Good morning from Warsaw! I am in that wonderful three weeks of March where I am closer to people back home time wise -- a nice illusion, created by the fact that the European Union springs its clocks forward three weeks later than we do, so that the time difference is now only 6 hours as opposed to the usual 7. It's easier on the brain to calculate where everyone's at back home, but more importantly, it feels (oddly) like I'm less far away.
My day is spent dancing around tonight's dinner for my friends. I'm fixing something easy -- spaghetti with seafood. I recommend it for exactly this type of occasion: you have lots of people coming to eat and you have little time to do much of anything for them. There is no silly fussing. You do the sauce (white or red -- I'm going with red because it seems more substantial and people love grating parmesan onto their pasta, which works for red, but can sometimes feel out of whack on white), you throw in the sea food (one type at a time), then the separately cooked pasta and boom! Done.
I still have light, neighborhood shopping to do and so I begin my day in this way. Three stops on my first round, just two blocks away from my apartment.
(My street ...)
First, the Italian deli, where I supplement my cache of antipasti foods and my wines.
Secondly, I go to the bread store. Poles are like the French in many ways and one of them is that both love bread, especially but not only, as a side kick to their main meal. My neighborhood baker is superb. Here's a picture of just some of their selections:
It's always crowded. Always.
Thirdly, I pause at the produce stand. In the summer, I'll go to the "superior" produce stand another two blocks down the road, but honestly, there's little need -- this guy's stuff is pretty good!
He's also good natured and he sells flowers. Rain or shine, snow or scorching sun, he's always here. I ask him about that. I take January and February off. And Sundays. Otherwise -- I'm here!
And now I'm home and it's time for breakfast.
In many ways, nothing here changes from my morning meal back home. Still, to me, it's soooo different! The kefir in Poland has a completely different taste. The honey? Way different. The blueberries are identical and identically flown in from Chile. [I admit to having a blueberry fixation year round and will step away from steering local, or at least of the same continent, for the sake of this blue fruit, which, by the way, is not called a blueberry in Poland. That term ("jagoda" translating to "blueberry") is reserved only for the wild fruits that grow in the forests here in midsummer. The Chilean blueberries, which are also the cultivated American blueberries, are called "borowki" here -- a term that literally translates to "cranberries" in English. Are you confused yet???] The tulips on my table are serious tulips. In Madison, grocery stores now sell the short Canadian or Virginia grown flowers. Nice, but the ones sold here are elegant!
(My vendor had plenty nice ones, though in fact, you wont go for many blocks before coming across someone selling tulips.)
Too, going back to my breakfast photo -- notice the "bazie" in the pink jug by the window. (I'm used to translating them as "pussy willow" in the American way, though the English would prefer "catlkins.") Ubiquitous here in March! I mean, roll over everything else that's smacks of spring -- pussy willows are in everyone's home now. And they're in mine, too.
One final comment on "there versus here": I like that Polish supermarkets sell parsley (and many other common herbs) by the pot. (Note the parsley pot on my window sill.) In France, you can pick up few free parsley sprigs at your local market when you make other purchases. In the U.S. you have to buy a whole big fat bunch. How many of us routinely throw away rotten, unused parsley?
After breakfast, I set out for just one purchase: additional seafood for my pasta dish. I bought the shrimp yesterday, at the supermarket, but I want fresh mussels and possibly squid and maybe a chunk of fish. For this, I want a fish store.
I go to my local one, just down the street. No mussels. She tells me there was a run on mussels yesterday. She wont get new ones until Wednesday.
From here, I go to seven other fish stores -- yes, seven! -- big and small, recommended by friends, stumbled upon by accident. The vendors shake their heads. No, no -- it's Saturday. All out until Wednesday. (Why Wednesday? I cannot say.)
Let it be known that I will never, ever plan a meal with mussels here unless I am cooking it on a Wednesday.
But in looking for mussels, I take a run through a whole chunk of Warsaw and that in itself is interesting as it takes me away from the pretty paths that I usually take...
... and into places and spaces that may be grand or terribly indifferent, but they sure as heck have reputable fish stores.
(Warsaw transformed itself so often and so much in the last 60 years that it strikes me as being terribly eclectic now, with a mishmash of architectural styles.)
(I cross the Saski Park. Empty today. Many many people are hitting the stores, as the government has just mandated another closing of all shops on Sunday.)
Back to the Old Town neighborhood...
As I pass by the monument to Copernicus (in front of the Polish Academy of Sciences), I see that there is a demonstration taking place. I've been warned that these gatherings can turn mean. Poland is polarized right now in ways that is still beyond the imagination of an American. Most of us back home wear our beliefs on our sleeves, but here, unless you're among close friends, you can't be sure where a person stands. And here's the thing: that positioning can be tame, it can be intellectually interesting, or it can be, well -- brutal.
It's not something that I would write about here, on Ocean. Controversy isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's surely not something that I want to stir up here. Still, the demonstration moves me. It conjures up images and memories. I come closer, a grocery bag dangling from my shoulder. I read the sings. (Translating a few to give you a sense of things: "In solidarity with Muslims in New Zealand: Stop Islamophobia," "Fascists go away," "Diversity: why do we like it in the supermarkets but not in the streets?" and so on)
I am reminded of a moment in March, 1968, so fifty-one years ago. I had been doing exactly the same thing: taking groceries home (bread at that time) and I stumbled upon an anti-government student protest. I got nearer. A policeman saw me and pounced, hitting me repeatedly with a club.
There were plenty of policemen today, by the Copernicus monument, but they were there to keep order, standing to the side. While the people chanted and spoke their messages.
It wasn't a big gathering, but many groups were represented. (One of the signs in the above photo pit grandmothers against fascism. The one below has women protesting fascism. Etc.)
At one point a choir sang a yiddish song. A few moments later, words were passed around to a song that was sung to the tune of the Battle Hyman of the Republic. The chorus was simple:
Solidarity's our weapon, solidarity's our weapon...
From there, the group marched to the New Zealand embassy. Me, I returned to my local fish store where, giving up on mussels, I bough squid, scallops and salmon.
The dinner. It's a blur now, of course. It's nearly 3 a.m.. I haven't picked up a single dirty dish. Let me just post a few photos, most of them taken by one guest or another...
As always, lots of intense conversation, lots of laughter...
... the occasional serious face...
(the women)
... quickly finishing my cooking tasks...
Eating.
And a repetition of all the above many times over. (Between us, we have 22 grandchildren - that alone is fodder for shared stories!)
This, of course, is why I come here: to see my sister and to spend time with my friends. All those flights, all the thinking about what to cook, what to bring -- it's for this night.
So... should I get to the dirty dishes, the mess? The beauty of being 65 is that you can easily shrug your shoulders, turn away from it all and go to sleep.
My day is spent dancing around tonight's dinner for my friends. I'm fixing something easy -- spaghetti with seafood. I recommend it for exactly this type of occasion: you have lots of people coming to eat and you have little time to do much of anything for them. There is no silly fussing. You do the sauce (white or red -- I'm going with red because it seems more substantial and people love grating parmesan onto their pasta, which works for red, but can sometimes feel out of whack on white), you throw in the sea food (one type at a time), then the separately cooked pasta and boom! Done.
I still have light, neighborhood shopping to do and so I begin my day in this way. Three stops on my first round, just two blocks away from my apartment.
(My street ...)
First, the Italian deli, where I supplement my cache of antipasti foods and my wines.
Secondly, I go to the bread store. Poles are like the French in many ways and one of them is that both love bread, especially but not only, as a side kick to their main meal. My neighborhood baker is superb. Here's a picture of just some of their selections:
It's always crowded. Always.
Thirdly, I pause at the produce stand. In the summer, I'll go to the "superior" produce stand another two blocks down the road, but honestly, there's little need -- this guy's stuff is pretty good!
He's also good natured and he sells flowers. Rain or shine, snow or scorching sun, he's always here. I ask him about that. I take January and February off. And Sundays. Otherwise -- I'm here!
And now I'm home and it's time for breakfast.
In many ways, nothing here changes from my morning meal back home. Still, to me, it's soooo different! The kefir in Poland has a completely different taste. The honey? Way different. The blueberries are identical and identically flown in from Chile. [I admit to having a blueberry fixation year round and will step away from steering local, or at least of the same continent, for the sake of this blue fruit, which, by the way, is not called a blueberry in Poland. That term ("jagoda" translating to "blueberry") is reserved only for the wild fruits that grow in the forests here in midsummer. The Chilean blueberries, which are also the cultivated American blueberries, are called "borowki" here -- a term that literally translates to "cranberries" in English. Are you confused yet???] The tulips on my table are serious tulips. In Madison, grocery stores now sell the short Canadian or Virginia grown flowers. Nice, but the ones sold here are elegant!
(My vendor had plenty nice ones, though in fact, you wont go for many blocks before coming across someone selling tulips.)
Too, going back to my breakfast photo -- notice the "bazie" in the pink jug by the window. (I'm used to translating them as "pussy willow" in the American way, though the English would prefer "catlkins.") Ubiquitous here in March! I mean, roll over everything else that's smacks of spring -- pussy willows are in everyone's home now. And they're in mine, too.
One final comment on "there versus here": I like that Polish supermarkets sell parsley (and many other common herbs) by the pot. (Note the parsley pot on my window sill.) In France, you can pick up few free parsley sprigs at your local market when you make other purchases. In the U.S. you have to buy a whole big fat bunch. How many of us routinely throw away rotten, unused parsley?
After breakfast, I set out for just one purchase: additional seafood for my pasta dish. I bought the shrimp yesterday, at the supermarket, but I want fresh mussels and possibly squid and maybe a chunk of fish. For this, I want a fish store.
I go to my local one, just down the street. No mussels. She tells me there was a run on mussels yesterday. She wont get new ones until Wednesday.
From here, I go to seven other fish stores -- yes, seven! -- big and small, recommended by friends, stumbled upon by accident. The vendors shake their heads. No, no -- it's Saturday. All out until Wednesday. (Why Wednesday? I cannot say.)
Let it be known that I will never, ever plan a meal with mussels here unless I am cooking it on a Wednesday.
But in looking for mussels, I take a run through a whole chunk of Warsaw and that in itself is interesting as it takes me away from the pretty paths that I usually take...
... and into places and spaces that may be grand or terribly indifferent, but they sure as heck have reputable fish stores.
(Warsaw transformed itself so often and so much in the last 60 years that it strikes me as being terribly eclectic now, with a mishmash of architectural styles.)
(I cross the Saski Park. Empty today. Many many people are hitting the stores, as the government has just mandated another closing of all shops on Sunday.)
Back to the Old Town neighborhood...
As I pass by the monument to Copernicus (in front of the Polish Academy of Sciences), I see that there is a demonstration taking place. I've been warned that these gatherings can turn mean. Poland is polarized right now in ways that is still beyond the imagination of an American. Most of us back home wear our beliefs on our sleeves, but here, unless you're among close friends, you can't be sure where a person stands. And here's the thing: that positioning can be tame, it can be intellectually interesting, or it can be, well -- brutal.
It's not something that I would write about here, on Ocean. Controversy isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's surely not something that I want to stir up here. Still, the demonstration moves me. It conjures up images and memories. I come closer, a grocery bag dangling from my shoulder. I read the sings. (Translating a few to give you a sense of things: "In solidarity with Muslims in New Zealand: Stop Islamophobia," "Fascists go away," "Diversity: why do we like it in the supermarkets but not in the streets?" and so on)
I am reminded of a moment in March, 1968, so fifty-one years ago. I had been doing exactly the same thing: taking groceries home (bread at that time) and I stumbled upon an anti-government student protest. I got nearer. A policeman saw me and pounced, hitting me repeatedly with a club.
There were plenty of policemen today, by the Copernicus monument, but they were there to keep order, standing to the side. While the people chanted and spoke their messages.
It wasn't a big gathering, but many groups were represented. (One of the signs in the above photo pit grandmothers against fascism. The one below has women protesting fascism. Etc.)
At one point a choir sang a yiddish song. A few moments later, words were passed around to a song that was sung to the tune of the Battle Hyman of the Republic. The chorus was simple:
Solidarity's our weapon, solidarity's our weapon...
From there, the group marched to the New Zealand embassy. Me, I returned to my local fish store where, giving up on mussels, I bough squid, scallops and salmon.
The dinner. It's a blur now, of course. It's nearly 3 a.m.. I haven't picked up a single dirty dish. Let me just post a few photos, most of them taken by one guest or another...
As always, lots of intense conversation, lots of laughter...
... the occasional serious face...
(the women)
... quickly finishing my cooking tasks...
Eating.
And a repetition of all the above many times over. (Between us, we have 22 grandchildren - that alone is fodder for shared stories!)
This, of course, is why I come here: to see my sister and to spend time with my friends. All those flights, all the thinking about what to cook, what to bring -- it's for this night.
So... should I get to the dirty dishes, the mess? The beauty of being 65 is that you can easily shrug your shoulders, turn away from it all and go to sleep.
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