to Madison

Near the front door of my apartment building there is a tree. I think it's planted firmly into the ground. Perhaps it started as a wee thing. Right now it's taller than me.

Last month someone (I assume a resident from my building, possibly the same guy who feeds boiled potatoes to the pigeons that come to his window sill) decorated it a bit and with the snowfalls that passed through Warsaw, I think it's rather pretty.

As I leave, I pause for an appreciative glance.





I'm on time for my cab: 4:45 a.m. -- it's there and I'm there.

That, I suppose, is no small miracle. I finished putting away dishes and getting the apartment in order for my absence (it has to sparkle!) just at 2 and my last chore was to put the tablecloth, towels, napkins in the dryer for a good spin. Well, you'll have guessed that I didn't quite figure out how to properly set the damn thing because as I was getting to leave, I noted that the items were still a tad damp. Oh, technology! At the farmhouse, our dryer must be forty years old. You turn it on and an hour later all is dry. No sensors, no special settings just a bunch of hot air blowing on whatever is inside. Three tries in Warsaw on the snappy new thing and I still can't get a load to dry on time.

But, everything else is in order and I give a fond nod of appreciation for this sweet place that is now my second home and turn toward the waiting cab.

It's foggy outside. Not especially cold, not snowing either. A winter mist that sometimes crawls in here (or in Wisconsin for that matter) and settles in for the duration.






It isn't until I'm well in the air that I see dawn break to the east.






Another smooth set of connections -- three hours in Paris (slightly misty there as well, but colder too, so that if I were to step outside in some rural setting, I'm sure I'd see pretty patterns of frost on the landscape)...

(From the airplane window, at CDG airport)





...then a couple of hours in Atlanta, and then, finally, a quick flight to Madison, where the bitter Arctic blast has long retreated and the air is damp and barely at freezing. Ed is at the airport and it's as if I had never gone to the mountains, or to Warsaw, or anywhere at all: we drive to the quiet of the farmhouse where we munch on some nuts and catch up on spending a late evening together.

in Warsaw

You know you're in town only briefly when on your first morning there, you wake up to an email message from Air France telling you it's time to check in for your departure.

It's true: I may have two nights here, but considering my late arrival yesterday and my predawn departure tomorrow, I barely have one Warsaw day.

And that day is spent mostly with an eye toward preparing dinner for tonight. Which means I spend a good bit of time lugging grocery bags and then hanging out in my apartment.

I've become quite familiar with my Warsaw home. Oh, not only my unit, but with the atmosphere, the sounds, the rhythms of the whole building (and, too, of the street outside). The life stories of its inhabitants are quite likely book material. The older man below me, who brings his world outside a bit by first hanging a map of the world on the stairwell wall, then putting up a Christmas tree not inside the house, but just out by his door. And last night, perhaps because he didn't have room in his wee apartment which he shares with his son and possibly with others, he hangs his pants and a few towels on the banister, presumably to dry. This morning the pants are gone but two quilts are there. Or the the woman upstairs who vacuums at strange hours. Or the tall gentleman living a few floors up who last night was carrying out his Christmas tree just as I was coming in. The tree had not one single needle left on it. Not one.

So I feel I know the place. At most times it's intensely quiet. At other times, some neighbor raises his voice (to be heard by a deafer co-inhabitant) and then I know they're not asleep yet. A peel of laughter and then all is quiet once more.

My morning begins at the Rue de Paris, a cafe just down the street from me.

(Here's my street: the haze tells it like it is. You can barely see the Palace of Culture. But unlike during the deep freeze last week, the air isn't heavy with pollution. I dare say it feels rather fine.)






I wanted a breakfast out and there I'm joined by my brilliant architect and now friend, Karolina.






It's a brief visit. I consult about a few things, she has picked up a few things and of course we exchange quick stories of what the past month has been like. Too, she gives me some food shopping suggestions.
Go to the Hala Mirowska on the other side of the Palace of Culture. They have the regular market stalls there but they also have an Asian shop where you can get good shrimp and, too some more unusual items.

I quickly add it to my list of places to check for various items on my grocery list.

The thing is -- I can just take the metro to my favorite supermarket and buy everything I need there. But at the last minute, I choose not to do that. Poland is a country where people still frequent the smaller neighborhood shops. The trip to the supermarket is a bigger deal, the smaller store or stand is for the every day. And so even as I walk back to my apartment, I begin to fill my list in the smaller places.

For example, peppers and onions at this neighborhood vegetable and fruit store that boasts many organic goods.






Bread next. There's a great bread bakery (to be distinguished, like in France, from the pastry store) just down the block. Poles aren't satisfied with just a handful of bread types. There are a dozen of dark bread varieties and a dozen more white loaves.






This time I choose a dense dark one with prunes for the liver pate I'll serve before dinner.

And then I visit a kitchen supply store. I don't need much in my Warsaw home, but there are recurring items that I see that I do need for my cooking here, especially since I have fallen into liking meal preparation for my Polish friends. A jumbo frying pan. A can opener. Essentials, no?

(The store is on the north end of the Palace. I'll give you a view of that. Looks much the same as the south end, no?)






I meet up with my sister there and together, somewhat loaded down already with kitchen things, we walk to Hala Mirowska, passing through a simple little park that provides the much needed vegetation in this very traffic heavy city center.






What impresses me about this market is that though there is an indoor section, most of the food stalls appear to be outdoors. And yes, it's January, but here they are -- vendors standing outside selling their goods. You see this throughout Poland. You'll never see this in Wisconsin or any other norther state.

(A blur of winter produce...)






(Stalls, inside and out.)






From there, loaded down indeed, we take the metro to the stop by the river. (A war memorial, a bridge that is the extension of my street, and the mermaid statue -- a symbol of this city.)





 And now it's a just a short walk to the neighborhood grocery store (for such staples as milk, butter, mineral water).

Oh, our bags are heavy. Not done yet! I tell my sister there's one more stop: at the Italian deli, where I pick up bottles of wine. Not one or two. More. It's impossible to tell how much we'll need. Left over bottles are easily stored in the closet. But oh, we are really burdened now!

One more stop, I promise, just one more!
I pick up some goat cheese at the deli. I need a different loaf of bread for that. Back to the bakery. (A grandma and a little boy are in line before me. Such a typical sight here.)






Finally! At home again. My sister retreats to her tasks and I am left with the very pleasant and oh so familiar task of chopping, cooking and organizing my kitchen for this evening.


All is (almost) ready. The gang arrives.

The next photos are of our evening together. Perhaps you wont be able to take away more from it than to recognize a few happy faces enjoying an evening meal. That's fine. The evening had all of that -- good friends, sharing good food. Here we all are, doing exactly what you'd expect us to do.

Yet for me, the evening was, well, all that I come back for again and again.

It's okay if dinner is still a few minutes away. We'll just talk...






Oh no you don't! Get to work and stir!






... and eat your predinner munchies!






Ha! I am so ready now for all of you! Dinner!!











Not that this is reason to let go of our various threads of conversation!






Most of us are serious amateur photographers and I'm not surprised when my camera is snatched by someone who begins to snap away.






That's okay. I snatch it right back.

Dessert... I take a pic of my friend, slicing her gift for us -- a home made apple cake...






And soon enough the meal is done and we've all lingered,  and now there is this uncomfortable truth: we need to disperse. Most have work tomorrow and, me, I have that predawn flight... Ooops, I've lost my camera again...






Hey, honestly, it's time to call it a night.






Day is done done done done done!





See you in March and yes, I'm glad it'll be March and not, say, April!

from Bukowina to Slovakia to Warsaw, with Krakow inbetween

Good weather is always welcome. But great weather -- it can be a burden! I had seen it in the forecast. Indeed, it's one reason I decided to stay in the mountains an extra day: after periods of Arctic cold and heavy snows, Bukowina and the whole Tatra Mountain region is to be just a touch below freezing and bathed in sunshine. So perfect! What's a person to do??

(looking out my bedroom window)





I could ski. I'm in the ski capital of Poland! My childhood friend Janek offered to arrange it all: get me to the best slope, have me rent some skis and send me flying. When do I have a chance to do this back home?

Or I could walk. Again, Janek offered his services: I'll drive you down across the brook, to Slovakia. There is a lovely trail along the valley. No one ever goes there. If you like nature, that's the place to go.

(What I really should do is sleep, as I am seriously delinquent in this area, but great weather does not permit that.)

Janek tells me to come to his inn for breakfast. The walk, though along the road, is really quite lovely. Mountains to the right:






Forests to the left:






... and from the Szymkowka Karczma (Janek's inn), the views are unbeatable.






I am served a feast of eggs and cheeses and hams and I eat hungrily. Mountain air appetite!


 



And as I look out at the mountains, I know that I do not want to ski. I want to take in that winter beauty. I want to walk.

My friend is agreeable to that of course, but we linger over coffee and I express some interest in poking around a store and, too, he, having lived at least some of his childhood years here, wants to show me some back corners and great views... Our plate is full and the morning is already half gone!

I let him take charge. He knows every inch of this place. He'll know where to find the very best view onto the Tatra Mountain. Here (Głodówka):






But when I get back into his car and we calculate the time I have left before he will be driving me to the town of Nowy Targ, from where I'll take the bus to Krakow so that I can catch the train to Warsaw,  we conclude that my walking time is actually not much more than some thirty minutes.

I make good use of it!

We cross the border (a brook -- the same one that flows past Rynias), he parks the car and waves me off.






When there is a break in the forest, I see the mountain peaks. Though I'm in Slovakia now, I'm not sure if they belong to Poland or Slovakia. You have to know your bearings. The river is one guide for me, but surely it doesn't flow in a straight line! Which side are these on?






Oh, I could offer a few words to describe it all -- wonderland, a kingdom of fir and snow, magic, brilliant magic -- but perhaps it's best if I let the images tell their own story.











Well, Janek is waiting in the car. I can't be the kind of guest who ignores time when she wants to push forward. So I head back.

We drive along the quiet Slovakian road and Janek points out how different the architecture here is. The river divided the people. On this side, there were the Spiš, on the now Polish side, there were the highlanders. The highlanders build bigger homes. See how pretty and different in their simplicity these are...





Too, they don't use salt here. We're on a white road!

We pause at a place off the road that is oddly magnificent. A royal hunting lodge he tells me. We may be in Poland or Slovakia, but not too long ago this was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.






(The Tatras, on the Slovakian side for sure.)







Time is running away from me and I still want to see if there is something I can bring back home with me.
Janek shakes his head. Who decides to shop hours before she leaves and on a Sunday no less?
But we're in a resort village! Sundays are prime shopping days for stuff to take back from your vacation!
Not in Poland. And it's the noon hour. Local people want to go to church not to sit behind a counter and sell stuff.

Yes, I see the church going locals. The older women will still wear the kerchiefs that Pani Anna has worked on her whole life. And of course the flowered skirts.






Will anyone carry on these customs when this generation -- the generation of Pani Anna -- dies off? Will it all become only for show then?






But is it the dress that makes these people stand out as highlanders? They used speak with a heavy accent with some dialect thrown in. Pani Anna still has it. Her nephew's wife -- not at all. But she is not from our village! -- Pani Anna would protest.

These southern most villages of Poland -- they bounced between European empires. And yet the feeling of Polishness of the people here is strong. As you know, I am about as far from being comfortable with any form of nationalism as you could get and yet I listen to Janek with interest as he talks about the Poles that have invested in Bukowina.
In the new generation of entrepreneurs here,  most people just want to make money. Our fathers and our generation following them -- we thought about such things as working for the good of Poland. People would laugh at you if you said that now. Our fathers were passionate about rebuilding Poland after the war, however much you can argue about the success of it all, they felt that passion for doing right by people here. But now... the calculus is much different. It's all about making money.

He grows less serious. I know one little shop where the woman tried for a while to sell only authentic stuff locally made. She's had to accept more junk to please the tourists, but still, maybe you'll find something there.

I do. It's the sweetest little Polish dress, locally sewn, for Snowdrop. I'm sure you'll see it on her soon enough.

And it's a lovely ride on the back roads to the big town of Nowy Targ, where I catch the bus to Krakow. (Coming in, I saw the hazy image of the Wawel Castle from the air... Now I'm seeing it through the mud spattered window of the bus...)






I had booked a later train from here and so I have about an hour to walk, suitcase in tow, to the center of the city. Yes, anyone who has read Ocean for a while will recognize these streets. I seem to be a frequent visitor...






... and of the grand old Market Square...






There's just a little snow in Krakow. A little on the Square...






A dusting on a car...





I realize this is the best chance for me to grab something resembling a main meal. I poke around the known to me cafes of the Market Square... No -- I want something different. I want a mix of young faces, of Polish couples and the inevitable English speaking visitors, of children and old people.

I veer off to a side street and find the crowded but oh so pleasant Camelot, where I order a hot mulled wine...


 


... and I give one last nod to the Highlands by ordering that smoked sheep cheese with cranberries over a salad...






And then I weave my way among the church towers that so define Krakow..






(One last look back...)






... And catch the train to Warsaw, where it's actually a little snowy right now. Not unpretty...






... though terribly slushy on the sidewalks. (I wiped down my suitcase good and hard before bringing it into my apartment.)

My apartment. How lovely it always looks to me when I first open the door!






My sister not only greets me, but has cakes and spiced warm beer for us...






And very quickly I turn away from the mountains and face, for one day tomorrow, my Warsaw world.