from St.-Germain-en-Laye to Paris

It is the quintessential French breakfast: a croissant, a pain aux raisins, baguette with the necessary butter and jam. A yogurt, freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee with warm milk. Except that Emma likes fresh fruits, so there is a cup of mango, and she throws in cereals, because some guests just have to have their crunchies in the morning.






As I make my way to the dining room, the dogs hear me and come running. "Play with me, play with me! Here, I've brought you my favorite dou-dou!"






Sorry guys. I want my breakfast.






Ah, but every dog here knows that if he or she lays low, doesn't say a word, pretends nothing's happenin', then eventually, eventually some morsel of food will show up.











Indeed. As I get up to leave, they get their tiny bit of croissant.

And now comes the tricky part of my day. I want to take a walk through the chateau grounds. But I am encumbered by my little suitcase and backpack. If I were to leave them at the guest house, then I would have to ask Emma to take me to the chateau, then make another trip over with my baggage when I'm ready to leave. I don't want to do that.

I tell Emma that I will get someone at the chateau to mind my bags. I don't really believe that anyone at the chateau will do that (they run an archeological museum inside), but I want this to be my headache, not Emma's.

(This, by the way, is Emma's guest house.)






She drives me to the chateau and we say our goodbyes. And, as I would have expected, the museum people want nothing to do with my suitcase. I mean, come on! In this day and age, you just do not want to take responsibility for a stranger's left luggage.

Still, I'm not about to give up. The town is big. I can find someone to mind my stuff.

I choose a rather larger brasserie that spills out onto the little square right in front of the chateau. They surely have the space. Do they have the will? I ask monsieur at the bar.
Hmmm, he ponders it. Should I listen for a tick tock tick tock?
That's as good as a yes! The trust, of course, works both ways. I leave him with my most precious belongings! I thank him mightily and head out.

My goal is to get to the chateau's Great Terrace (it's by Le Nôtre!). It is exactly that -- a great terrace. A balcony of sorts that runs along the edge of the chateau gardens, parallel to the river Seine below. And I mean runs! The terrace is more than a mile long. It's a fantastic spot for a walk on this beautiful, beautiful day!






From the terrace, you look out to the valley below. And in the distance, you see the western edge of Paris (the skyscrapers of La Defense). Paris, of course, has its share of skyscrapers, only they're outside the center of the city. If you look at the photo below and work your way to the right, you'll see the Eiffel Tower.






Though the Terrace attracts mostly strollers and joggers, dogs are indeed welcome. (I did think for a minute that this woman had come to the park with her goat, but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was only a dog. A very large dog that looks like a goat.)






On my way back, I leave the Terrace and cut into the large forest. There are many many paths, but I haven't the time to do more than follow a straight line back to the chateau. As it is, this walk will have taken me several hours. But, it is exactly what I wanted: easy, quiet, lovely. And with sunshine, no less!






(Back in the the chateau gardens, with again a view toward Paris.)






And of course, I have to leave you with a view toward the chateau (to the left). To the right, you'll be seeing the church St Germain. I know, it's confusing! So many St Germain's in this part of France!





I had wanted to stroll a little through the town of St-Germain-en-Laye, but I ditched that idea quickly when I realized that this town, close as it is to Paris, has a provincial air about it. Parisian merchants fought hard to get permission to open stores on the two or even three Sundays before Christmas, against a firm French belief that Sunday belongs to family, not to commerce. In the provinces, Sundays remain sacred and many (most?) shops stay closed on Monday mornings as well. Here, too, nearly every store is closed until until late afternoon, or even Tuesday. As a result, the town feels empty.

So is it time to head back to Paris? No. I'm hungry. My suitcase is parked in a brasserie (Le Soubise). I may as well eat there. Is it good, food-wise? Well, it's not likely to be bad. And indeed, it fills quickly with French people looking for their midday meal. (You're not going to find foreign tourists in St-Germain-en-Laye.) I study the menu. And the people around me. (Next to me, the two older ladies order lots of food, lots of wine and talk up a storm. My photo softened their faces somewhat. I'd say one of them is at least 80 and the other 90.)






I order a salad with salmon and shrimp and plenty of veggies and it is indeed delicious.






And one hour later I am in a different park! I'm sure you can guess which one: the RER commuter train always spits me out here, by this wide avenue at the Luxembourg Gardens when I arrive in the city. From here I make my way to my hotel (Le Baume -- which just gets better and better! Or is it that I get fonder and fonder of returning to something so familiar?)






(My beloved pink room, which I can only get if I book millions of months in advance, or if they generously surprise me by fishing it out for me at the last minute.)





It is still light out and that's saying something for Paris in mid-December. I can't enjoy the room just yet. I must do my Paris walk!

At this time of the year, I can't help but notice with great affection, the yule logs in the pastry shops. So many to choose from! Here are some at Muilot -- one of the best neighborhood pastry shops.






If I lived here, would I be reserving one? Here's a super duper chocolaty log. Or, maybe I'd just want to make my own macaron Christmas tree?






Hermes is perhaps the most classic pastry shop (whatever that means!). They have one log on display and it looks simple enough even as you know it's absolutely exquisite inside. Note the pretend wood saw on top...






Dalloyau is another "classic" pastry shop. Here's their gorgeous holiday log:






Alright, enough sweet stuff. Street scenes! I'm sure you'd appreciate some street scenes!






As we get close to sunset (today the sun officially sets at 4:53), the clouds suddenly appear cottony soft and golden.






I'm close to the Luxembourg Gardens, but I can't really spend time in in them now. In the winter, the park closes at 4:30. But in my brief stroll through a corner of the Gardens, I am impressed by many things, not the least of which are the blooming anemones at the edge of this path. They speak volumes about how different a Wisconsin winter is as compared to the one in France.






A few shops to visit, a few more detours, stops, saunters and... oh my, it's dark! And I'm tired.





I go back to the hotel to catch my breath for a few minutes, and then I'm out again. I booked a bar spot for dinner at  Allénothèque.

It's rare these days that I try out a new eatery in Paris. I typically just return to the tried and true. But my hotel did a pretty good job of convincing me that Allénothèque is special. It's a recent addition to Paris's dining scene and it is run by the super chef Yannick Alleno. Once upon a time, I would have saved long and hard so that I could once in a blue moon taste dishes prepared by a French super chef. Those days are long gone. Especially for a solo dinner, simple is always better. But I am very very happy when a super chef decides to take his or her (though in Paris, it's almost always his) talents and put them to work in a casual setting. Allénothèque  is referred to as "bistronomic cuisine."  Bistro, but with a flair. 

And what flair it is! I mean, the food is utterly sublime! Little surprise there -- Yannick Alleno is a guy who had climbed to the top of Paris's restaurant scene: he had earned three Michelin stars just a few years back. Now, he does a lot of training, sharing his knowledge with those who are starting out. And too, there is Allénothèque.

(An artichoke appetizer is both incredibly original and beautiful to behold.The "bar" is actually several huge slabs of glazed wood. High chairs are arranged organically along the curves of the piece, creating little pockets of privacy.)




 


The rouget fish dish (which I did not photograph) is beyond remarkable (steamed in a box, with a plate of an unusual glazed sauce that is both beautiful to behold and completely knock your socks off tasty), and this simple dessert of red fruits has spices that leave you puzzling about how something could be this simple and this simply perfect.





I walk back full and satisfied. The food, yes, there's that. But, too, if I have to be away from my beloveds back home, then I want to be sure that those days away are going to be well spent.

This day, I think, was well spent. My tired legs tell me so.

from Warsaw to Mareil-Marly

On my last morning in Warsaw I wake up to sunshine. It turns out to be a momentary thing: by mid morning rains will return to the city. Still, as I look out my bedroom window, toward the abbey and the apartment buildings beyond, I am happy to see those rays poking through.






On the other side of the apartment, the living-dining-cooking-everything-but-sleeping room is made bright by it too. The tall windows may be hard to keep clean, but they ensure that the place has plenty of natural light.






Breakfast. One last time.





I move slowly today. I have a 1 pm flight which doesn't give me time to do much of anything, yet allows me to not rush and for the final time admire my surroundings. I never tire of appreciating what Karolina, the architect, did to this tiny unremarkable space. I've tidied it until it sparkles. It's ready for my return.

By the time I drag my suitcase to the bus stop, the drizzle is pronounced. No matter: it's a short walk.

Say, what's this? The street is closed to traffic again? I get it -- it's a celebration of holiday lights. But the lights aren't on. Strings of them crisscrossing the street look as gray as the skies above. Well, it's still pretty.





But I have to readjust my travel to the airport. No buses here today. I go to the metro.

Warsaw's metro is possibly the cleanest, most efficient metro system I've seen. It's new-ish and, too, I think people here are tremendously proud of it. For decades, it was just a dream: an expensive, unfunded project. And now, look at it! (And especially look at it as of this week, all decked out for St. Nick's!)





As always, I study the people riding with me. People who use public transportation are, to me, the face of a city. Here, I'll always find that look of Polishness that I never see anywhere else. For example, this woman -- her face, I think, is uber-Polish! And that side braid? In the half century that I have lived in the U.S., I don't think I have ever seen this hairstyle there. In Poland? Common. She has a winter cap of course, which she takes off for now, but will immediately put on outside (it's in the low 40sF).





Polish women take care of head warmth and ankle warmth. Several of my friends asked me with concern if my ankles weren't cold (on this trip I left my boots behind in favor of regular mary janes).

I alight by the Engineering School. This is the neighborhood of my childhood, though much has changed since those years. But, I can recognize that old church tower anywhere: it's ten steps away from my family's apartment (which, at two small rooms and a kitchen, was not a lot bigger than my current Tamka place).






What last image of Poland can I leave you with? The little things I picked up for the grandkids at the Warsaw airport? Nah... They're Christmas surprises. What if they read Ocean?!

How about this: the cucumber soup I ate just before my flight. I couldn't resist. I've never seen this soup anywhere except in Poland where it is almost as common as borscht. It's made of shredded pickles and though it looks vegetarian, what with those pickles, celery, onion, carrots, potatoes, Poles base nearly every soup on stock made with a ham bone. And they finish it off with cream. Never forget the cream! And bread: grainy or rye. With butter. (I passed on the butter: I can only take so many steps away from my usual olive oil based diet.)






One more thing -- I finish my light meal with a coffee and a heart shaped Polish ginger cookie.






A simple two hour flight and I am in Paris. Except, I'm not staying in Paris. Not yet anyway. I make my way first to Mareil-Marly.

What's in Mareil-Marly? Well, I'm not sure. At the very least, there is this lovely inn, (Le Clos Tellier) located outside the buzz of Paris. I love Paris, but I'm always looking for easily accessible places that offer more of a respite, at least for a brief moment, so that I can ease my way from the pace of Warsaw to the demands of Paris. You can readily get to Mareil-Marly by the RER commuter train. Just take line A to the last stop -- St-Germain-en-Laye, a prosperous little burb...






... but perhaps more known for its imposing chateau. Here, you can see a corner of it as you leave the RER station:



 


Many of the kings of France lived here, including Louis the XIV, who was born here and stayed. Well, at least for a couple of decades. The exiled James II of England and Scotland galloped down to St-Germain-en-Laye as well and later, Napoleon I set up shop in the chateau for his cavalry school. Even later, the Treaty of St Germain, breaking up the Hapsburg Empire in 1919 (and recognizing the independence of Poland!) was signed here. Less ignobly, during the occupation of France (World War II), the German Army chose this place its headquarters. So -- rich in history. And a couple of kilometers down winding and hilly roads, you'll find Mareil-Marly. A village. A suburb of the St-Germain-en-Laye suburb.

If I hadn't a suitcase, I suppose I could have walked the 35 minutes from the station to the inn. But, Emma, the innkeeper, offered to pick me up and since it's getting dark and I don't know the roads, I took her up on it.

Le Clos Tellier is the family home of Emmanuelle ("Emma") and Xavier, their two dogs and a cat.

It's old, dignified, and lovely. They've only been accepting guests for two years. Shockingly, they still love it.
When we travel, we never meet the locals, really. But when people come to us from far away places, we pick up so much about their countries, their homes.

They offer a dinner if you ask in advance. I did: it allows me to stay put and, too, to get more fluent in French. Once you reveal that you can understand the language (well, much of it anyway), they are happy as clams to talk to you about their lives. It would not be wrong to say that French inn keepers are probably the group of French men and women I know best. Their stories give me at least some clues as to how it is to live in France now.

Emma asks me about the timing of dinner -- we want to go to mass now, so maybe after? Say at 8 or 8:30? You can use the living room while we're gone. Or, you can come to Mass with us!

Oh, those French! They push that meal time to an hour that most Americans my age would consider terribly late. But, I'm agreeable. To the dinner hour, not the church service. I'm all for picking up local flavor, but listening to a mass in French for an hour while the tummy rumbles is probably not the best plan.

I think nothing sounds better than... doing nothing! But first, we inspect my grand room...





And then I get brave: Sorry, Emma, but before you go off to church, can I ask for a tiny snack? (The cucumber soup was so long ago...)
She processes this. She wants to be kind, but... a snack, before dinner is not a French habit. She repeats my request, perhaps wanting to make sure if she understood my French well.
I nod sheepishly. Anything. A few nuts. A piece of cheese. Anything.

And of course, being so wonderfully hospitable, she delivers a terrific "snack" of prosciutto, cheese, bread and fruits. She throws logs into the fire place and she Xavier set off, leaving me to keep an eye on the house. And the dogs.

("Do you want my pet turtle?")






("Me, I'm just going to look at the fire with that strange woman who is nibbling on that wonderful prosciutto which, because I am a well behaved French dog, I cannot touch.")






("You two are no fun!")






The "snack:"






In the late evening, I join Emma, Xavier and their youngest daughter for dinner. Squash soup, salmon, wine, dessert.





This is the time to talk a bit about politics and I do, switching to English, so that I can fully understand the nuance. France's current political crisis is difficult to decipher just from reading news stories. Listening to French people talk about it (intelligently, rather than emotionally) helps.


It's a beautiful way to ease out of acute excitement and settle into a good rhythm. I'll explore the town tomorrow morning and then head back to Paris.

one more day

What can you do in such a short period of time? Two (and a half!) days in Poland? You've got to be kidding! Ridiculous.

Well, no. So many good moments. Great feelings. So much warmth and friendship! Playing it out in a short period of time doesn't diminish its intensity.

But, predictably, I move quickly. This is not a contemplative, meditative, reflective journey. There will be time for that. Right now, I focus on each step, one foot at a time.

Going to bed close to 4 has its good sides: I cleaned half the party mess before retiring for the day. This was more urgent than I would have liked: I read on the building entrance door that the water will be shut off for much of Saturday. Shockingly, it was shut off too the days I was here last (in September). No, it's not common, not normal at all. But if it's shut off again when I next appear, I will have to think that at the very least, it is a sign from the high heavens that I am the kiss of water shutdowns!

The downside of going to sleep so late is that you don't get up especially early. I'm shocked to see it's 9:30 on my clock as I open my eyes to the new morning. Oh oh! I'm to meet my friend in the Old Town. At 10:30.

I call her: I need coffee, very very badly. I'm dashing out now, but our first order of operations is to sit down somewhere so I can take a swig of a good cup of caffeine!

As I run to meet her, I see that the Royal Way -- the main drag that weaves past the University all the way to the Old Town -- is closed to traffic. Why?






People are setting up booths. Why?
I ask -- what will you be serving?
Borscht!
Hmm, they must be expecting crowds. That's one large vat of soup they have there!





These days, closed off streets and expected crowds are suggestive or a political demonstration. Is this what we are to expect? I don't think about this much. I see my friend! We find a good cafe nearby.



Revived, we continue our walk. My sweet chum is so ensconced in Warsaw life (both in terms of current events and cultural curiosities, to say nothing of the goods and services that city offers), that walking with her now feels like I am in the Warsaw of the everyday. Like it once was for me.






We stop by an eyeglass store right smack in the middle of Old Town. She has an errand there. I sit back, entranced by the whole visit.





The discussion of lenses, of the whole business of seeing through your glasses is so personal, so intimate, that it's as if I fell back many decades to a time when transactions were not conducted mostly with people whom you do not know, or machines that perhaps know you too well.

I tell myself I should come back to buy my glasses here next summer! It would not be a chore to check off. I would enjoy the exchange!

We head on to the Old Town Square. There is a Christmas market. There is an ice skating rink. The ice is a little wet and for the first time I notice that it's not really cold, nor is it raining! These are gifts. I was to have bad weather here. Warsaw is telling me: make no assumptions!

My friend leads me to the recently reopened Museum of the History of Warsaw.
You must come back here some day. The buildings are beautifully restored inside and the exhibits are really interesting! Plus, from the top (is it fifth?) floor, you can look out to a beautiful view of the city!
Let's go now!

She is so right.






(To the north, you can see the River Vistula)






We can't really take the time to explore every last room in this set of houses, but we do pause in this one, where the exhibit is of containers. That's right, old containers used by Varsovians for every which thing in years past.






And I find this box and it's as if I am a little girl again! How well I remember the chocolates that were nestled inside in the Poland of the 1950s and 60s!





I have to smile at this: I am so old that things from my childhood now belong in a museum!

We walk on.

She has invited me to lunch at her house -- and here's a terrific surprise: one of her daughters will be there too -- along with her kids and husband. I'm thrilled. I haven't seen them in several years -- even as these young families of ours are so much at the forefront of our lives, of our stories that we tell in the greatest detail when we meet.

We eat a grand lunch of soups...





And stuffed meat and spinach pies and veggies and her wonderful homemade cheesecake. Because my friend does make the best cheesecake imaginable.


It's dark when I get up to go home. And it strikes me -- it feels so Polish (in a good way) to be leaving in the way I do, out of this Warsaw home, with warmest goodbyes. I catch myself recognizing these tiny details of my years in Poland. I don't really remember them, or think much about them once I am back at the farmette. I will have entered a different story then. But today, I'm immersed in all things Polish.

I take the tram and then the subway...





... and as I alight close to my Tamka home, I detour onto the New Town Street to check the bus schedule for tomorrow. Crowds. Dense crowds. Families, couples, friends, packing the street on this unusually warm evening. I see that the holiday lights are only partially lit. Still, the crowds are tremendous. "iść na spacer." To go for a walk: it's a favorite weekend activity here, one that I see hasn't gone out of fashion despite the cars, metros and other conveniences (there are fifteen times more cars now than there were in the Poland of my youth I'm told).







At home, I return to the clean up. My sister comes over: did you see the lights? She asks.
No...
They're on!
Let's go see!

It's as if the city emptied out itself onto this street that forms the belly of the Royal Way. And you can understand why: it's quite lovely. The candy company sponsoring the decorations surely went all out.





We stroll along the street, enjoying the absence of cars, enjoying this bright, bright bookend, as it were, to my trip.


And so ends my second full day in Warsaw.

Tomorrow morning, I leave for France.

Tamka life

Now that you know the name of my street, I can tell you more about what it's like to (fleetingly!) live here.

Tamka is a narrow road, making its way from the city center, down the hill toward the River Vistula, where it links to a bridge that will take you to Warsaw's still up and coming left bank (Praga). It's not thought to be a major artery (too narrow for that), but still, Warsaw people know where Tamka is.

My apartment building stands right at the intersection of two neighborhoods: City Center and Powisle. City Center (Srodmiescie) is where I grew up. 99% of my life took place within its perimeters. It feel fitting to be just at the edge of it now. Powisle, on the other hand, is a small neighborhood that borders the river and here you see progress: a nothing set of blocks is turning out to be hip and funky fun, at the same time that much of the old Warsaw character still remains. There are remains of prewar buildings (mine is one of them), there are a lot of modest but not unattractive post war apartment houses. There are the old stores -- shops that specialize in toys, breads, yarns, bras -- you name it! And new ones: a handful of restaurants that cater to the young vibe of the neighborhood, an Italian wine and deli store, a fish monger, and a few solidly good cafes.

So I have the best of both worlds. That and a ten minute walk to the University, the metro line, and Old Town. It's as good as it can get.

My apartment building appears to have the young and the old -- old timers who have lived here possibly forever. I mean -- old. And frankly, poor. I have honestly never seen such apartment neglect as that of my neighbor below. He hasn't the cash to do anything with it. "Poor as a church mouse" -- he says of himself. How about the young? I don't know much about them. I see a stroller standing in the hallway. There must be a baby here. I've never seen her/him. I understand that a handful of people are like me -- only occasional residents. They live abroad -- likely part of the millions that seek better economic fortunes in Germany, England, elsewhere. We are a motley crew.

There is much that could be improved about the building, but it probably wont happen any time soon. There isn't the will nor the cash. Still, it's a clean place with lots of character and of course -- a terrific spot on the Warsaw landscape!


About this day: it's packed. I eat breakfast quickly, alone...






And then it begins. A run up to the New Town. My mom was looking forward to seeing a photo of this lovely street all lit up for the holidays. It's decorated, but the lights will not be turned on until next week. Poland does not rush the holiday season.

 



I meet up with Karolina, my incredible architect/designer and most importantly -- friend, for a quick cup of something warm to drink.






We catch up. But I tell her -- I cannot linger for long. I have a dinner to prepare.


Still,  before I settle in on fixing Mexican foods for my crowd, I take a neighborhood stroll.






This is Powisle. With its old and tested and its brand new.






I make my way to Rabarbar...






... and I sit down for a light lunch. Shakshuka with an egg and a glass of water with fruits.






I truly adore this tiny eatery. Their cookbooks (which I see in translation lining a shelf to the side) are my cookbooks. (Who knew that Ottolenghi could be had in Polish?!)

And now I really have to hurry! I mean, really. I am a speed demon. I can do it. I can!







And in the evening, the foods are ready, the friends come.

(We're all grandparents and so inevitably, we admire photos of the grandkids.)






(Margaritas in the making!)







I am enormously grateful to Chicago's chef Rick Bayless for providing me with the recipes for my Mexican feast. Tacos, both in the TexMex fashion and in something more authentically Mexican -- stuffed with shrimp and green mole and, too, with chicken and mole.

(We could not get the oven to work! No matter. I steamed the tortillas and microwaved the American style taco shells.)






Dinner.






Dessert is a potpourri of gifts, fruits, little nibbles.





I said to one of my sweet, sweet friends -- I can hardly believe I am here, with all of you.

It is at once fleeting and perfect. I cannot stay longer. I have my beloveds back home. But tonight -- it's really so very exquisite.

arriving

Sometimes when I travel I am mesmerized by the landscape that passes by me, or if it's air travel -- passes below me. At other times, it is as if I am in a bubble, just vaguely aware of the physical world through which I am speeding. Not completely tuned out, but not tuned in either.

I'd say this trip is more of the latter mode. I'm navigating through familiar, comfortable airports. The weather is blessedly unexceptional. In flight, a glance tells me we're over a lake, another that we're over the ocean. I eat, I doze.

It's a form of self preservation. I am coming off of a busy set of weeks and I will be returning to one that can only be busier. And my week away is not exactly slow paced. I'm in Warsaw for only three nights -- here to see friends and my sister. That is the sole purpose of these short visits to "the old country." I soak in nothing, indulge myself not at all, do no exploration. I just want to spend time with the people who matter to me over here. So it's all rather hectic and because of this (and because I have hacked my way with that blasted cough for the better part of Fall), I try to space out during the actual time in transit.

Still, in closing myself off in my tiny bubble, I never once underestimate this huge momentum of change that happens as I move further and further from home. It is the lesson of travel -- it at once underscores how close you feel to those you must leave behind and, too, it humbles you. All those convictions, routines, habits, beliefs -- they may feel rock solid back home, but when you venture out, you understand how puny your little enclave is. The world is vast, complicated and beautiful. In travel, as you slog through all the inconvenience, hassle, perturbation, you are never more than a breath away from something beautiful.


So, humbled, tired, missing, eager to see everyone in Warsaw -- this is what I fly with. Landing in Detroit, then Paris (a minute's pause to drink a steamy milky coffee and munch on a croissant)...






And finally -- Warsaw.

I arrive in the early afternoon.

The suitcase does not arrive with me.

There's no reason for it to be delayed -- unless someone unpacked it and is having a feast! I'm told it's in Paris. I can only hope it'll make its way eventually to my Tamka home.

Ah, my Tamka home. Tamka is the name of the Warsaw street where the old prewar building still stands. (It's the one with the stack of oddly shaped balconies.)


 



My apartment is on the third floor (no elevator!).  Is it home? Of course it is. (As always, it benefits from the tender oversight by my sister. Christmas lights, poinsettia and all.)






My sister is with me now. We set out to the mega grocery store (Carrefour) across the river. I must shop for tomorrow's big Tamka dinner.

It's really quite odd to be shopping at this French chain here, right by the Dworzec Wilenski -- this is the station from which trains head to the north and east of Warsaw. It is where we would take the train to my grandparents' village home. Great big lumbering locomotive, pulling wagons filled with village people: women with foods, school kids, men -- sometimes sober, sometimes not so much, and us -- two city kids on our way to village life.

Today, my sister and I catch an efficient new metro toward the station. Carrefour is in the belly of a shopping mall and Christmas decorations abound. It's not as if we didn't have decorations sixty years ago, but they didn't abound.






Late, late in the evening, my suitcase arrives.

I unpack quickly. Did all my foods pass inspection? Yep, all there. Even the bunch of cilantro, because I wasn't sure I'd find cilantro in Poland. (Did you know that cilantro is the same as coriander? Did you know that certain Germanic and Ashkenazi Jewish people have a gene that causes them to be revulsed by its taste? Ed is one such person -- he tells me it's like eating soap.)

Familiar foods, purchased there, appearing here, on my Warsaw kitchen counter -- how wistfully warm it feels to see it all before me now!





Time to unwind. Rest up. Exhale.