from Warsaw, one more time

I never knew that all squirrels were not red, just like most foxes are not red, or even orange, until I left Warsaw as a kid and traveled to New York. It was a shock to see a gray squirrel in Central Park!





I sit and listen to the music that the hotel has chosen to turn on in our room. It’s gentle music. Mostly classical (every once in a while they’ll play Chopin and I’ll say to my daughter – that’s Chopin! – and she’ll say – I know that, mom).

Poland.

My sister tells me it’s my name day today (December 15). Weird. I have never in my life celebrated a name day.

We’re walking through Lazienki Park – she, her sons, my daughter and I. I've not had a return to Warsaw without a trip to Lazienki. Even though today, again, Warsaw is gripped by a blast of cold air, so that we cannot hesitate much. Must keep walking. Past a snow covered Chopin...










...through a park that is unusually empty. Except for the group of schoolchildren. Hearty Polish stock!










...and of course, past the birds – in and out of water.












...and the squirrels.

Most often I do not enter the Lazienki summer palace. But this time I’m liking the idea of pausing there, walking through the rooms, looking out at the park from within.






We resume our walk. Perhaps this is my most sentimental moment – leaving footprints on the snow covering the familiar alleys of the park. On this cold cold winter day.











We have lunch at the modern alternative to the Bar Mleczny (remember the Milk Bar? It’s in yesterday’s post) – “Green Way.” It’s a chain of Polish vegetarian food (with emphasis on the vegetable as opposed to the starch) and it’s warm and filling. I have whole wheat nalesniki (blintzes) with spinach, my daughter has pierogi with vegetables, both are accompanied with the ubiquitous in Poland grated carrot. It’s good for your eyes, my grandmother used to say.















And then we part ways. My sister and her sons will be returning to Sweden and England and of course, by the end of the week-end, my daughter and I will be back in the Midwest.

For now, we have work to do and so we pick up a few standard Polish bakery items...


 


...and head for our hotel. The long way. I tell her we cannot let the visit go by without one good look at the Palace of Culture. I like to see it because it is so unchanging, so solidly there, in the heart of Warsaw. Not that it’s especially beloved (quite the opposite in fact), but to me it’s smacks of Warsaw as I knew her. From days when Poland felt at once abandoned and isolated, oppressively regulated, yet in my very young eyes – exceptionally gentle and pretty. This was my city and I was loyal. Until I left. Funny how that works.





And now it’s evening. My daughter and I visit my father again – to say good bye and to wish him well. He always has a last word to say, last message to deliver. We listen. And then we leave.


Our last evening in Poland is reserved for my loyal friends from university days. This time, they and their daughters (who are only a tad older than my daughters) are hosting a special holiday meal at a local restaurant. We are joined by three other good friends – some who have never met my daughter – and it is such a beautiful evening that, as usual, I get a tad weepy when it all ends.

I’ll leave you with a photo of the table, just before we all sit down. I have come to accept the fact that my generation of friends here cannot fully grasp why people blog, nor keep facebook pages. I don’t think I’ve made a dent in persuading them that for some, story blogging is an expression with just a wee bit of value. Especially for someone who, at a very young age, wrote in her own autograph book (remember those?) "I want to be a journalist," and later changed that to "I want to be a writer," and then, in the end, did neither. Funny how that... etc.





It’s late. Friends drop us off at the hotel and they return to their homes and we will be returning to ours soon too.

But first, we have to rewind the trip back. Tomorrow (Thursday) we’ll be speeding back to Berlin.

from Warsaw: correspondence

A return to Warsaw for me, has three essential parts to it: seeing family, spending time with friends whom I have known for some forty years, and getting a pulse on my Polishness again. It’s very basic, really – this need of ours to come to terms with our adult life by poking around in places where we spent our formative years. For me, everything happens to be concentrated in Warsaw.

And today was most certainly a day for family matters.

[Our arrival in Warsaw the previous day was not without adventure, but it seems now so long ago that I’ll gloss over it – especially since I had inadvertently drained my camera battery and so I have no props to help you along. I’ll say this – there are parts to it that are best forgotten – like the search for a taxi after leaving the train station, and there are parts that stand out as quite memorable in a good way – like the chaotic but delicious supper at U Kucharzy, or the settling in and unpacking (finally) at the wonderful art deco hotel, the Rialto.]

Family. Most anyone can come up with stories about quirky family members and the kind, benevolent ones, and those who are both quirky and benevolent. But family stories are not good blog material, even for a story blogger like me. I can say this much about my own extended family. First of all, it’s not really very extended even as it is also extremely dispersed. I have one sister, two nephews and then some cousins whom I never see. And a mother on the western tail end of the United States and a father on the eastern tail end of Europe. And one more notable thing: since I was a very little kid, my family has suffered many necessary and unnecessary separations. We have become quite used to living in this way. Call it adaptation, call it what you will. We live too far to easily manage crossing each others paths. But we managed this time. And so this trip stands out as bringing together three of my father’s four grandchildren, and both of his two daughters, all at one time, under one roof. Very remarkable, considering that none of us (besides my dad) lives in Poland anymore.



A subset of us had breakfast together at a café that I like, even as it is principally a bakery of extravagant sweets. We stayed with the yeasty cheese roll and the poppyseed cake.





Fortified, my daughter and I took off on a day long hike through Warsaw. We walked a little through my childhood park (Ujazdowski) even though it was the absolutely hands down coldest day of the year (if not decade)...





...and we walked past the Square of the Three Crosses, and onto Nowy Swiat and Krakowkie Przedmiescie – to those who know Warsaw, you’ll know the circuit. To others – oh, just follow along (with the help pf photos)...















Some hours later (and chilled to the bone) we are in the Old Town.



 







Here, too, we find a Christmas Market. Stands with familiar folk art. And with Polish foods. We settle for grilled smoked cheese with cranberries thinking that any warm food would have to feel remedial on a bitter cold day like this. That there are others who choose to stroll here today says much about the hearty Polish stock. Or about the need to ignore the elements when they act up in this way. Or about the use of shawls, hats and furs to keep warm.












Which reminds me of one more food stop we made. To buy doughnuts -- with orange rind glaze and rose petal jam inside. Very popular here and expertly made at Blikle.










Throughout the day, we poke around stores with crafts and foods and all things that I would label as being very Polish. Sometimes in conventional, sometimes in unconventional presentations.





In one store of artisanal, regional, seasonal, natural (or some subset of the above) I found something I hadn’t seen since my childhood: syrup made of young pine buds and sugar. My grandmother made this concoction each spring and I could never forget the taste – even as my daughter now asks – what do you do with it? In tea, I drank it in tea. On cold, cold winter days.





The snow continues to fall. Lightly, yes, that, but without interruption. My girl wants to stop for lunch at a "milk bar." She’s read about them and she’s curious. I’m only half into this plan. As I tell her – sometimes we like to move beyond certain markers of our youth and for me, moving away from milk bars would count as a good thing.

In the post war years, these places were packed with people who needed a cheap and filling meal. You chose your dishes, paid for them, retrieved them from the ladies who plated your order and found a place to quickly eat. Milk bars were (and are) alcohol free and for the most part vegetarian. Meat was a scarse commodity in the post war years. Milk bars made you feel okay about the meatless food you were eating – pierogi, blintzes, soups – all with plenty of salt, or sugar and starch and of course, cream. Cream felt rich and decadent in lean times.





The food was (and continues to be) very very cheap. A filling dinner will cost you maybe a few small coins (the municipalities subsidize these places and indeed, milk bars are often frequented by the aged or the down and out, as well as by students, and really, most anyone who can’t worry about spending more for a midday meal). In years where my mother was too preoccupied to attend to cooking, she would tell us to pick up dinner at the local milk bar.





But, my girl’s enthusiastic and so we head for one of the few remaining milk bars in Warsaw. We buy the usual – the soup that is as Polish as they come – sorrel soup, with a hard boiled egg for good measure. The pierogi are the old standby – sauerkraut and mushroom. The other pierogi are a tad sweet, but still, not unusual – cheese and blueberries.





She says  -- delicious! I say bleh... In theory only. It's heavy food that I grew to resist in my teen years. It became clear then that if I were to stay within a fresh and honest framework (I have loved the fresh and honest from obscenely early ages) I would need to learn to cook. Or leave the country. In the end I did both.


In the evening, my sister, her sons, my daughter and I came to my father’s apartment which was also our home for all those tumultuous adolescent years. My father likes to recall stories from his political past and this time he had a captive and often captivated audience.









... We then went out to a supper at a neighborhood place that has become my father’s favorite – for the food to a small extent. For the music and the liveliness of the place even more. The roving musicians played Polish songs and it doesn’t take much to get a Pole to join in.

So you could say it was a very jovial evening. Even if later, as we moved ever so slowly to escort my dad home, I thought the sadder thoughts that one has when one thinks of distant family separated by an ocean and by decades of living apart.

The snow keeps falling, slowly, shyly almost, my nephews and sister go off to catch the subway home, and my daughter and I retreated to the hotel. There, I read a letter my father gave me. I was the author of it and I had written it to my mother. She was then in Warsaw and I had, at the age of 21, just moved to go to grad school in Chicago. The letter was long – I was a solid letter writer – and it struck me that it had certain similarities to my story telling here, on Ocean.

It’s good to find continuity in this way – whether real or imagined. You can lean back and say to yourself – yep, it all makes sense. Because for a fleeting second, it does.

from Krakow

We have a leisurely walk from our Krakow hotel to the train station. Even with suitcases (yes, both!) it’s not a struggle. Twenty minutes along the pretty streets of the old town, down the passageway, up again and we’re at the station. With twenty-five minutes to spare. In train travel there’s such a thing as too much time. Without a place to sit and stay warm, you can easily regret an early arrival.

And so, with time and nothing else to occupy me,  I get into a line. It’s easy in Poland. Lines were part of my past – I’m used to them. This time I want to ask if there’s a chance they’re selling reserved seats. The German ticket agent had said (back when I bought these particular tickets from Krakow to Warsaw in Berlin) -- no. The Internet also said no. And being Polish, I distrust both. So I may as well ask the agent here.

I wait. And now it’s only fifteen minutes until the scheduled departure. I notice the man before me is holding tickets to Warsaw as well.
For the 16:05? – I ask.
No no, the 15:55.

But the schedule said 16:05.

That was yesterday. They changed the schedule. Don’t worry – we have six minutes. Just go to track five after this.

But he has a change of ticketing and I have my question about seats (“Yes of course we reserve seats. You want two?”) and now we are just two minutes before departure. Run, daughter, run! I shout. But it’s not on track five after all – they changed that as well in the last five minutes. Track four. No escalator. Up the stairs, with suitcases clumsily bouncing after us.

We get on, panting, and the door slams shut behind us.

We have a jovial young crowd in our compartment. They complain about the heat in the car, about the sudden standstill, about the winter. They, like so many Poles that I know, find comfort in making fun of systemic shortcomings that are beyond their control. We laugh until tears roll down my face. My daughter looks at us and I want to remind her:  Polish is an impossible language. Don’t worry about not understanding. In three days, the disquiet that comes from not knowing what those around you are saying will disappear. But I say nothing.

Even though every time she and I pause at places where I switch from English with her, to Polish with the sales clerks, they ask me – your daughter? Yes... Why didn’t you teach her Polish? Ah, born there, dad doesn’t speak it, sure, that’s understandable. Still, did you teach her any of it?



We had arrived in Krakow the previous day to a delicate snow and a still and cold night. We hauled our bags up to the center of the city, avoiding, but just barely, the slip and slide of the inclines.





It is a gorgeous way to reenter the city.





Krakow is beautiful. Really. True, I see it these years in, I think, its best seasons – spring and winter. In the weeks just before Christmas, the Main Square opens up to a holiday market and my daughter tells me that it is a far far more authentic experience than the Berlin market we visited just a day ago.





On the night of our arrival, it’s quite late and we are quite hungry. We pick a place that serves Polish food (Miod Malina) and we study the menu. Pierogi. Yes, there must be those. But also something to start the meal. Something to nibble on with the first Polish beer. Maybe a small portion of potato pancakes with mushrooms and grilled smoked sheep’s milk cheese, with cranberries.

So, the starters and then one shared order of pierogi. The cheese ones (always called Russian, for no reason that I can think of) and the sauerkraut and mushroom ones.

Then we’ll go to the main course – short ribs for her, and a meat with chanterelles for me. Because I love chanterelles so very much (yes, that’s right: fond memories, this time of hunting for them each summer in the forest at the edge of the village where my grandparents lived; after a good solid rain they were easy to find – in clusters at the base of trees).

All this with good Polish beer.

But wait – what’s with the plates of starters? Nibble food indeed! It’s a meal onto itself!





And the pierogi – good thing we ordered only one portion. The full one has ten of them.





By the time we have the main courses placed before us...


 


...we’re swimming in butter dribbled dishes and heavy cream sauces. I tell the waitress that the portions are huge! She beams. I know! You go to some restaurants and you finish your meal and you’re hungry. We don’t do that here!


We stagger back to the hotel. It’s good to walk after such a meal. Perhaps this explains a Pole’s love of a spacer – a promenade – to help process the food that seems not to have lightened over the years.







I stay up late, attending to emails, to my photos from the day. When I look up, I notice the snow. It’s very delicate – nonthreatening. Even though I know that in a few days, Poland’ weather will turn bitter cold. Gentle one day, harsh the next. It’s the way December progresses here.




The next day we walk the city. We have maybe six hours and we use them well. In and around the old city center...





...and the Christmas market, too, with the foods and stalls of regional products, some solidly dusted with snow...











Indeed, there is snow everywhere.





You can't stop it. Who would want to stop it...





We walk the cobbled ways on,  down to the Wawel Castle....


 



...and finally on to Kazimierz – the old Jewish blocks, where we pause for a cup of warm soup.





The temperatures are starting to drop. The snow is pretty, but a constant cloud cover means that you never have a chance to take in the sun’s warmth. We head back to the Main Square and pause at a café for a warm beverage and a shared szarlotka – apple cake. Yes, with cream. Whipped cream this time.





And now we are speeding to Warsaw. The Krakow – Warsaw train is nearly always very fast and the compartments are full.  But my mind is on Krakow still. What can I say... the city leaves an afterglow.


 


Three hours later, we are in Warsaw.