Monday revisited, or -- when things go wrong

It was, as I said, a delightful Parisian morning with my friends.





Truly delightful.

I had read that there were to be winds and rains, all the way to the Atlantic coast of France, but it hardly mattered. It's a travel day for me. And trains, unlike planes, are indifferent to such forecasts.

And indeed, the train trip is absolutely perfect. I doze, but not too much (fear of missing my stop is very real when I am sleepy). I eat my packed lunch...





I read my book and I gaze out the large window. The changing landscape on a day that vacillates between wet and sunny is beautiful to observe from the warm shelter of a speeding train. Four hours and 530 kilometers later, we approach Morlaix...






This is nearly the farthest western point in France. And from this rather large town, the rail link continues to the coast, but you have to take a rail operated bus. It's all part of one rail ticket: segment one -- to Morlaix, segment two -- to St Pol de Leon, only now by bus, leaving ten minutes after the arrival of the train.

Unfortunately, the rain now is whipping at us from left and right. I say "us" because there is another guy who is looking for the bus to St Pol de Leon. A curious young fellow, chomping incessantly on M&M peanuts, dressed in those jeans that hang more than halfway down your butt. He wasn't traveling from Paris. He just wants that segment that would take him, like me, to St Pol de Leon.

I look for the bus. Not there. I ask inside. Madame looks at my ticket and shakes her head.
The 16:25 doesn't run today. It's school break. (hiccup no.1)

It turns out Brittany children have a week off now and when that happens, the schedule of every form of public transportation changes. But of course, this is no big surprise. Why was the ticket issued then for a segment that doesn't exist? (I had purchased it at a rail station, when I was in France in December.)
Madame at the ticket counter shakes her hand, as if to indicate that there are some mysteries of the rail system that just cannot be explained.

All is not lost! She tells me to report to the Chef d'Escale (station manager). She smiles wickedly: they will have to pay for your taxi to St Pol de Leon!

Well now, that is terrific! A taxi ride costs more than my entire ticket from Paris to St Pol de Leon! And the French Rail is comping it? How nice is that! (It is particularly nice since they could have just told me to wait for the evening bus, which, for me, would have been truly disastrous, as my Airbnb hosts are waiting to meet this earlier bus and I have no way of contacting them to tell them of a change.)

And so my chocolate covered peanut chomping guy, who profits from their mistake towards me, climbs into the taxi with me and we zip up the twenty or thirty kilometers north, as the scenery gets more and more Brittany-like: artichokes and cabbages and mixed skies of an unsettled day.






With the sea, popping into view now and then.





The cab driver lets us out at the once functional but now deserted train station of St Pol de Leon. The wind is brutal! The first feeling of cold creeps in. I want my hosts not to be late!

And they're not late. Or, rather she is not late. Aurelia, driving up in her mother's car to take me to what is actually her Parisian brother's newest project: the apartment rental in downtown St Pol de Leon.

She parks her car in one of the narrow alleys off the square and we make our way to the little apartment that is curiously spread out on three levels: entrance hall on the ground, kitchen and living room on the next floor and bathroom and bedroom on the top. Each room has an individually controlled radiator and they're all turned off for now. (Hiccup no.2) Understandably, I suppose. This form of heating is expensive.

She shows me the rooms, they are fine, if cold. I want so much to get to those radiators, but first, there are things to learn: the mechanics of the place. The washer. The stove. The shower. The lights. The keys. They usual. I thank her for the basket of Brittany goodies they have left for me: fish soup, a packet of crepes, salted caramels, lots of fruit, cider.

And then I smile and say: let's make sure the WiFi is working. The grin is there because I have been such a pest in corresponding with the brother: I have questioned and insisted on a functional WiFi so many times that it's almost a joke by now.

You'll think that it's because of Ocean that I am so insistent on WiFi. It's not that. I have blogged for many years where WiFi in my inexpensive quarters was but a dream. For Ocean, I can always find a cafe where I can load ready photos and publish a text written off line. I love the internet because it makes solo travel less lonely. I am connected round the clock with people whom I love. I keep up with what's happening at home. I love Skyping Ed, checking in just before I fall asleep and when I first wake up in the morning. I can be without it all day long, but as the dusk creeps in, I want my link to the friendly world of the familiar faces. Especially now, as I am so exhausted and still reeling from a set of days that sent me spinning.

And so Aurelia dictates the code and it's a long one and I wait for the familiar bars to take hold and they don't. (Hiccup no.3) We assume I mistyped. Then we assume she misremembered. Then she unplugs and resets. Then she calls the company and they troubleshoot. Then she calls her brother in Paris and finally her father (whom she refers to, in very French English, as un geek). He tells her he will bring a new box as soon as he is done with work.

It is cold. It is raining. (Hiccup no.4) I ask about the nearest place to eat. Oh, a creperie! Across the alley! A great one, she tells me. Only we look in and see that it's closed for the week of the school holiday. As is the one next to it. And the others don't respond when she tries to call them from her "mobile." (Hiccup no.5)

Aurelia is so apologetic! I feel sorry for her, I really do. And, too, for the brother who helplessly waits in Paris. But, I am cold and wet and the hours are passing and I hate to walk from floor to floor now, while she is here, to turn on heaters in all the room -- so I just turn on one, in the kitchen where we are standing, only it never quite fills the space with the warm air that I so very much would love to feel right now. Tiredness makes you that much colder.

Realizing that I may have trouble finding a place to eat on this stormy night (because the weather has been upgraded to the level of an official storm), I tell her that maybe I should go to the grocery store to stock up for supper. She drives me there and to the bakery and I get the bread, the cheese, the bottle of wine which I so want to crack open and start drinking, right now!

Her father comes and changes the box and tries to fix the line outside and in so doing he crashes the curtain rods and I just feel so badly for them all, because they are such good, Bretagne folks and this new project which was supposed to be a little boost for the brother is turning out to be such a headache.

I worry that Aurelia is away from her baby daughter and so when everything fails and they have no more answers for today, I send them home and I take my computer out in the pounding rain in search of a bar with WiFi and I find one, though it is nearly closing, but I sit there long enough to connect, to post, read a few emails from home and to send a message to my Parisian host, telling him that I am willing to give it a day or so, but then I'll have to move on.

But lo! He sees I am on line and he responds instantly! He has been at work looking for solutions from Paris and he found one! Another home (not theirs, just something on the Internet) for me, just outside of town! Aurelia will pick me up and take me there to stay as long as the issues at their apartment remain unfixed.

Dear, dear Aurelia -- a year younger than my youngest daughter, waiting back at the apartment, flushed but happy to be taking me to a warm and connected home just at the edge of the artichoke and cabbage fields of Brittany.

She apologizes incessantly as she drives me there and to take her mind off this apartment stuff, I ask her about her work. She wanted to be a teacher, but she ends up selling the fish caught here, in Brittany to restaurants in Paris.
What's in season now?
Sea bream, scallops are starting. Lobster is so expensive, because of all the storms we have been having!

And so we find the little home by the Brittany fields, with a view toward the sea, only I don't know that yet, because it is dark when Madame Herveline welcomes us to her daughter's rental project -- a brand new house, spiffy and big enough to accommodate a family of eight! And best of all, it has floor heat (it takes a while to catch on, but when it does -- bliss!) and a speedy Internet and here I will stay, for a while at least, even as the winds rage and the rains come and go -- it all does not matter, I am warm and dry and connected.

Monday

 I'm running on sleep borrowed from another era. My head stubbornly refuses to embrace the new normal of European time. Sleep before 3 am? Nonsense!

Another part of me, equally stubborn, is ready to get up and get going early, very early. And so the struggle continues and the stored supplies of rest are getting thinner by the day.

All that notwithstanding, it was extremely delightful to wake up in my friends' little slice of Parisian heaven, on the corner of the Place des Vosges.

We took it easy though. Plans to eat an elaborate breakfast elsewhere fizzled and Diane and I went out to pick up bakery items and bring them home.

And so it was a leisurely morning, a leisurely breakfast and then I am, once again, off off and away.


When you plan trips in advance, it's sometimes easy, sometimes hard to anticipate what your mood will be at the time of travel. I had had an ambitious agenda for these two weeks in between my stays in Warsaw, but I am quickly abandoning it now. I don't want to visit new cities, I don't want to have any agenda, sightseeing or otherwise. So I'll stay in France, splitting my time in some yet to be determined proportion between the coast and Paris (depending on the expenses involved in balancing the two).

First, the sea.

This part I am truly looking forward to. I wrote now some years ago how my idea of a perfect getaway in France is Brittany. A place of gentle weather (not too cold, not too hot), of invigorating sea breezes, of great walks (rather than taxing climbs), of cider and crepes, seafood and artichokes -- a kind of down to earth, or rather down to the sea region that restores every part of you.

There are any number of places along the northern Brittany coast where I would have been quite happy. I chose one with an attractive rental -- an Airbnb place owned by a Parisian couple with roots in the region. It's in St Pol de Leon, which is a small town just a few paces from Roscoff (Roscoff being a seaside destination that Ed and visited whey back when).

And so, equipped with lunch, I take the noon TGV (high speed train), all the way to the farthest western corner of northern France. In Morlaix, I am to get off the train and continue by bus to  St Pol de Leon (I have never heard anyone abbreviate it to just St. Pol and so I must conform and use its full and stately name).


And this is when troubles begin for me. Travel troubles. I can list about five things that unravel, but I wont say more than that, because I am sitting in a cold bar on a cold and stormy night and the bar is about to close and I have no other way to access the Internet tonight. (Obviously, you'll have determined that access to the Internet is one issue, but honestly -- it's not the only one.)

To sunnier skies and warmer rooms and good connections -- Internet and otherwise!

Sunday

A Sunday in the park. That's what I want. But, Lazienki -- Warsaw's finest (in my mind, Europe's finest) public green space, is a metro ride away and there are still things to attend to at home -- boring things, paper things, bowing to the demands of bureaucracies, things that brought me here in the first place. And things to discuss, plans to review -- all that. So is there a time for the park? Even as I have an afternoon flight to catch?

Yes, sure there is.

I've posted photos of Lazienki before and, as I have nearly always visited Warsaw in the winter since Ocean came to life, the photos have shown an austerity that is so very misleading. My sister would say that Warsaw is at her best in May. Well, Lazienki, too, is at its best in May. So you have to use your special eyes, the ones that can dress the park with leaves of spring, with rosebushes just starting to bud, with lilacs and with willows that truly weep their leaves right into the waters of the park pond.

Or, look at the park as I looked at it today -- as a place where people gather despite the weather (as usual -- cold, misty cold, with a bite that touches the bones, even as the thermometer shows some silly number like 5 C).  Lazienki is beloved and, too, it is for those who are enthralled with love. It is a place to teach children about squirrels and ducks and swans and peacocks. Walk here and lift the weight off your shoulders (because the walk will have hills and so it will not be without exercise and we know that exercise can really do wonders for weighted shoulders). Walk, walk, remember, shape new memories, smile, watch others, think of change, think of what will, for you, never change.

Despite all those children and lovers and groups of visitors, Lazienki is a quiet place. It's like entering a temple, or maybe it's because the trees are so tall that it makes you feel singularly reverent, but in any case, you can be assured of a quiet stroll.

So, I'll be quiet too, for a while. And I'll post my few photos, perhaps too familiar to some of you -- sorry about that: it is a familiar place to me as well, so we're in the same boat! -- but here it is, my hour in Lazienki:































And now the afternoon is tick-tocking by, rather quickly at that and maybe I should hurry, but there is still that cup of coffee to be had and aren't I close to that block again? That one that my sister and I explored our first day? The one that is just establishing itself in a new way (and soon to be pedestrian, maybe)? With the cafe where the coffee was good and the apple raspberry cake sublime?






So I pause here. There are two cafe guys now, so it's double the charm and friendliness and delight.
Is the cake all done for today? -- I ask, noting the empty cake stand.
Yes, but you know, our baker, she's about to deliver a fresh one! Hot from the oven!
No no, I have a flight to catch...
It's nearly here, on the way, you'll be eating it in no time!


Indeed.






Metro ride to my sister's -- so that I can pick up my bag, then a bus ride to the airport -- expertly detailed by my sister who took such good care of me on this trip, then a Wizzair flight to Paris.



 



Or, rather to Beauvais, because, well, it's a super discount airline and so Paris is still just a mirage, somewhere there, but not yet quite here.

One more bus ride, a very very long bus ride, and one more metro ride and now, finally, I emerge at Bastille in Paris, or, rather at the metro stop where the canal, the lights, the train are all swimming in my already overcrowded head.


 



 And I walk to an apartment just off the Place des Vosges...


 



... where, the world is so terribly small, because I can meet up now with my friends, Diane and Ernest, who just happen to be living here for a month and so, how wonderful is this! -- I can end the day in their handsome quarters, with a sip of rose and a shared meal of bread, cheese, ham, quiche and of course, their warm and welcoming smiles...





We exchange stories from our past days, weeks, or from no particular time at all. Call them eternal stories that we all tell and repeat because -- surely this is true? -- our stories are mere repetitions of other people's stories, joyous, macabre, delightful -- they've been described elsewhere, by others, they are not unique.

Or maybe they are unique. Just a little unique. Seemingly the same, but really, snowflakes, all.

Saturday

Can I cheat today, please? A day of few words?  You'll understand, I know you will. My reasons: I couldn't sleep last night. Tossed and turned until 3. Worse, snippets of senseless conversation ran through my head in rapid succession and I had to let it all run its course.

And now, it's nearly midnight again and I'm tired.

It was my last full day in Poland with my sister. I'm off tomorrow. We could have taken it easy, I suppose. It's Chopin's birthday and we could have celebrated it by listening to piano music, reminiscing about days when we ran to listen to the participants in the Chopin Competition play their required pieces.

We didn't do that. We had breakfast:






And after, we went to the apartment where I lived my teens years and where for the last thirty years my dad lived with his partner.

Nothing changes there and yet, of course, nothing is the same. It is the first time that I am there without my dad and perhaps the strangest thing is that the place is so full of his absence and his presence that it is just so terribly confusing.

My sister, my dad's partner, her brother and I drive out to the country then. There is a family cabin, not too far from Warsaw. The little house has been much neglected in recent years, but it has small elements of a past life and we all want to walk the property now. A property that has been, as the neighbors tell us, ravaged by wild hogs just in the past weeks.





Wild hogs! How... exotic!

We all go inside. There are stacks of just about anything and everything, all indicating a past presence, maybe a hurried exit. Or a desire to pack up and leave, or maybe a willingness to let things stay, never fully unpacked. Who can tell...






We walk through the rooms. It's a small place, but I haven't been here for such a long time (being the wild thing that I am, the one that flew off to America) that it all seems strangely of another world. And it's cold, of course. I let the rest poke around inside. I prefer the outdoor world right now. Where the wild hogs roam.











The little cottage is in a village that boasts mineral springs and vapors in the summer. Thousands of Poles come during the warm season to take in the potent steamy air. They sit, walk, talk, all the while breathing deeply right here. (I took my girls to it once, when they were much much younger. They were skeptical, or amused, but they took in a few deep breaths dutifully. They reemerged cured of all evil bugs  and viruses. Or something.)






We walked through the spa park, but it is too cold for a real stroll. We detour to the local cafe where I admire the other component of this pre-Lent week of indulgences: fired cookies, dusted with powdered sugar.






But I choose, instead, my Polish favorite. Just like my grandmother used to make. Dense with poppy seeds:






My sister and my dad's partner buy pastry to take home. Home. Where is that for you, dear Ocean readers?






Late afternoon now. My sister and I return to her apartment briefly, to pick up bags that I wont need for the next ten days. Bags that brought things here and will take other things away. My closest friend here in Poland has stepped up to take them from me for now and so my sister and I take the subway (where I look across the car at this very Polish looking scene)...






...and we meet my friend at yet another of those most wonderful, modern, imaginative, funky cafes of Warsaw.






It's been so long since I've talked to her! Fifteen months! So we stay a while to catch up on just the basics. But not too long. My sister and I have a date back in the old apartment -- now my dad's partner's home. There, we're served something that apparently originates from a recipe invented by my father. I will make it for you if you ever come to the farmhouse for an evening drink: it's home grown quince basked in vodka. Oh my!

I notice tonight the chair where I would, in the last five years, always find my father sitting. I visited him in the evenings and it is evening now and the scene looks peculiarly familiar.






So we have this home made drink and then we are guests for dinner -- at a place that my dad loved -- a place of Polish foods, mainly meats, lots of meats, grilled meats, ribs, brats, pig's hoof, blood sausage, you name it. I'm somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of food, but our hosts  are encouraging. It's good with dark bread, cheese, white cheese, or more meat. Cabbage. There's lots of raw cabbage as well. White, red, purple. Cabbage of color!






Night. I am now at my sister's home again. The radio playes gentle classical music. She is asleep, I am not. I think about what's next. Tomorrow, yes, that. And in the long run and the medium run. Interspersed with thoughts of what was already there, in our past.

And so I guess I failed at keeping Ocean without words. Maybe typing these short snippets will release them and so they wont run in circles in my head again all night long. Maybe.

I'll write briefly from Paris tomorrow. I'm there for just 18 hours. But I will write. It appears that if there is one thing that's for sure, it is this: I will write.

Friday

I have heard that when you return to your childhood home as an adult, a part of you slips right into a pattern of thought and feeling that you had while living there. You are, to a degree, a kid again.

Well it's the same for cities, no? If you grew up in Milwaukee and then move elsewhere, surely a return will put you right back into your childhood shoes?

I feel that way about Warsaw. Each time I come back, it's as if I am a teen again, with all the angst and worry and rush that is so characteristic of being, say, fifteen. Because Warsaw is for me my coming of age. My eye opener. My adolescence.

And here's another complicated element to this: Polish people love their Poland. I've said this before: even when they leave, they come back. Again and again They can't let go. The saying goes -- you leave to earn your money elsewhere, you come back to spend it in Poland.

I didn't do that: I never really came back (even though, arguably, I keep returning, but as my sister will point out -- for very very brief spurts). And yet, I am no different. I am, for better, for worse, as deeply rooted in this place as all those who flock back to make their home here again.


Breakfast. Oatmeal! Kefir! Honey! It must be in our genes to like this stuff day in and day out.






Then a morning of walking. Our legal matters aren't until the afternoon. So my sister and I take the metro to city center -- the neighborhood where we grew up -- and we walk. (To the commenter who is, not surprisingly confused -- my sister lives in Poland and in Sweden. Same sister. A year older than me.)

We're not without destination. We have our favorite places -- ones that are so familiar that they scream childhood! at every step. It's a cold morning: misty and damp, just above freezing, but as always -- much colder if you take the perspective of how your bones are taking it in. So very soon, as soon as we get to this short block...






...I suggest a pause for coffee (and apple raspberry cake!).






What's so special about the block? To you -- nothing. But know this -- it's one of the few untouched by the new wave of construction. The cafe guy, half our age...





...tells us -- it's authentically from right after the war! And we smile at that. Meaning from our era. Because we are authentically from right after the war.

The block has a new set of shops and cafes opening and they're all young, in their age and in their scope. They aren't the old Poland, not even the newer old Poland (our Poland). They want something more than just another handful of western imitations. They want it to be edgy. A statement of a Warsaw neighborhood. Of community. A gathering place, the whole block long.

It will help when they make this block totally pedestrian.
They're doing that? -- we ask, surprised. It's rare to have traffic banned on the streets of central Warsaw.
Yes! It turned out a resident here was school friends with the wife of the president and she was complaining that this lovely block is so dead, so in need of revitalization and boom! Next thing we hear is that they're going to do improvements. No more cars, just a space for people!


We continue on our walk. Each block triggers a comment. A comparison. A memory. Take this poster: an English add -- "we love fashion!" -- with a reference to a favorite square (Plac Unii).






And speaking of favorite squares in central Warsaw: this one! Why? Well, it's equidistant (two blocks) from where I lived as a preschooler and where I lived as a high-schooler. Besides, the bold, brazen statement is somehow comforting. This is Warsaw. We can be big. We can grow from ruins.






It continues to be misty cold, but by the time we reach the Stalinist era Palace of Culture, the sun is just beginning to throw us a bit of pale light. Do note the modern stuff that has sprung up, as if to overpower this monument to a not so distant past. My sister tells me there's too little urban planning in Warsaw. I have to say, it surely looks like that here. Go ahead and like the Palace of Culture, or hate it, bulldoze it, leave it, but if you leave it, incorporate it into an entirety! Don't pretend it can stand in the shadows of towering office buildings. It can't. It's not a building that can stand in the shadow of anything. Perhaps Stalin new that when he gifted it to our city.







We have our hearing now and it goes according to plan and now we can check off one more box and get set to face the next one and the one after -- all in an effort to really undo years of neglect with respect to me, my Polishness and my current desire to remain a resident of my second home country -- the States.

But for now -- done. And so we walk to New Town slash Old Town and I wont give you the history of these streets because each time I'm in Warsaw I come here and I give you some history and by now this surely is becoming repetitive and so just relax and think of it as an exceptionally beautiful part of Warsaw, because it is that.






Especially in the fast approaching dusk and especially as you come close to Castle Square.






Further into the belly of the Old Town, on the Market Square we find a winter ice rink! No no no! I do not rent skates! Done that, with poor consequences. This time I just watch.






There's a special folk craft store on the Square that I especially like. I don't buy anything. I just like to look. I'll show you just two  things of note: the Polish folk costume and one of the many many wooden carvings for purchase (hi Isis!).











And now it's getting darker and, therefore, colder. Just at freezing, but it feels like maybe it's more wintry than that. Despite the fact that it is, after all, the last day of February.






We take the subway to my sister's neighborhood and there we stop at a jazz bar with food. It'll be the one day I eat pierogi. With sauerkraut and mushroom, covered in chanterelles and cream. I know. Honestly Polish.






We come home and I plug in her Internet -- on and off, on and off (it's a portable device and I try to use it sparingly). Load photos. Write post. Load post. All the time chatting with my sister about the Warsaw of now. The creative young talent here -- so abundant, more visible than perhaps in other European city. It can't be that Poles are born thinking edgy artsy thoughts. It surely has more to do with the fact that for hundreds of years we have been a history of forced adaptation. Radical change, invasion, destruction, rebirth, destruction, rebirth, rebirth, about face... You can't grow complacent in life when you're forced to recreate life for yourself, your loved ones again and again and again.

I'm tired. Worn out from little sleep and from all the walking, the jumping back and forth between then and now. But it's a healthy tired. Not the tired that comes from standing still --  rather, the one that comes with movement. The one that will surely keep me awake again tonight.

Tłusty czwartek

The French do it. Germans do it. Heck, even the Hungarians do it. Certainly the Poles do it: on a cold bleak day in February, they stuff themselves silly with sweet breads, rich pastry, and in Poland -- with pączki (pronounced "pawn-chkee"). Much of northern Europe celebrates this caloric indulgence on the last Thursday (not Tuesday!) before Lent. Hence the name in the title of the post (in Polish) -- Fat Thursday.

People in America look at photos of pączki and say -- ah, doughnuts. Big deal, we do those as well.

Oh no you don't! I have never had pączki in the States that come even close to the real thing. A student once carted some for me all the way from Milwaukee -- a hotbed of Polish tradition. I smiled politely and thanked him for it but the verdict was once again: not even close.

To do pączki right you have to use rich, egg filled batter, you have to insert rose hip jam (plum jam will do, but purists would scoff), and you have to glaze the finished product with a glaze, flavored with bits of orange rind.

Like this:






My sister asked me if I was up for pączki, given that I was arriving in Warsaw on Fat Thursday and you know, I would be up for this even if it was lean Wednesday or skinny Monday. I absolutely love these guys, all the more so because Americans will replicate a mille feuille and they can, these days, put forth a decent pain au chocolat or a baguette, but they can't get pączki right and so you have to travel back to your home country (if your home country is Poland) to eat them.

I'm in Poland.

It was again the kind of trip that you hope for. Every leg was easy, smooth, without delays. The bus ride to Chicago gave me time to float between reading and dreaming. The flight from Chicago to Detroit was quick and beautiful.






The connection in Detroit -- just the right amount of time. And the long flight, to Paris? A breeze. Quite literally: the tail wind was so strong that I think no fuel was required. We arrived almost an hour ahead of schedule.

Perhaps the biggest glitch was the layover in Paris. At four hours, I have to admit, it felt long. But the food was good, my book (one of your recommendations!) engrossing and honestly, I did enjoy how unhurried it all seemed. Enough time to wash your face and twiddle your thumbs. And sometimes, that's a good thing.

Then to Warsaw where the high is 50 degrees as opposed to Madison's 5.

With my sister steering me, we shuttled over to her Warsaw home. Where we ate (she cooked veggies)...





...then we sat down to the real stuff -- pączki.

take off

Let me explain the trip that begins for me today. Because it's not one of my usual "I just want so much to travel!" events. There's more to it, so it's best to give some hint to the reasons behind it.

Some of you may remember that my father passed away last March. And, too, maybe you followed my slow progress at clarifying my Polish citizenship status afterwards. Perhaps you thought all these matters were resolved -- that many of the difficulties of last spring fell to the wayside.

Well not entirely. For any number of reasons it is not easy to have a parent die in a country across the ocean from where you live. It is at once an event of such finality and at the same time an event that leads you down a maze of complicated new twists and turns. One such twist takes place in Warsaw this Friday: it's the date set for a court hearing in the matter of my father's various and sundry possessions. Small stuff, yet, as perhaps always in situations of scattered family and allegiances, not easy to reshuffle now.

At first I wasn't going to attend. My sister has been on board with handling all things that require a Polish presence. And yet, quite recently, I decided I should be there.

The hearing is perhaps only a pretext. I haven't been in Poland since my dad died. The annual visits have lapsed. And, as per his wishes, there was no funeral, no commemorative service to attend.

And so I think of this as a time for me to go back and take stock of all of my Polishness as it exists now that I no longer have a parent living there.

I'll be in Warsaw for three days, staying with my sister. And then, she'll return to her home in Sweden and I'll take a little pause, outside of Poland. In places where I can take some good long walks, where I can read books and maybe do some writing. And then I'll be back in Warsaw, for another set of three days -- ones that will be less about transitions and more about just being in Warsaw again. There are friends to see, parks to walk through, solitary moments to be had. That's my book-end stay. My other slice of bread that is this sandwich of a trip.

So that's my next three weeks for you. Poland, then not Poland, then Poland again.

I have, of course, travel today and tomorrow. Right after breakfast. Bye, Ed. Sniff.





As always -- I apologize in advance for any blogging disruptions. Despite our growing connectedness, it still can be a challenge to find a line to the Internet.

Onwards and upwards! I'm off!

old habits

It was crowded in bed last night: there were the two of us, then the new bed for Isis (to get him used to it), then quite separately -- Isis (who refused to even step into his new quarters). I felt like we were on a vessel in the middle of a vast sea and no one wanted to abandon ship. We all clung to our old spots and the night hobbled along and eventually it was morning.


This was the day to finish house cleaning. Okay. Done.  So breakfast is late. (It's impossible to imagine doing something so unpleasant as house cleaning after breakfast. Our habit is always to do it before.)





And since I'm leaving tomorrow, I have a list of things to do, of course, that's always the way it is. But I do none of it. Instead, Ed and I go skiing.

Not our usual cross country skiing. Not that. The trail snow is unpleasant right now -- solid ice in places. And, too, it is the beginning of the next vortex. The high today is only 12 around these parts. And falling.

And yet, despite the frigid air we decide to head out to Tyrol Basin (a 35 minute drive from the farmette) for a downhill skiing experience. The snow base there is solid and on Tuesdays they have a super special -- a mere $12 for all day skiing and as much for rentals.

There was a time (around age 18) that I wanted to be a racer. I loved the thrill of downhill! Loved it! Until one day, the weather was awful, and I was cold all day on the slopes, and I understood that I was, in fact, only a fair weather skier. Not committed enough to ski on days that were in anyway suboptimal.

And then I didn't ski at all. I went back to it once, seven years ago, for old times sake, but it was expensive and I got banged up by someone running into me and I thought -- enough. I'm too old for this.

Until today. Ed's been itching to try it and even though we have this polar thing sweeping down upon us, the sun is out and I am up for it.

And I have this to say: I am so proud of us!

I'm proud of myself because I calmed down on the slopes. I did not speed down at a hellish pace. I took it easy. I was, at all times, in control.





I'm proud of both of us because (and this is a first for me) we wore helmets.

But I am especially proud of my guy up there on the slope because, well, he is 63 and not many that age would take on downhill skiing. Especially on a polar vortex day, especially on icy snow, especially when the GF is shouting instructions left and right.





He improved so phenomenally that strangers came up to him to give him a pat on the back.

Of course, it is a regular school day and a cold one at that, so the slopes are empty. Empty lifts, empty runs and sunshine in our faces. I have to say, I remembered why there was a time that I loved skiing so much!





On the way home, we make a few stops. Wonderful pauses -- first at a local chocolatier and then, finally, we come back to Paul's Cafe, where we have pickles and snacks and it is indeed like old times --  when we used to stop by daily, when we felt that this was nearly our second home.


And now we're home. I look out the kitchen window and I see that the deer herd has come back. They didn't even wait until dusk! They're so used to raiding my flower bed -- this is their fast food place now.






This time I don't hesitate. Scoot, you guys! 






Evening. A lovely time at the farmhouse. We talk about planting the spring garden. Ed will be starting his seed bed soon. I look over catalogs in search of new ideas for existing flower beds.

I know Ed is keen to remind me of all the wonderful things that he and I do at home. It's as if he is saying -- see, this is why I don't want to travel! This is what we do and it's grand, isn't it?  Yes. Absolutely. I don't need reminders. I know I love home.

Even as I am heading out again tomorrow.