from Warsaw: first steps

By late evening, the streets are nearly empty. True, it’s January. But it’s not a miserably cold January. And maybe we’re not hitting the tourist by-ways. (How many tourists are there in Warsaw at this time of year anyway?) Still, Warsaw feels quiet.

Oh, there was traffic, sure, a snarl of cars, especially at the periphery of the city, driving in from the airport. But now, as we set out for a quick evening walk across the Square of the Three Crosses, just outside of where we're staying, we encounter few others.

Warsaw is like that: it can quickly become residential, with only the occasional small shop (sausages maybe?) squeezed in among rows of low rise apartment buildings.

Is there a shopping heart to the city? Ed asks.

Is there? I have to think about that.

Yes and no. This is a city of neighborhoods. You return to your own to shop for foods, to drop off your shoes at the cobbler. The heart of the city is a magnet, but not for commerce so much as for its prettiness, its café life, its parks.

But there is no time for that tonight. After many delays and a missed connection, we are dead tired. We flew in at the darkening winter hour of three, pushing through the gray clouds of a January sky.




After a quick first visit with my sister and her son, we make our way to Srodmiescie -- city center. My old neighborhood. The place where I learned to tie my shoe laces and stand in line for warm loaves of bread.

We stop at a local café-bakery...




... and order a salad of greens, pickles, egg, tomato, beans and smoked highland sheep’s milk cheese.





And, rather predictably, we end the first day with a pastry. We aren’t really hungry, but there are too few evenings here and I can’t pass it up – a bite of apple cake with baked meringue.

appetite for travel

The taxi was late. So we (yes, my occasional traveling companion is along for this ride) had to chase the bus for Chicago. There was fog. And rain. And thunder. The flight out to Paris is delayed. So we will miss our flight to Warsaw.

On the other hand:

Chicago weather is not as wretched. Free champagne is always nice. A longer layover at Charles de Gaulle means time for croissants and a cappuccino.

Travel is for the hearty. Or for those with hearty appetites.

The next three days are in Warsaw. I’ll write once we get there.

looking back

How do you regard your past? Most of the time, this is a ridiculous question. You recall moments, they’re good, they’re bad, you move on.

At other times, it’s a challenge.

When I travel back to Warsaw, I almost always ask myself this: what if I had never left? It was chance, really, that brought me to the States. I could have stayed in Warsaw. I almost stayed.

When I am in Poland, it is as if I had decided to stay. Here I am. Walking streets that are my daily route – I know the way the sidewalk concrete aligns itself in this block, I know the store that closes early on this corner.

It’s a desolate feeling, because it is not populated with the people I love – those in the States – so there’s that. I feel alone in Poland, even as it seems very much home.

Now, I imagine this is not unique to the “immigrant” who returns to the old country. Presumably if you lived all your young life in, say Columbus Ohio (is that middle America?) and then move away, but you go back at an advanced age (am I at an advanced enough age?) you feel alone. Yes, most certainly. But do you still think of Columbus Ohio as home? I mean, in the States, isn’t “home” a transferable concept?

There is no way that my Warsaw years can be picked up and transferred here. The people of Warsaw do not think and feel in the way that people in Columbus Ohio (or New York, or Chicago or Madison – the towns of my American existence) think and feel. They just don’t.

But, at the same time, I have chosen to put distance between myself and that world. I am removed from it because I want to be removed from it. No one forced me to give it up. I did it because people here drew me to their world. And I stayed.

Except when I go back. In Poland, I am not American, I am in all essential ways Polish, because, well, I grew up there.

Too foggy for you? Yes, of course. It has to be that way. As yesterday, I was thinking of all this as I was walking to the grocery store late in the afternoon. The fog in Madison was so dense that all the time I was contemplating this photo, I believed that I was watching a man walking his dog.





I was wrong. There was a man. And there was a fire hydrant. And they were not together and he was not walking the fire hydrant. Things get complicated on foggy afternoons.

the cycle of an immigrant

You have no idea how complicated it is to be an immigrant. You love your old home country. You miss it. For whatever reason, you do not live there anymore. You embrace the new land: you learn about being a resident of your curiously different, but increasingly familiar home. You don’t go back to the old place, but then you do go back. You get all nostalgic. You go back again. And again. Until you remember that it’s not all that perfect back home (in the same way that it’s not all that perfect anywhere). You think – I best put it behind me. You do, but you don’t really. You want to write a book about it all. You do write (or commence to write) a book about it all. Then you go back with renewed enthusiasm. After all, your childhood memories were good and pure and simple.

And it does not stop there.

I’m finishing up work here, but my foot is already there, in Warsaw. I can see myself on the January streets of my childhood turf. I can feel the place. Not as it feels to, say, my sister, who lives there now, but how it feels to me, the immigrant, going back to what was once undeniably and completely home.

I was thinking about this as I was walking to Whole Foods this afternoon. Perhaps because the route to the store is so boring.



going there



heading back


Or, because I have a quick (so very brief) trip to Poland ahead of me.


Or both.

taking a detour

Intermittent mechanical problems (say, randomly speaking, in a furnace that works…most of the time) are excruciatingly similar to on-again off-again lovers. They both keep you riveted with what they offer, and then, just as you’re settling in to enjoy their splendidness, they turn away and you’re left out in the cold. Until the next round.

By the time the furnace man came to fix the dysfunctional machine, the furnace was up and running. It tests fine! He tells me.

I know better. It’s a passing phase.



I spend a good part of the day in my office, making progress with various projects. The campus is almost empty. Cold from an almost complete absence of the human form.





Coming back home, I note that I have taken only one photo (see above) the entire day. I’ve had days like this before. To me, they are typically markers of shoddy effort on my part – not so much in terms of finding inspiration, but in terms of making purposeful detours into prettier (or at least more interesting) terrain. If you know your path home is ugly, diversify! If you know your furnace may not be fully functional, dig out more blankets and cook up a zesty Moroccan stew!

Here is my change of direction:





Not pretty enough? Okay, let me stray further, toward Lake Mendota. Frozen now.





You guys cold out there today?
Not so bad.
You are made of different fabric than I am.





At home, I run into the furnace repairperson.
You’ll be fine now! Have a good week-end!
I close the door, listen to the steady hum of the mechanicals within the furnace and wait.

An hour later, I turn toward preparing a pot of Moroccan stew.

home

I am on the Interstate. Alone.


(no, that's not me; I'm the one with camera, remember?)

No one to take charge of the camera in the back seat. Just me. And loosely packed bags thrown about. With dirty laundry.

I search the airwaves for the appropriate song. Maybe the one about going home? To the place where you belong? So, do I belong here, back in the condo?

Sure, yes, but I would like, for once, to come home and not find that in my absence, the furnace has taken a vacation. So that the place has a lovely chill – fitting with the mood of a person leaving behind two weeks of daughters and their hilarity and facing a brief period of intense work and neglected chores.

Coming home. There is no heat, but contacted persons are awfully nice about it. Niceness counts. Home. Home, home. Facing the bright side now: home. With sunlight streaming in, so that the absence of a working furnace is barely noticable. (Until the sun sets.)

By the way, did you ever notice how difficult transitions can be? You have? Really? You too?

from Chicago: cold blast

How do you photograph a blast of Arctic air without spending much time in direct contact with it?

Intense dark blue sky of dusk, remnants of snow on frozen branches – that’s the best I can do.





And forgive me for the brief posts in the next handful of days. I’m returning to Madison tomorrow (sob, no more daughters) to catch up with stacks of papers – all of which must be reviewed and attended to before my departure on Monday. Where to then? Keep reading.

P.S. Ocean is four years old today. Ocean View is one year old this week. Ocean Store is opening for business this month. Is it all driven by a restless winter impatience? Or staying in from the cold? Maybe. So, thank you, Arctic air. And thank you to all who read Ocean. Posting daily makes sense to me so long as I have at least one person who likes to see what I’ve come up with. To all of you – commenters, readers, lurkers, friends, family, occasional traveling companions – thank you for peeking in now and then. It’s utterly wonderful to have you here.

from Chicago: is it about the Eve or the Day?

Without doubt, in Poland, it’s all about the Eve. The Day is only for recovering from the Eve. Maybe under the market economy people now make resolutions – to earn more money, to eat less junk food, that sort of thing – but I doubt it. You greet the New Year and then you forget about it.

I’m not sure where I fall on the Eve/Day dilemma. Which counts? The review of the past and the anticipation of midnight?

Maybe. Last night, the snow fell gently, the taxis were snatched faster than I could say, and we made our way, as last year, to Crofton on Wells – a downtown restaurant, where Suzy Crofton presides over a wonderful kitchen. (We have a tradition of saving the very best eating experience of the year for this evening.)

So, snow, a family frolic and finally, a feast. Not bad.












potato blini with smoked salmon, quail egg custard, etc.


After dinner, a quick glance at the postmidnight crowds (as seen through the window of a moving cab)...




... and then sleep. Had the ride been five minutes longer, I may have begun my night's slumber right there in the taxi.


Today, the snow still fell gently and the day moved gently as well. Here's what I could take in from the back patio of a third floor condo:





It was the kind of day where my big excitement was a trip to the gym, followed by a purchase of coffee. There were many many people buying coffee today. And taking it easy.





Someone sent me an email asking if I made resolutions. I’m on the fence with that as well. I, like millions of others, do believe in self improvement, but I also know that piling it on (be chipper, moderate indulgences, spend less on travel, etc etc) will freeze me in much the same way the computer freezes when it has too many applications open and running. Still, the “do better” slogan stays with me and I get to pick and choose which elements of it are pleasant enough to incorporate into the day.

Day is forward looking. Eve is full of nostalgia. Looking back is sad. Looking forward and doing better is optimistic.

There’s much to be said in favor of Day. Oh, but when I remember last night's mushroom and sunchoke soup...





Happy days ahead to you. And many evenings of good eating!

Chicago confection

I walk over to Pasticceria Natalina on Clark. I love that place. It’s authentic-young. She takes her talents from her Sicilian grandmothers, he brings them from his family bakery in Lebanon. And they create magic.





I wait in line. They’re baking like mad.

When we run out of stuff, we’ll close for the day. For the week actually.
Taking time to welcome the New Year with your family?
Family? Oh no. Not them. Christmas is for family. New Year’s is for fun!

I just want four Sfogliatelle, with ricotta and candied orange peel (right next to the stars below) and a bag of cookies con limone, but I’m enjoying watching others buy boxes and boxes of lovely creations.





Sweeten this day a little! It’s the end of a year and we’re all here and ticking. Celebrate! And hope for an even better 2008. I’m wishing all my readers a tasty ending and a delicious beginning.

To you, straight from my favorite Sicilian bakery on this side of the ocean:

from Chicago: walk

I started out early. On the El, taking it south, beyond the Art Institute. And from there, I turned around and walked back. Miles and miles of Chicago streets, until I was too spent to walk any more.

Here is a handful of photos, chronologically, from the walk, for Ocean:


































































Good night.

from Chicago: city life

In the late evening, I take a walk up and down Clark Street. I tell myself exercise will be good for me after the stormy ride into town.

But it’s Chicago the way I remember it from my student days: biting cold. Sometimes I think big cities feel cold even when it’s hardly freezing outside. Chicago, New York, Warsaw – I lived in these before I came up to Wisconsin. And they all felt dismally cold from November onwards.

Inside a Starbucks, a guy sits and draws cartoons. You do cartoons? – a friendly type asks him. He ignores her. She shrugs and leaves.





I pass a place called the Cheetah Gym. I go inside to poke around. Week passes? Sure, we have week passes. Wonderful. I’m yours. Hand me a towel and tomorrow I’ll start pushing weights.

Late at night, I eat a wonderful meal at Brioso to celebrate my gym days ahead. The city is kind, the city is bright…





…and most importantly, there’s a parking spot right in front of the place on Foster Avenue, where I’m staying.

Saturday morning. My family is pushing for an early wake up. So that we can get breakfast at Pauline’s. You’ll like it, you’ll see.





I do like it. It’s a diner, a little kitschy, but very true to the neighborhood corner, where there’s been a place dispensing food for many many decades. And, the old guy who owns it now is determined to pick up dated stuff (how retro!) to fill the interior. More importantly, he is bent on serving fresh foods: Michigan eggs, no more than five days old! Potatoes, peeled and panfried fresh each morning. And so on.





My kind of place indeed. The waitress is happy to chat, I’m happy to listen.





And the blueberry pancakes on green plastic plates are outstanding.





We walk back to Foster and I look. And I look again. No car. Stolen? Really? Towed? But why? I checked the signs: no parking M – F, daytime, or when there are two or more inches of snow. Last night, there may have been a quarter of an inch here, probably less.

I call the city.
The old Toyota? It’s here, impounded.
Where’s “here”?
North Sacramento.
Where is that?
By Chicago Avenue. Look at a map.
How much to get it back?
Bring $160 and a license.
In cash?
I said $160. I don’t care how you carry it.

Oh. One of those. Hates her job. Who can blame her.

I get myself to North Sacramento and the City Pound. No fancy building here: I make my way to two trailers, filled with angry people on both sides of a dirty counter.

I want to appeal, but the appeal information person is out to lunch. At 11. Wont be back for a while. Besides, all he’ll do is give me a date two weeks from now when I can get my fat ass over to the courthouse (she didn’t say it, but she wanted to).

We go around this several times, getting nowhere. It’s not her fault. It’s none of these people’s fault. The sign saying “no parking at night on Foster in the winter at all,” or words to that effect was far from the signs that gave me permission to leave my car there. These people didn’t put up the signs. They merely impound cars.

I sigh, pick up the appeal info, pay up and go to claim the car. I can’t resist a photo: there is the Sears tower, in the distance, far from this desolate lot with a hundred cars plucked out of the streets of Chicago.

No photos! – a burly guy shouts at me.
Says who? I shout back. I lived in Poland with hostile service people all my growing years, I stopped being pushed around by them when I was thirteen.
No photos! Put that camera away!
It’s a public place! I can take a photo. Leave me alone.
You want your car, right?

Oh, he’s one of the many many men here who actually are in control of the old little Toyota. I put away my camera.

Get in the white van. They’ll take you to it.

Three burly men ride along with me. The city of Chicago keeps burly men employed. I suppose that’s a good thing. Better here in the dirty white van than on the streets of the city.

I told her, no photos. Make sure she gets it.

Hey, it’s my car, I can take photos.
They laugh. Sure you can!

I get in my blue car, slam the door. There’s not much to photograph here anyway, in the far corner of the lot. Just the jail number on the window. The car, in shame, dumped in this desolate place with high fences and a remote gate.





I drive it out. The guard is all warm and fuzzy now. You watch the parking signs now, hear? He grins. I glare. And I note the ticket pasted on the windshield. Another $100 owed for a winter parking violation. Two appeals before me, both most likely futile. City life is like that.

It’s time for me to put my energy into something other than getting angry at poorly positioned Chicago parking signs. I walk along Clark Street enjoying the spirit of the place.









And I make my way to the Cheetah Gym where I spend a good hour and a half exercising next to very fit guys in spiffy gear (having myself borrowed too-large tennies and boxer shorts for the occasion – who knew I would join a gym for the week).

City life. I like it so much except when things go wrong. Not the deep country, nor urban places are gentle on the person in trouble. You want hassle-free? Move to Madison. A commercial for my town: parking bullies getting to you? Come home to Madison, where we tow your car around the corner and parking tickets are cheap.

en route to Chicago

They said it would storm. It did.

By the time we reached the Interstate, cars were slowing down to a crawl. Those who insisted on holding their own were punished mercilessly. Nothing major, mind you. No roll overs, no screaming ambulances (thankfully). Just many vehicles whiling away the hours in the ditch.

And still, the snow continued.





It was an intense ride. Terrifying, beautiful, chock full of music, sometimes almost at a standstill, sometimes careening with the speed of the rest, not believing that there’s anything safe in numbers, no not at all. And yet.





All the way down to the south of the Wisconsin border, we bullied our way through the storm. The world was white and just a little dark. No color, there was no color.





But who cares. There was color in the absence of color. There was beauty in the ice and cold tones. Bold statements. Defiant riders. Fantastic mix of bravado and subjugation.









And for the person who cannot live without drama, there was the occasional Ace truck splashing red onto this white and gray landscape.





[photo credits: Ca, from the back seat]