Next to Lazienki Park there is another: Ujazdowski. So many parks, so little time... 

pausing to talk 

defiant 

ready 

she has seen her country go through a lot 

the photographer and his display 

a man, a meal, a dog 

(From Warsaw): over breakfast

[Reflections on what happens when two worlds collide. Or: how does it feel to be the only one in a room of a dozen who knows everyone and where no one else knows more than half of the others? Or: when the author of Ocean hosts a party in her old family apartment, where her American friends meet all her closest Polish friends.]

I sweated that one.
Really? I didn’t.

You weren’t hosting.
No, I was sitting back and thinking that this was the perfect tableau: books piled high to the ceiling, mountains of food everyone, people exchanging stories.

Food piled high? I know, I probably wasn’t serving it in a fast enough way.
Such fascinating conversation! Didn’t you hear it?

I was thinking that maybe mixing different worlds is not the right thing to do.
Really? If I hadn’t been more tired, you would still find me there right now.

Honestly? I like that image…

among friends 

(From Warsaw): best ever

When I hear that phrase said over a lunch treat, I want to protest. Because really, one cannot hope to compare Polish pastry to French pastry. Or can one?

chocolate eclairs and fruit tarts 

(From Warsaw): conversations under gray clouds

Why the gray skies? It is the last day of gray skies in Poland, they tell me. It will all clear. Summer-like weather starts tomorrow, they say.

But when we walked through Lazienki Park, it was gray. It was gray even among the lilacs. Peacocks paced the park, moving slowly among gray statues, resting occasionally, waiting for a warmer moment.

But the moods were gray.

And it was gray on the streets, and in the buses we rode to and from the Old Town. And on the Square it rained.

Inside the souvenir store, Madeline, Jeremy and I shake off the wetness. The saleslady is looking at us as we stand there dripping, me shivering, Madeline clutching an umbrella. And she scolds: “how can you ladies let that poor man suffer so? Why doesn’t he have a sweater or a wrap on? He’ll catch a cold! Can’t you find him something to keep him warm?”

a sundial without the sun, a peacock passing through 

resting  

looking for good things 

On the Square, fighting the clouds 

(From Warsaw): what stands out

…on the train to Warsaw: farmsteads, small strips of land, meadows. (When was the last time that I had seen a meadow in the States?)

A hand plough pulled by a horse, an orchard, a forest. Dirt roads with farm wagon tracks. No cars. Chickens let loose in a field, willows bending down, wooden fences made of brittle gray boards, unpainted.

Is this my home? Is this no longer my home?

Returning with sentimental thoughts but also returning with an understanding that because I left so long ago, I think it is no longer possible for me to live here (even as it is not possible for me to feel that home is elsewhere).

Wild lilacs blooming against the side of the tracks, a small train station – Dziadowki – passed slowly. No one there anyway, no one in sight anywhere, in fact.

looking out 

wooden fences, fruit trees 

green fields