, photos by Mary Giordano Brackett
Bozeman has been on my mind lately. It's funny, the time we were battered by hailstones on a hike, the staggering view of snow covered peaks from the CCC lodge, dinners out or beers on that great downtown main street aren't the things that crop up. It's random moments. And images. Nat and I talked about it the other day, texting favorite photos. It is a staggeringly beautiful place. But then it turns out, there are so many in the United States, aren't there?
A strong moment that keeps reappearing is the day we meant to hike but ended up turning around at the trailhead after reading the sign saying only idiots would progress without bear spray. To get there, we walked for some amount of time along a path that was prettily overgrown, strewn with purple and pink wildflowers. We were stomping along, giving resident snakes a heads up that large, scary mammals were coming through and they best get out of the way. In her inimitable way, Nat softened our stress by injecting humor, pronouncing them snahkays, which they will now forever be. I believe she has an even bigger fear of worms, which reminds me of the time that, like a practical joke that went too far, when getting out of the car in Williamstown, there were thousands and thousands (no exaggeration) of dead worms, strewn all over an asphalt parking lot. I worried she would faint.
The David Hockney view, as Nat calls it, just east of downtown Bozeman. One of the images that comes back to visit.
My number one image, the Tetons, south of Bozeman on the way to Jackson, WY
On the sidewalk in Cleveland Circle the other morning, I looked down and twitched, then relaxed, feeling absurd. I sent the photo to Nat with no comment, and she asked me if it was a w*rm, to which I replied "no, it's a stick". But it was only today, walking around the reservoir that I thought about her spelling, so horrified was she that she equated a worm with He Who Will Not be Named. And that's what made me laugh out loud.
A stick, about four inches long
There was much talk on the porch last week about how the Scots visiting for World Cup had injected life into downtown Boston, and right they were, though there were also Norwegians and Moroccans, giving the town, I really can't call it a city, a less provincial atmosphere. In fact it was downright jolly. I took a spin through Quincy Market on my way from one place to another and saw loads of people at the outdoor bars watching footie on big screens. And the Scots really had taken over, they were everywhere. The first photo below was taken without permission, which I felt bad about after and wanted to rectify. I passed up a few posses of Scots, some with drab tartans, others too drunk, but eventually, I found the two lads in the second photograph below. They were delightfully accommodating, mentioning that they felt like Brad Pitt and George Clooney, having been stopped for photos regularly. One offered to have his photo taken with me, which of course I accepted. We chatted a bit, they told me the kilts only came out on special occasions, of which coming to the US to see their team was one. I thanked them and got a "Cheers, love" back.
A friend of mine who is not a big football fan had a birthday the other day. The week prior, her boyfriend (do we call them that at our age? ) said "Ever since you were a five year old girl in West Virginia, I know you've dreamed of seeing England play Ghana, and so I've arranged to make your dream come true, AND on your actual birthday!" She's a good natured lass and laughed.
There are too many teams to root for.....
Tartan and tatoos
Scottish lads and HomeGoods, Downtown Crossing
Third husband? Maybe not
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There are many things I love about being in France. Compared to being in the US, it's a feeling of being on a frontier, every day different and each interaction unpredictable and not infrequently, challenging. Living like this seems to nurture living in the present, reminding me of being at net on a paddle court, ready to get a hard ball from close up nailed at my right hip, impossible to think about anything else. While routines in France began to gel; favorite market stall purchases, familiar walks that can only be described as relaxing, rituals with friends, the feeling of being on alert never waned.
Here in the US, there have been those things that are in the present, but hold history; the hug of a certain person, lunch and familiar conversations with another, the push and pull within a given relationship, forgotten favorite purchases at the grocery store, even a reunion with old clothes. At first, it all made me feel like a visitor going back in time. It was a few weeks later, standing on the deuce court next to Paula, seeing her hit that backhand I've watched for so many years, that the feeling switched to belonging in the present. It was as though a place had been held open for me and all I needed to do was be on that court to access it. And so gratefully, I slipped right back in, and France became abstract. It was surprisingly emotional and reassuring.
In the meantime, in the US present, it's the beauty of small things in every day life. Yesterday I took off with a heavy bag on my right shoulder and a cooler strapped around my neck, looking a bit of a crazy person. I was wearing cutoffs that had been Philip's 501 Levis many years ago, the back right pocket showing a very worn imprint of his wallet, along with a Lacoste shirt handed down from Rob, who wore it when he attended Pingree in 1976. These things and the day, and the luxury of being able to do errands on foot made me very happy, so I decided to stop at Café Fixe, which according to Jenn has the funniest one star comments on Yelp, as the owner is considered a, well I'll use a politer word, demagogue. But they have by far the best coffee, good outdoor seating for people watching and are close by.
When I arrived, there was only one other customer, a man who seemed to be around 30 and had a bit of a glazed look when we made eye contact. He was chatting up the female barista enough that she was enthusiastic about taking my order. Among the conversations I overheard:
Him: I'd like to have 36 wives
Her: Where are you from?
Him: Western Mass
I ordered, smiling complicity with the barista, then went outside, getting into a texting thing with Nat, who sent me a photograph capturing the last day of school in the Netherlands, the traditional backpack hanging on a flag. She asked me to send her a Picture of the Day, so I went back inside attired with my bags, asking said glazed looker whom I had decided I wanted to engage for curiosity reasons, whether he'd take my photograph. He stopped and thought, appeared rather awkward and said "You're rather beautiful, but no, sorry, no." and went back to his barista harassment, telling the few more customers who had entered that she had given him a free drink. I turned to another man who had been watching the interaction and asked him to take my photograph, which he did kindly. Back outside, I sent Nat the photo and described the interaction.
So, that's the sort of thing I've been up to. Small, every day interactions that make a life. Or certainly the life of a pensioner, which has both the luxury and burden of time. Shall I tell you about the haricot verts I bought at Amazon, I mean Whole Foods, that I had to throw away as soon as I opened them? Or the lawyer I've had to hire in Malta to get my middle name on my passport? Or my friend who has always worked way too hard and has now quit her job and looks so young and happy? I don't know how the days go by, but I believe that's what most retirees say.
A few of us were playing tennis on the family court at Longwood, which has the ability to hold more chaos than most, and abuts a few umbrellas and chairs. I had texted the foursome early that day to say that I wasn't good in what was anticipated to be high heat that day, warning that I may have to bail. After failing to find a replacement (of course no one else wanted to play either) and not hearing back from anyone, there was an obligation to show up and fortunately, there were five of us. So we took turns, otherwise staying under the umbrella, until one wandered off without telling us (we're getting to that age). She did eventually come back but then one person had to leave. As the others aren't stingy with words, I proclaimed that instead of jumping into the goss on the changeovers, I'd be under the umbrella, buying me all kinds of time. As it's also a foursome that generates a fair amount of laughter, by the time we were done we were in tears with stomach cramps, one actually collapsed on the grass, gasping for air from too much laughter. Sadly my writing isn't adept enough to provide context for the joke in less than 5,000 words.
There have been lots of other lovely games. Once an old paddle friend whom I hadn't seen for years came down from Maine to play with us, bringing news of the northern regions, others we'd befriended at tournaments in Longmeadow and Newport, along with paddle partner divorces and new marriages in the Tuesday league. There is a lovely bond that remains and I find myself grateful for never having bought in to the "make friends later" mentality.
Last weekend, a few of us went up to friends' house in Sugar Hill, NH, which has become something of a tradition and a favorite summer place. There's a lovely kitchen with an island that has four chairs, three facing the window to the back "garden", which is really a field, where we saw a black bear lumbering. June, who is busier than a one-armed paper hanger (Is that not OK to say now? If so, my apologies. It's an expression we pensioners use) likes to decompress baking, at which she is terrific. Not only is the finished product first rate, but her technique is one of patience, precision, tidiness, intention. It's the most relaxing thing to watch her at work. So, Carin and I sat in our chairs, chins in hands, chatting, watching June and looking out at a White Mountain ridge line. We got the idea that June could have a TV show aimed at helping people relax, though she would talk about things she knows, of which there are many, so there might even be some learning as well.
Later on, or was it earlier? Everything runs together there because life is so relaxing. We went to the Willing Workers sale, a once or twice a year event that has a junk shop upstairs where Carin bought two pieces of Polish pottery for half price, and downstairs in the meeting house main room, an old fashioned craft and bake sale, that was as enchanting, reminiscent of another era. Which is also what one thinks about when we make our regular trip to the Veterans thrift store in Franconia.. In the business of de-accessioning, there were no temptations for this writer, in thanks to Nat, who taught me well. As a toddler, she was the only kid who could go into a toy store and treat it like a museum, never pitching a fit if we didn't buy anything. I'll always be grateful to her for that.
It was an important weekend in Sugar Hill, the Lupine Festival, bringing the total visitor population up from 10 to about 20, or maybe even 30. We took a nice walk, taking in various fields full of them, on a most perfect summer day. Standing in the middle of them, I thought about how the experience might compare with being in the middle of the tulips at Keukenhof in NL. It was peaceful, serene, nature quietly showing off.
We also took a pretty hike on the Coppermine Trail, following an almost overflowing stream which runs over large, flat rock, hardwood trees surrounding it. I love hiking alone, but hiking in a group has the advantage of being like a cocktail party in that through trail hazards and water breaks and photographs, you end up talking to everyone for some bit of time. When we finished, June wanted to stop at the local market, and for some absurd reason, we all got out and traipsed through, buying only one thing. I still laugh imagining the young cashier 's thoughts. "Five old people, one tub or prunes".
Happy summer.
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Not wanting this once-in-a-lifetime experience to be deterred by what is a mostly irrational fear, I walked to a well-traveled spot not too far away and heard a couple talking about a rattle snake, so asked if they had just seen one, to which they described the one they had almost tripped over the night before, offering to show me a video. I thanked them but said it wasn't necessary, I believed them. To reassure me, they explained that these are Prairie Rattlers, or perhaps you’re more familiar with them as Crotalis Viridis Viridis, which are not aggressive Apparently there are over 100,000 visitors to the Badlands every year and only 1 person gets poisoned and half of that (never did figure that math out) is some guy saying “hold my beer” and then showing off. Other reassurances are that they rattle to let you know they’re there and aren't interested in you if you give them a wide berth.
I really did want to do this 3 hour hike which would allow for a more visceral experience of the landscape, and knew that being deterred by this fear would be a bummer and on my way to having a mental health issue, which I'd rather not have. So I told myself I’d just walk out there a few feet, which I did, and then kept going incrementally. I’d by lying if I told you the landscape was beautiful, as it was high alert the whole time, scanning for threats on the ground. But things were going well and I kept hiking in. For a while. But then, laying across the path in front of me was a big fatty. It would be a better story ending if i leapt over it and made it to the peak, but the reality was that I turned and ran back to the parking lot faster than I used to hustle to make the C Line.
Sitting in my car, disappointed and unsated, I doubled back to the visitor center, refreshed my water bottle, sad that I had become a person who just drives through a national park and takes a few photographs. At least I didn't buy a Badlands bookmark or fake coonskin hat.
So I decided to head south to Custer in the Black Hills, a totally different landscape that quite a few had remarked upon, though I found not nearly as pretty as the White or Green Mountains of New England. We are spoiled. The road to Custer passes both Rushmore and Crazy Horse, which I can only think of as strong representations of man’s hubris, so no stops. Instead, a walk around Sylvan Lake in Custer National Park. There were families walking around, kids very excited about a dead fish, swimmers, kayakers and people fishing. Much more my speed, I guess.
When arriving at the Eagles Landing Guest House, guests are welcomed by a young woman, the daughter of a man who loved Custer but died before he could enjoy the house, so she, her sister and their mom carry on the legacy. She took significant trouble to show me around, offering up all manner of generous things that would never be available at chain hotels. Before leaving, she age-profiled me and mentioned that I might like the rocking chair on the porch, with which I had already made secret plans. She put on a Frank Sinatra playlist and left me with my decrepitude. There was nothing to do but take a bath and contemplate it all. When I got back to the porch with Jhumpa Lahiri, I thought to myself, is this where I am? Driving around parks and sitting on porches listening to Frank Sinatra? And is there some kind of delicate balance between accepting aging gracefully and staying somewhat vigilant? Time to get back to me Chris Traeger from Parks and Rec alter ego...
The air smelled of fox as I sat rocking on the porch, and soon three black turkey vultures came into view, congregating on the other side of the road. After watching them for a few minutes, because that’s what people who rock on chairs on porches while listening to Sinatra do, it became clear that one had scored some carrion and was feasting, and the other two wanted in, but every time one of them made a move, primo bird would raise its wings in a threatening way. This went on for at least 20 minutes, maybe half an hour, which got me thinking about being the vulture that was waiting on carrion, a sort of scavenger of scavengers. Where are they in the, pardon the pun, pecking order of vultures? Eventually one of the segundo birds got bored of waiting deferentially and flew off, but the other patiently waited until finally, head vulture had had enough and stopped scaring off the moocher. Moocher had only had a few pecks when a white hunting dog appeared, wondering what the fuss was and why he hadn't been invited. The vultures flew off as the dog rolled on his back in the animal carcass. And that was the end of that show.
Custer National Park is a combination of rocky peaks with pine trees in some areas, and then prairie land and pastures in others. Choosing a hike through the latter, I wandered up and down, nary another soul, taking in breathtaking views of soft hills where bison had grazed, seeing much evidence of them, as well as some tiny wildflowers and all sorts of bird and cricket sounds. There were also many rattles, but I didn’t see any so tunnel visioned and continued on, doing my best not to think about them. Later, driving out of the park, the road was littered with them, coiled up alive on the side, and dead on the road. Ugh.
But also on the road were some sweet and cheeky mules that we weren’t supposed to feed but people were, giving them the appearance of parking lot attendants who were reaching in to drivers side windows to collect fares. They were shedding, with patches of winter coat still on, but the smooth one often showing, making them appear as though they'd just been woken up and had picked up the first wrinkled clothes on the ground. A few miles later, a herd of buffalo stopped a few of our cars as they crossed the road, big ass angry looking animals were some of them, and then plenty of babies too. In the souvenir shops in Custer, many of the T shirts said “Don’t pet the fluffy cows” and there had been warnings on my trail to stay at least 100 yards away from them. In fact a woman had been gored by one and died the day prior. She was trying to get a selfie with the bison. Worth it?
After that, it was a bad burrito and a good banana chocolate chip ice cream in downtown Custer and then back on the road, final leg. I found it mind boggling going from the most serene and unspoiled pasture lands to miles of road rash eyesore and wondered how it sits with locals, it's probably just the way it is. There is a nice downtown to Rapid City, with an excellent coffee place and a restaurant called Kathmandu that uses frozen vegetables and has alligator curry options. There are also statues of every president. If you’re wondering why it’s called Rapid City, I’m sorry to disappoint you but it’s not because residents hurry around (as I had unconsciously imagined), rather because it’s on the Rapid River.
Following up on my download, part of this kind of journey is exhausting, my limbic system needs a rest. But there’s something about the lack of distractions and surfeit of sky and unadulterated land that calms the soul and allows for a clarity not apparent when going about the day to day.
Next trip? Vancouver to Alaska. But not for a while...
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The drive from Minneapolis to Fargo was flat and filled with fields. It's very early spring, as in fields just tilled with not a sign of green. Their color was an eerie mix of black mulch, which I believe is what's called Black Dirt, and the actual dirt, which is something closer to playground sand color. There was something lifeless about it, with not much promise of anything good or interesting growing out of it.
Technical challenges seem to follow me, a nice way of admitting I'm useless at them. Having not used a real camera for a year or so, testing was done prior, batteries were charged and photos taken, no problem. And so in Fargo, a delightful city, I guess it's a city, a 5:30 wakeup to catch morning light produced a rush of hopeful images that the app won't let me transfer from my camera to iCloud. So, there are nary a photo of this sweet place that was welcoming and had a wonderful feel to it. No surprise, but it's easy to tell which towns and cities have universities and which don't. When I explained to the hotel check-in woman that North Dakota was one of the last states on my list of ones to visit, her reply, with a sigh and not looking up was "we get that a lot". It seemed not a good idea to tell her I was surprised how much I liked it.... .But it really is charming and dear with a nice personality. I was grateful for the middle eastern restaurant that was full of Ethiopian people having what looked like some kind of traditional meal.
The drive on a southbound road to Sioux Falls, SD was empty, and there was little on the way, proving exciting when a billboard advertising truck parts or choosing life appeared. There were only a few gas stations on this appx 3 hour drive, one had to be mindful. I started thinking about pioneers a lot, and Thomas Jefferson, and his laying out towns with north/south roads equally distant from each other, as with east/west. According to one of my subjects from picturelife books days, a church and bank was planned every so many miles and then a church, bank, store and hmmm, maybe saloon? every so many miles x 2. The good news is, it's hard to get lost in this part of the world, I'm not sure what the bad news is. Laura Ingalls Wilder came to mind when I saw a brown sign saying that next exit was her house in De Smet, South Dakota. I got off, excited to move some cherished memories from imagination to reality, but it was 50 miles from the exit, so I bailed and got back on the freeway, instantly mad at myself that I didn't have the patience. But in fairness to me, my butt was taking on the shape of the car seat. So, instead I stopped in Brookings, which was a nice little town with a big grain storage facility (all towns seem to have them, I believe someone told me they're usually bought and maintained by a cooperative of farmers) and very pretty and tidy streets, a nice downtown. When ordering an iced coffee, the woman who served me asked if I was from there, I replied in the emphatic negative. She went on anyway, saying she wasn't "from around here" and asking a question about all the flags that had been put out for Memorial Day weekend. I told her I didn't know, and when I asked her where she was from, she told me Watertown, which was the only other "town" I'd passed before Brookings. Funny. how frameworks vary. I thought about that for a long time.
I also thought about a Louise Erdrich book I'd recently read called The Mighty Red. It wasn't so great, I'm not sure I'm a fan of her writing, but I pictured all the things that happened in the book taking place in the places I was passing in South Dakota. I also thought a lot about what a losing battle it is for these farmers who are buying seeds from agribusiness that don't allow them to grow anything else, and require they advertise them at their fields. The farmers also have to pitch in for the grain silos and super-expensive machinery, then be dependent on the vagaries of our changing climate. That's an awful lot of risk they have to carry with not so much reward. It's too bad it isn't shared with those who make the profit.
Sioux Falls does have falls, and while being mesmerized by them, I was surprised to see a fish about a foot and a half long try to jump up them, I mean, there was just no way. So of course I stayed to see if it would try again and it did, but then that was the end of that. Taps for the fish, or at the very least a serious concussion.
The town of Sioux Falls is trying, but there's an air of despair hanging over it. The Main Street is struggling but OK, but I always like to get away from the Main Street to get a better feeling of the town. On my evening walk, I passed mini casinos, bars, liquor stores, really nothing much positive going on. The church had a broken window. I passed the AA group outside smoking and looking none too happy, and then a homeless camp, people fighting with each other and a few drunks wandering around. Sious Falls could maybe had take a Camus' The Stranger defense, it was so hot.
A good thing that came out of stopping there is that I retired early and watched a show with Stanley Tucci in Naples talking to food people about food. One chef had no money when he was young and would make pasta a la vongole running away (I've forgotten how you say it in Italian). He had a wonderfully big pan, about 16 inches across and sides 3 inches high. He threw some olive oil in there, garlic, a hot pepper and some parsley stems, cooked them for a minute. He then added some cherry tomatoes, which he put in a bowl of water and pierced, then squeezed, threw them in and most excitingly, fished out of a nearby bucket, four rather large rocks he'd taken out of the ocean, chosen because they had more seaweed on them. He plopped them in the pan let it cook for a bit, put in some angel hair, then some sea water and did his thing. How clever!
There's always this internal battle between choosing to stop and getting to wherever you're going, which in my case was undefined. This time around, if I chose not to stop, it was because I didn't want to be in the car anymore, versus before, feeling as though I needed to get somewhere. So, after regretting not having gone to De Smet, the following day was filled with good stops (and a lot of driving) but was perfect. Prairie Village is located about 45 minutes north of I-90, and was a beautiful drive through some cultivated fields, but also some prairie, with the beginning hint of hills. There were trees here and there which made it more interesting. The grass was a combination of green or the light brown or white from last season. I was the only one at the village and there was zero supervision, it would have been easy to make off with an anvil or tooth extractor. Over time, these wee buildings have been donated by people within the community, most of Junius, where they were located. There were many "little houses on the prairie" and the books came back to life. What a hard life! While I appreciated being unsupervised and not having an audio tour pushed on me, the buildings are in a state of disrepair, which was sad. In any case, I felt lucky to be able to enjoy it for an hour or so.
Next stop was on the way back to I-90, America's only Corn Palace, which actually is decorated with different color ears of corn, used similarly to broken shards of pottery in a mosaic. There's an auditorium and there were many events that happen there. Yes, I bought a T Shirt.
That part of I-90 was starting to get really beautiful. It's a white road and the land was beginning to have soft hills, undulating, sometimes cultivated but more often prairie, occasionally spotted with trees. As I drove west, the undulations got bigger and the clouds came in, making a beautiful patchwork of colors with the brown of fields, sand colored grasses from last season, winter green, spring green and every now and then some Celtics green. I actually exclaimed out loud to myself. To me, this is some of the most beautiful land anywhere. I can't say enough about the part of South Dakota west of Sioux Falls to Wall. Sadly, it's really hard to take photographs that give an idea of what it's like, especially on an iphone. The next post will be about the Badlands and Custer State Park and there will be some there, but really, they don't do justice.
Wall Drugs is obnoxious, with so many signs littering the otherwise pristine landscape, and upon arriving in Wall, it was clear that really they are the only game in town. Otherwise, it's only little houses with big trucks parked in the driveways. And of course grain silos. But Wall is HQ for the Badlands and so, that''s where you stay. And steak and pancakes are what you eat.
Driving to the Notch Trail in the Badlands, you enter the Federal area and then there's a road that loops through the park. When first entering, it's dramatic prairie, with so many bird sounds, and then all of a sudden, those dramatic and craggy rocks. Imagine those pioneers trotting along the grasslands in their wee wagons, la la la, making progress and then all of a sudden, oh dear, now what? Best guess was they sent the oldest son ahead to sort things out.
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I am learning some things about the best way to travel while understanding prior mistakes, at least for me. Last big road trip, the max driving time was 6 hours per day.,this time it's 4. Last time I did research about prime destination, but didn't stop in between, this time I did research but then forgot to heed it, and stopped in between. So while my takeaway of Milwaukee wasn't bad, just not compelling. It was only a day later that I remembered the Bobblehead Museum! Today I forgot to stop and admire the world's largest ball of twine. So be it, logic goes that if I forgot about it, it must not have been that important.
After Milwaukee, I was marginally concerned about Madison, as from my research, the former seemed a better fit for me. Perhaps it was due to easy maneuvering with the car, a nice hotel location and view, it proved a lovely stop. But more likely, it was the lovely vibe that Wisconsonians provided during that 24 hour stretch. The Capitol, which is a sort of nexus, and close to where I was staying, sits nicely at the top of a hill with grass and flower beds all the way around, accessible from all directions. There are a bunch of restaurants and bars nearby, all with an interesting vibe. Everything is clean and tidy, the roads are wide and not full of cars, and yes there's that famous Saturday Farmer's Market. Well, I don't know if it's the best in the world, it wouldn't be a hard argument to put Union Square above it, but it was huge, very well attended, had a lovely midwestern flair with very high quality produce and flowers, along with more sweet rolls, cheese curds and jerky than you could throw a stick at.
Always enjoying the morning hunt for coffee, I went out at 8 (the market starts at 6:45!) after a workout, intending to go back and shower and then return for the market later, but got immediately sucked in, and was glad I did because later, it was so crowded that everyone had to move as a group, patiently waiting in line to just look at each stall. Most were in groups and so good natured and patient, the vendors were chatty and free with samples, everyone seemed to enjoy the experience. Even impatient I couldn't help but get caught up in the good humor of every kind of person imaginable, including an old man who had a sweatshirt on that said "Eternity is a long time, don't get it wrong"
Asparagus was the vegetable on offer, so I scored a bunch for car snacking, as well as some real baby carrots. The flowers were so beautiful, lupines, iris, daisies, other wild things, everyone had a bouquet, it was hard to keep walking. There were many unfamiliar meat products, either from non-farm animals, or prepared in ways I'd never seen. There were a wide variety of mushrooms, including mushroom coffee, baked cheese in the shape of a pizza crust and beautiful multi-colored eggs. By 11;30, I was ready for lunch and had scoped out a small cart that was selling my sorts of things. He made me a knock your socks of "Moroccan" vegetable medley, it really was one of the best things I've had in a long time. With my to go container, I saw on a Jersey barrier, watching the world go by, when a rather rag tag and ostentatiously dressed band began playing some Midwestern polkas with their brass, along with chants about how bad it was to bust unions.
The University of Wisconsin Madison is nearby, and so I had a quick walk around and was so feeling the Madison vibe that I came close to buying a really nice Champion 80/20 Wisconsin Badgers hoodie, then remembered it had to be carted across the ocean.
Then it was time to be reunited with my enduring friend, I-94, towards Minneapolis. The land in Wisconsin on the east side seemed beaten up to me, I wondered if it was from all the winter weather as Eastern Canada has the same look. But as the car went Northwestwards, the rolling green hills with barns and trees appeared, beautiful, that image that perhaps most of us have of farms in the midwest. Along the way, there was a sign for Cascade Ski Mountain, but when looking around, there was nowhere it could be, flat as the eye can see. There was also an advertisement for bank loans for "leisure and hunting expenses". Within the last 200 miles or so, there were many billboards informing us that babies have a heart beat after 3 weeks and eyes after I've forgotten how long. Strangely, more dead animals on the side of the road than I've never seen. Granted, there are likely lots more wildish animals in Wisconsin and Minnesota, but I must have seen 10 rotting deer carcasses, a small black bear, and multitude of raccoons and a couple of dogs.
When I pulled into Minneapolis, it was big and skyscrapery and dirty and deserted, depressing. My hotel was next to the Target baseball field, which is perplexingly and entertainingly right in the middle of everything, but wasn't in action and isn't the prettiest. Hungry for something, I begrudgingly went out and took a guess on a direction, ending up in the Warehouse district which was clean with those beautiful wide roads, nicely renovated buildings that had become places where wine is served in crystal, scents are made to order and dresses are by Akris. It was great fun wandering around, there was one store called Combine that was like a museum, taking over a vast amount of space, breaking up rooms with different men's and women's collections, along with books, chocolate, jewelry, perfume and in the back, a bar and a barber shop. It was truly beautifully renovated and everything in it was expensive and perfect, reminding me of ABC Carpet in the good old days, After a very long time, I left content, with Aesop grapefruit lotioned hands.
This morning, I again went out to forage for coffee and ended up walking for 20 minutes through a deserted downtown, only to find my destination inside the convention center. So I powered on to a place near Loring Park, an overgrown green space in the middle of some part of the city that I couldn't explain to you. While sipping a cappuccino, I read about significant historical occurrences in Minneapolis. While George Floyd's death wasn't mentioned, the raccoon who climbed 23 floors of the exterior of a downtown building was.
It was a beautiful sunny day as I walked along a path that follows the Mississippi River. There was a feeling, with the very few others around, of owning the city on a holiday weekend, all other residents presumably on a motor boat in one of the 10,000 lakes. My destination was the Mill City Museum, about Minneapolis' flour production, but it was too beautiful to spend much time inside, so I took a few photographs and had more of a wander, seeing every style of building, again, wide streets and the reassurance of midwestern solidity.
On the way to Fargo today, I stopped in St. Cloud, which I'm going to guess is a very religious town because it was as closed down on a Sunday as France. When I got out of my car, the Bible ladies were there, you know, the two people you see with the sandwich board and a black wheelie at pretty much any city in the world. I had my response prepared "Thank you for asking. I'm spiritual but not religious and wouldn't dream of imposing my beliefs on you", The things I think up! They were nothing but warm and friendly, never mentioning the Holy Book. One of my goals for this year is to try to not assume the worst...So far, not doing too well.
On the way in to St. Cloud, I had noticed that there were a lot of Somalis walking about. Wanting some caffeine but not at Starbucks, I ended up at a place called Fabiola Coffee, a very small shop in a strip mall. When I asked about a bathroom, she said it was next door in the mall, which didn't make sense based on how small the building was. But I followed her directions and went in, and there was an alley with small stalls similar to those I'd seen in Morocco, each selling something different. Children were playing ball in the hallway and there was a call to prayer by someone who didn't sound as though he had much energy. I was clearly an interloper and did what I needed to do quickly. throwing the ball to a boy about 10 who lost control of it.
Over and out from the Jasper Hotel in Fargo
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Soo I found myself, after having spilled my miserly guarded fresh French almonds all over my seat neighbor on the plane, chatting her up and learning more about what I should and shouldn't do upon arrival at Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City, MI. That luxury of time proved to be a blessing, allowing me to instead of blasting through Traverse City, stop and have a walk around, chat with a few people and eavesdrop a bit too. Seems like a nice place, right on the lake. It had that feeling of mad primping before the summer hordes arrive.
They drive large and they drive fast on the UP. A country of Suburbans and Dodge Rams pulling all kinds of machinery and adult toys.I wondered if humans feel compelled to fill a vast space with vast cars and houses and plates of food. The roads were all cherry farms, all in bloom, looking much like I envisioned in Tom Lake by Ann Patchett.
Instead of committing to dinner with Liz, I roamed around to a few different places on the lake and took in the vibe. One place, Leland, seemed exactly the same as Falmouth, but on a lake instead of near Buzzards Bay. There was even a T shirt store with the word grape in it. I had meant to also go to Mackinaw Island and Soo Locks, but wasn't feeling it, so headed south to Ludington. I stopped at the kind of hotel that I have now promised myself I won't stay at anymore. It was fine. But.... If you know me, you know that I am far from squeamish, but even I wouldn't take off my socks. It smelled of carpet deodorizer, giving me the Sophie's choice of airing out the room and listening to Harleys driving by, or sleeping in a smelly room Suffice it to say that tonight I'm on the 10th floor of a nice hotel with a king bed and a view of Lake Monoma.
The SS Badger is a National Historic Monument, which sounded cool, but it turns out that the fuel is historic, still running on coal, it was awful to see all that black smoke spewing out and knowing I was supporting it. Inside the ship, there is a museum, a documentary film, oodles of cafes, a gift shop and the biggest hit, Badger Bingo. It's 4 hours across with an hour before as they put the cars in, so people were resourceful and brought games and books, coloring, crosswords. The weather app had told me the crossing would be rough, and remembering that hellish trip from Brindisi to Corfu in the 80s when everyone got drunk first, then sea sick, I popped two dramamine, but then couldn't keep my eyes open, fell asleep drooling on my book, snorted myself awake. Oh well, they're an understanding people.
There was one woman with not a hair out of place who was watching a movie on her iPad while making some kind of paper decorations, she had brought all manner of tools and materials. And then there was the family of four, parents of an adult male and his wife, who sat together and played rumikub right next to me, it was impossible not to listen. They were so very kind to each other and had such a nice time together, as it seems most midwesterners are, comfortable in each other's presence. I wondered if it's only in the major metropolitan areas of the US that people are so stressed and disconnected.
The ferry arrived in Manitowoc WI, and from there it was a coffee stop in Sheboygan, which was sweet. And then not a long drive to Milwaukee, where I intended to spend the night, but felt no compulsion to stay after roaming around the Historic Third Ward and getting the vibe. So it was on to Madison, where there will be what has been called one of the best farmer's markets in the world (hmm, says this skeptical Aix citizen, let's see about that...) tomorrow morning. I love the roads here, they're concrete or cement instead of asphalt. The lighter color is really nice to look at.
I have to learn not to make food assumptions. I ordered yogurt with blueberries and bananas this morning and it was sweetened, and then tonight I ordered black beans, and they were refried, like liquid. Good thing I've got a loaf of sprouted whole wheat, a jar of peanut butter AND a jar of marmite!
Over and out.
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Back there in my other life, on a Tuesday hike, I'm pretty sure it was the one above, Amanda from Wales brought up the subject of past lives, something that has always made me fascinated and a little bit scared, remembering when a ghost kicked Jenn and me out of the upstairs Do Not Enter part of an old mansion. Amanda mentioned a book, Many Masters, Many Lives, which was apparently big in the 90s.
Now Aix has an English language bookstore, which was initially a relief and a delight, but it turns out the books are pink and yellow and teal and have long titles that engender profound feelings of despair. I'm a product of COVID little libraries and the wonders of Brookline Booksmith, both of which put previously unknown books in front of me for me to read. So while Book in Bar (still don't understand that name) will order any book I want, I'd walk in, look around fretfully, be put off by novels that have ice cream or cinnamon toast in the title, and leave unfulfilled only to become dejected on Sundays when the French book market happened and there they were, all these old and interesting looking books that I can't yet quite comprehend.
All this to say that when I heard about Many Masters, Many Lives, instead of trying to find it, I went online and listened to a podcast interviewing the author. A Columbia and Yale educated MD who ran the psychiatry department at a major US hospital, and nonbeliever in anything supernatural, he was the perfect person for me to learn from. Through work with a patient who had many serious problems in her life that he found incurable with traditional psychiatric methods, he fell upon hypnotherapy as a last resort, finding it effective, and a portal to the past lives of his patient. He disabused me of the notion that karma is a sort of just desserts, rather his our souls having a particular thing that needs resolution in each life, the burden of which is carried over to the next if it's not solved in the current.
At the end of the podcast, he mentioned a YouTube video he had posted that allows the listener to do a past life regression meditation. With nary a book around to read and a rainy afternoon, I was all in. I'll tell you that among other things, I went back to being a powerful, cruel Egyptian beatch. The image below is actually of a goddess, which I certainly was not, but she looks the most like the picture I saw. I know, we're all over the map on belief of things like this, as am I, but I went through it and I saw this, clear as day. Doing this gave me a clear understanding of what I need to resolve in this particular life, dovetailing perfectly with the EMDR I had done with a therapist a few years back. Turns out they're not so very different, only the EMDR didn't go back quite as far.
So, that was the headspace with which I passed through ICE border control (they literally didn't even look at my passport) and traipsed back to Kilsyth Road. As I was also literally moving from one life to another, with the only crossover my phone and silver bracelets, I have been doing a lot of thinking about all of these different lives, and don't see the varied ones in this life as particularly different from those I may have lived already. The Egyptian experience and going to Monorpix to pick up dried Febres are both equally distant and abstract. As some of my friends are on the more skeptical side "I don't want to talk about this", I'm doing my best to separate what's in my head and what comes out of my mouth, a lifelong challenge.
Back in this US life, it turns out I have been lucky enough to experience a second cycle of spring (what a great life plan, to follow springs around the world) . There have been so many things that have been delicious. Real, wonderful, warm and long hugs are by far the best. Good coffee! English, ice, kitchen gadgets, the ballet and unbelievable Chinese food, a shower, lots more space and large jars of kimchee. Sports with racquets! Oh I do love being in the flow while playing tennis so very much and yesterday had something close to a religious experience with Jenn on Court 4.
In the spirit of spirits, I decided to head up to Brattleboro for Mother's Day to visit my mom, who had passed away a few years ago, but was the reason I used to take the Wantasquait trail to the peak with a nice view of Brattleboro and on clear days, the southern Vermont ski mountains. The ritual was to take this hike after visiting my mom at the beige but kind nursing home, in order to get the yayas out before driving 2 hours back. One time, at the top, of all the odd things, there were two others who didn't know each other, both of whom were there because they were exhausted dealing with older parents. We were all speechless.
My mother and I were similar in some ways, she certainly gave me the gift of genuinely feeling grateful more than most, for which I'll be eternally grateful. There was also the stiff upper lip. But there are many ways we were different, and she never quite understood that. If I'd express an opinion different from hers or do something that she wouldn't have done, she'd look at me a bit like a odd zoo animal and get uncharacteristically quiet. So, I spent some time on that peak thinking about this and coming to be at peace with it, at the tender age of 65. I know, when will it be done??
Zohar and Gene were behind the counter at Yalla, wearing cowboy hats and listening to Johnny Cash. Zohar said "it's been a while" and "thanks for remembering us". The prices had gone up significantly, bringing them closer to market rate, Star Trek still plays a prime role, though as I didn't go to the bathroom, can't confirm that Captain Kirk with Elvis glasses s still there. Still the best sandwich pretty much anywhere.
Here is a typical day from last week: I had a soft plan to go for a walk in the Arboretum with a friend, but when I was ready to do something and we hadn't yet made a plan, toddled off to the gym and quite naturally pushed myself harder than I might have last year, then after asking myself what I wanted to do next, headed over to the MFA on a grey and drizzly day. I fell upon Divine Color: Hindu Prints from Modern Bengal, which was surprising and wonderful, making me think about how clever it is that there are organizations only there to show us art. I also took in Street Photography, which included a photo taken by a woman who had a Leica camera with a 90 degree angle lens, allowing her to zoom in on people without them knowing, which I've decided isn't fair, even though I used to do it. After, I walked out of the museum not knowing what was next, an urge for a good coffee took over, and it was on to Pavement, where the musicians hang. I enjoyed my cappuccino next to a man writing music, his foot tapping the whole time, rocking the table. On the way there, I had seen myself in the glass and was alarmed to see that it appeared I had diapers on, my pants having lost their shape, so headed to Assembly Square Mall to the J Crew outlet and came out with a lighter wallet but better lines. On the Orange line back, I thought about getting out at Haymarket and going up to get 6 cherrystones for $10, but didn't have any cash, so continued on home, and then went out to do I've forgotten what. So, that is retirement life for me, a fair amount of staring into space and aimless wandering.
So, Kilsyth is going up for rent year round and I'll sort out my next summer living situation at some point in the future If you know anyone who's looking for a very spacious one-bedroom starting September 1st, LMK. And if you or anyone you know is in need of furniture, art books, kitchen equipment, rugs, pictures, linens, pretty much everything that's in my apartment, let me know, I'll need to hold on to most things until the end of summer but am happy to reserve things. I'll be taking nominal donations that will be passed on to Sportsmen's Tennis and Enrichment Center, my favorite charitable mission.
Big adventures later this week, stay tuned.
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I had mentally started a post last week about French culture, specifically at the gym. After arriving early for a stretching class, which is about as appealing as hanging over a swamp full of alligators, I got my mat, put down my towel and claimed a much prized space. As people started to filter in, you would have thought it a cocktail party, with kisses, exclamations, laughter, groups of joy that didn't fit with stretching, at least for me. Of the perhaps 30 people in the room, I was the only one not involved in a conversation with someone else. Had they been doing this class together for years? Were they neighbors? Strangers? Long lost cousins?Couldn't say. And then there's that group of men about my age naturally in the Musculation area. Out of a movie with tidy haircuts and shiny technical gear and clothing that almost always includes weightlifting gloves not acquainted with a dumbbell. They lean on the fly machine like it's a cocktail bar, opining, seemingly oblivious to it being one of the most heavily used pieces of equipment. It matters not. Instead, there might be some nodding or shaking of heads and certainly, that classic French stretched out mouth/pulled down chin that I realize usually implies disagreement, but sometimes a reluctant agreement. It's a beautiful thing to watch it all, and makes time go quickly.
This new pensioner status provides for nice and lovely extra time, the dogs of responsibility no longer nipping at my heels. About a month ago, a hiking buddy told me about a book she'd read that changed the way she parented. Despite my daughter being happy and thriving, there were things this friend mentioned that drew me to the book. It was starkly clear that what the author wrote was right, and new to me, hitting hard and in the gut. It brought to mind missed opportunities to be supportive in certain ways, and ways that have a better insight into what it's like to be a child of ours, of mine. All those judgmental comments in therapy from many years ago echoed loud "When I'm a parent, I would never ....." Ugh. So yeah, heading north before heading west seemed important.
In the apple not falling far from the tree department, after mapping my destination from Schipol to Utrecht, I inadvertently ended up at the same address in Amsterdam. But being flexible folk, Nat and I both pivoted and met there, behind Vondelpark at a sort of brown bar called Craft and Draft. I sat looking out the window waiting for her, and was moved to see her biking by with her blue Ikea bag, just so very Dutch in her cycling casualness.
I have a friend who has a house she's recently renovated but not yet moved into in Utrecht. She is a good friend and I had talked to her about this book I'd read and the regrets I was feeling. While the plan had originally been to stay in Amsterdam in an Airbnb, she offered us her home, which, even though she was in another country, was such a huge hug. Nat was game, and so we had this sanctuary, in a neighborhood so pretty and tidy it looks fake. That her house is something well-suited to an Architectural Digest spread didn't hurt at all, nor did the park across the street so perfectly manicured, yet wild. There was a feeling of grace.
It was the perfect place to talk about experiences, regrets, challenges, misunderstandings, but also goals, how to do better, to move forward. I'm so proud of my daughter, for her unwavering honesty, even in difficult situations, her bravery and clarity. And so, we talked and then we did things.
We wanted to go somewhere new, and while Nat claims that all cities and towns in the Netherlands look alike, I can say with confidence that Delft has white railings on the canal bridges, whereas Utrecht and Amsterdam have black. We happened upon a candle store in Delft, and fell into a lengthy conversation with the owner, who had been a teacher who burned out during COVID, something about which his wife wasn't initially enthused. And no, he said, his mental health didn't improve because he was under such pressure to make things work financially. He brought on his burned out school colleagues and politie, as the police are called, and I had to keep from giggling as I imagined all these exhausted people holding strings, too tired to talk, repeatedly dipping them into melted wax, starting at a wall. A different sort of therapy, perhaps. He was warm, kind and engaging. After taking eons to cheerfully wrap our package, he handed it to us and when we thanked him and said goodbye, he said "goodbye hummers", as apparently we'd been entertaining ourselves by singing along with some song from the 90s, couldn't tell you which. Which reminds me, Nat told about a little boy she babysat for every week who would ask her to play the same song repeatedly, here is the ear worm she gave me and I now give it to you.
As we had already wandered south, why not go further to Rotterdam? Europe's largest port, this geographically challenged writer found out, is inland. We listed favorite train stations, and Rotterdam's was up there for both of us, which when researched, we found was designed by an employee of the railway and not some star architect like Calatrava. After stopping for a beer in the sun, we marched to what is considered the best Szechuan restaurant, SanSan. Rotterdam is much more multi-cultural than other Dutch cities, so we had some hope it might be good. After being knocked over by a wave of Chinese retirees on a bus holiday, we thought we might be on to something. Despite it being a warm spring evening (and being inside), the bus riders all kept their coats and baseball hats on during dinner, and were similar to teenagers on their phones, no one talking. Like a colorful tornado, they whipped through quickly and were gone, leaving in their wake piles of dirty dishes and an overwhelmed staff. I would say that the meal was a B-, Nat said she'd give it another chance.
We also had some time in Amsterdam, playing ugly tennis at Festina in Vondelpark, where we were again reminded there's a 12 year wait to become a member, unless you're the person who is telling you about it who just happened to get in on merit. Beautiful red clay, a wee clubhouse with a thatched roof and perfectly manicured perennial gardens.
So, yes, as a retraitée, as I'll be called in France, there'll be lots of time to think about different things that might never have been able to make it to the front burner. And while it won't always be comfortable, I welcome this digging in and reflection and am obscenely grateful for the daughter who has graced my life. It certainly made for a lovely time in the Netherlands. Wait, I forgot to say, it was sunny. EVERY day!
See you in a few, Boston.