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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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Original art somewhere in Brookline
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.
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.
Barista harasser, but not portrait photographer
Happy day for kids in NL
Not sure it was worth it, but here's documentation. As you can tell, I wasn't going for beauty.
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.
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.
The laughers: Mary, Laura and Deb, all of whom have taught me so much
Laura, Erica, me and Linda from York, Maine
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.
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.
Not the only thing June baked, berry muffins
Should have taken a photograph of the main floor with all the dear women and crafts, but this is what I'm working with.
Veterans Thrift Store
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.
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.
Lupines in the front, beautiful ridge line in the back
There were fields and fields of buttercups as well
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.
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.
Laurent, Chris, June, Carin and me trying to take a selfie that included all of us AND the waterfall (on the left, behind Laurent.,you can see it, right?) which was actually pretty big, bridal veil style. We were laughing at our ineptitude.
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Custer State Park
My ex-sister-in-law was a serious runner, and talked about the rattlers she’d see when up in the hills of Arizona. I kept this knowledge close while driving the Badlands loop road to the Notch Trail, where I intended to hike. The terrain was similar, and sure enough, as soon as I got out of the car, was met with this.
Ayup
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.
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.
Loop road through the rocky part of the Badlands
Snake Alley
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.
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.
Sylvan Lake, Custer National Park
Sylvan Lake
Sylvan Lake
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.
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.
View from the porch of the Old Age Home
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.
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.
View from the prairie hike, Custer National Park
Wildflower, maybe orchids? prairie hike
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?
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?
This one was my favorite, he or she looked sleepy, Custer National Park
That'll be $25
Another old person thing, a driving safari, Custer National Park
Taken from the car window
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.
Downtown Custer, SD
Door of the cafe in the prior photograph
Ice cream shop, Custer
My over and out hotel room on road rash highway, Box Elder, SD
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...
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...
- Published on
A painted train car, Fargo, ND
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 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.
My traditional falafel sandwich, grilled is an inspiration.
Not the kind of pictures I thought I'd see in a restaurant wall in Fargo, but grateful for them
Prairie grasses in my room. It was a room where it would have been nice to stay for a week, to write every day.
The famous wood chipper from Fargo
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.
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.
Brookings, SD
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!
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!
Sioux Falls
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.
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.
I'll spare you a look at the implements
One room cottage, four people lived here
Log cabin built by some Norwegian brothers
This was a church in a train, that went around from place to place, baptizing, marrying and converting all the wild men out here
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.
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.
Exterior, they were replacing the sheaths on the right. We The People is all corn! It actually is pretty impressive.
More ears of corn
I've been reading Roman Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri, and in one of them, a character talks about how quickly moments of happiness pass. It made me think of an observation I may have shared, about the inverse relationship between how long it takes/painful it is to get or achieve something, and then how quickly the victory goes away, no matter how hard I try to keep it in my head and heart. That was the case with reaching Oacama, a destination I've been dreaming of for almost 40 years. Not really the destination itself, more the state of mind of just getting in a car and saying the hell with it and going to this random place. While it wasn't the straight drive down I-90 from Boston which I'd always imagined, t is the same road which was somehow exciting and joyful for a few minutes. I almost didn't stop in Oacama, and really, it's nothing, but I did, and took a bad photograph. I guess someone else might say I checked something off my bucket list. Doesn't really capture it though.
Oacama, SD
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.
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.
Outside Wall Drug
Jackelope
Proverbial and scenic grain silos, Wall SD
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.
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.
This is the prairie part. What you can't see in photographs are the gentle hills
Here are the rocks that draw people. I much preferred the prairie
Both together
There's one more post coming, but as I'm off tomorrow at the crack, I'm in a looking back frame of mind. It's been a great trip. It's tiring figuring out sleeping arrangements every afternoon, but I prefer it to being committed to somewhere that shapes the day. It's also dreary carrying everything into the rooms and then packing it up and putting it back in the car. It's also many days not being around anyone to talk with for any significant amount of time. And I've had more peanut butter and marmite sandwiches with bread I bought in Michigan than I might have chosen. My bottom is misshapen, hopefully not forever. But it's been so worth it to see another corner of this endlessly fascinating and interesting world. I love that I'm sitting on my king sized bed at the Courtyard Marriott in Elder Box, SD, situated in some of the ugliest road rash imaginable, yet the smell of cow shit that permeates so much out here, has found its way inside.
- Published on
Lake Monona, Madison.
Some whimsical stairs that somehow didn't fit with the city, are we calling it a city? I suppose as it's the state capital, we have to.
Loved this throwback, Madison
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.
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.
The external part of the market, the main event circled the Capitol, all the way around.
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.
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.
they were so sweet
Different varieties of these at almost every stall
There were elk horns for sale, all different sizes
Such pretty shapes
Makes me wish I liked eggs
My favorite was the man on the left with legs whiter than his shorts were short
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.
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.
Barber shop in the back,Combine in Minneapolis
Wedding dresses hanging in a window, Minneapolis
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.
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.
Along the Mississippi River footpath, Minneapolis
A building on Fourth Street, Minneapolis
Mill City Museum and old flour mill, Minneapolis
I'm skeptical, downtown Minneapolis
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.
St. Cloud Main Street. Not a soul.
Over and out from the Jasper Hotel in Fargo
Over and out from the Jasper Hotel in Fargo
- Published on
Erica asked why? A fair question. When I saw a Japanese couple gushing over a squirrel in the Public Garden, I realized that medieval villages have become my squirrels. Not that they're rodents or I don't like them, but I've been exposed to them enough that they've got me wanting to see other things. For the last three months or so, wide roads with lots of sky. This trip will mean I've completed visiting all 48 contiguous states. And finally, there's that sign on the Mass Pike, the one that says Second Highest Elevation after Oacama, SD, where I've always wanted to go.
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.
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.
They drive em' big.Lots of Impalas too.
Old movie theater, Traverse City
Cherry blossoms on Front Street, Traverse City
Ludington, MI, probably 8pm
A photo Liz sent me last evening of Lake Michigan from her house. We exchanged numbers and almost had dinner together.
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.
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.
These forget-me-nots took my breath away, Leland MI
Leland, MI
Fishtown, or Leland, MI
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 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.
I lied when I said I'd never sneak a photo again. Check those pretty things out
The Rumikub family. And yes, another one I snuck. Mother and son are the spitting image of each other.
Lakeside Rothko
The S. S. Badger spewing
Floating on the state line and the time zone line
Alway like to slip in a little Wes Anderson
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.
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.
Manitowoc, WI
Sheboygan, which I really liked, it wasn't all old and broken down like this photograph, but this is the one I took
Silly T shirt at the Milwaukee food (hmm, and I guess t-shirt) market
Milwaukee
- Published on
Hiking Crew at Les Calanques, back in April
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.
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.
I tried to find a better image, but all the other ancient Egyptian woman faces are too kind. I was really mean.
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.
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.
Public Gardens were crazy ablaze
Kilsyth Road, did not plant the dogwood blossom
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.
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.
Still a lot of snowmelt on the Wantasquait trail
The number one question I've been asked is not "So, how's your French?" (crawling along would be an apt response), but "So, what do you do all day?" (now that I'm a pensioner on a fixed income) which feels like a trick question. How the heck would I know? For a wandering and curious mind that doesn't appreciate any sort of structure, it's a delicious feeling to wake up, well-rested of course because there are no longer flames of anxiety rising up at 2 am, after realizing that hiring committee meeting was never scheduled. One of my first thoughts lying in bed might be "Hmmm, what do I feel like doing today?"
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.
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.
Current vibe
Bengali print #1
Bengali print #2. There is so much going on here.
Bengali tapestry, knocked my socks off
Just a little Calder, casually displayed
And one more
Got some Sympathy Hall action before the end of the season
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.
- Published on
I rather love the word Musculation, at my gym, WellNess in Aix
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.
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.
Luxury of light and space and beauty
Life in an Architectural Digest spread
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.
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.
Earnest perennials, Utrecht flower market
So much color, Utrecht flower market
Score
Florin, Utrecht
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.
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.
The mean alleys of Delft
Town Hall? in Delft. I've forgotten. It was impressive though
Not a good picture of Seybold van Ravesteyn's Rotterdam train station
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.
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.
Bread Nat made at Farine, the boulangerie where she's doing her internship. Brought some back to the mother country, it was so good.
Here she is at the bio coop
Have to have one classic
Don't know what the movie is about but this makes me want to see it
Lots of preparation for King' Day, a holiday that involves selling your old junk, wearing orange and doing stupid things while drunk.
Dutch orange. I wonder what William would think
Special for Kings Day
Not special for Kings Day, but there's a lot of it about
At the Stedelijk
Super competitive ping pong in the park across from our nest.
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.
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.
- Published on
Ayup
Are you able to claim that you have had to push away the attentions of a French man? (June, you don't count) I thought not. I am able. His three houses and that which he sold on the beach were surely meant as bait, as was an explanation of the kingdom his job oversaw in all of Southern France.And while he tried repeatedly to get my phone number, some well honed diversion tactics kicked in, which should have been more effective given that it was becoming clear my suitor had dementia. Oh, did I not mention that? Nor his ill-fitting dentures? An oversight. But he managed to fish out his card and hand it to me with a lascivious look at my legs, though not nearly as lascivious as the one he gave our poor young waitress with whom he converses every day she works. So, I can effectively get picked up in French, my grammar is improving.
Brita, Tony and I were sitting at the prized corner outside Weibel, one of the most popular stops for decadent pastries and drinks on the tourist trail. It was a Saturday morning next to a full on market, the sun had just crested the building for enough time to cross the alley then again be obscured. There were people and dogs and babies and cars and bikes and trucks going by and we were, studied cafe sitters that we are, content. I did my best to turn my back on Jacques, once he told me that Monsieur Trump would rid America of vermin, and dove into a game that Tony and Brita were playing, which was to choose the person walking by or at a nearby cafe that you would want to spend 30 days with on a deserted island. They both picked the same person, a woman with thick grey hair loosely pulled back, off-beat clothes. They liked that the man she was with wasn't white and thought she looked interesting. I chose a tall and thin man with dark hair and skin, wearing navy blue including a baseball hat. I liked his slightly spacey and entertained look, imagining him laid back and peaceful, with an off kilter way of looking at the world, though my commitment waned when he returned a few minutes later, looking confusedly at his phone. Perhaps it would be me on navigation on the island...
Are you able to claim that you have had to push away the attentions of a French man? (June, you don't count) I thought not. I am able. His three houses and that which he sold on the beach were surely meant as bait, as was an explanation of the kingdom his job oversaw in all of Southern France.And while he tried repeatedly to get my phone number, some well honed diversion tactics kicked in, which should have been more effective given that it was becoming clear my suitor had dementia. Oh, did I not mention that? Nor his ill-fitting dentures? An oversight. But he managed to fish out his card and hand it to me with a lascivious look at my legs, though not nearly as lascivious as the one he gave our poor young waitress with whom he converses every day she works. So, I can effectively get picked up in French, my grammar is improving.
Brita, Tony and I were sitting at the prized corner outside Weibel, one of the most popular stops for decadent pastries and drinks on the tourist trail. It was a Saturday morning next to a full on market, the sun had just crested the building for enough time to cross the alley then again be obscured. There were people and dogs and babies and cars and bikes and trucks going by and we were, studied cafe sitters that we are, content. I did my best to turn my back on Jacques, once he told me that Monsieur Trump would rid America of vermin, and dove into a game that Tony and Brita were playing, which was to choose the person walking by or at a nearby cafe that you would want to spend 30 days with on a deserted island. They both picked the same person, a woman with thick grey hair loosely pulled back, off-beat clothes. They liked that the man she was with wasn't white and thought she looked interesting. I chose a tall and thin man with dark hair and skin, wearing navy blue including a baseball hat. I liked his slightly spacey and entertained look, imagining him laid back and peaceful, with an off kilter way of looking at the world, though my commitment waned when he returned a few minutes later, looking confusedly at his phone. Perhaps it would be me on navigation on the island...
At the market. tuna head?
Tony and Brita
Tony and Brita are friends from London. Brita came to stay with me last year and we had a bang up time. And while I didn't know Tony as well, the only times we had met were when he was creating an incredible feast with cheer, and absolutely no stress. They had been trying to get here for a while but were repeatedly waylaid by a staggering amount of responsibilities, felt a bit sheepish, finding their way this past weekend. They are like two toddlers in the best possible way, in that they're more fun than most people, and are each directionally challenged in their own beautiful way. One had only 3G and is no map, the other leans towards paper maps and has a penchant for wandering off unannounced for extended periods of time, leading to my escorting them home that first night. But on day 2 things were better, and in fairness to them, it's a winding sort of place and the buildings do all look alike.
We kept busy, though it would be dishonest if I didn't admit a fair amount of that busy was sitting at a cafe drinking coffee during the day or things with bubbles in the evening. The criminal trial of the DZ mafia heads is going longer than expected, so one night we sat across from the Palais de Justice, watching all the wonderful pageantry of the French militia, definitely of the Go Big or Go Home variety. Many many motorcycles, armored cars, gendarmerie vans, choppers overhead, on and on and on, all in their crisp blue uniforms. When there we covered many topics, and while I'm not sure how it came up, they told me about Prince Charles' response to a proposed new wing at the National Gallery, calling it a "monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend'. Since then I have been struggling to introduce the word carbuncle into conversation. According to my two translation apps, it's anthrax in French. Also the word stroppy needs more attention.
We laughed about our state of oldness. Tony introduced the idea of the list of "things we can no longer do", which is true and when we started to discuss, naturally lost focus and began another conversation. We also shared our discomfort with technology and the feeling of getting older and not being able to keep up. As my dear friend Marion calls it, being a techno-idiot. Related, I shared a story with them that I thought might arouse a giggle.
When I moved into my apartment here, there were two WiFi accounts it; my landlord having set one up, which I didn't understand before I set a separate one up. It took many phone calls and finally a visit by my landlord and me together to the Orange store, after I'd tried a few times on my own. Once that was done, I must have got cocky about being a technological problem solver, deciding that while I'd never had a TV before, as I was stuck with this big hulking thing in my living room, I might as well activate it. Because nothing happened when I turned it on, I went back to the Orange store and when they saw me coming, handed me a yellow stickie with a phone number to an English speaking customer service agent. After following this kind and patient person's directions, which entailed walking back and forth between my bedroom and the living room, doing lots of plugging, unplugging and pushing buttons, we determined there was something wrong with the remote, which wasn't responding. I was to receive a new one in a few days and call them back. As soon as I hung up, it occurred to me that a remote needs batteries, and that a lack of power might have contributed to the challenges. Awkward. I kept this to myself and called them when I received the new remote. Again, lots of back and forth, and pushing buttons but eventually, the TV was on with colors and pictures, I thanked them and hung up. But when I went to turn the bloody thing off, it didn't work, so I resorted to unplugging it. When I went to turn it on, the screen was again black, so I again called and we did the whole set up again. When it was time to deal with her training me in turning off technology, she advised that I first get the other remote. My confused reply was "What other remote? " She then took a deep breath and said very gently, "Ma'am, is there anyone younger at your house who might be able to help you?" I thanked her and hung up, unplugged the TV and there it has sat.
Tony and Brita are friends from London. Brita came to stay with me last year and we had a bang up time. And while I didn't know Tony as well, the only times we had met were when he was creating an incredible feast with cheer, and absolutely no stress. They had been trying to get here for a while but were repeatedly waylaid by a staggering amount of responsibilities, felt a bit sheepish, finding their way this past weekend. They are like two toddlers in the best possible way, in that they're more fun than most people, and are each directionally challenged in their own beautiful way. One had only 3G and is no map, the other leans towards paper maps and has a penchant for wandering off unannounced for extended periods of time, leading to my escorting them home that first night. But on day 2 things were better, and in fairness to them, it's a winding sort of place and the buildings do all look alike.
We kept busy, though it would be dishonest if I didn't admit a fair amount of that busy was sitting at a cafe drinking coffee during the day or things with bubbles in the evening. The criminal trial of the DZ mafia heads is going longer than expected, so one night we sat across from the Palais de Justice, watching all the wonderful pageantry of the French militia, definitely of the Go Big or Go Home variety. Many many motorcycles, armored cars, gendarmerie vans, choppers overhead, on and on and on, all in their crisp blue uniforms. When there we covered many topics, and while I'm not sure how it came up, they told me about Prince Charles' response to a proposed new wing at the National Gallery, calling it a "monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend'. Since then I have been struggling to introduce the word carbuncle into conversation. According to my two translation apps, it's anthrax in French. Also the word stroppy needs more attention.
We laughed about our state of oldness. Tony introduced the idea of the list of "things we can no longer do", which is true and when we started to discuss, naturally lost focus and began another conversation. We also shared our discomfort with technology and the feeling of getting older and not being able to keep up. As my dear friend Marion calls it, being a techno-idiot. Related, I shared a story with them that I thought might arouse a giggle.
When I moved into my apartment here, there were two WiFi accounts it; my landlord having set one up, which I didn't understand before I set a separate one up. It took many phone calls and finally a visit by my landlord and me together to the Orange store, after I'd tried a few times on my own. Once that was done, I must have got cocky about being a technological problem solver, deciding that while I'd never had a TV before, as I was stuck with this big hulking thing in my living room, I might as well activate it. Because nothing happened when I turned it on, I went back to the Orange store and when they saw me coming, handed me a yellow stickie with a phone number to an English speaking customer service agent. After following this kind and patient person's directions, which entailed walking back and forth between my bedroom and the living room, doing lots of plugging, unplugging and pushing buttons, we determined there was something wrong with the remote, which wasn't responding. I was to receive a new one in a few days and call them back. As soon as I hung up, it occurred to me that a remote needs batteries, and that a lack of power might have contributed to the challenges. Awkward. I kept this to myself and called them when I received the new remote. Again, lots of back and forth, and pushing buttons but eventually, the TV was on with colors and pictures, I thanked them and hung up. But when I went to turn the bloody thing off, it didn't work, so I resorted to unplugging it. When I went to turn it on, the screen was again black, so I again called and we did the whole set up again. When it was time to deal with her training me in turning off technology, she advised that I first get the other remote. My confused reply was "What other remote? " She then took a deep breath and said very gently, "Ma'am, is there anyone younger at your house who might be able to help you?" I thanked her and hung up, unplugged the TV and there it has sat.
Bloody hulking TV. That yellow stickie contains the English speaking customer service number.
Killer lunch Tony prepared; tuna steaks in sun dried tomatoes, white asparagus and pasta
Vacherin, Saint-Felicien, Comte and a triple cream with truffles
Brita at a cave on our hike. She wanted to climb the fence to get into the quarries, which were closed.
Yesterday, we went to Chateau LaCoste, though this time, instead of just eating, we took the 2 1/2 hour walking tour of the grounds, which is mostly vineyards with sculpture and a building or two. I had told Marianne, who initially took me to both, that I preferred Chateau de la Gaude, which her husband had designed, better than Chateau LaCoste, which is bigger and more famous. Going back for a second time to the latter, accompanied by a landscape architect and designer, this was confirmed. Owned by a Irishman who has asked every famous architect and artist to add something wherever they please, it is impressive from a compendium standpoint, but as Brita noted, the lack of a master plan looms large, leaving one with feelings of confusion and occasionally asphyxiation, as sitting at the cafe, one is surrounded by old provencal buildings on two sides, a Tadao Ando building and water feature jammed right in there and fairly nearby on a third side, and quite close by, two metal hangar like buildings. But in the end, while there were things that jarred, there was enough good to look at, and looking at art in vineyards is not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Yesterday, we went to Chateau LaCoste, though this time, instead of just eating, we took the 2 1/2 hour walking tour of the grounds, which is mostly vineyards with sculpture and a building or two. I had told Marianne, who initially took me to both, that I preferred Chateau de la Gaude, which her husband had designed, better than Chateau LaCoste, which is bigger and more famous. Going back for a second time to the latter, accompanied by a landscape architect and designer, this was confirmed. Owned by a Irishman who has asked every famous architect and artist to add something wherever they please, it is impressive from a compendium standpoint, but as Brita noted, the lack of a master plan looms large, leaving one with feelings of confusion and occasionally asphyxiation, as sitting at the cafe, one is surrounded by old provencal buildings on two sides, a Tadao Ando building and water feature jammed right in there and fairly nearby on a third side, and quite close by, two metal hangar like buildings. But in the end, while there were things that jarred, there was enough good to look at, and looking at art in vineyards is not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Not a bad place to look at art
Louise Bourgeois spider next to Tadao Ando building
This building, designed by Oscar Niemeyer shortly before he died, was my favorite
Marc Newton, inside the Niemeyer building
Ranunculi by which I will remember a most excellent weekend with Brita and Tony. Thank you.
Many years ago, there was a TV show called Candid Camera, the premise of which was to set up situations designed to surprise, annoy or delight victims, their reactions being the point of the show. Since leaving the US, life sometimes feels one long Candid Camera, with so many bureaucratic dead ends that Toni and Candace of Women and Women First start to seem like easy-going, flexible gals. I often laugh at the absurdity, and have come to assume others are watching behind some screen and having a good giggle, happy to oblige.
For example, the British and Maltese governments have teamed up, with the UK now renewing my passport because there isn't a middle initial on my Maltese passport. Not only have they kept the old one, but also the fee, and have, as of February 1st instated a regulation that any British citizen can only enter the country on their British passport. Haha. Then Malta, winking behind my back with tears of laughter streaming down its cheeks, tells me it will take a year to get a new passport. Details, you don't need to understand, but the whole long ordeal resulted in me needing to go to Paris to get a form signed at the Maltese Embassy. So was I surprised when I got to Rue d'Artois and saw what is below when searching for the Embassy? Would I be surprised if it was located in the back room and only open in the evenings? Ah life, how jolly.
OK...
Legit embassy
In the end, they were sadly housed in a legit building and my girl Kimberly proved warm and helpful, a first on this most comical journey. A form of some sort has now been singed, witnessed, submitted and processed, documentation provided. Some thing, I'm not sure what, must be moving forward. Oh, what will be next and how delightfully will it be complicated with me being in the US this summer?
Paris was wonderful. The weather was perfection + 5 degrees, any sort of tourist visit inside was out of the question, instead I chose to walk from the Gare de Lyon on the east side of the rive droit to the 16th, where I was staying with a kind woman I'd met in Aix. So many had told me to brave the lines to see the new Notre Dame, the word luminous was tossed around liberally, but when I got to that part of the city, surrounded by overheated, grouchy people, it just wasn't possible, The 16th, which to me has the feeling of the Upper East Side, I loved for its quiet elegance, and could have camped out there forever. But as I was only there for a day, after becoming acquainted with the GSpot and submitting my form, I hoofed it back to Gare de Lyon via the Seine, where everyone seemed to be taking their last run before the marathon the Paris Marathon that I believe was yesterday.
In the end, they were sadly housed in a legit building and my girl Kimberly proved warm and helpful, a first on this most comical journey. A form of some sort has now been singed, witnessed, submitted and processed, documentation provided. Some thing, I'm not sure what, must be moving forward. Oh, what will be next and how delightfully will it be complicated with me being in the US this summer?
Paris was wonderful. The weather was perfection + 5 degrees, any sort of tourist visit inside was out of the question, instead I chose to walk from the Gare de Lyon on the east side of the rive droit to the 16th, where I was staying with a kind woman I'd met in Aix. So many had told me to brave the lines to see the new Notre Dame, the word luminous was tossed around liberally, but when I got to that part of the city, surrounded by overheated, grouchy people, it just wasn't possible, The 16th, which to me has the feeling of the Upper East Side, I loved for its quiet elegance, and could have camped out there forever. But as I was only there for a day, after becoming acquainted with the GSpot and submitting my form, I hoofed it back to Gare de Lyon via the Seine, where everyone seemed to be taking their last run before the marathon the Paris Marathon that I believe was yesterday.
A quick lunch at Le Train Bleu, inside Gare de Lyon
Beautiful columns near Place des Voges that made me think of Call My Agent
In the heart of tourist hell, Rue de Rivoli, a cool reflection
First time up close and personal. Whatever
Let me get back to you...
Much more my speed
Everything was blooming
So many fountains, but not as. many as Aix!
Quiet part, down on the riva
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Where the business happens
The joy of life here is in the details. I check in with the view above frequently and it often lures me outside.
There are the ongoing things; the cavity in the sidewalk where a puddle forms, allowing me to see how much it's raining. There are the restauranteurs who receive deliveries and put out furniture, the high strung woman at the fifties diner vibe called Betty's Resto, who takes her buggy to the market daily, her impatient actions seeming more American than French. Often I see a woman with bleached blonde very short hair who works hard on her daily outfits, yet always seems sad in a solitary way. And the lady with the German Shepherd who washes away her dog's pee, which always lands right in the gutter. But I haven't seen the tall and slender man who sometimes wears a black patent leather unitard for a long time. By far my favorite was a woman and man of mid thirties who met up in front of the cafe below my window. Eschewing the traditional kiss on each cheek, the man, with a big smile on his face, held his right hand in the air and bowed an iota. Her hand met his, he pirouetted her around, she following gracefully, then curtsied. They then sat down and began talking, which happens quite a bit here, the French really are good at it.
Finally, the rain has gone.the gelato shop has opened, the fish market is back every day and the Chinese tourists are evident on the Cours Mirabeau. The first blush of spring when the grass is so absurdly bright green has come and gone, now it's at the awkward tufty phase, with all the delicious wild flowers popping out their heads. I haven't seen a poppy yet, but there have been irises, orchids, daisies and daisies and daisies, and my favorite this week, wild grape hyacinths. When I hiked up Mt. Ste. Victoire, there were yellow daffodils with heads smaller than a dime. The rosemary, which is everywhere, is ablaze in light purple/periwinkle and little thyme tufts have started blooming dark purple flowers with dark red leaves. There's never any need to buy thyme, rosemary or bay leaves here.
The joy of life here is in the details. I check in with the view above frequently and it often lures me outside.
There are the ongoing things; the cavity in the sidewalk where a puddle forms, allowing me to see how much it's raining. There are the restauranteurs who receive deliveries and put out furniture, the high strung woman at the fifties diner vibe called Betty's Resto, who takes her buggy to the market daily, her impatient actions seeming more American than French. Often I see a woman with bleached blonde very short hair who works hard on her daily outfits, yet always seems sad in a solitary way. And the lady with the German Shepherd who washes away her dog's pee, which always lands right in the gutter. But I haven't seen the tall and slender man who sometimes wears a black patent leather unitard for a long time. By far my favorite was a woman and man of mid thirties who met up in front of the cafe below my window. Eschewing the traditional kiss on each cheek, the man, with a big smile on his face, held his right hand in the air and bowed an iota. Her hand met his, he pirouetted her around, she following gracefully, then curtsied. They then sat down and began talking, which happens quite a bit here, the French really are good at it.
Finally, the rain has gone.the gelato shop has opened, the fish market is back every day and the Chinese tourists are evident on the Cours Mirabeau. The first blush of spring when the grass is so absurdly bright green has come and gone, now it's at the awkward tufty phase, with all the delicious wild flowers popping out their heads. I haven't seen a poppy yet, but there have been irises, orchids, daisies and daisies and daisies, and my favorite this week, wild grape hyacinths. When I hiked up Mt. Ste. Victoire, there were yellow daffodils with heads smaller than a dime. The rosemary, which is everywhere, is ablaze in light purple/periwinkle and little thyme tufts have started blooming dark purple flowers with dark red leaves. There's never any need to buy thyme, rosemary or bay leaves here.
The perfect flower for making a flower crown. Or a daisy chain!
But the big story right now in Aix has received national attention, and more importantly, provided some good viewing out my window. After going down some serious research rabbit holes, I can tell you that there is a Corsican mafia, and that they control many of the businesses in Corsica, from a protection perspective, and that they have expanded to the south of France. At apéro last Friday, I heard conflicting stories about how involved they were, some saying they ran many of the restaurants in Aix to launder drug money, and that you could tell which because there was never anyone in them or they were renovated every year. Furthermore, I was told that it was the Corsican mafia who were responsible for the fire at Les Deux Garçons in 2019, resulting after the owners refused to pay protection money. But then there were others saying other things, so who knows. Les Deux Garçons is wicked famous, Zola and Cezanne, who both hailed from here, used to hang there, as did MFK Fisher and many others. Because it's a historic building, once it burned down, it was required that one of the few historic artisans in the country renovate it, and so it continues, slowly, and will one day re-open and hopefully be just as charming with as many bad-natured waiters, for which they were apparently known.
Anyway, back to the drama here. So, there is the Corsican mafia, and in Marseille there is the North African mafia who control the drugs, Marseille being a main point of entry for Europe. They are responsible for most of the violence you hear about (in a part of Marseille that neither your nor I would ever go to, but Nat did because she took an Uber from the airport and put my street address in for the destination, neglecting to put Aix, and so was taken to that address in Marseille, which wasn't the most savory, especially late at night. She lived to tell the story and her mother aged many years). Well apparently the head honcho of the Corsican mafia and the head honcho of the North African mafia were in the same high security prison and got to networking and bonded, creating a perfect union. So, we've got that going for us,
One of the trials is about two North African brothers whom, after they killed someone, cut the poor sod up into small pieces and put him in the back of a car. As one of the brothers had already escaped from prison once, thanks to a bribed prison guard who also let him know where a certain inmate was located, and who is, ahem, no longer with us, security was tantamount. And the French are a belt and suspenders people.
So, every morning around 7am, I begin to hear walkie talkies and French men sounding authoritative, and when I look, see a few outside the window, holding pedestrians, bikes, scooters and trucks up. We'll then hear a siren in the distance and before you know it, anywhere between 2 and 6 motorcycles with blue lights flashing will come down tiny little Rue Pierre et Marie Curie and then something will follow them. Sometimes it's 6 black vans, sometimes it's a Mercedes sedan, often it's a slew of Gendarmerie cars, and this morning, it was this really scary looking matte black tank-like thing that I'm guessing held the prisoners. This repeats three or four times before 8am every morning, resulting in many many men who appear to be alarmingly casually holding their Remington 870s while talking sports scores to their colleagues (yes, I heard them). There are choppers circling above for a lot of the day and news cameras asking us for opinions, and apparently even the magistrates are searched and screened when they enter the building. You can read more about it here and hopefully won't go on as deep as dive as I did.
But the big story right now in Aix has received national attention, and more importantly, provided some good viewing out my window. After going down some serious research rabbit holes, I can tell you that there is a Corsican mafia, and that they control many of the businesses in Corsica, from a protection perspective, and that they have expanded to the south of France. At apéro last Friday, I heard conflicting stories about how involved they were, some saying they ran many of the restaurants in Aix to launder drug money, and that you could tell which because there was never anyone in them or they were renovated every year. Furthermore, I was told that it was the Corsican mafia who were responsible for the fire at Les Deux Garçons in 2019, resulting after the owners refused to pay protection money. But then there were others saying other things, so who knows. Les Deux Garçons is wicked famous, Zola and Cezanne, who both hailed from here, used to hang there, as did MFK Fisher and many others. Because it's a historic building, once it burned down, it was required that one of the few historic artisans in the country renovate it, and so it continues, slowly, and will one day re-open and hopefully be just as charming with as many bad-natured waiters, for which they were apparently known.
Anyway, back to the drama here. So, there is the Corsican mafia, and in Marseille there is the North African mafia who control the drugs, Marseille being a main point of entry for Europe. They are responsible for most of the violence you hear about (in a part of Marseille that neither your nor I would ever go to, but Nat did because she took an Uber from the airport and put my street address in for the destination, neglecting to put Aix, and so was taken to that address in Marseille, which wasn't the most savory, especially late at night. She lived to tell the story and her mother aged many years). Well apparently the head honcho of the Corsican mafia and the head honcho of the North African mafia were in the same high security prison and got to networking and bonded, creating a perfect union. So, we've got that going for us,
One of the trials is about two North African brothers whom, after they killed someone, cut the poor sod up into small pieces and put him in the back of a car. As one of the brothers had already escaped from prison once, thanks to a bribed prison guard who also let him know where a certain inmate was located, and who is, ahem, no longer with us, security was tantamount. And the French are a belt and suspenders people.
So, every morning around 7am, I begin to hear walkie talkies and French men sounding authoritative, and when I look, see a few outside the window, holding pedestrians, bikes, scooters and trucks up. We'll then hear a siren in the distance and before you know it, anywhere between 2 and 6 motorcycles with blue lights flashing will come down tiny little Rue Pierre et Marie Curie and then something will follow them. Sometimes it's 6 black vans, sometimes it's a Mercedes sedan, often it's a slew of Gendarmerie cars, and this morning, it was this really scary looking matte black tank-like thing that I'm guessing held the prisoners. This repeats three or four times before 8am every morning, resulting in many many men who appear to be alarmingly casually holding their Remington 870s while talking sports scores to their colleagues (yes, I heard them). There are choppers circling above for a lot of the day and news cameras asking us for opinions, and apparently even the magistrates are searched and screened when they enter the building. You can read more about it here and hopefully won't go on as deep as dive as I did.
Police Nationale at Place du Verdun. Not exactly vigilant, but boy do they look cute in their uniforms.
There have also been municipal elections over the past week. There were I believe 7 candidates, and each of them had a poster put up on the side of town hall, with their party. After the first round, some were eliminated, their poster was removed. The incumbent, Sophie Jossains, a right of center candidate, received 47% of the vote in the second round, and won. She is the daughter of the former mayor, who was apparently busted for accepting bribes. When sent to prison, the felonious mayor put her daughter Sophie in her stead, and there she has remained. Whether this is true or not, I don't know, but I'll say that from my perspective as a visitor/resident, it seems the daughter does a very good job. There are many many things that go on here, with a large population living and an even larger one visiting. Everything works smoothly, trash is picked up twice a day, everything's clean and orderly pretty much always. There are always areas being improved and there seems to be a fair amount of support for people with those who one might think would be marginalized.
There have also been municipal elections over the past week. There were I believe 7 candidates, and each of them had a poster put up on the side of town hall, with their party. After the first round, some were eliminated, their poster was removed. The incumbent, Sophie Jossains, a right of center candidate, received 47% of the vote in the second round, and won. She is the daughter of the former mayor, who was apparently busted for accepting bribes. When sent to prison, the felonious mayor put her daughter Sophie in her stead, and there she has remained. Whether this is true or not, I don't know, but I'll say that from my perspective as a visitor/resident, it seems the daughter does a very good job. There are many many things that go on here, with a large population living and an even larger one visiting. Everything works smoothly, trash is picked up twice a day, everything's clean and orderly pretty much always. There are always areas being improved and there seems to be a fair amount of support for people with those who one might think would be marginalized.
The incumbent
Mt. Ste. Victoire
So, instead of thinking about the world's many different flavors of crazy, we take off every Tuesday with a large pack of dogs and a picnic. Last week, for the first time I had the opportunity to climb up Mt. Ste. Victoire, which always seems to be lurking around, being a bit of a bully with its bigness and greyness. Apparently Cezanne painted it more than 90 times. I can see why, it's hard to miss. It takes about two hours to climb, and there were about 15 of us, stopping half way up because it was hot . We didn't want to carry all our layers, so took them off and hid them behind a bush. Almost at the top is a little chapel, which, when you've just experienced the steepness and not so easy rocks that need to be climbed over to get there, is a miracle. I couldn't stop wondering how everything had been brought up there. Later, someone told me the rock was blown out to make bricks.
So, instead of thinking about the world's many different flavors of crazy, we take off every Tuesday with a large pack of dogs and a picnic. Last week, for the first time I had the opportunity to climb up Mt. Ste. Victoire, which always seems to be lurking around, being a bit of a bully with its bigness and greyness. Apparently Cezanne painted it more than 90 times. I can see why, it's hard to miss. It takes about two hours to climb, and there were about 15 of us, stopping half way up because it was hot . We didn't want to carry all our layers, so took them off and hid them behind a bush. Almost at the top is a little chapel, which, when you've just experienced the steepness and not so easy rocks that need to be climbed over to get there, is a miracle. I couldn't stop wondering how everything had been brought up there. Later, someone told me the rock was blown out to make bricks.
We could see the snow covered Alps so clearly
Where the rock was blown out
Inside the wee chapel
Lunch outside the chapel
Others climbed up to the cross, which was another 20 minutes, but by then, I had tripped up the hill and banged both my knees, concerned that I wouldn't be able to get down without someone carrying me or a chopper coming. Fortunately it wasn't so bad, made my way down slowly and even did some sliding on my butt. Forgot about my layers, but one of the kind people brought them down for me. All's well that ends well, but I keep seeing that cross at the top and it's challenging me, I need to get there.
Today we climbed up into the hills above Marseille where Marcel Pagnol, the creator of Jeanne de Florette and Manon of the Spring was from. We had a view of the whole city and the islands out in the harbor. There were many of us and we straggled along, chatting, having lunch, taking photographs and agreeing that it was the best way to spend a Tuesday.
Others climbed up to the cross, which was another 20 minutes, but by then, I had tripped up the hill and banged both my knees, concerned that I wouldn't be able to get down without someone carrying me or a chopper coming. Fortunately it wasn't so bad, made my way down slowly and even did some sliding on my butt. Forgot about my layers, but one of the kind people brought them down for me. All's well that ends well, but I keep seeing that cross at the top and it's challenging me, I need to get there.
Today we climbed up into the hills above Marseille where Marcel Pagnol, the creator of Jeanne de Florette and Manon of the Spring was from. We had a view of the whole city and the islands out in the harbor. There were many of us and we straggled along, chatting, having lunch, taking photographs and agreeing that it was the best way to spend a Tuesday.
Today's hiking crew less me
Cave
House in the Hopital neighborhood, where I was scoping out a flat. I found out my place is on the market...