leaving Warsaw

 Last night, I looked out my hotel window and saw this:

 

 

I've not written much about Poland and the Ukraine because I think it's so obvious what's taking place -- both today in Alaska, and for all these years since Putin unleashed his aggression against our eastern neighbor. (There! I wrote "our" neighbor! Am I today so full of Poland that I think of it in the possessive form? I'm not sure.)

Let me say this much: the current president of Poland pumped up the anti-immigrant sentiment emerging in parts of the country and of course, in this way, rallied the discontent to vote for him. Prior to his election this spring, he promised that he would support a law that ensures that "Poles can't be treated worse than immigrants." 

When will we ever learn to stop listening to this deliberate anti-other sentiment, expressed by power hungry politicians?

The guy won the elections and in my meetings with my friends we had loud discussion as to who had the most hate-filled leader right now. If I was told "you have no idea how bad it was in Poland in the 80s," I wanted to retort "you have no idea how bad it is for so many in my country and beyond right now!" (Yes, my country.)

I go to sleep after midnight, and wake up at 5. 

 

 

I didn't think I'd get back to sleep, after reading emails and taking that photo, but I did! I woke up minutes before I was to be downstairs for breakfast. Thank goodness that I packed last night! 

It's going to be another hot day in Europe.

Poland is celebrating a double holiday today -- the Catholic Assumption Day (which is also a public holiday in France) and the Armed Forces Day (which celebrates the 1920 victory over Soviet Russia). Everything is closed, roads are cordoned off for the military parade. In a way, it's a good day to be leaving. Varsovians love to escape from the city and they do this for the long weekend that falls in their lap this year. The city isn't totally empty, but it feels artificially quiet.

I go down to breakfast. Oatmeal, a cinnamon roll. I have five postcards for five kids that I finished writing way past midnight. I address them now. 

 

 

 

And Bee comes over and we have a very beautiful hour together. Not long enough, but then, it can never be long enough.

 

 

 

I'm checked out of the hotel, I say good bye to the reception staff. You're surprised that I mention this insignificant detail? Well now, it's important to me: the staff at the Puro Old Town is simply fabulous. One of them -- Pan Patryk -- helped me with all sorts of weird requests (you'd think I'd need nothing, given how much I am at home in Warsaw, and yet I was constantly making inquiries and putting in requests), all with a smile. And a sweet comment: for living so long in America, he tells me, you speak Polish supremely well! Almost with no accent! Ha, ha ha. When he knew I wouldn't see him again on this trip, he gave me the biggest hug. I was touched. 

A taxi is waiting. As I hand over my suitcase, a woman, also with a suitcase, comes rushing over. You wouldn't happen to be going to the airport? -- she asks. Can I ride with you? I'll happily pay my share! I'm so damned suspicious of the unusual requests of strangers that I have to ask her -- why? She tells me: I can't find a cab! They shut down all the streets for the parade and now the cab stand is empty. Of course, I wave her in.

Being Polish, I am curious about her. So we chat, joined in by my the cab driver. About everything from last year's Taylor Swift concert in Warsaw to the Puro hotel group. My grateful passenger has a high opinion of these hotels as well, and we speculate at length as to what makes them so great. Of course, I'm speaking in Polish. But as we pull up to the airport, a comment was floated that required me to reveal that I am American. Oh, we guessed that! -- says my gallant cab driver. And the other passenger agrees. It's not that you have an accent exactly... 

I protest: but my hotel staff, my friends -- they tell me I have none (or almost none if you ask Mr. Patryk)! From the cabbie: they have a vested interest in pumping you up. I will never see you again so I can speak the truth -- there's something about the way you talk that tells me you're American.

Wow. So there you have it. It's obvious to everyone -- I am not really Polish anymore. I've lost my hold on the one thing that fully kicks you into a camp of total inclusion -- a perfect command of a language, or really of a speaking style. I talk (and therefore act?) like an American.

 

My flight to Paris is lovely. On time, smooth. I've done this route a million times and I like it in both directions. And this time I feel that I really need the pause before returning home. I need to unscramble and reset. I need to not rush, to not drop it all and move on to the next thing. I need to think.

 

In Paris, I wanted to take the train into town, but in the end I gave up on that. I packed my suitcase full of candy and gifts -- from friends, and for family and friends. It's heavy. Paris is hot and the air quality index isn't the best. So I cab over to the Baume. Ah, how I love explaining my destination! Hotel Baume (pronounced Boh-m), on the Left Bank, I tell the cabbie. Hotel de la Bomb?? I can't find it. He fiddles with the Navigator. There's no "de la," just Baume, that's B-A-U-M-E. On Delavigne. No "de la," but on Delavigne? Ah, Baume! Le voila! They always find it, but it's ever the production. Or is it that Parisian cabbies get bored with having it so easy with Navigator, and they look to grab back some of the adventure in searching out destinations? 

 It will forever be a happy return to the Baume for me. If Puro had Patryk, Baume has Alma, Eduard, Gabriel, and of course Sylvia. Superstars, all of them. Indeed, Sylvia comes out to greet me. How was Varsovie? -- it feels like I am back from a lengthy, tumultuous  journey (and maybe I am!), returning home.  And my room? Heaven. It's always one of two that I love (all those windows!), no surprises. My Parisian bubble.

 

It's late afternoon in Paris. I deliberately have no plans for the day (in fact for most of my days here). I want to take walks, I'll be making a day trip out of the city, and I will actually not end with Paris: my last two nights in Europe will be in the French countryside. Today, I just want to take it easy. Unpack, stay in my room, read, write. Walk in the park.

 In case you think this is insanely boring, because after all, I am in PARIS, I'll throw out this much: I'll be eating dinners at new places every single night I am here (I'm heading back home on Thursday). Who says that thing about old dogs!

 

For dinner I head out to La Gorgee. (My searches these days are all about distance, fresh and honest, price, and liked by locals.) 

It's a perfect 15 minute walk, through the Luxembourg Gardens, which close at 8:45pm today (then, reminding us of the passing of summer, at 8:15pm, starting tomorrow).

And in the park, I notice it most of all: Paris is so... quiet. Fewer tourists, I am told. Many Americans are staying home. 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, so few Parisians in town that I could count them. Here, these young women stopped by the restaurant just for a drink. They were French. (La Gorgee has outside tables. In the evening we all flock to them.)

On my other side there is a somewhat stunning Frenchman (I dared not photograph him) and for some reason he asks me where I'm from. I tell him, head down, shoulders slumped. Ah, well, she is English --he says, nodding to his fluently French speaking companion. We commiserated about the strangeness of these times, until he said "no politics!" I returned to my book.  My waiter thought my Kindle set up was awesome. Not bad for your eyes though? Oh, I don't know! I love it.

The food? It checks all the boxes. I like what I order -- veggies, followed by pollock, followed by this concoction:

 

 

 

I mean, vacherin glacee for dessert? My world! Although I have to say, with Beza in Poland and Vacherin in Paris, my sugar load is getting awfully high.

I walk back to my hotel at 8:30, so just before the park closes. It's really rare to catch a sunset at the Luxembourg Gardens. The park closure is always timed just before the sun is down. To catch it, you must come just before they push back the closure. And of course, I have to be here at that moment of near change, and it has to be a sunny day, and I have to be done with dinner, so definitely it must be summertime, and the restaurant has to be nearby. I tell you it's rare. But I got it today.

I come back to my room so deeply grateful. I wont list all the reasons why. Perhaps they are obvious?

with so much love...