and back to Paris

In Warsaw, the intensity of my visit never subsides. I whirligig my way through the days.

The older I get, the more complicated is my relationship to my past. It's that way for everyone, I suppose. You have added layers of insight, but, too, you have more questions. Wise is the person, I think, who suddenly understands that what they believed they knew, is pock marked with half truths and missing information. We, most of us, sail through life taking shortcuts. The demands of the day forced us to not to think things through. We had to work, to take care of our loved ones. But as I return to my childhood unencumbered by those external demands now, I realize there's a lot that I know a lot less than I thought I did.

I am up early. I have to put the apartment to rest. Clean, clear, empty, wipe.

And I have to eat breakfast.





My sister comes over so that we can take the more complicated combination of metros and buses to the airport together (it's Sunday; moving around the central city is less straightforward). But looking at my watch, I see that we really do have a little extra time. Gone are the days when I want to sit at the airport for unnecessarily long periods of time prior to the first departure. The Warsaw airport is close and comparatively small. I don't have kids with me. I can push my arrival there until the last hour.

And so my sister and I hop out for a walk. I propose the river coast because I haven't walked there yet on this trip and in the summer, the beautifully improved banks of the Wisla River are a wonderful place for a stroll. By the afternoon, they will be packed with families and people enjoying a gorgeous, sunny day.












Sundays in Warsaw are uniquely special. Portions of the city empty out, communal spaces fill up. I don't know many people who don't enjoy a Sunday walk.

Most stores are closed. Like in France, Poland likes to believe that a day off from commerce and work is important. Commercial interests have flexed that once cardinal rule in France just a tiny bit. But in Poland the trend is different. The very idea of loosening this once ingrained conviction is being reconsidered. There is pressure to keep things closed. The reasons for this may seem noble and maybe they are, or maybe they're not. Depends on whom you ask.

(Here is a shop in Powisle -- the riverside district of Warsaw where I live -- that is indeed closed, but I can see through the window that it is a very modern play on several themes: the Polish-styled butcher shop is transformed into a "Chip-ster" store. A Pole would find this to be a funny play on words. Put a "c" in front of an "h" and you get the Polish "h" sound. So chipster is really hipster, but of course every Pole knows that "chips" means "chips," hence the haha moment.)






I'll end with a photo of Tamka Street. My street cuts through Powisle like a spear, linking the city center with Praga on the other side of the river (Praga hasn't yet the status of, say, a Parisian Left Bank). But it doesn't do damage to the heart of Powisle. It is a pretty street despite its arterial significance. Or, as I like to say -- we Varsovians like it!

(Mine is the yellow building with pointy balconies.)






So I am a Varsovian, eh? That's the tricky part. I come here thinking I am just looking back, I leave thinking I am thoroughly of this place.

It's a good way to end my Warsaw visit.

As always, I relish a slow transition to my life back home. Stopping in Paris allows me time to make that needed shift. I am going from everything Polish here, to nothing Polish across the ocean. I like to catch my breath before I let go of it all in order to rejoin the world of my beloveds.


(The commuter train from the airport to the city... You know you're almost there when you pass this sight for one fleeting second. I always tell myself: I should take a picture, but it really is there for just one second. This time I was ready for it.)






In Paris I go straight to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Suitcase and all. It's a warm and sunny September day in the city. Everyone is back from vacation, everyone is in the park. Everyone.


























Familiar blocks to the Hotel Baume...






In the elevator, going up to my room. A little plate of nuts and dates awaits me. They used to leave me a half bottle of red wine in appreciation for my loyalty, but I told them it's no use -- I rarely drink red wine. So now I get dried apricots and nuts.

Such familiar surroundings! In travel, I like exploring a new town or village. In Paris, I want the familiar.






An early evening walk... Pausing at Mulot's pastry shop, thinking about which cake I would buy if I lived here and needed one for a dinner party...






And all the while thinking of my grandkids back home. One of them is on a weekend trip away from home, another is sick in bed. Life moves forward whether you're there or across the ocean.






I eat a buckwheat crepe for dinner at the Breizh Cafe around the corner. Familiar, comforting. Lovely to eat outside. Lovely to have been in Warsaw. Lovely to be in Paris. Lovely to be going home on Tuesday.

the next day

It was an easy decision: the water was shut off in my building at 2:30 a.m. (we were given notice) and so cleaning the post dinner piles of dishes had to stop and I retired for the night. Or, what was left of the night. It is remarkable how little sleep I get when I travel across the ocean. There is too much to do. (You will argue with me that my trips are too short. Perhaps. But I have found that even if I throw in extra days, they fill quickly and completely. Taking things slowly is not something that I can do here.) Did I at least sleep late? No. My neighbor below me, discovering the return of water at 6:30 in the morning, celebrated with a rowdy viewing of his favorite Saturday cartoons on TV. Well, I don't know if it was cartoons or a news show. I was too tired to focus on more than the fact of a TV going off at this early weekend hour.

I had a morning breakfast date with my friend. It is a ritual for us -- one that is so very important to me. As important as nearly anything that I do here.

First, though, I make inroads cleaning the apartment. And I sit down to a bowl of fruit. You know, one with peaches and plums. One with raspberries.




We meet at Kafka -- a cafe that is just a 6 minute walk from my apartment. It's a beautiful cafe/bookstore, on a quiet winding street that leads up to the university. My friend isn't looking for food this morning, but I am! Especially when they tempt me with Polish scrambled eggs and mushrooms. You could say that Poles are to mushrooms as the French are to their cheeses.





And then we walk. Oh, how sublime these strolls are! We pause under a chestnut tree. Like in France, Polish chestnuts are suffering from an infestation that is destroying many of them. But oddly enough, they still produce a hefty amount of plump, smooth, beautiful chestnuts. We pick some, even as I know I wont carry these home. You can't bring in plant life from Europe to the US (and vice versa).





She steers me then to our beautiful university. Here's the grand administrative center of the campus.





Notice the umbrellas? The irony! Poland has had an unusual summer: gorgeous, sunny, warm. But on the two days I am here (and only on these two days), we get a swing of cool air and that occasional shower of rain. As if Warsaw is speaking to me: how dare you come for such a short time!

We ignore the threat of rain and walk over to the side building, where many of our big lectures took place. We try the doors, but everything is closed. No surprise there. The European university academic year doesn't start until October 1st.

You know, perhaps it's time for me to throw out a song for you, one that was written during my high school years (late 1960s). It's called W Zoltych Plomieniach Lisci (in the golden flame of leaves)

It's pretty, no? Most people think it's about fading relationships that come and go... Like the seasons... Note the phrase: Żegnałam i powracałam już nie taka (I said goodbye and I came back, not the same). I have to think... is it about people who leave Poland? Is it??

Yes, it appears that it is. In 1968 there was a crisis in my country. The few Jews who had survived the war were now leaving Poland because of discrimination and hostility toward them -- a government effort to solidify its own power base by scapegoating a minority population. All this just two dozen years after a horrific war, where 6 million European Jews were killed.

The song is about the departing Jews (Agnieszka Osiecka wrote the lyrics). But the censors didn't catch on. You know -- it just seemed so ordinary.  Almost romantic. Autumn, geese that fly south... seasons that change, feelings of sadness for all that has transpired.

My friend points to someone's big sign in the windows: Constitution. In Poland, this is the word of protest today. With good reason. Call the free press unpatriotic. Teach kids about the "right way" to interpret history. Punish those who challenge it. No wonder some feel compelled to shout out -- but, but, but CONSTITUTION!






It is drizzling now and so we head to my friend's house. For tea. For more talk, because at the end of the day, this is what we have.

(And we take photos. It's a must.)


 


They walk me to the metro then. Well, actually they ride me to the metro, taking the tram car, making sure I got off where I should get off. Sometimes, for reasons that aren't entirely clear to me, I just get so lost in this country!

(Goodbye. You're good to go now.)






My sister is waiting for me in my apartment. So very sweetly, she has finished tidying up the dinner mess, so that when I show up, we are ready to go for our walk, which, too, is traditional: we go to the parks.

Past the Square of Three Crosses...






... to the Ujazdowski Gardens, with the chestnuts of our childhood...






And then onto Lazienki Park.











And now we are heading home, my home, sort of home, or at least part time home. A Warsaw post would not be complete without a photo of Nowy Swiat Street, right? But do note the "Warszawa" signs on lamposts. Warsaw, capital of freedom. I know this about my city: it is on the right side of history.





Tomorrow I leave. At some point, I always do have to leave.

at the dinner table.

When I'm in Warsaw, I want to see my friends. It is a given. My apartment was especially designed to accommodate a large group dinner. Cooking for these people, whom I've known since adolescence is hugely important to me. Perhaps I have that Polish gene that makes us such great, or at least enthusiastic, hosts.

This time, too, I invited the whole gang to a Tamka supper (Tamka is the name of the Warsaw street where I live). And for the first time, I have everyone here -- even the one person who lives in a distant (albeit Polish) city. We are a band of twleve.

What to cook, what to cook... I've puzzled over it, given that the cupboards are mostly bare and I am here for such a short time.

In the end, I decided to do what I often do for my own family in Madison -- a salad Nicoise, with some twists that make this into a really substantial meal.

My very first task this morning is to visit the neighborhood produce stands (there are three and of these, two are good and one is really outstanding). I'm a little nervous about finding stuff. The salad does allow for great improvisation (for instance, I substitute anchovies with sardines, prepared in a number of ways -- this is what I went looking for when I popped into Paris for an hour, because there is a store that sells only sardines and they are exquisite, and for those who are not sardine fans I offer shrimp), but I don't think you can call it a Nicoise unless it has green beans. Are they popular in Poland these days?

Here's my favorite produce stand:





(A guy comes up behind me... the salesperson asks -- what would you like? He's young, a little rough around the face. Oh, just a handful of the chanterelles for my scrambled eggs this morning. Only in Poland...)


And yes, there are green beans. They are not as good as the American grown French beans as sold by my favorite market Hmong farmer (how many nationalities can I fit into one green bean?!), but they're green. And tomatoes and baby potatoes. Essential components! Oh, but the cucumbers! They are superb! Better than any that I can get back home. And while I'm at it, I pick up some raspberries and strawberries for breakfast. And breads for the dinner: the line is long, but the service -- it never fails to astonish me that a country could change so draconianly in such a short period of time -- the service is excellent. Four women vying to help you with your order...





And as I carry my bundles home (along with the milk, the kefir), and then go out once more to a store far away to buy wine (the bottles are so heavy, the walk is so long!) I think once more how convenient shopping is in the American fashion: by car. Carrying all this across city blocks, up and down metro stairs, then up two flights to my apartment (my building has no elevator) is... well, less convenient.

Upstairs, I unpack and then finally I sit down to breakfast.






And it is the raspberries that do it to me: they remind me that I am in the place of my childhood. Because Polish raspberries are different than those in the US or even in other parts of Europe. They have intense flavor. The flavor of my growing up years.

And I think about how odd it is to be stepping in the way that I do back into my childhood, briefly, but frequently. I dabble in my Polish past and then I go back to what is my true home now and I shake my senses off and it all falls away somewhere. Until I come back to Poland again.

It is so popular to speak of identity these days. I do often think I am without a national one. It got lost somewhere in the stormy waters of the ocean, in one of my frequent crossings. But there is such a thing, I think, as an identity of a childhood place. If you grew up in the Bronx -- that stays with you. If your childhood roots are in Texas or California -- you know it and feel it. My childhood had a touch of Manhattan, but in fact, it is rooted in postwar Poland.

This time the raspberries bring it all back again.


And then I get to work on dinner preparation, with the tremendous help of my sister, who runs errands for me and cheerfully follows instructions.

Ready. Almost! Have to bring out the sardines!






There are many many photos I could take of the gathering. But there isn't time for it. I'm putting up just a few...

Of men talking..






Of women catching up...






Of the whole band, huddled over the dinner...






What? You cant see any of the faces? Here are a few...






Sampling cookies with cherries, and macarons...






I suggest that we all do selfies and submit our efforts to the group. You don't have to do serious faces, I tell them.






They get to it.






And here's a photo of the three guys who have been friends since their first year of adolescence (and a wife of one, still working on that selfie).





It does something to you -- this constant strong pull of friends who were with you when you were just a young nothing, unsure of where you were heading in life. And now here we are, grandparents, all of us!

The evening has a second part to it: we walk over (well, some of us dance over...)


 


...to the home of the couple whose apartment has just been renovated. For an inspection!

Everyone approves! More cheers, more stories, more food and drink of course.






So this is how it is: we gather, we tell all that needs to be told. We eat and drink and talk and talk until the clock strikes some godawful hour and then we all disperse. Until the next time.

(I should do the dishes... But it's so so late! I should do the dishes...)

Côte d'Opale once more

How is it, here, by the Channel coast, in the small town of Wimereux? Enchanting? Ordinary? Delightful?

It's so easy to give an opinion these days. Click onto TripAdvisor and read what anyone and everyone has to say about nearly every destination, hotel, set of rooms. I read this stuff. If there are many opinions finding fault with a place -- that's a pretty damning situation, especially if the proprietor hasn't bothered to get on line to make the (feeble?) claim that they're all fake news, posted by the competition. I understand the possibility that they could be fake. And more importantly, I understand the possibility that people may simply be tired and have had a bad day, leading to a predisposition that is going to shade the nature of the opinion. And still, I read.

And I post opinions on Tripadvisor and on various sites that have helped me navigate the listings. But I don't post many and I only write them if I have liked a place. A lot. I just don't want to blurt out something negative that may have more to do with my mood than the reality of the situation.

Now, if you want to know what I thought of my overnight by the sea, I first have to introduce the day for you. I look out the window this morning and see this: a dappled sky, the calm waters of the Channel, a pair of brave souls taking a morning swim.






I then go down to a breakfast at the Hotel Atlantic. You know a place that takes food seriously is going to have a nice breakfast. And it does. Good home-cured salmon, eggs, a variety of cheeses and a variety of baked goods, with seasonal fruits and the usual morning beverages.






I sit by the window and admire the view again. With the partial clearing of skies, you can just see the white cliffs of Dover on the horizon. There is something both majestic and sad about it. Dover was once a thriving tourist place, but the tunnel connecting Paris with London has had an impact on this coastal town. I've read that refugees now use it as a point of entry into the UK. If you want to get a handle on the consequences of the Brexit vote, I suppose you'd do well to visit Dover. You'd probably walk away with a barrage of very mixed opinions! As for the French side of things -- you've read perhaps about the Calais refugee camps and France's efforts to deal with them. And Calais is about to face the consequences of Brexit now: they're huge! France is adding hundreds of customs officials and has allocated more than forty acres around Calais for customs inspection points. It's one big mess, from the point of view of commerce.

But from the window of my breakfast room, it all looks so pretty!

And so I take the time to go outside and walk. (Do you see the white cliffs on the other side of the Channel?)






And I think how quiet Wimereux is, despite the turmoil just a few miles up the coast. Wimereux is geared toward the French summer vacation -- a season that lasts for only two months in this country. Most everything along the coast is shuttered now. Except for my little hotel, which is booked solid. On a September Tuesday no less.






Is it the popularity of the Hotel Atlantic entirely attributable to the NYTimes piece? I don't think so. In the breakfast room I see one demographic: couples, in retirement. I'd say half speak a British English and half are French. It's easy to see why the British are here: if you want to drive your car to France, you'd likely to do it through Calais. What better place to overnight than here, in this quiet spot with excellent food.






As for the French -- I suppose there are those who hope to beat the summer crowds and high season prices. But the consequence of coming here now is that you see many closed doors. Like on these beach huts that line the Promenade.





Time to check out. I have a train to catch! The mesdames at the front desk are so charming! They fuss about my great vocabulary (they got me on a good day!). This just puts such a smile on my face. I better leave before they say something I won't understand!

The walk to the station is pleasant, especially on a full stomach and under that pretty sky...





And so as I stand on this sweet little station and watch the punctual trains come and go and I think about my visit here, I feel pretty rosy about it.





Had I been forced to give an answer yesterday, I would have said -- well, the room was painted a dark color and didn't have enough lighting and the window was too small. The wait at the station for the local train was outdoors and I would not want to do it in cold weather. The walk that I took along the coast was interesting, but doing it once seems enough. The dinner? It was actually just fine, but I was so looking forward to the dish that apparently they do very very well -- the sole meuniere -- a French classic that turned Julia Child into a lover of French foods. You can't find it these days in many good restaurants, but it is a signature item here, except on days when they don't have it. Like last night.

But today, I'm just tickled pink by this opal coast. Even the view from the train window -- presumably the same view as I posted yesterday -- looks so much kinder, gentler.






And did I mention how much I love traveling through France by train?





My bullet train to Paris is on time, though not without incident. Suddenly, somewhere between Lille and Paris, an armed crew, casually dressed but with Douane armbands appeared out of nowhere. Searches ensued. No one was handcuffed, but some interrogations were pretty determined. A reminder that the new normal is full of stuff like this.

And now I'm back at Paris's Gare du Nord (a train station that surely does not lack a security presence)...




It's time for me to leave France. For now. Which brings me to one more speculation: why do I love exploring this place so much? People tell me that I've seen way more of France than a French woman. What brings me here so often?

It's the people, for sure. Oh, Paris is beautiful and the countryside has many pretty spots and lots of good food and wine. All this helps. But watching and listening to the people who live here is, to me, like reading a fascinating book that never ends. I learn something from the French and I like the lesson to be repeated frequently.

I don't think much of nationalism -- French, Polish or American. So that "being French" isn't to me exclusive, or bound by the country's borders. And in any case, I wouldn't say that the French are excessively friendly (like the Irish), or hospitable (like the Polish), or conversationally revealing (like Americans). What I would say about them is that they seem to me to have a preoccupation with doing life well: finding balance in work, family, friends. They seem to take great care with ordinary daily life: what you eat, how you present yourself to others -- these are important. The greatest compliment that you can give to a French parent is to say they child is tres sage (very wise). And, of course, the French are vocal in their commitment to Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and when someone points out that it hasn't been working well for many who live among them -- they take that reprimand seriously enough to discuss it and to look forward to working on a fix. I like that. 

France may change. Poland certainly continues to swing wildly in various directions. America -- right now I have faith that it'll stay on a good course. In any case, I live there. I owe it my vote of confidence and at times, my critical voice when I feel us to be floundering. A country, after all, is nothing more than a sum of its residents,

At some point, when a vast number of people (a majority) swings in a direction that doesn't feel right to me, the charm of travel there will fade. But it hasn't happened yet -- certainly not in France (and not even in Poland). 


And now I am on a greatly delayed (who knows why) flight to my country of birth, where, at Warsaw's airport, my sister is waiting. And wait -- who is that with her? My nephew! Here on a brief visit from England. We ride the bus together to my apartment on Tamka Street. My nephew is holding a little duck. You would have to be Polish to understand that right now, he is engaging in (or at least explaining) a form of protest to stuff that is happening in this country. (It's a play on words, which you would understand if you knew the Polish name for duck as well as the name of the current leader of Poland.)





And now we are in my apartment. 





Good friends of mine had been using it for a few months this spring while their own home was undergoing renovation. I see that they have left flowers and trinkets everywhere! Too, my sister has brought over fruits, salads and various good things to stave off sudden bursts of hunger. It is a wonderful and warm way to reenter my life as a Pole.