letting go of confidence

One good night of sleep, and another characterized by sleep-lite. Maybe the third will be sleep-heavy? You can never tell when you mess with time zones.

I am lying in bed, mentally calculating how many hours of sleep I should have clocked in when I hear a distinct bell ringing.

But what bell? I have my iPhone. I have skype. I have google voice. I have my Polish phone.

I decide it's none of those - it's the intercom to the downstairs entrance.

Who could it be? My sister has keys and besides, she's busy cooking up a storm at home. Who would be trying to see me at 8 in the morning? A mistake maybe. I ignore it. The bell stops but then starts again.

I get up and try to open the bedroom window. The shade is half drawn, but I manage enough of a crack to see a retreating form: a young man with a back pack. (My sister later tells me that it's likely the son of my downstairs neighbor. They've been fighting and oftentimes the older man throws the son out and refuses to let him back in.)

Alright. It's quiet again. That is until the opening window dislodges the whole shade and causes it to come crashing down on me.

It takes a long time for me to figure out how to climb up, way up and find a way to attach it to the clamps.

And so I begin the morning humbly running late. Enough time to glance at my morning bouquet...







But not enough time to eat breakfast.

It hardly matters. I am meeting my friend for a morning coffee. She is my oldest, enduring friend. And as I rush to meet her, I think -- where it not for my friends and my sister, I would not come to Warsaw as often as I do. I love the place, but it would feel empty without them. They, and not my history here, are what makes this home.

I had asked my friend to pick our coffee place and she writes without hesitation -- let's meet at Brunet Cafe. It's an Iranian place and it's been targeted by the nationalist racists here. Vandalism, threats -- that kind of thing.

I wanted to walk, but I am late, and so right by my old University gates...







... I catch the bus and meet her there.

It's a lovely little spot and they even offer a breakfast of oatmeal. (A patrol car drives by every few minutes. The proprietor checks in with the police. They move on. ) And of course, I have a wonderful set of hours with my friend.









We catch up on everything, but we also veer toward politics. How can we not -- last time I saw her in January, we had not yet inaugurated a new president. But she tells me the political drama in Poland is even more intense.
I cannot agree. How can it be more intense? She is an avid reader of the press. She knows what's going on overseas.

But when I listen to her, I realize that it can get worse. So long as democratic institutions are still functioning to provide checks and balances, one hopes that eventually the better instincts, reason, knowledge -- all those fine elements of a society will prevail. But there are no guarantees. In too many countries, the attack on such institutions is very very strong.

We have lived through so much turmoil in Poland! Can those who mock a free press and an independent judiciary have such short memories?!

By noon, we both have to move on. We walk together toward the metro, concentrating on the pretty neighborhood, the signs of spring.

It's the first day of spring -- my friend tells me. My sister had earlier said the same thing.
No it's not! I had looked it up to be sure. Spring officially arrived here at 11 a.m. yesterday. At the same moment as for the rest of the northern hemisphere.
But she reminds me -- it's all in how you describe it. In Poland, we've always regarded the 21st as the beginning of the new season.

She's right, of course. You can describe things however you want. Custom drives such vocabulary. And anyway, it surely is beginning to look and feel like spring here. Even as the Polish grandma (as opposed to me!) still bundles the child in layer upon layer of warm clothing!






(This vendor is selling what I regard as the quintessential Polish flower box plant: the pansy. I am amused to note that these are actually from outside Poland: Sicily. Does it make sense to treat Europe as one? Does it make sense not to treat Europe as one?)






(I stop at a bakery to pick up what surely can be regarded as a Polish cake: poppy seed - this one combined with a Polish style cheesecake.)






(Riding the subway, I come across this young Pole. I hope he doesn't mean what his t-shirt says. I want to tell him -- you that's too big a request. Too high a price...)






(Pussy willows. On sale everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.)






My goal for the afternoon is to be at my sister's place. She is hosting a dinner party for her old school crowd (and I do know some of her old school crowd) and I'm to join them for the evening.

She is a great hostess, attending to detail, putting her heart into the meal, to the presentation of it as well.






It is a terrific evening, with wonderful food and a great mixture of Polish and English (my sister studied the English language at the university here and her friends, who date back to those years, jump (like her) between the two languages with ease).






And here's a treat: the two music school students who rented my apartment before I bought it came to the dinner party as well. They're progressing terrifically in their musical careers despite their relocation complications.






Later, I ride the metro back to my place and I think -- it's as if I haven't left, right? Except that I have. And so this now is my interlude. My break. My departure from the routines of a farmette life.

spring!

Oh, but I love this season! It's rarely off to a good start in the regions where I live, but it progresses toward a rhapsodic view of life blossoming, of renewal and growth, and it's done with such flair and beauty that it takes your breath away!

And today it all begins.

I'm in Warsaw and I have all the stuff that I need for a good breakfast.

I spread out a tea towel that I brought with me, not because one ought to use a tea towel as a place mat, but because it has that lovely combination of images that define this week: in the corner it boasts in French that it is Le Printemps (spring! and yes, there will be something French for me this week) and then it moves to sketches that speak to my childhood in Poland -- lillies of the valley, plump cherries ripening on village farmsteads, swallows darting to catch this bug then that...







On the table, you'll notice the pitcher of flowers and you may remember that there was much debate and little resolution as to which flower may last the week, but perhaps it's not the blossoms that matter (though they are pretty) -- to me, it's the pussy willow twigs which always made it to jars at home in my younger years of a Warsaw spring.





Welcome, spring! Welcome indeed!

Still, it is on the cool side today. A high of 50F (10C). And it's not there yet as I set out toward my sister's neighborhood where we are to do some shopping, not for me this time, but for her.

On my way out, I walk down the stairwell of my apartment building. It's got a few chips and dents, but it's clean and ... homey. My neighbor downstairs occasionally pokes out to see who is passing through. Another neighbor's pup yaps at us all.  Outside the window, you can catch a glimpse of the monastery that's located just to the back of our building, behind firmly locked gates. Here's a nun pacing outside the high walls, talking earnestly on her cell phone...






In Warsaw, I believe all apartments are heated by radiators. (I've never seen another form of heating here.) The stairwell has radiators too and that's grand: toasty warm when you enter. On the radiator that's right next to our mailboxes someone put out three books. I look at the titles: War and Peace, The Politics of John the XXIII and Paul the VI, and finally The Essential Guide for Senior Citizens. I pick the last one up and look at the index. Everything you need to know! From why and how you should make up a will, to where you may look for services, to your rights to stay in your home even if you do not own it. I put the book back. (By afternoon it's gone.)






I take a meandering route to the metro. There's no hurry. And I want to take in Warsaw. You know, to make that correction to whatever images of it I have thus far.

In the course of my walk I pass dozens of flower stands. Poles love their flowers. Hmmm... is it something that I took back with me to the U.S.? Did it originate here? Because surely I remember dozens of flower vendors from my childhood as well. Spring meant posies of violets and English daisies. Forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley. These days the flowers aren't necessarily from riverside meadows. But still, they are an essential element of your home's decor: they announce a well lived life.






I stop at a bookstore. I am intrigued by the big children's book in the window -- the one that says "Spring on Cherry Street" -- in Polish of course.






I go inside. I like the book. It has large, complex pictures of scenes from a spring day in some hypothetical town. There are few words and yet the book feels remarkably Polish. Maybe it's the three nuns that are like three Waldos on each page. (One task might be to "find the nuns," though perhaps that's strange to a child who, being raised in the U.S., has never seen a nun in her life.)

As I resume my walk, I notice how many older couples walk arm in arm, or sometimes even hand in hand. (Here's a humorous sign outside a coffee shop: Good Warm Coffee (arrow points inside), Cold, Awful World (arrow points outside.))






Habits. Culturally ingrained and maintained. Impossible sometimes to let go of them. I come to an intersection. A small street, completely empty. Light is red. I cannot just stand there. It goes against the grain of where I learned to cross streets (in New York). I mean -- ridiculous. There's not a car in sight. I shrug my shoulders and cross on the red light.
A policeman saunters over to me: what do you think you're doing? You want to cause an accident?
I decide to forego pointing out that there are no cars.
Sorry... I was in a hurry.
Well now, you think you can just ignore the lights?
No... Sorry!
My sister later tells me I was lucky: she was zapped with a hefty fine. She said they've moved from giving verbal warnings to handing out tickets. In any case, on the next light I wait with the rest. But there are no cars! My feet itch to cross!

I hold back.


Most often, I pull out my camera when I think something is so... I don't know, typical! And I especially think in those terms when I see someone my age. There is something of the soul of Warsaw in these people who grew up to see the changes here in the same way I did.






On the subway (which I now take because I'm running so late) the new generation is plugged in. The old generation reflects.






My sister and I shop in a row of shops close to where she lives (the southern most tip of the city). Ha! I see a Snowdrop type!






But equally fascinating are the shops. You cannot say that we are in an exclusive area of town. It's comfortably middle class (for Poland; less so for those of you on the other side of the ocean). But the food stores -- they're wonderful!

I'm impressed with all of them, though I'll mention only a few: the meat shop, with its abundance of everything, including these lovely homemade pates.






The bread bakery -- well that's a given. Poles, like the French, love their bread and they love it fresh!






The fish store has a dozen beautiful herring salads, and the grocery store!! Oh, the grocery store!  This perhaps is the best of the lot. The vendor has everything: not just local (though come summer, he veers toward homegrown), but EU and in rare instances beyond. And all of it of such beautiful quality! The apples, the dill! The strawberries from Spain (we get them daily now, he tells me), the endive, beans, oh, just everything! Add to this barrels of sauerkraut: several types!

It seemed to be a family affair and they do know their product, their suppliers and obviously their customers.






Why do we not have green grocers in the U.S. anymore? They are ubiquitous in France of course, but I always thought that it's because the French are a bit gaga about food. I see that they're ubiquitous in Warsaw as well. Imagine having your own neighborhood grocer! Someone who knows you, picks out the good apples for you, and tells you when the next shipment of berries will be delivered. It's no secret that I dislike most produce sections of major supermarkets. I shop at Whole Foods in large part because of the produce section there: it's better than the rest. But it's not the same as these small shops. And so Warsaw has flipped: it used to be far far far worse in terms of food than the U.S.. Now, dare I say it?  I think it may be better. With prices that are less than half those in the west.

I think about all this as I get back on the metro. I'm loaded down after all. Couldn't pass up the sauerkraut...

As I climb the steps to the street, I hear music. I pause to watch.






I know where they're from  -- Romania. To the westerner, Poland is inexpensive and wages are low. To those in the east and south -- this country is a place where you can find work and decent pay. Economically speaking, Poland is many steps up from most other countries of the so-called Eastern Bloc.

(Looking down the street that I always cross on my way home...)






(Another photo of a person my age -- someone who looks so much like the older women of my childhood... Oh, the hat and bag may be finer, but essentially, she is as she would have been then...)





I pause to pick up some tulips at one of those flower stalls not too far from my apartment. I tell the vendor -- no, don't bother with the ribbon. It's just for home.
She is a bit aghast and ignores my directive. So what! You want to carry something pretty, dont you?

She reminds me of my Italian friend who was equally aghast when I had told her I don't care how I dress on days when I don't have social engagements. Don't you care for yourself?!?
It was the same admonition.

The flower person hands me my bouquet and I say thank you and good bye and she says thank you and good bye and then adds -- I wish you a very nice day ("zycze milego dnia!"). It is the third time I hear this from a vendor today! It's completely new and it sounds so foreign here! Did they all read in the paper that with a market economy you wish people nice days when they finish doing business with you?

Oh, the changing face of Poland!

At home, I mix up my cultures a bit: flowers from here, a little cup from Paris, chocolate covered ginger bread hearts with sour cherry filling  -- oh, so very much from here!






Evening. If at the farmette I am socially quiet for long stretches of time (except for events that center around family), in Warsaw, there aren't enough days to do all that I want to do with friends here.

Tonight, I am a guest at my architect's home. Karolina and her husband invite me over for supper with their wonderful two children. I take my time getting there. It's always so interesting to walk a city at dusk. Here's a dad taking his two out for an evening stroll while presumably the mom fixes supper.






Finally I am at Karolina's place. The food is grand, and spending an evening with them is just lovely,  and the kids are awesome, though unfortunately their little girl reminds me a bit of Snowdrop, so there is that nostalgia at work again.






(The ever yummy desserts of Warsaw...)






I leave when it surely is way past their kids' bedtime. I note the park across the street and I think -- why does it feel so Polish to me?






Perhaps because it is. Just that.

travel, continued

[Over the Atlantic]

I always forget to pack some trivial thing. I don't write things down and so the mind moves elsewhere and one or two items are left behind. This time I omitted a stack of New Yorker magazines, which is a shame because they are perfect for long flights.

Still, every mistake is also an invitation to live your life differently and so on this trip, I find myself reading very carefully the magazine Holland Herald -- it's free and it's stuck in your seat on I assume all KLM flights.

Let me quote from one wee story (with a photo of Amsterdam canal houses at night -- lights on, curtains pulled aside):

Ever wonder why Dutch people tend to leave their curtains open, giving passers-by a full display of their interior and indoor activities? Well, the common explanation... lies in the country's Calvinistic history. Apparently, leaving your curtains open shows you have nothing to hide and lead a modest life.

Another possible reason might be the lack of sunshine in the country, especially during winter. And the locals would like to catch as much light as they can. So, they are actually not welcoming you in, only the sunshine.

I smiled at that because in fact, Ed and I do not use curtains. True, we live in the country, but even when I lived in my Madison condo and prior to that -- my downtown apartment, I never closed off the outside world. Oh, do let go of your naughty thoughts: the very private activities were not/are not on display!  Still, people who visit are somewhat incredulous. You never draw the curtains? And then I will admit that in the summer time, the sun streaming in through the skylight is so bright in the morning that I have draped a cover to that window, so that we can sleep in late if we wish and not be blinded. Otherwise -- no.

And though we have no Calvinist heritage, Ed and I do feel pride in the modest nature of our interior. There is absolutely nothing of value in the farmhouse. Old cheap furniture and kid toys. We have nothing to conceal. And, perhaps equally importantly, we love the outdoor light!

After reading every last bit of the magazine I turn to the inflight movies. I finally work up the nerve to watch Manchester by the Sea which is so terribly tragic that I almost cannot sleep because of it (I say "almost ... because of it" since it's never clear to me why I cannot sleep flying eastward, even as Ed tells me I only think I'm not sleeping.)

I then watch La La Land (again!) to lull myself into another world and shortly after I am in Amsterdam, where I eat my mostly unhealthy breakfast.






At the gate I shut out that conversation around me and try to figure out (by looking rather than listening) if I can spot the Poles and the Americans in the waiting area. It's a game that a lot of us displaced and/or transplanted people play. It helps us feel connected to our knowledge base and the culture in which we once lived. Here's a couple who gave me not the slightest bit of doubt:







Having bypassed the whole Paris mess, I easily connect to my Amsterdam - Warsaw flight and suddenly travel is methodical and calm again. Rocky beginnings do not foretell continued chaos.



[Finally, Warsaw...]


I arrive tired but grateful. Just a little bit late, just a little bit windswept (strong gusts up and down the face of Europe) but glad to be here. In my apartment. Where everything still smells fresh and feels very welcoming.





I don't linger at home though. My sister is with me and she has a music lesson and I walk her to it, and I have a long grocery shopping list and she walks me to it, and so the rest of the day passes very briskly: one two three -- it's done.

I'll leave you with two photos. In the first, I am hurrying toward the riverside metro stop. It's windy and as I have already mentioned -- not that warm. But it's also Sunday and so I am not surprised to see many groups of people -- families, mostly families -- out for a walk.






It thrills me that this most enduring habit hasn't disappeared.

And I also leave you with a pic of a small flower shop. When my sister and I go to the big grocery store across the river, we pass it and inevitably we pause. Today I had a tough time deciding which pinks and reds should come back with me to the apartment.





Can't you tell me which will last the week? -- I ask the person who sells flowers.
No, I cannot -- she answers bluntly.

By now, I'm beginning to remember the layout of the grocery store. And I've also come to remember this particular flower shopkeeper: she is the kind of person who will not meet your sweet inquiries with sweet responses, but when you purchase your flowers, she'll throw in a little bit of this and a little bit of that and arrange it all beautifully for you. Her goodness comes through if you just pause and, without rushing, purchase a small spray of flowers.

travel

So many ocean crossings are a breeze. Indeed, for the vast majority of my flights, nothing goes wrong. I pack, I go to the airport, I read or write on the plane, I make my connection, then one more and I'm there. It is a period of reflection, of missing, of anticipation. Of a familiar routine. To me at least. (The Delta agent in Madison asks -- Warsaw? Do you go there often? I don't see many people here with Warsaw as a final destination.)

But a short while ago I realized that this trip would require travel patience. With a morning shooting at one of the Paris airports (I was to fly via Paris) and diverted flights, with an Air France flight attendant strike just for this weekend (my final flight was to be on Air France), things were not going to progress in that methodical fashion I've come to appreciate.

Indeed, I wake up to a message telling me of a cancelled flight. A few minutes later, a notification of a rebooking on a Polish Airlines connection.

I have no problem with LOT (the Polish airline), but it doesn't get me miles and the flight leaves from a different terminal in Paris and all that creates a bit of a problem. Paris airports in the best of times are one big waiting game and these are not the best of times.

I and a million other Air France travelers are on the phone, waiting patiently to speak to representatives who can adjust things for us.

As I wait, I think how it really doesn't matter if I get there according to plan, or without disruption. I remember all the giant snafus that have messed with my travel plans, but these days, my destinations are simple and my agenda isn't a make it or break it thing and the lesser snafus are quickly forgotten.

I write all this because it does impact my posting today. The agent asked me if I would be willing to leave earlier and fly through Amsterdam. Yes, sure. Two hours later, the ticket change was made and now I really had to scramble. Suitcase unpacked, my morning disorganized, and I'm on an earlier flight! Time to speed!

But, time for breakfast as well. Sweet, sweet, not to be missed breakfast.





And that lovely breakfast offers the only photo for this day. I'm off to Atlanta and Amsterdam and yes, eventually, perhaps without glitch or any further interruption -- Warsaw.

Friday

On my drive home from Snowdrop's house, I heard an interview with the Nobel prize winning poet Derek Walcott. He died today, but of course, his poetry very much stays with us.

But what really grabbed me were his words about his homeland, Saint Lucia. He went back again and again and when asked if this was because he felt a special and enduring connection to his country, he answered simply -- no, it's because in writing about it, I never felt that I got it right.

I pulled the car over to the side of the road just so that I could think about what I'd just heard. Of course! I understand.

I think of this on the eve of my departure to Poland -- a place that I visit often and, in my more ambitious writing, spend a huge amount of thought on. And I always wonder -- did I get it right? Typically I sit down and rework the text to make use of new ideas or information that I may have come across. But I never really believe it's done. I revisit it again and again. Not for the editorial changes, but the rewording of the story I mean to tell.


Today was a drippy, perhaps even foggy day and all this made no difference to me or, I dare say to any in my circle of contacts.

Ed and I ate breakfast in the sun room, perhaps because there was no sun. He wanted to know why I had purchased a hand beater for Warsaw. I told him that my ancient one was forever sticking and so it was pointless to lug it overseas (we're talking the hand propelled model, not the electrical one). Predictably, he picked up the ancient one (that thing must be nearly 50 years old), spotted the problem and told me he could it fix it and I could thus send back the new one (which cost all of $9) and wasn't that just great!






Oh, Ed. Sometimes it's nice just to purchase a new egg beater.

Speaking of eggs, all three girls are laying again! Here's the last holdout -- Java. You can see, too, how quickly the landscape is changing in its push toward spring.







I pick up Snowdrop at the usual noon hour and because it is Friday, she and I do not come back to the farmhouse but instead I take her to her home.  (She sings songs most of the stroller ride.)






Her mom is about to come back from work and the little girl will have a good solid afternoon of two doting ones attending to her wonderfulness.






The sweet child is tired. This is not unusual on a Friday. A full week of school and, too, fighting off bugs and colds picked up from her peers -- it takes its toll. Still, she settles in to play in the best way possible. She is total Polish peasant stock!





I say this as a bit of a tease because of course, I claim myself to be made of that tough material. Can't punch me down -- I come from Polish peasant stock!

In fact, Snowdrop is not even 50% Polish. She has a whole chunk of Estonian and Croatian and yes, Irish. And her mom just happened to have this cute little hat and Snowdrop just happened to love what we affectionately call the fish jig and so the afternoon was made pleasant by the confluence of all these things...






Yes, happy Irish and Polish and all-ish to you!






If we really insist on working the ancestry bits and pieces of our own past, we'd probably conclude that we all have a bit of Polish peasant stock in our genetic material. And that from Saint Lucia and Ireland and Syria and Samoa and Scotland and Senegal and all the farthest remote corners of this beautiful planet.

Thursday

Above freezing and still climbing! Oh, it's nice to be trotting along toward spring!

It continues to be so sunny that eating breakfast in the sun room is actually too bright. We retreat to the front room.






And then I have a rather busy morning. I must get the farmhouse and myself ready for a short (they're all short!) trip that will put me on the road (or rather in the sky) beginning Saturday. I'm used to creating lists in my head and stacking things that I mustn't forget. I set aside a few hours to do just that today.

I will be spending most (but not all) of my time in Warsaw and there is a bit of an irony to my preparations for this trip: I had envisioned minimalist packing for my travels to Poland. I have everything I need there. A few changes of clothing and let's be done with it! But in fact, this time my little suitcase will be bulging. I'm taking stuff that I need for my kitchen there. It could be that most of the items are readily available in Warsaw, but I haven't the time nor the desire to spend all of my days there on moving between stores. So for once, I'll send a suitcase through and it wont be light.

At noon, I turn away from travel issues and I go to get Snowdrop, who may very well be wearing her warm winter jacket for the last time this season. Yeah, it is a lovely day!







We take the stroller past the lesser lake and yes, it still has thin ice crusts on a good portion of it, bit it's all rather transient. Right now it's 38F (about 3.5C), but it feels warmer than that. Yes, trotting toward spring!






At the farmette, Snowdrop and I have a greeting committee!











And I suppose we could linger outside for a bit, but the little girl is hungry: for her croissant, and for some music!






(I thought I had convinced her that a pony tail is a useful thing to sport when you are as active as she is. I was wrong.)






One more pre-nap photo:  she's going grocery shopping. She dresses well for the occasion!






I could end with that, but I have three post-nap photos that seem especially sweet and fitting because it is Snowdrop's last visit to the farmhouse for nearly a dozen days. When she wakes up from her nap and I carry her sleepy state down, she asks, as always -- where is ahah?
In the sheep shed, I think.
In the sheep shed?
Do you want me to call him and ask him to come over?
Yes.

I sit her on the couch, give her the last bit of croissant and the flowers (from Giverny!) which have recently grabbed her fancy...






I call him. He comes. She smiles her big disarming smile (which, admittedly, is not a rare occurrence).

Then comes the request. Want to read me a book, ahah?






He does. She snuggles in.





Ed tells her -- I'm going to miss you next week.
She doesn't understand that. But she understands the warmth, the feeling of closeness -- the farmhouse that keeps her safe and loved until she can return home.