Dinner in Bucktown. Polenta fries.

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It is dawn. Mark is asleep but I have been awakened by pain. I had actually considered buying insurance for this trip.  Probably will next time. I had so much in mind for these 11 days and now it will be simply scenic drives for the foreseeable future. Yes, I have pain pills, but I take them sparingly because one very quickly builds a tolerance to codeine.  Mark is fetching and nursing - something,  I'm sorry to say, at which he has a lot of experience. At least I was still able-bodied for the MFA, one of America's truly great museums. Come for the John Singer Sargent. Be amazed by the Jamie Wyeth. Mark was gobsmacked by the latter, thus we made the exit through the gift shop and grabbed the exhibition book, adding serious pounds to the luggage.  I am blue. Mountain hikes and beach combing plans gone. Historical walks? Nope. Getting old sucks. I'm not saying I fell because I'm old. I fell because I walk fast and don't look out for obstacles. But a twenty-something w
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It is hard to travel up north without a certain sense of melancholy. The what-ifs come to mind.  What if, instead of decamping to a place we never loved for the last 30 years... What if, instead of having jobs that demanded a big city, nay, a big city with a NASA presence, we had chosen a small city, a town, even, who would we be today? Who would our children be? What if we stayed in the same place all our lives, would we still feel this ...rootlessness?  Last night we stumbled into an art opening in downtown Marquette and the artist came over and introduced herself. She spends three months a year in Northern Vietnam, photographing people. We chatted and she said a friend told her not to move when she retired because then, she will always just be some retired person who came there instead of having connections in the community and an identity.  Hummmmmmm.  
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