The other side of the lake
Aug. 22nd, 2004 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enteleinThis past week I've been enjoying a vacation, of sorts. It ended up being a sort of mish-mash of not relaxing at all, to falling (helplessly, I tell you!) into utter slothitude.
Having a week off from my very dull (and yet lovely) office job was the key factor, though. Beyond logging in remotely to do my timecard (for I do so like getting paid), I thought hardly of work at all. It was one of the remotest thoughts to ever flit near the outer limits of my consciousness.
There was a tiny moment, as Svet and I sat at the top of the stairs leading up from a private beach, looking out over the waters of Lake Michigan:
"Hey, Krystyn, see those buildings wayyyy out in the distance, wayyyy over there?"
"Yeah."
"That's Chicago."
"Whoah. Huh. So that's the Sears Tower then, eh?"
"Yep!"
"It's only the middle of the day, isn't it? And so they are at work. And I am not." I threw extremely dorky devil horns with my hands. "Suckahs!"
I was then immediately distracted by the constant soothing rush of the water, and the Lithuanian Chatty Cathy who methodically rubbed sand off her feet, slipped on her water shoes, and talked our ears off about nothing, everything. Her husband who's a day trader, who is looking for a job, was tanned and quiet and smiling and polite, but soon took off for their cottage to check on stocks and job opportunities. Veronica, their daughter, clambered about and tried to out-face me in a silly contest as Svet nodded and smiled with the mom. Veronica had white-blonde hair, and was three. Svet was three when she first started coming to Union Pier, Michigan, and it felt like the world suddenly got a big larger, and brighter. I got to see some of Svetlana's history this past week, the physical and tangible, from skipping stones on the low tide at Gintaras to cobbling together a dinner from kugelis and bread and butter and fresh sweet corn on the cob and a large bowl of sliced cucumber and tomato. Lithuanian baked goods and fresh produce are not in short supply in that sleepy little area.
We were there only a short time, enough time to eat breakfast omelettes and drink diner coffee at small cafes that all begged for part-time workers with help wanted signs in the windows. We took a short side trip to Mt. Baldy on Thursday, just as dusk was taking its sweet time falling all over everything. The trees and the road of sand seemed to climb up and up and up and with a resigned sort of sigh I pulled off my totally inappropriate for sand dune shoes and we plodded up, the sand cool and damp only a few inches beneath the surface. We got to the top, and it was just open and quiet and sweet and cool and simple. We got to the top and we sat and we were not very talkative, and I dug out a strange little cavern out of the top of the dune. People were leaving the beach below, climbing up just to come down again, to the parking lot. We sat side by side, and I breathed in the air and looked up and to my left, up at the white shell of moon. The drive back to our suite was happy and calm and not rushed. The air was cool, and I had nowhere to be.
We've been back since Friday early evening, and I am sitting here on a Sunday night, having just eaten two small sliced tomatoes, salted. There are plums and apples and blueberries and corn and pumpernickel and rye and solid honey, all giving off tiny memories of sunshine and sleeping in and rose-scented soap on the edge of the basin and piles of towels and bed-head and the welcoming flourescent beacon in the night of a popular local ice cream parlor, signaling t minus one minute until we could fall into bed, tired and happy from being away from it all, for just a little while.
Having a week off from my very dull (and yet lovely) office job was the key factor, though. Beyond logging in remotely to do my timecard (for I do so like getting paid), I thought hardly of work at all. It was one of the remotest thoughts to ever flit near the outer limits of my consciousness.
There was a tiny moment, as Svet and I sat at the top of the stairs leading up from a private beach, looking out over the waters of Lake Michigan:
"Hey, Krystyn, see those buildings wayyyy out in the distance, wayyyy over there?"
"Yeah."
"That's Chicago."
"Whoah. Huh. So that's the Sears Tower then, eh?"
"Yep!"
"It's only the middle of the day, isn't it? And so they are at work. And I am not." I threw extremely dorky devil horns with my hands. "Suckahs!"
I was then immediately distracted by the constant soothing rush of the water, and the Lithuanian Chatty Cathy who methodically rubbed sand off her feet, slipped on her water shoes, and talked our ears off about nothing, everything. Her husband who's a day trader, who is looking for a job, was tanned and quiet and smiling and polite, but soon took off for their cottage to check on stocks and job opportunities. Veronica, their daughter, clambered about and tried to out-face me in a silly contest as Svet nodded and smiled with the mom. Veronica had white-blonde hair, and was three. Svet was three when she first started coming to Union Pier, Michigan, and it felt like the world suddenly got a big larger, and brighter. I got to see some of Svetlana's history this past week, the physical and tangible, from skipping stones on the low tide at Gintaras to cobbling together a dinner from kugelis and bread and butter and fresh sweet corn on the cob and a large bowl of sliced cucumber and tomato. Lithuanian baked goods and fresh produce are not in short supply in that sleepy little area.
We were there only a short time, enough time to eat breakfast omelettes and drink diner coffee at small cafes that all begged for part-time workers with help wanted signs in the windows. We took a short side trip to Mt. Baldy on Thursday, just as dusk was taking its sweet time falling all over everything. The trees and the road of sand seemed to climb up and up and up and with a resigned sort of sigh I pulled off my totally inappropriate for sand dune shoes and we plodded up, the sand cool and damp only a few inches beneath the surface. We got to the top, and it was just open and quiet and sweet and cool and simple. We got to the top and we sat and we were not very talkative, and I dug out a strange little cavern out of the top of the dune. People were leaving the beach below, climbing up just to come down again, to the parking lot. We sat side by side, and I breathed in the air and looked up and to my left, up at the white shell of moon. The drive back to our suite was happy and calm and not rushed. The air was cool, and I had nowhere to be.
We've been back since Friday early evening, and I am sitting here on a Sunday night, having just eaten two small sliced tomatoes, salted. There are plums and apples and blueberries and corn and pumpernickel and rye and solid honey, all giving off tiny memories of sunshine and sleeping in and rose-scented soap on the edge of the basin and piles of towels and bed-head and the welcoming flourescent beacon in the night of a popular local ice cream parlor, signaling t minus one minute until we could fall into bed, tired and happy from being away from it all, for just a little while.
