Exploring up a forested Napa hillside at dawn, I was surprised to find the remains of a road and (a bit farther on) the foundations of a long-abandoned building. Given how many well-remembered childhood films took place in the forested hills of California, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
Dawn in Napa brings the kinds of landscapes, with layer upon layer of hills and fields and trees, that I associate with prints of impressionist oil paintings scattered around the average home in the late twentieth century.
With the trees free of leaves, the orderly arrays of lights along Petřín reveal its nature as a lovely park space in the city.
In a too-on-the-nose metaphor, here the Oswegatchie River joints the St. Lawrence River, with Canada looking on; this week, a new class (2024!) of Laurentians arrived to St. Lawrence University’s campus.
A wet, mild California winter (rather the opposite of what the Bay Area is unfortunately currently experiencing) may make for a lovely view in wine country, but I’m not sure I’d want to stop at that particular seat… It looks like it has captured more than its share of the dampness of its environs.
Against the backdrop of mostly native flora on the hillside, the palms and vines in the foreground are notable for being (1) particularly emblematic of California, in spite of being (2) transplants from elsewhere.
Dana Dining Hall looks warm and inviting on a cold winter night; I think the car passing quickly by (rather than standing still in the cold, like me) had the right idea.
Days are shortening and skies are hardening and winter is coming.
Even on a chilly weekday morning in late November, this Parisian street market was busy. The narrow cobblestone streets were busy with shoppers.
The narrowness of the streets is really apparent at a corner, where even a wide-angle lens can’t open them up. (I did appreciate the mild irony of travel across the planet to find a corner Mexican restaurant that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Berkeley.)
Today’s guest post is an image by Lee Sullivan, taken on her way home from hockey practice.
On a chunky rock in the middle of the Grasse River through Canton, New York, the lack of good soil has kept the trees small and bonsai-esque.
This quiet winter evening (Christmas day, as it turns out) presented a delicate mirroring between sky and earth, broken by the presence of a single buoy.
St. Lawrence University’s campus is quiet for the moment; athletes have returned early from break but pretty much everyone else is still on winter vacation. The snow adds an extra layer of dampening.
When they return, the school will once again take on its weird ski lodge vibe.
When winter is temporarily interrupted (as it is today in Northern New York) by a sudden thaw and double aliquot of rain, the ice on the Grasse River breaks up and clusters around the rocks and islands. This path in Canton, New York has been rendered impassable by a pack of rogue ice forced between the two sets of stairs by the high water.
An early winter afternoon on a Parisian street means the minimal aliquot of sunlight peaking between buildings and turning the pedestrians to silhouettes. School just let out in the 15th arrondissement and parents walk their squads of enfants home.