the lake the lake the lake

I wake up to a beautiful day!

I could complain that the night hadn't enough sleep in it. It was the fault of an absence of an email (from my mother) and additionally -- a pop up of a troubling email from a financial institutions (signaling that someone had tried to hack into an account of mine). Trying to resolve these took a chunk out of the night hours, but honestly -- when I woke up to that sky and the still air (yesterday's wind is history!), I forgot all about the lost sleep. Issues were resolved. I set out with a clean slate and with an itinerary of only the most pleasant stuff to fill my day!

(View out one of my three windows)






The B&B where I am staying (I was wrong to call it a hotel -- it has only a few rooms and interaction with guests is certainly a priority should you need advice and help) -- it takes breakfast seriously.

Here is the breakfast table (which is actually made of doors, of the kind you see in Como and any number of Italian towns, like for example the one below)...











(In the summer, you can eat breakfast or sip a pre-dinner aperitif outside, at one of these tables...)






The hosts have the usual cheeses, salumis, breads, cakes, fruits, yogurts all on display for you, but in addition, they mix you up veggie coctails and fruit drinks and infused waters and, too, they make a warm main dish -- today's was avocado toast with a poached egg.





This immediately takes away the problem of where and when to eat lunch. A full meal in the morning will hold me 'til dinner.

And now I have a day of exploring before me. So... what do you do if you find yourself at the tip of Lake Como? The answer is -- it very much depends on the time of the year.

With the help of my hosts, I've identified several villages I'd like to get close to. You hop on the ferry and get off when you want to.

But, I'm here in the off season. The ferries run in the morning and in the evening for people who rely on them to get to work/school/stores. In the day -- not so much. Maybe two runs to the more distant places and that's it. And so I have to wait quite a bit to catch my ferry and then coordinate my hop off - hop on schedule with their very limited service.

Hey, but what a pleasure it is to be here in the off season! I can imagine that with crowds and a relentlessly warm sun, things can get pretty stressful in midsummer. Not today.

As for the ferry wait -- there's plenty to do in Como in the interim. With the old city mostly closed off to traffic, walking is magnificent!






And the sun-splashed colors -- sublime!





I visit the Duomo. I take no photos because honestly, you have to be really impassioned about very old churches to enjoy someone else's snapshots of cathedral interiors.

And then I walk some more. It's a chance for me to really get the grid of the city down pat. No more getting lost!

(Meet a native of Como, Alessandro Volta. Whaaat? You don't know who that is? Think electric batteries! He invented the first one some two hundred years ago.)





Oftentimes, long walks in new places give me a chance to get at least a glimpse of what it's like to live there. I see people. I can watch, listen. But Como is tricky that way: you can't assume that even the Italian speaking people are locals. They could be Italian tourists. Como, after all, is just a short skip away from Milan. It is very much a tourist destination.

In many ways, the town is positioned at the least attractive point of the lake. Like the other regional bodies of water in northern Italy, Lake Como is long and skinny (about 30 miles in length and never more than a couple of miles across). Como is at the base and you really have to round the first corner to see pretty much anything of interest. Otherwise, standing at the town's waterfront, all you see is this:





Nice enough, but you need to go around many a bend to look at something that is more than just "nice."

Like for example this...






... and even further north -- this... (Lake Como is quite close to the Alpine peaks. When they appear, your jaw drops.)





I only take the ferry halfway up the lake -- first to Lenno, then to Varenna -- but in that stretch, I see such enormous beauty, that I just cannot take my finger off of the camera's shutter release. The light itself is dazzling and it has an enormous impact on how you view the mountains, the villages, the water. Shadows move across the hills and peaks, houses fade in and out of your field of vision -- it's all rather magical!

I get off at the village of Lenno, because I know there is a pretty park, with a villa that is open to the public. Here, you can see them from the boat.





When I disembark, I realize that these wee towns have very little in common with Como. They are tranquil. Restful. Quiet.

I'm one of the few who gets off at Lenno, and as I try to find my bearings, I come across the path to the Villa. It's an easy half hour walk. Easy, but so very beautiful! And guess what?! The wild primroses are blooming their heads off!






After the city rush of Cuomo, Lenno feels decidedly closer to sane. And the views are all yours, at every step.

(Well, they also belong to the statues that gaze out at the lake 24/7)






(Looking south...)






(Looking north...)






My next pause is in Varenna. But before the boat pulls in there, it makes a stop at Bellagio. This is where the hoards get off (and later -- get on), this little town, made perhaps crazy famous when Las Vegas put up its own glitzy version of this Italian wee gem.






I turn away from Bellagio and face the colorful houses of Varenna.






But, the boat schedule being what it is, I don't have much time to take lengthy walks here. I take a lakefront stroll, buy myself an ice cream cone...











...  and retreat back to the  boat landing for the trip home.

 



The boat pulls into Como just at the aperitif hour. I meander home, stopping at some kids clothes stores, smiling to myself as I marvel at how quickly they're all growing. Primrose is catching up to her big cousin! Or at least it feels that way, as I buy each girl the same sweater, only a few sizes apart.






It is my last evening in Italy and I would have liked to have gone back for that Americano aperitif at the bar I popped into yesterday, but honestly, I am tired. I settle in to do some photo work in my hotel room. Never fear! The hosts make excellent cocktails here as well! This one is with berries and juices and it is delivered to my room with  a tray of cheeses and snacks. Heaven.





For dinner, my hosts recommend Crianza -- a restaurant outside the ancient city walls, but still a mere ten - fifteen minute walk from where I am staying. It serves food from the Puglia region and that's just such a treat for me. Ed and I had visited that southern area some time ago and I have quite the strong memories of our time there.

Food in Italy is completely dictated by regional preferences and traditions. Yesterday's Tuscan fare had little in common with today's Puglian foods. I wont say one is better than the other, but I will admit to liking Crianza even more than yesterday's da Rino.

For one thing, it is a better run operation. If yesterday's meal took three hours, today's took 1.5. That's just about perfect for a solo diner. Three is too long. One is too short. The pace of tonight's dinner was as good as it gets.

And, the room was packed. It was the first time since I've come to Como where I felt sure that all the people in the room were locals. 

Not least of all --  the food was fabulous: the kind of stuff that has touches of imagination and creativity (a panna cotta over lime jelly and with salted crispy capers for dessert!), but, too, does the basics perfectly. My seafoods were just dusted with breadcrumbs before being fried. The effect was so light and airy that you needed nothing more but a squeeze of lemon over the dish to make it perfect.

I walk home full. And I don't get lost! Or at least I know how to recover quickly when I take a wrong turn. (The streets are narrow and dimly lit. Here's a dad walking home late with his daughter, who is on a scooter -- all a shadowy blur, barely visible as everything and everyone eventually fades into the darkness)






I'm sure tonight I will get my first good night's rest of my trip! It just feels like the day has stripped away layers of stress and hurry. And there is no rush anymore for me. I've seen people, I've explored new places. Tomorrow, I fly to Paris.

travel

My airline of choice (Air France) and its partners no longer have a direct flight from Warsaw to Milan. The fares are great -- competitive with the discount airlines -- but in flying with them, I have to always first go to Amsterdam or Paris. And that means that I have to fly out very very early, or else I may as well write off the day completely to travel, which is ridiculous because in Europe, no destination should call for that much of a time suck. So I fly out very very early. I'm up before 4, I tidy up myself and the apartment, and I leave.

(A photo of my tiny bedroom: goodbye comfy bed -- I've slept far too little on you this trip!)






Cab's there at 4:30...






Airport breakfast number 1 (Warsaw)...






Take off...






Airport breakfast number 2... (Paris)





But why Milan? Well, perhaps you've noticed that I've become glued to an itinerary on my Europe trips: a few days in Warsaw, a night somewhere outside Paris, a few days in Paris. Insofar as I only want to be away for a week, this makes sense -- it satisfies my need to be in Warsaw and Paris and, too, it indulges my craving to at least take one long, leisurely walk outside the big cities of Europe.

Still, I feel I have sucked dry all the places within an hour or two of Paris. Even after studying carefully the definitive text on good walks within an hour or so of the city, I come up with nothing new or especially exciting. (Consider, too, that I am traveling in March -- a very unpredictable month in northern Europe.)

But if I throw in just one more day to the mix, just one more, then I'm golden! There are a lot of destinations that pop up for me that would satisfy that craving for a new and peaceful walk! And some are in slightly less iffy climates. Italy comes to mind.

Still, you cannot (or at least you should not) fit in a two day trip to Italy, unless you pick a place that is not too far from a major airport. But that's okay! I love the lakes and mountains of northern Italy and there is one lake that I still have not seen and it is, in fact, the one closest to Milan (and its airports).

That is a very long explanation as to why today I find myself in Como.

At 85,000 people, it's not exactly a small village, but its location is exquisite: right at the tip of Lake Como. (You can actually stroll over to Switzerland -- it's that close to it, but you wouldn't want to: the scenic lake is entirely in Italy.)

I am full of hope and excited about all the sunshine all around me! [They say that Como verges on the tropical. You know these people exaggerate, but still, there are any number of palm trees, so there may be some truth to it.]

The flight to Milan is an easy hour and in good weather it has you believing you're a majestic mountain goat, scaling the heights of Alpine peaks.






Well, at least it looks like good flying weather. I admit to having had a bit of drama coming down: about an inch before touchdown, the pilot aborted the landing, pushing the nose up, then flying low for quite a while before speaking to us from the cockpit. No one understood what he said (he spoke rapidly), but the word le vent certainly stood out so I'm guessing (after a safe and successful second attempt) that he got a little blown about unexpectedly. In all my flights, I've had now a handful of aborted landings. They're always very dramatic because you know it comes from a split second decision: abort or crash. At least that's what it seems like from the passenger's perspective.

From the airport, I had planned on taking a train to Milan, switching there to one that would take me to Como. That's what you're supposed to do. But having had drama in the skies makes you bolder on the ground and so I do some train hopping among towns and villages outside the city, betting that a conductor wouldn't mind that I have the wrong ticket and betting, too, that ultimately, avoiding Milan altogether is a good thing.

I disembark at the lake.





I'm staying at the Palazzo Albricci Peregrini, which is in the old town. I have high expectations, because Bruno (the desk clerk? office manager?) called me just a few days ago, apologizing for the fact that someone accidentally double booked my small room. Would I mind terribly switching? To a far far better room, he tells me. If he were staying at the hotel with his girl friend, it's the room he'd pick. I trust Bruno. He always signed off on his emails by wishing me a splendid day, with an exclamation point. You gotta love a person who does that.

It should take about a dozen minutes to walk there from the lake-side station to the hotel, but I get lost. Deeply lost in streets that seem not to conform to my memorized layout of the old town.





Well, no matter. Como is bordered by water, mountains and a train track. However dumb you are about finding your way, you can always use these as your guideposts.

It would also have helped if I had memorized the number of the street where the hotel is located. It has no name plastered anywhere, so it's tough to figure out which courtyard is the one that will be your home for a night or two. Turns out it's this one.






(And this is my very sunny room. With a view toward a palm tree, but don't let it fool you -- by evening, my nose is cold from the walk outside.)






If you don't come here for the lake, or the mountains, or the good life (Como once saw itself as catering to those in search of indulgence), then perhaps you're here for the churches and the architecture. I'll just put up two representative shots of the Duomo. It's quite the church!






See the moon? Right there!






In the hotel, Bruno offers advice for tomorrow's excursions. And tonight's bar scene.  He can't tell me where some nice kids' clothes stores can be found, but he lists at least three bars where I can get an exquisite evening aperitif. I'm so very fine with that. Window shopping can wait. I walk over to a place called "Brothers" and nurse a drink called "An American in Como" forever! Who knew Campari could be infused with rosemary to stellar result??


In the evening, I have dinner at the Ristorante da Rino. It's Tuscan food. Somewhat meat based of course, but honestly I am hungry enough to eat a hawk should you be so foolish as to serve me one.

The food is uncomplicated but good. Very very good. But it is also one of those places where you are not allowed to be in a rush. Everything moves at its own pace. You have to accept that, or you will suffer. (I watch a two year old come in with her grandparents at around 8:30. She is there still when I myself leave at 10:30. Even her age doesn't warrant a quickened pace. )

I order only two courses and still, the whole process of ordering, eating, paying, etc takes three hours. And after I leave, I get lost again. How could this be???

There is a nip in the air tonight. It tells me that the sunshine tomorrow will be good and strong!

Right now, the moon is bright, I am satiated and I am completely wiped out from too little sleep. Ask me what day of the week we're on and I honestly cannot tell you. At least not within any short set of minutes.

Tomorrow, I do hope I will stick to my plan to explore the lake. Today? My eyes are closed even as I write this.

Sunday, spring, Warsaw

Today was a gift. You could argue that I deserved it, after the tough winter, after a chaotic trip, after the rush and tumble into Polish life (so that Polish phrases kept swirling in my head for a long time (too long!) as I tried to fall asleep in the wee hours of the night..). But I'm glad of this gift, too, for the people of Warsaw: a beautiful spring day in March is always special and on a Sunday, it's a treat, as it allows for a full enjoyment of that great Polish institution: the Sunday Promenade.

I don't head out right away. My awesome apartment architect and friend comes over for a coffee (and light breakfast for me!): I deftly push away any signs of post party mess and we sit down to a cleared table! A small miracle.






And immediately after, I meet up with my loyal and precious friend for a real brunch meal at my favorite local place, Rabarbar. Their shakshuka is totally awesome.






And now it is time for us to partake in that glorious institution -- The Sunday Walk. I've been in the throngs of Sunday strolling folk of Poland since I first moved from the village to the city at the ripe age of three. My father, who for any number of reasons would not typically immerse himself in family life, did rise to the occasion on Sundays: while my mother cooked, he took his two girls to the park. A million Varsovians, all headed for the park. For a kid raised in the quiet of an isolated, deeply rural village (no electricity, no indoor plumbing, long winters, dark days), suddenly being a part of this mass of humanity was thrilling! Like Coney Island for New Yorkers, only better!


My friend and I are close to the river this morning, so we walk to it, talking, trying to fit in all those words, because the next time wont be until... August.

The city has just opened another segment of the beautiful riverside promenade and people are curious about it. We are curious about it. There are a lot of people walking along the river today!






(Even on a fine weather Sunday, you'll always find a quiet spot...)






We walk for a long, long time. I'm moving on way too little sleep, but this walk actually energizes me. And the sunshine is sublime! Every once in a while, we sit down on a bench, faces upturned to that delicious sun, as if we were on an Alpine summit, taking in rays of light that we hadn't felt for years.

As we turn west, away from the river, we come up to Ujazdowski Park. The park I grew up with during my early school years in Warsaw. You probably think I took this photo to show off the fact that the grass is green here already. (It's completely brown in Wisconsin.)






Actually, I'll zoom in so that you can see what really delighted me!






It's 60F, or 16C outside. I always am very amused that parents and grandparents here regard that as cold. I don't see a single little kid without a cap and many are bundled tight in winter coats.





Funny habits that haven't carried over to the other side of the ocean!


And now I wind down. It's late afternoon. I catch the bus back to my familiar blocks (where, too, people stroll on this day)...






I finish tidying the apartment, my sister comes over, I eat leftovers for supper, we talk. It's much funner talking on the arrival side of things than on the departure. What if I forgot to tell her something?? (Because, you know, we live in a world of no electricity, no computers, no WiFi, no email...)

It' my last post from Warsaw... Just as the tulips are really opening up!





Ah well. It's always like this.

Tomorrow, I'll catch a predawn flight to Paris, only to connect to another flight to Milan.

Saturday in Warsaw

Good morning from Warsaw! I am in that wonderful three weeks of March where I am closer to people back home time wise -- a nice illusion, created by the fact that the European Union springs its clocks forward three weeks later than we do, so that the time difference is now only 6 hours as opposed to the usual 7. It's easier on the brain to calculate where everyone's at back home, but more importantly, it feels (oddly) like I'm less far away.

My day is spent dancing around tonight's dinner for my friends. I'm fixing something easy -- spaghetti with seafood. I recommend it for exactly this type of occasion: you have lots of people coming to eat and you have little time to do much of anything for them. There is no silly fussing. You do the sauce (white or red -- I'm going with red because it seems more substantial and people love grating parmesan onto their pasta, which works for red, but can sometimes feel out of whack on white), you throw in the sea food (one type at a time), then the separately cooked pasta and boom! Done.

I still have light, neighborhood shopping to do and so I begin my day in this way. Three stops on my first round, just two blocks away from my apartment.

(My street ...)






First, the Italian deli, where I supplement my cache of antipasti foods and my wines.

Secondly, I go to the bread store. Poles are like the French in many ways and one of them is that both love bread, especially but not only, as a side kick to their main meal. My neighborhood baker is superb. Here's a picture of just some of their selections:






It's always crowded. Always.

Thirdly, I pause at the produce stand. In the summer, I'll go to the "superior" produce stand another two blocks down the road, but honestly, there's little need -- this guy's stuff is pretty good!





He's also good natured and he sells flowers. Rain or shine, snow or scorching sun, he's always here. I ask him about that. I take January and February off. And Sundays. Otherwise -- I'm here!



And now I'm home and  it's time for breakfast.






In many ways, nothing here changes from my morning meal back home. Still, to me, it's soooo different! The kefir in Poland has a completely different taste. The honey? Way different. The blueberries are identical and identically flown in from Chile. [I admit to having a blueberry fixation year round and will step away from steering local, or at least of the same continent, for the sake of this blue fruit, which, by the way, is not called a blueberry in Poland. That term ("jagoda" translating to "blueberry") is reserved only for the wild fruits that grow in the forests here in midsummer. The Chilean blueberries, which are also the cultivated American blueberries, are called "borowki" here -- a term that literally translates to "cranberries" in English. Are you confused yet???] The tulips on my table are serious tulips. In Madison, grocery stores now sell the short Canadian or Virginia grown flowers. Nice, but the ones sold here are elegant!

(My vendor had plenty nice ones, though in fact, you wont go for many blocks before coming across someone selling tulips.)





Too, going back to my breakfast photo -- notice the "bazie" in the pink jug by the window. (I'm used to translating them as "pussy willow" in the American way, though the English would prefer "catlkins.") Ubiquitous here in March! I mean, roll over everything else that's smacks of spring -- pussy willows are in everyone's home now. And they're in mine, too.

One final comment on "there versus here": I like that Polish supermarkets sell parsley (and many other common herbs) by the pot. (Note the parsley pot on my window sill.) In France, you can pick up few free parsley sprigs at your local market when you make other purchases. In the U.S. you have to buy a whole big fat bunch. How many of us routinely throw away rotten, unused parsley?



After breakfast, I set out for just one purchase: additional seafood for my pasta dish. I bought the shrimp yesterday, at the supermarket, but I want fresh mussels and possibly squid and maybe a chunk of fish. For this, I want a fish store.

I go to my local one, just down the street. No mussels. She tells me there was a run on mussels yesterday. She wont get new ones until Wednesday.

From here, I go to seven other fish stores --  yes, seven! -- big and small, recommended by friends, stumbled upon by accident. The vendors shake their heads. No, no -- it's Saturday. All out until Wednesday. (Why Wednesday? I cannot say.)

Let it be known that I will never, ever plan a meal with mussels here unless I am cooking it on a Wednesday.

But in looking for mussels, I take a run through a whole chunk of Warsaw and that in itself is interesting as it takes me away from the pretty paths that I usually take...






... and into places and spaces that may be grand or terribly indifferent, but they sure as heck have reputable fish stores.


(Warsaw transformed itself so often and so much in the last 60 years that it strikes me as being terribly eclectic now, with a mishmash of architectural styles.)






(I cross the Saski Park. Empty today. Many many people are hitting the stores, as the government has just mandated another closing of all shops on Sunday.)






Back to the Old Town neighborhood...





As I pass by the monument to Copernicus (in front of the Polish Academy of Sciences), I see that there is a demonstration taking place. I've been warned that these gatherings can turn mean. Poland is polarized right now in ways that is still beyond the imagination of an American. Most of us back home wear our beliefs on our sleeves, but here, unless you're among close friends, you can't be sure where a person stands. And here's the thing: that positioning can be tame, it can be intellectually interesting, or it can be, well  -- brutal.

It's not something that I would write about here, on Ocean. Controversy isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's surely not something that I want to stir up here. Still, the demonstration moves me. It conjures up images and memories. I come closer, a grocery bag dangling from my shoulder. I read the sings. (Translating a few to give you a sense of things: "In solidarity with Muslims in New Zealand: Stop Islamophobia," "Fascists go away," "Diversity: why do we like it in the supermarkets but not in the streets?" and so on)






I am reminded of a moment in March, 1968, so fifty-one years ago. I had been doing exactly the same thing: taking groceries home (bread at that time) and I stumbled upon an anti-government student protest. I got nearer. A policeman saw me and pounced, hitting me repeatedly with a club.

There were plenty of policemen today, by the Copernicus monument, but they were there to keep order, standing to the side. While the people chanted and spoke their messages.






It wasn't a big gathering, but many groups were represented. (One of the signs in the above photo pit grandmothers against fascism. The one below has women protesting fascism. Etc.)





At one point a choir sang a yiddish song. A few moments later, words were passed around to a song that was sung to the tune of the Battle Hyman of the Republic. The chorus was simple:

Solidarity's our weapon, solidarity's our weapon...

From there, the group marched to the New Zealand embassy. Me, I returned to my local fish store where, giving up on mussels, I bough squid, scallops and salmon.


The dinner. It's a blur now, of course. It's nearly 3 a.m.. I haven't picked up a single dirty dish. Let me just post a few photos, most of them taken by one guest or another...







As always, lots of intense conversation, lots of laughter...






... the occasional serious face...






(the women)






... quickly finishing my cooking tasks...






Eating.





And a repetition of all the above many times over.  (Between us, we have 22 grandchildren - that alone is fodder for shared stories!)

This, of course, is why I come here: to see my sister and to spend time with my friends. All those flights, all the thinking about what to cook, what to bring -- it's for this night.

So... should I get to the dirty dishes, the mess? The beauty of being 65 is that you can easily shrug your shoulders, turn away from it all and go to sleep.

arriving

Travel to Europe is usually smooth, occasionally frustrating, sometimes chaotic. By now, I think I've hit every combination of the above. I've learned a lot: "what will be, will be" is a far better slogan to repeat to yourself than "this is crazy!" Quick meditation or indeed any exercise in mindfulness is invaluable. If you feel rotten, terrified, exasperated, impatient -- several minutes of belly breaths and a focus on what's going on in your own space does wonders. Music is a great assist. Books are better than constant screen time. Indeed, if you really want to arrive at your destination totally spaced out, be sure to watch movies nonstop. Too, they're not kidding when they tell you to stay hydrated. Especially if you down a drink or two in flight (after all, champagne is free on Air France) -- double the water you'd have at home. And so on.

I can't say I used all the above, but I pulled out a few. My flight was very late getting in to Detroit (the falling ceiling problem) and people were missing flights, and because it was so late, most had to overnight in Detroit. It didn't help that we landed in the very first thunderstorm of the year. I don't care how calm you are about flying, it does tickle your nerve somewhat to be bumping between flashes of lightening. In other words, everyone on the plane was in a foul mood. I was glad to move on to my next flight.

The Air France plane taking me from Detroit to Paris was a Boeing 787. The plane was beautiful and I had the perfect seat. Still, you had to feel sorry for all the people affected by the Boeing tragedy of this week. Planes are so safe these days, but when something happens, your heart hurts for all those affected by it.

This flight was shorter than usual. Less than seven hours. Unfortunately, the captain decided that there was enough turbulence to keep the seat belt sign on for the whole flight. I thought he maybe forgot about it, because it really wasn't that bad. If you drink a lot of water, then you tend to not like the lit seat belt sign. So let me modify my piece of wisdom: drink a moderate amount of water!

Transferring to another flight at the Paris airport is always an adventure. The path to your next gate is never ever the same so just when you think you learned your way around, you get a new twist thrown in.  But, I like the airport anyway. Who knows why. Maybe because it's a nice first taste of France, with all its idiosyncrasies and pleasant peculiarities. And on the return, I like any airport that gets me closer to being home. For all my travels, I do love home.

My final flight to Warsaw is full of Polish people. Of course. It's always full of Polish people and if I may generalize, they all have too much hand luggage. Americans have too much hand luggage as well, but ours tends to be square and predictable. Polish hand luggage is more interesting.

Despite the flight's skew toward Polishness, there are also a handful of Americans, and, too, French businessmen. But I sit next to none of these people. My seatmate is a woman who is probably exactly my age. Eerily, she eats and drinks exactly the same things as I do. She reads, I read. But she is French speaking and her passport is French and she dabs French lipstick on her mouth after lunch. Most noticeably, she is dressed and tended in ways that make me feel like a log roller from Wyoming. (And I wear all my best shirts and pants on trips to Europe; she would be horrified to run into me on days when I pick up Snowdrop.) Of course, she cannot tell that secretly, I am Polish. And maybe she is also secretly Polish?

I arrive in Warsaw towards evening.  (The weather is at the moment, not unlike ours in Wisconsin, though their winter overall has been very very mild.)






That's the price you pay for leaving Madison late -- you lose the whole next day to travel. My sister is waiting for me and we quickly take a cab to the office that handles my apartment internet: I need to sign some papers and time is of essence. I don't know why I ever thought apartment ownership would be easy. It's not, even as my sister takes care of the vast majority of headaches that come with it.

From there, we walk a not short distance, suitcase, backpack and all, to the big grocery store, where, believe it or not, I shop for tomorrow's dinner. It just seemed like a good time to get this out of the way.

Finally, a couple of subways later (still tugging the suitcase, the back pack and two bags of groceries, though I leave the latter to my ever helpful sister), I'm out on the street again, on Nowy Swiat, walking home.





Yes, arriving at this tiny one bedroom place in a prewar building at Tamka street is always nice.






I unpack a recent photo of my family and set it in the bedroom where I can see it constantly.

There isn't much that I feel like doing tonight. I eat foods brought over by my sister...





I tidy, I talk to Ed, I finish my writing for the day. And really, thinking back now, it was a good day. When you get to your place in one piece, with all your carry-ons and accessories, more or less on schedule, I'd say you have no reason to complain.