leaving Warsaw

 Last night, I looked out my hotel window and saw this:

 

 

I've not written much about Poland and the Ukraine because I think it's so obvious what's taking place -- both today in Alaska, and for all these years since Putin unleashed his aggression against our eastern neighbor. (There! I wrote "our" neighbor! Am I today so full of Poland that I think of it in the possessive form? I'm not sure.)

Let me say this much: the current president of Poland pumped up the anti-immigrant sentiment emerging in parts of the country and of course, in this way, rallied the discontent to vote for him. Prior to his election this spring, he promised that he would support a law that ensures that "Poles can't be treated worse than immigrants." 

When will we ever learn to stop listening to this deliberate anti-other sentiment, expressed by power hungry politicians?

The guy won the elections and in my meetings with my friends we had loud discussion as to who had the most hate-filled leader right now. If I was told "you have no idea how bad it was in Poland in the 80s," I wanted to retort "you have no idea how bad it is for so many in my country and beyond right now!" (Yes, my country.)

I go to sleep after midnight, and wake up at 5. 

 

 

I didn't think I'd get back to sleep, after reading emails and taking that photo, but I did! I woke up minutes before I was to be downstairs for breakfast. Thank goodness that I packed last night! 

It's going to be another hot day in Europe.

Poland is celebrating a double holiday today -- the Catholic Assumption Day (which is also a public holiday in France) and the Armed Forces Day (which celebrates the 1920 victory over Soviet Russia). Everything is closed, roads are cordoned off for the military parade. In a way, it's a good day to be leaving. Varsovians love to escape from the city and they do this for the long weekend that falls in their lap this year. The city isn't totally empty, but it feels artificially quiet.

I go down to breakfast. Oatmeal, a cinnamon roll. I have five postcards for five kids that I finished writing way past midnight. I address them now. 

 

 

 

And Bee comes over and we have a very beautiful hour together. Not long enough, but then, it can never be long enough.

 

 

 

I'm checked out of the hotel, I say good bye to the reception staff. You're surprised that I mention this insignificant detail? Well now, it's important to me: the staff at the Puro Old Town is simply fabulous. One of them -- Pan Patryk -- helped me with all sorts of weird requests (you'd think I'd need nothing, given how much I am at home in Warsaw, and yet I was constantly making inquiries and putting in requests), all with a smile. And a sweet comment: for living so long in America, he tells me, you speak Polish supremely well! Almost with no accent! Ha, ha ha. When he knew I wouldn't see him again on this trip, he gave me the biggest hug. I was touched. 

A taxi is waiting. As I hand over my suitcase, a woman, also with a suitcase, comes rushing over. You wouldn't happen to be going to the airport? -- she asks. Can I ride with you? I'll happily pay my share! I'm so damned suspicious of the unusual requests of strangers that I have to ask her -- why? She tells me: I can't find a cab! They shut down all the streets for the parade and now the cab stand is empty. Of course, I wave her in.

Being Polish, I am curious about her. So we chat, joined in by my the cab driver. About everything from last year's Taylor Swift concert in Warsaw to the Puro hotel group. My grateful passenger has a high opinion of these hotels as well, and we speculate at length as to what makes them so great. Of course, I'm speaking in Polish. But as we pull up to the airport, a comment was floated that required me to reveal that I am American. Oh, we guessed that! -- says my gallant cab driver. And the other passenger agrees. It's not that you have an accent exactly... 

I protest: but my hotel staff, my friends -- they tell me I have none (or almost none if you ask Mr. Patryk)! From the cabbie: they have a vested interest in pumping you up. I will never see you again so I can speak the truth -- there's something about the way you talk that tells me you're American.

Wow. So there you have it. It's obvious to everyone -- I am not really Polish anymore. I've lost my hold on the one thing that fully kicks you into a camp of total inclusion -- a perfect command of a language, or really of a speaking style. I talk (and therefore act?) like an American.

 

My flight to Paris is lovely. On time, smooth. I've done this route a million times and I like it in both directions. And this time I feel that I really need the pause before returning home. I need to unscramble and reset. I need to not rush, to not drop it all and move on to the next thing. I need to think.

 

In Paris, I wanted to take the train into town, but in the end I gave up on that. I packed my suitcase full of candy and gifts -- from friends, and for family and friends. It's heavy. Paris is hot and the air quality index isn't the best. So I cab over to the Baume. Ah, how I love explaining my destination! Hotel Baume (pronounced Boh-m), on the Left Bank, I tell the cabbie. Hotel de la Bomb?? I can't find it. He fiddles with the Navigator. There's no "de la," just Baume, that's B-A-U-M-E. On Delavigne. No "de la," but on Delavigne? Ah, Baume! Le voila! They always find it, but it's ever the production. Or is it that Parisian cabbies get bored with having it so easy with Navigator, and they look to grab back some of the adventure in searching out destinations? 

 It will forever be a happy return to the Baume for me. If Puro had Patryk, Baume has Alma, Eduard, Gabriel, and of course Sylvia. Superstars, all of them. Indeed, Sylvia comes out to greet me. How was Varsovie? -- it feels like I am back from a lengthy, tumultuous  journey (and maybe I am!), returning home.  And my room? Heaven. It's always one of two that I love (all those windows!), no surprises. My Parisian bubble.

 

It's late afternoon in Paris. I deliberately have no plans for the day (in fact for most of my days here). I want to take walks, I'll be making a day trip out of the city, and I will actually not end with Paris: my last two nights in Europe will be in the French countryside. Today, I just want to take it easy. Unpack, stay in my room, read, write. Walk in the park.

 In case you think this is insanely boring, because after all, I am in PARIS, I'll throw out this much: I'll be eating dinners at new places every single night I am here (I'm heading back home on Thursday). Who says that thing about old dogs!

 

For dinner I head out to La Gorgee. (My searches these days are all about distance, fresh and honest, price, and liked by locals.) 

It's a perfect 15 minute walk, through the Luxembourg Gardens, which close at 8:45pm today (then, reminding us of the passing of summer, at 8:15pm, starting tomorrow).

And in the park, I notice it most of all: Paris is so... quiet. Fewer tourists, I am told. Many Americans are staying home. 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, so few Parisians in town that I could count them. Here, these young women stopped by the restaurant just for a drink. They were French. (La Gorgee has outside tables. In the evening we all flock to them.)

On my other side there is a somewhat stunning Frenchman (I dared not photograph him) and for some reason he asks me where I'm from. I tell him, head down, shoulders slumped. Ah, well, she is English --he says, nodding to his fluently French speaking companion. We commiserated about the strangeness of these times, until he said "no politics!" I returned to my book.  My waiter thought my Kindle set up was awesome. Not bad for your eyes though? Oh, I don't know! I love it.

The food? It checks all the boxes. I like what I order -- veggies, followed by pollock, followed by this concoction:

 

 

 

I mean, vacherin glacee for dessert? My world! Although I have to say, with Beza in Poland and Vacherin in Paris, my sugar load is getting awfully high.

I walk back to my hotel at 8:30, so just before the park closes. It's really rare to catch a sunset at the Luxembourg Gardens. The park closure is always timed just before the sun is down. To catch it, you must come just before they push back the closure. And of course, I have to be here at that moment of near change, and it has to be a sunny day, and I have to be done with dinner, so definitely it must be summertime, and the restaurant has to be nearby. I tell you it's rare. But I got it today.

I come back to my room so deeply grateful. I wont list all the reasons why. Perhaps they are obvious?

with so much love...  

  

Warsaw and the sheep shed

Heat warnings are posted for Europe: it's going to be a scorcher! I think the warning is warranted because most homes in northern Europe do not have air conditioning. It is estimated that 20% of Europeans have  AC, but this figure includes the southern countries. In the north? Not so many. I don't have the figures for Poland, but I know Germany only stands at 3% of all households. Poland's numbers are significantly lower than that. (By comparison, 88% of American homes are air conditioned.) You need to be careful when the sun is out and the predicted temps hover around 88f/31c. 

Most of my friends here hate the heat. They do what you're supposed to do: close shades, create an air flow if possible, avoid cooking, open windows at night. And they avoid going out. And then along comes Nina and now you have to force yourself to ignore the heat and do something fun with her. Four of them suggested we do a trip out to the Sheep Shed. Such a funny confluence of terms: my farmette sheep shed, and now this Polish sheep shed, which actually isn't a sheep shed at all. It's the village of Sheepshed (aka Owczarnia) in which you will find an open air museum. A sculpture park dedicated to the sculpture of the Mexican artist Juan Soriano.

I have to give a brief explanation because if you're like me, you will have little knowledge of Soriano or his art. 

First of all, why place the sculptures of a Mexican artist in a Polish village? Well, Soriano (whose name at birth was different, but that's another story -- family relations can be... complicated) was a Mexican child prodigy and a gifted artist both in painting and sculpture. On a visit to Paris in 1974, he met a Polish dancer by the name of Marek Keller. There and then began a relationship that lasted for thirty years -- until the death of Soriano. The two split their time between Paris and Mexico, but Keller was determined to publicize Soriano's art worldwide and just before Soriano's death, Keller introduced him to the possibility of displaying his art in Owczarnia. Soriano was enthralled with the place! With good reason.

Okay, that's the back story. Now back to the specifics of this day.

I want my Jagodzianka. I know bakeries here open early. I'm out early. 

(interesting spelling, but it conveys the right message)

 

 

 

 

Breakfast: oatmeal for my health, Jagodzianka for my pleasure. Oh, um, yes, I also bought a Polish paczek. For my second cup of coffee.

Two of my friends pick me up immediately after breakfast. We drive to the village of Owczarnia (the sheep shed!). On the way, I see a nest on top of a lamppost, with two storks, likely feeding their young. I wish I had snapped a photo. Polish storks are legendary!

We arrive at the park just as two other friends pull in. 

 (the four of them)

 

 

And here's an interesting fact: the forested park is vast, the sculptures are incredible, and yet we see fewer than a handful of people the entire time we are there. At the end, when we visit the gallery of another Mexican artist (also on the park premises), we see no one, not even a rep from the exhibition. Aren't they afraid of theft? 

I cannot emphasize enough how much the bronze sculpture in the Park impressed me. 

(the larch trees so remind me of those my grandfather grew)

 

 

(and yes, the Rowan trees remind of my Polish village as well; we'd pick the berries for necklace projects)

 

 

 

I could post more than a dozen photos of favorites. I'll try to be sane and limit myself but honestly, the works of art, carefully placed among mature trees were breathtakingly beautiful.

 

(mermaid) 

Really memorable.

We paused on a bench. Both couples brought snacks -- fruits and nut bars. We lingered, watching fish cavort in the pond. Ducks too. We tested our strength by seeing who could throw a plum pit further.

I laughed hard. My friends tell me that this is my characteristic -- that I laugh often and hard. 

 

 

 

It's true, in Poland I do. Why? I do think my friends are thoughtfully clever in their remarks. Humor has always been important for Poles, and these guys never stop wanting to amuse their audience. It comes naturally to them.

We walk on to the stream that cuts through the forest. And again we pause, this time on the bridge, to admire the frogs.

And we talk, this time about politics. About why, why why America's head of state terrorizes his perceived enemies, cruelly, seemingly randomly. Why why why pick on Europe. Why why why allow him to get away with so much. We thought you valued the 1st Amendment! Doesn't anyone care anymore? And why aren't you out on the streets more?

In other words, the usual questions for which I have inadequate explanations.

(photo credit:TZ)

 

 

We visit the art gallery and talk about favorite paintings there.

And then we get back in the cars and drive the ten minutes to another small village -- one that I know from my childhood, though I honestly do not remember in what connection. Was it where I went with my high school class for an overnight on a farm? I'll have to think about it more. But we go there not to see the town. My friend heard of a cafe-restaurant that is supposed to be quite nice there -- one with the beguiling name of Weranda. (verandah in English).

And here is where we show our aversion to air conditioning, which really separates me at least from the vast majority of Americans: we have a choice of a table on the verandah, or inside, in the air conditioned room. "Too cold!" -- we say, retreating to the warmer, some would even say quite a bit warmer verandah.

We all order the set lunch for the day: Pickled cucumber soup with dill (so so Polish!)...

Chicken with chanterelles and drop noodles and a little salad, also with cucumbers...

And for dessert, bezy, which is also as Polish as you can get, even though a version of this dessert can be claimed by Australia -- it's their Pavlova, except Poles serve it as a cake. Here's my piece with red fruits:

To drink? Kompot, the drink of my grandmother's home. (It's juice from stewed fruits.) 

And so here we are, sitting at the table in the warmth of the summer afternoon. As always, in our conversation, we combine the present with our past. I wonder if I bring this on, or if it's just a function of our age. (The youngest among us is 69, the oldest 74.) I learn something new -- during the imposition of Martial Law in Poland (a present from the Communist Party and especially from our then Soviet neighbors to the east), a few of my friends were abroad, on visits, or for work purposes. They were offered passage to the US and American citizenship. Regan was generous to those who wished to seek asylum. (How much America has changed, my friends tell me. Yes, it has.) The catch -- they would have to relinquish their Polish passports. They didn't want to do it. Some for reasons of family back home, sure, but also because, well, they didn't want to do it. I asked if maybe they would have been able to bring family to the U.S. later. And here I see the gulf that separates us. You don't know how it was! You weren't here then!!  They are right. The year was 1981 and Poland was under Martial Law for over two years. But the message was clear: I dont get it.

I remember when we were playing my Questions game last night. One innocent question was "what is the longest line you ever waited in and for what purpose?" Do you, my American Ocean readers, even know of any line, other than for a Taylor Swift concert or the like, that kept you waiting for hours? The women at my dinner party all shouted the same answer: for Milupa! (rarely available German baby food.) 

I had one baby who loved all baby food. I had no problem getting it. I lived in Wisconsin. (My longest line? Can't say that one stands out. Lots of lines in postwar Poland, but I remember them for their frequency and constancy, rather than the length.) 

 

We drive back to Warsaw and I say good bye to three of them. One I will still see tomorrow, but not for long. I have a morning flight to Paris.

They drop me off at the Old Town. 

 

 

 

 (she is the symbol of my city of birth)

 

 

 

 

I still want to pick up some postcards, and maybe a chocolate bar for friends back home. And I see prunes in chocolate! I quickly fill a bag. My suitcase will not be light.

 I return to the hotel, cutting through the Saski Park...

 

 

 

 

 

In the restaurant, I pick up a tomato pesto croissant and a Zero Polish beer and go upstairs. 

 

 

 

Still not ready to think through everything. This is why I need a few days alone (for this I chose France), to process, to understand. Maybe I never will get why Poland stirs me up so much. But I keep trying.

with love... 

Warsaw: family, friends

My fierce inner resistance to the time change caved. I fell asleep just as the page turned and August 12th became August 13th. Such a welcome change!

And here's another change: I'm learning to think about Warsaw in a new way. I'll never be able to totally shed my childhood angst when I revisit this city, but recently I've been looking at everything from a different perspective: I've been thinking -- how would Snowdrop, Primrose, Sparrow, Sandpiper and Juniper look at it if they were here? How would they view this street, food, language, park, tram ride? I've traveled with all of them and I've noticed that especially in their younger years, they dont pay attention to the differences. They focus on what's familiar. You're looking at the Soviet architecture of the Palace of Culture and they're likely surveying the ledge above the green strip of grass and wondering if they can get away with climbing it. You're telling them to try the fantastic fruits of the forest ice cream in Italy and they're pondering if the chocolate flavor is as good as the one back home. But what would happen if you pointed out the marks of war on a building in Warsaw's Praga district? Or the braided hair of little girls (American girls tend to keep it in a style that we affectionately call a "rat's nest")? And can they be taught to like blintzes? With sour cream? Because in Poland, that combination of sweet and sour is ever present (only in Poland do I see sour cream sprinkled with sugar over it).

This focus on not even the next generation but the one after, helps me overcome my self absorption here. The question of "how does that affect me" is erased and the new one -- "how does this affect them" becomes the one that matters.

 

Refreshed, full of good thoughts about the two or three days I've had here thus far, and amused and excited about my new attitude, I go down to breakfast.

And now I plunge into a very complicated day. It turns out that the five days I gave to Poland is a day too little. I could use a bit more time for a peak into shops (am I really coming home with nothing from Poland for anyone ??), for a taste of paczki (those Polish doughnuts with rose jam), or jagodzianki (yeasty blueberry rolls). This day and the next are full of good things -- there's no room for more. So, I should have stayed a day longer. 

No matter, let's concentrate on today: and it's a whopper! The first half I will spend with my sister and nephew. And then in the late afternoon, I am going to go to my own idea of a party, one that I'm throwing for my full set of friends here. We're all in our 70s, so out of the 13 that should be there, one had to bow out at the last minute due to health, and one will be coming straight from the hospital, after a prolonged and serious stay there. It's a warning to all of us: there are no more guarantees (even if we believed, in our youth, that we would always be energetic, strong, smart, creative!). 

I got Karolina, my architect friend to help me find a place where I can host these old school friends of mine. She came up with a great restaurant that offered a private room. I paid, reserved, then found out the place went belly up. We scrambled. She came up with another -- the place where I ate dinner with her last year. By the old Fort in southern Warsaw (Mokotow). It's not easy to get to. But, we are all energetic, strong, smart, creative, right??

First though, my morning with family.

I meet my sister, we catch the metro, then walk the familiar path through the familiar neighborhood... 

 

 

 

... all the way to the Lazienki Park. With a quick detour to the Botanical Gardens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lazienki Park is right next door. I cannot imagine a visit to Warsaw without a walk along the stately avenues of this beautiful green space. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My nephew meets us there. Eventually, we find a table at a cafe-restaurant that I have visited too many times to count. Right by the Summer Palace. There, I order a nalesnik (blintz with cheese). My grandmother made these. Every Polish child has had many a meal of them. I couldn't tell you which is the more popular:  nalesniki or pierogi (dumplings).

 Fortified, we walk. All along the Royal Way again, to my hotel. It's not too far. Maybe 3.5 kilometers. And it is a lovely walk (on a very warm day!).

 

 

 

We pause at a pastry store that my two walking companions like (they have the same one in their neighborhood).  They have them here! Jagodzianki, paczki...

I must come back, come hell or high water. Tomorrow.

By three, I am back to my hotel, getting ready for my "party." And by five, I am at Gardens by Fort.

(the table is set)

  

 

(they're all here now...)

 

And, too, Karolina, the person who helped me come up with a place to host a dinner party, comes over with her friend.

 

 

 

Polish friendships are different than the ones in the U.S. (I speak as one from the postwar generation. Things change, customs shift. Perhaps there is more similarity among younger age groups.) Not better, not stronger, not gentler, just different. Most people live in the same city all their lives. For better or worse, friends never quite leave your field of vision (unless they emigrate, like me). Or, is it that even after all these years I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that I am no longer part of this group, that our lives have split so widely and in such different directions that I hesitate to plunge into any discussion of what happens back home, at the farmette, with my kids, because what if they wont understand? 

(we eat; it's not a great photo, but then, I didn't take it!)

 

And I do take out my Hygge Game of conversational cards. For the fun of it. But I choose carefully the questions posed and discussed. I'm dealing with Polish sensibilities. I want them to love playing, to treat this gathering as a happy event on this hot August day.

 

I get back home late. Of course I do. At the risk of disrupting my sleep cycle once again, I jot down these thoughts, but I'll save the rest for later. I am tired, but deeply content.

with so much love...