I've spent most of my life trying to tailor my understanding of people vis a vis what was called arrogance by the Heimatsstadt's familien.

Understood: I am far more intelligent than the Average, even by Boston, or Paris standards.

Not Understood: the projection on me that I am Arrogant. (What am I doing wrong? I am a Language Person. My life is about figuring out puzzles, fixing things, and finding the combination of words to help folks do the same.)

https://youtu.be/-M9JE9R9ld4

Heimweh.

Just got a postcard that the Frenchie painted for me.



The bridge spans the Seine. Home's in the green just below the fort at the crown of the hill. When I left, the apples and plums were in full bloom. Am told that, now, the hedgehogs (who we encourage) are out in full force. I really like hedgehogs; it's a pity they don't seem to be indigenous to this part of the world.

Chocolate.

The vast majority of my dreams are nightmares. Usually, I don't remember them; I just wake up feeling miserable and I can't quite put my finger on why. Sometimes, though, something indescribably horrible that's passed through my brain wakes me up and I lie there, shivering, wheezing, afraid to move.*

Am thankful for the nights when the dreams aren't panic-inducing. In the sleep world, I walk around and observe the differences between what my brain's processing and the real world. Sometimes I find myself referencing other dreams and wondering how they influenced what I'm dreaming now.

I know I dream in color. What's also interesting is that I experience other sensations: taste and touch are the most intense, memorable. Have also heard music and when I was a better transcriber of sound, would sometimes try to catch the melodies on paper. Scent happens, but not that often.

Another interesting note is that, with maybe one exception, these not-nightmares are incredibly prosaic. The last one I had a few nights ago was just me walking around during a work break looking for a snack.

***

East Cambridge, like Somerville and lots of other urban neighborhoods in the West is "in transition." Since I quit the job at the Human Services agency, I don't get out there as often as I used to. Every time I do return, I'm surprised at how different things look.

In my dream, I was wandering up Cambridge street marveling at the spruced-up facades of the bistros and artsy boutiques replacing the dusty old guard bodegas and bakeries. When I got to the courthouse, I turned down a side street to look at new paint jobs on old triples, signs of sand-blasting on the row houses. That afternoon in my dream, it was as unseasonably warm and humid as it had been in Real Life a little while ago. Feeling a bit hungry (really thirst; I mistake the two a lot. Am getting better at recognizing the difference.), I figured I'd head back up to the main drag to find a little bit** of something to eat before heading home. Two blocks before Cambridge Street, I was surprised to find a former common but now all-but-extinct fixture: a corner store on the first floor of an apartment building in a residential neighborhood***.

Had to take a look. Heard the jingle of small bells above the door that announced new customers; noted the brightness of the interior (thanks to both a new paint job on the walls and the clean to sparkling white octagonal tiles on the floor). Further back, a man at the register, waved to me. I waved back. The small group surrounding him, silent for a few seconds, resumed their conversation.

Though the fellow and his friends didn't look like the usual Portuguese shopkeepers (I think they were Indian, actually. Maybe North African. Wasn't really paying attention.), they certainly kept the full complement of Portuguese items in stock. Found the jarred fava beans, the hardtack, the sardines in oil and the dried cod. Noted as well the several different varieties of sausage and the fresh cheeses. All this, plus a wonderful candy rack - which was exactly what I was looking for. Oh dear! What to choose? I wasn't in the mood for any of the normal European stuff - too sugary. Weighed a Necco bar (the one with the four fillings) against something English and plain block of Hershey's. Decided on the Necco one. Grabbed a banana to complement it nutritionally. Noting that I still had $2 left, decided to get a soda to round things out. (Diet Coke goes best with junk chocolate, by the way).

On my trip back to the register, found myself in a small ice cream parlor, all varnished wood and marble ****. "Tiens," I thought to myself, "how'd this get here? These fellows must have bought up the entire ground floor. How nice, too, to keep the original soda fountain. Karen and Aimee have just got to see this." Picked up a menu to look at, wished the waitress a good day, then continued on to the next area, even bigger and more surprising than the last. The only way that my mind could make sense of the fifties-styled lunch counter, all shiny chrome and oxblood naugahyde, was that I was dreaming. There was no way that this alone could fit within the floor plan of the building, much less attached to a soda fountain and grocery. My dreaming brain flipped back through its card catalog and found the reference: one night a few months back, was descending an endless stairway in a brick building in the old Double-Vey neighborhood (Main and Winspear, in fact - right by Parkside). Didn't see her, but knew that my Grandma was with me again. We were communicating about the apple-cinnamon doughnuts we smelled being made on the first floor.

Happy to have this figured out, I hurried back to the register, paid for my snack and found myself outside again.

I don't remember much beyond that; must have been about then that I woke. Strange: on waking up, my mouth had that feeling that one gets when one's eaten a sort of stale, cheap chocolate bar on a hot day.

***

* It's been this way since I was about 10-11 years old. Lots of moderately bad dreams that I don't remember and, until recently, a truly horrible dream 3-4 times a year. I used to write these down in an attempt to come to grips with them, but just don't bother any more.

** $3.50 worth - I knew that that was exactly what I had in my wallet. Like I said: Prosaic. But Detailed.

*** The actual building is on Cambridge and Trowbridge; cleaned up nicely, went condo. The first floor occupants, though, are actually a hat shop and a beauty salon.

**** I had to have been thinking about Parkside Candy back in Buffalo. Though it's seen better days, is one of the few old school soda fountains out there with the original fixtures.

Halloween.

Wasn't really in the mood for carving a jack o'lantern. This was just as well since Ampersand decided to pay a visit:



We had eight kids come for treats: not as many as I've had in past homes, but more than expected given last year's dismal numbers (just two). We still had boxes of raisins left over from last year and Pavel wanted to give them away. I wasn't about to let that happen, so (thank heavens), there was good candy (york patties and necco wafers).

Happy thing, too: a few friends came over for dinner. Nothing spectacular: just some (sadly overcooked) pork chops, a bit of squash soup, stuffing, cabbage and traditional baked beans:

Be's Maple Country Baked Beans

1 lb dried beans (I used 1/2 kidney, 1/2 navy)
1/2 lb salt pork (cut into strips and scored)
1/4 c maple syrup (I used grade B. Love the lower grades for their dark richness. This particular one was Trader Joe's brand. Very surprised to see that, to be honest.)
1/4 c brown sugar
1 t salt
4-5 t (depending on taste) dry mustard
a couple of squirts of ketchup (again: depends on taste.)

Soak beans overnight; boil until tender (skins split when you blow on them). In the cooking water, I normally like to add a couple bouillon cubes and 3-4 bay leaves. When the beans are ready, do not drain. Just mix the syrup, mustard, salt, brown sugar and ketchup in and transfer to a bean pot or oven-safe (covered) ceramic bowl. Press pork score-side-up and put everything in the oven at a low temp (I did 275 degrees) for 6-8 hours. Check every hour or so and add water if stuff starts looking dried out.

Serves 8+ as a nice little side dish.

***

It was really nice to catch up with folks, to cook, to be chatting in the kitchen. It brought to mind earlier Halloweens. I think I need to do this more often, if folks are willing to schlep out.

22 Years and Counting.

It's amazing how long one can live in a place and still not feel at home.

Some Dead Guy once said that, while America was always sliding into Fascism, Europe generally ended there.

Tentative Takeoff.



The first sparrow fledgling of the season paid a visit to the yew yesterday. This morning, we saw at least three perched on branches taking in data and begging. Early evening, one little dope flew smack into the kitchen window, bounced off and managed to gain a foothold on one of the dead branches. Shook the kinks out of its head, then immediately started flapping its wings and begging from a house finch.

Finch Brunch.

This morning, we counted six goldfinches (three males - I think, three females) and four house finches (two males, two females) on the seed feeders. Mealtime was civil save for a bit of a dogfight between two of the male goldfinches.

The sparrows kept their distance for a while.

Pavel was so pleased, as he'd feared not seeing any goldfinches at all this year.

-Wouldn't it be nice, he asked, if we'd just get a bluejay in for the color? He could come swooping in yelling "global warming! Global warming!" at everyone and the regular working class finches would continue eating and try to ignore him best as possible. Kind of like everyone else around here does.

(snort)

Did get our wish: a bluejay swooped in a bit after, but kept silent and to himself. Saw him grab himself a good bit of suet (takeout?) and settle down to eat on a fencepost on the other side of the yard.

Decisions, decisions.

1.) Pavel limits himself to one fill of the suet, sunflower, thistle and corn feeders a day. I can understand why. The sparrows make things much more cheerful and much less lonely, so am thinking of doing a refill.

2.) Can't decide between pasta with saucisson sec, olives and Parmesan, or with leftover roast chicken and leeks.

3.) Do I want to continue the Eleanor of Aquitaine theme by re-reading what I'd dug up from the basement about Tristan and Iseut? It's sparked something in me that I'd not felt in years. (Different point of attack for something that used to take up a lot of time and mental/emotional/physical energy.)

4.) Or, Do I want to read more on the struggle between Absolutism and the Communard movement and how the Gothic Revival played in with that? If I do this, I might have to read the biography of Woodrow Wilson I got recently, as the French stuff, in addition to similar situations in Austria/Germany/Italy/Spain at the same time got the US the heck into a nasty war at the beginning of the 20th century.

5.) Or, do I continue reading stuff by dead Greek and Roman guys? Bought myself a couple Loeb Classics the last time the Frenchie was around (Tacitus - on Germany, V.1 of the Peloponnesian wars. Can read Latin. Greek, too, somewhat, but it's much harder - which is why I got back to back texts.) These two are Fundamentals, and have read around both.

6.) Have been doing a lot of work towards the ultimate goal of graduate school. Took the history courses mainly to get reaccustomed to academic writing. Have been taking courses in accounting, finance, etc, as that's what's been paying my way since forever. Was looking into translation, as it's much, much more difficult than literature (my degree), so could be an advantage. Accounting/Finance is having the rug pulled out from under it in this country as I write. I enjoy it, though. It's peaceful. Am wondering about statistics, though (didn't take much of this in college, so would kind of have to retrace my steps). Then there's actual formal training in business analysis. I'm a decent writer, have a good grounding in IT, speak (and write) proficiently some important enough languages to be useful. What the heck do I do?

7.) Kind of had an offer made is looking pretty difficult to refuse in spite of my security and attachment issues.

Is amazing how such small animals can make such a racket. Normally, there's just the general cheerful chirping that goes on from about sunrise to sunset. From the inside, it's a nice background noise. When we're outside, sometimes we can hardly hear ourselves talking over it.

A couple times a day, there'll be a dispute over territory or food that leads to feathers flying and a general uproar in the yew. The best equivalents I can think of are a crowd of middle school aged kids chanting "fight!" around a couple of usually boys but sometimes girls intent on killing each other in an echo-y hallway or maybe the collective booing in the cafeteria after someone drops a tray*.

What's really notable, though, is the stillness and utter silence that overtakes the flock after some sort of warning call. We witness this maybe once a day and it even puts our hair on end.

***

* Yes, I was educated by wolves.

Today's Motto:

"Quand on va a la chasse, on perd sa place."*



My Trouble's home office. This has been happening an awful lot lately. He keeps it up, he's going to be doing my taxes.

***

* "When you go to the hunt, you lose your place." Pavel said that it was a favorite phrase of his middle school French teacher's. I'd never heard of it before. Will have to look up where it came from, though I'm wondering if it didn't originate at the court of Louis XIV.

Courtship.

At least four, perhaps a half dozen house finches have visited the yew tree diner over the past month or so. Of those, two of those seem to be regulars:



This is Mr. House Finch. He's been eating well, so is getting redder and redder with time. If you were looking from above, you'd note a brown spot on the top of his head.



Ms. House Finch. Same sleek shaping as Mr. House Finch, only without the bright red. Note the dark stripes on the light-colored breast.

Normally they tend to eat side by side with Ms. Finch on the sunflower feeder and Mr. Finch on the thistle sack.

Yesterday, I noted something unusual. Mr. Finch was all alone at the sunflower seed feeder and he wasn't hanging around the food like he normally does when the lady is around. Instead, he was pecking at the feeder and flying off somewhere. After seeing a few rounds of this, I decided to get up and watch what was going on from another point of view. Saw that he was flying between the feeder and the maple tree in the neighbor's yard, something I usually only see our lone chickadee doing. Why would a house finch be acting like a chickadee all of a sudden?

More importantly, where was Ms. Finch? Squinted a bit, scanned Mr. Finch's flight path and saw her perched up in the maple. At this point, Mr. Finch returned to the maple from the feeder, sat down next to Ms. Finch and offered her a seed which she gracefully accepted.

Something tells me that, in addition to food, we're going to need to provide nesting material pretty soon.

Another victory of sorts.

If she really was there as some are reporting, what courage it must have taken to stand him down. Wow.

Things were pretty calm in the cathouse this morning, though the boys were a little raucous due to Pavel having shut his door in the middle of the night. This got me up at around four-ish to feed them and thus buy a bit more quiet.



Girl cat's been pretty affectionate lately; as soon as she notes motion in my bed after sunrise, she begins purring like an outboard motor, then jumps off her bed to join me for a bit. (Very shades of Bashi. Funny, too, as she never met him.)



Antoine keeps up his vigil. He bothers her, but not as much as Trouble (the Holstein) does. Just as well that Trouble was lurking around downstairs - I can't take another night of him starting fights through the window. (Two nights ago was at around 3:00 am.)

Next project up: curtains and window-cleaning. (Note the nose and paw prints.)

Every year the cheerleader department of my company makes us fill out an "employee satisfaction survey." Every year, I hand it back blank. This year, I decided to give a piece of my mind.