An hour over chili

The bowl of chili is hot, the corn bread straight from the oven, the salad crisp and full of cut up fresh vegetables. The talk falls to Paris. And then to Poland. And to the generations that lived before us there. The ones that endured the shifting borders, who, rather than feeling displaced, developed a fierce allegiance to the concept of nationhood. And to those living there now, willingly (for the most part) falling into step with the EU even though, at some level at least, it must run counter to the concept of nationalism (maybe it's time). And those to the west of Poland, those who tampered with the border and on whose economy Poland now depends.

And about somewhat shabby hotels with relics from the past, tied to that past, trying to keep pace with the demands placed on them by people like us, with our computers and finicky demands for freshness and crispness (I have them too). And about stores filled with merchandise, proudly displayed, in excess of what any family (except for a handful) can afford. About the crowds filling a square that has café tables spilling over one another, so that there’s hardly room for the pigeons (which may be a good thing, if you ask me).

And now I am drifting back, scanning the place, noting the stalls of flowers – so many flowers! Who are the recipients of all these flowers? And the trumpeter is out doing his hourly number at the top of the tallest of the two church towers…

So you’re really coming to visit this spring? -- I ask.
Yes, wouldn’t miss it for anything.