Poland 10: from Warsaw to London

I    Last Thoughts on Poland as I Take Off

You've picked up the running theme here: when I am in Warsaw, it's hard to forget the past. The thing is, it's not just me. Poles are stuck with carrying the burden of the country's history. Recent history at that. My parents' generation could not possibly shake off their war memories (though my mother was spared that: she lived in the US when the war broke out in Europe), memories of the political upheaval as the Soviet Union became the de facto dictator of our country's future. My own generation was stuck with that burden as well: when I was a kid, it was not unusual to come across heaps of rubble where buildings once stood. Warsaw struggled to rebuild herself from really nothing without much help from anyone. We saw that. And a crazy drama continued to unfold all through a postwar Pole's life: the revolt against authoritarianism, the pushback and strategically positioned tanks from the Soviets, then the beginning of the end, starting in 1968 when I was still in high school: the student uprising, and for all my friends who then married or had children -- the imposition of martial law (1981: the year my daughter was born in Wisconsin, never really having to grasp any of this), the fear of what would come next, the birth of Solidarity, and in 1989 the collapse of the dictatorship, but too, of at least some of the safeguards -- of guaranteed work (lousy pay, nothing to buy, but you had a job), of free social services, and the plunge into the hefty and risky world of a competitive market economy. Then, one last dig in your ribs: the threat of authoritarian rule in this century, which only this past year diminished, as a result of a brilliant turnout at Poland's democratic elections, with the return of a cautious optimism, but with a hefty bit of worry as Russia inched closer to Poland once again with its war in the Ukraine. My friends lived through all that. How can they possibly not look back, compare, worry?

And when I am here, I look back too, and I add a layer of memory,  one that perhaps could be anyone's, anywhere -- family stuff. My Warsaw years were tumultuous at home. Ultimately, my parents' marriage broke up, but in the years they were still seemingly together, there wasn't much that you'd call happy or warm. All their energies went into something other than their kids. Which, of course, made it easier for me to leave Poland, leave them, engage in a new life in New York, look forward to what I could do with it there.

I don't like to look back too much. Ed and I live about as "in the present" as you can get. Sure, I do like to look forward (he does not), but not much to my past. 

Do you see why I so rarely come to Poland? If not for a few close friends and my sister and her son, I'd probably not go back at all. It's just not me to bombard my emotions in this way. I wrote LAS -- that was my last hurrah, last plunge into the chaos of my childhood and adolescence. Sure, I'll always want to bring the kids to Warsaw, to show them where, in part, they came from. But without that connection to those I love here, would I come alone? Rarely, if ever. I adore Poland, but I don't feel the need to repeatedly shoulder all the weight of her past and my past while I lived here.

II   A Morning Meal and a Morning Walk

This morning reminded me that to that love for my "old country," I'll add a love for and delight in the hotel that was my home in Warsaw for nine days. The Puro staff is always there, always helpful, always smiling. You want blueberries, they'll get you blueberries. Used breakfast dishes are quickly removed. You ask for water in your room, suddenly a  half a dozen cans appear on your table. You click "make up room" on the tablet and go down to breakfast, you come back up and it's all done. Great staff training, great room, great location. Total winner.

(breakfast: the foods I ate)

(the foods I did not eat -- except for the herring, yesterday)

I have about a half hour before I have to leave for the airport. A perfect amount of times to once again head toward the post office, the nicer one on Plac Trzech Krzyzy (haven't learnt to say it yet? it sounds something like Platz Tshehh Kshi-zhi), to mail a card, but really to give one last hard look at the face of Warsaw.

(waiting for the light, 1)

( a flag, a dad, two kids, and a post-communist era milk bar)

 

 

(waiting for the light, 2)

 

And then it's a quick ride to the airport (when there is no traffic, it's a 20 minute cab ride!), the usual wait for ticketing, for security, the inevitable delay that always comes with a Warsaw - Paris flight (I dont know why, but it is always late coming in, and thus late going out; this time they blame a storm over Hamburg... whatever!), the two hour flight to Paris, the rush to connect to the next leg-- the on-time flight to London.

 

III    Why London?!

To London?? -- you ask. How strange to add this to an already long (for me) trip. Didn't you once write (you ask) that you weren't especially fond of London?

It's true -- I'm not fond of it. Big city, interesting history, good museums. Expensive hotels, expensive food, a feeling of being stuck in the past or catapulted into a fast paced future, allowing too much wealth to set boundaries as to who can really live in or outside the city center. I don't even much like the parks. They feel urban. Like Central Park in New York. 

So why London? Well, I'm not really here for London. I'm here for an outing I want to do tomorrow, which I'll tell you about tomorrow. Tonight, my sole goal is to get my hotel -- the Knightsbridge, because I know the area -- it's fairly central, yet also fairly quiet -- and to eat dinner and to get some sleep.

The plan goes sort of haywire when Air France manages to not load my suitcase at the Paris airport. Oh it will arrive later tonight, but the delivery service is done for the day, so expect it tomorrow afternoon. After I will have already left London.

This sounds a lot more dramatic than it is. As luck would have it, I packed a separate bag with things that I need for England and I have that bag with me. There is nothing in the suitcase with the exception of a jar of cream that I absolutely need for the remaining days of the trip.

However.

Air France had plenty of time to load my suitcase and as a serious AF frequent flyer, I supposedly get all their perks and privileges, including priority luggage service. Whatever that means. I am sufficiently miffed at them that I intend to go shopping at Harrods Department Store tomorrow morning for a new outfit and new cosmetics and send them the bill. Which they will pay, because it's happened before and they're good that way.

In the meantime, I cab to my hotel. I could have taken the train but this would have really complicated my arrival time. This way I listened to the non stop chatter of the cab driver (it was rush hour so it took a full hour), who was somewhere between Borris Johnson and Trump in his political leanings, but I blame this on his overall disinterest in the fate of our country, to the point that for the life of him, he could not place Wisconsin on the map, thinking it to be just a few miles up north from New York City, and he hadn't a clue about Harris and only his manners probably prevented him from commenting on her gender or race. Though perhaps the English aren't as batty about stuff like that as some of the people back home. Still, I regard him as highly suspect since he admitted that he'd only been to Scotland once -- just to Glasgow of all urban and thus uninteresting places (sorry, I do like Glasgow but gee, if you live in England shouldn't you go a bit further out into the countryside?).

The hotel is very nice -- it's the cheapest from the very good and reliable Firmdale collection. It tries not to be too old fashioned (they all try not to be too old fashioned), still, after the modern ethos of the Puro, it feels charmingly enough old fashioned. But so discreet is it, that when the cab drove up, I asked -- are you sure this is it? I could not find any sign announcing its presence.

 

(my room: simple but large)

(my view)

I got upgraded to a Junior Suite -- who knows why. I haven't luggage to unpack and I'm not here even 24 hours, but there you have it. I can sit on a couch for a few minutes tonight to soak in the extra comfort.

I booked dinner at Elystan Street. You have no idea how hard it was to find a place that would be moderately priced, not too far from where I'm staying, with interesting food. You, who love the British food scene will protest: London is great for eating out! Say what you may, I always have problems here. Not wanting stodgy, formal, old world, expensive, I spend hours searching for something that will fit my parameters. Hours!

My impressions? Well, often when I eat in England I think -- they're getting the ingredients right at least, but I'm not convinced they've got the flavors right. They're just a little bit heavy. The sauces take charge rather than enhance. Elystan Street had a great write up. I think it had or has a Michelin star. People like it. But of the three dishes I tried (ravioli with seafood, a girolle and pea tart, and white peaches with red fruits and bits of meringue -- which sounded like it was made for me! -- none would I order again. Too, the restaurant is in Chelsea (17 mins from my hotel) and the diners were all of a kind. Like maybe you'd find on the upper east side of Manhattan. The staff was fabulous, the aperitif was fabulous, the setting was fabulous, the table they gave me was the best in the room. But either I ordered poorly, or I wasn't hungry enough (two AF flights meant I had TWO lunches today! Forty minute flight from Paris to London,  and they give you a lunch!), or perhaps I have just outgrown heavily sauced foods.                                                                                                                                

Walking back at night, I also had second thoughts about staying in this neighborhood again. Long long ago, when I'd come here as a young adult, it seemed awesome. British. Close to the park (such as it is), close to Harrods (for those Food Halls). Now it seems glitzy and trashy both at the same time. Garbage on the streets kind of thing. Harrods attracts tourism from the Arab states in the summer (because it's so hot in the countries from where they hail right now) and so the wealth is here, but at the same time, London just seems beat up. 

Gee, I'm really not a fan of this city am I.... Maybe I should find a place in trendy SoHo next time. Or I could mix with the academic set over by the Russell Square and the British Museum! I'll say this much: London feels diverse! And maybe a little edgy (as I watch three masked guys cavort on bikes, looking for a pocket to pick or a smart phone to snatch.)  And full of energy. And life, and even at the late hour.

(waiting, but only for so long, for the light)

For now, I'm happy with my pleasant and small and quiet and slightly but not entirely old fashioned hotel. 

And now it's late and I am feeling like the ground underneath my feet has shifted, as if there'd been a tectonic movement of plates, putting me elsewhere in this world, far away from Warsaw, far away from my past, so that I can settle again into what is now, here before me. Who knows, maybe in the morning, London will seem fabulous. I am keeping an open mind!