Thursday

Early spring sunshine: it pours out from all corners, brightens every storefront, stimulates every bud into further development. It also makes me feel like I need to be outside. I don't associate this time of year here with brilliance and I am just a tiny bit miffed that this one dawned on us today - the day I am to leave. I do not have time for a walk.

Breakfast -- as always, sweetly prepared for me to my liking by my sister...





And then, after another review of what's what, and what will be, and how should one proceed, I'm off to the airport.


In Paris, I had booked my usual hotel and I am so glad, because it is a comfort to return to the same place when the world spins in disturbing directions all around you. Besides, I like its quiet view onto nothing in particular -- just a street with a few shops that do not pull me inside and a restaurant that even on the most tired days I will ignore and walk elsewhere.






It's evening. I've departed a little from my usual neighborhood dinners and booked meals outside of my arrondissement. How this turned out -- I'll make it tomorrow's story.

I'll leave you with a photo of the old girl -- in heartfelt solidarity with Belgium.

Wedensday

Piercing sunshine. Who would have guessed? Blue skies and a bold statement of defiance: you thought the rains would stay with the continent this whole week? You're wrong. The sun wins.

I eat breakfast quickly, very quickly...






... and I catch the metro to the center of town. I'm meeting my very dear friend for a morning of marketing and coffee. In that order.

She introduces me to the Wednesday (year round) Old Fort farmers market.
You'll like it today -- she tells me. It has additional stalls because of the holidays.
I'm just a wee bit skeptical. Winter markets back home just do not have much that I would need for a dinner. Or lunch or breakfast for that matter.

As we enter, I am blown away by it.

My friend knows her favorite producers and vendors and they know her too.

Cheese:





Easter breads:






Only goat milk cheeses here::






Sausage:






I'm telling you, madame, the best sour cherry juice ever!






Fresh greens:






To make soups:






Pickles, I stare at the pickles. Ed so loves pickles.






My friend asks the vendor -- the sign over the pickles and cabbage says they're certified. Certified as what?
Organic, the vendor answers proudly. Here, pull out some for a taste! I do.






Delicious. I'll take some.

My friend hands me a shopping bag and stuffs it with a goat cheese and the very uniquely delicious farmers cheese. Take these home, she urges.  I will...

But home... that's such a fuzzy concept for me right now.  Is it here? There? Is it where I live and love, or where I once lived and loved?

Mushrooms, sausages, fish, breads, cakes... All very Polish, but with an eye to the changing palate, asking for organic, for more greens, vegetables...

I blurt out -- this is why I look forward to spending time here -- so I can line my pantry shelf with foods from here!


And now we're in that glorious sunshine again, walking, walking, catching up as best we can, all the way to her favorite cafe, just by the Old Town...






... where we settle in for a coffee and a Polish cheesecake with sour cherries.






The hours pass too quickly. But that's okay! I'm here now and I'll be back in the summer and perhaps in most maybe even all seasons. We part ways and I turn toward that sun drenched Old Town.







Outside? Really? People are eating outside without heat lamps? It's like seeing shorts in Wisconsin when the thermometer passes 40F.





















And now I'm at the Wrzenie Swiata (World Upheaval) bookstore/cafe, drinking fruit tea -- there is no tea per se in the glass, just fruits: raspberries, oranges, lemons doused with hot water. It's refreshing and delicious but I am fascinated by the conversation at the table next to mine -- a Polish literary agent discusses how hard it is to get American authors to travel to Poland.
They will sell maybe a couple of thousand books, so not a lot by their standard. They'll ask for travel costs -- sometimes demanding business class, and really even then, they know they'll sell ten times as many books if they just go to New York.

The cafe is one of those that is in the neighborhood of my Apartment and I think -- the list of these "nearby" cafes is getting very long!






Ah, the Apartment! Where am I with this horrible space?
Well, I sit down again with Pani Karolina at Vincent's and she outlines her proposal.






We talk. We consider the possibilities.
We walk...






And now we part ways as well. This is what visits to Warsaw are like -- eventually I part ways.


My sister fixes one of my favorite dishes from my childhood -- white borscht. It's made with fermented rye flour and garlic and (in our case) kefir. With boiled quail eggs on the side.

Delicious tastes of home.






I'll be in Paris tomorrow. My next post will be from there.

Tuesday

Let's take things slowly today -- I say this to myself, as if one side of me needs that nudge.

My sister runs errands (I'm ashamed to admit that some of them are for me -- I am no help in handling my own affairs!) and I sit back a little. I see a guitar propped against the wall. One of my nephews plays it, I think. I pick it up. It was once my companion -- teenage angst seeping up from the chords, never quite resolving itself, but what else was I to do? (These days I say to myself -- study! Work is good for angst.  Back then I'd say to myself -- I've done enough work, let me just strum the guitar...)






I'm terrible at it now. I put it down. My years of playing music are behind me.

I used to be a letter writer in my young adult years and my sister has a stack that I had written to her. I look through them now. They predate my departure for the States. Chatty stuff about a trip to East Germany, about wanting to be a healthy eater, even as I include in my list of good foods such things as pretzels (What did we know about healthy foods back in 1970? Such different ideas have ripened than faded...)






Every now and then a light shower wets the pavements outside, but even so, I want to go out for a walk. There has to be one day for the park. I have time today.

A subway ride and I am downtown. I go to one my reliable cafes that's about halfway between the subway stop and the park. It is no more. I remember how energetic and proud the owners were -- where are they now?

Never mind -- there's an equally charming small cafe just across the street. "Me Plus Me." Alright, I'll grab my cappuccino here.






The person behind the counter talks me into one of their "pates."
We serve them with warm bread -- they're a great snack! (So inexpensive too. In Paris, this dish would be five times the price and no, that is not an exaggeration.)

I pick the one with peas, avocado and garlic. Delicious!






Outside again, I see with some relief that the drizzle has mainly receded. Still, it's cold outside. I'm so glad I have my winter jacket!

I pass this building -- my father once had an office there... (it's the Ministry of Foreign Affairs -- the place where he began his diplomatic career).






I must have been inside the building all of two times. Those were not the days fathers took their daughters to work. At least not here, not my father, not this office.

Across the street from the Lazienki Park there is a row of government buildings and I see that a small group is staging a protest. They're from the Committee for the Defense of Democracy and they're demanding the return to the rule of law in Poland -- a direct punch at the current ruling party which had removed judges properly appointed to the constitutional court by the previous government, in the spirit of -- if our party doesn't like the government that appointed the judges, we'll just make sure those judges are prevented from serving on the court. Sound just a little familiar?






In the park, I see crocuses -- big fat ones (here are some ducks among the crocuses)...






... and, too, one of my favorite early spring plants -- helleborus.






The trees are bare still, but there is a green tone to most everything around me nonetheless. Or is it my wistful belief that we are fully into this beautiful season of everything fresh and honest?






I took one of the slices of bread from the cafe for the red squirrels here...






... which was completely stupid, as squirrels will climb all over you for a nut, but scamper away if you stick out a crumb of bread. Never mind, there are plenty of ducks on the lake by the Summer Palace. I feed them the bread.






As I leave the park, I encounter a very calm deer. I wonder how it is that the handful of deer here do not escape through the open gates onto the city streets. Are they not tempted to see what lies beyond the vast but still limited park grounds?






And finally, I walk the very, very familiar city blocks back to the metro. I lived in these parts. I know every bakery, every old shop and not a small number of the new ones too.

I pause to see what people are buying (or ordering) for Easter. None of this has changed:











(This last is a poppy-seed cake.)






I try to think what you we, in the States, consider to be the traditional Easter dessert and I draw a blank. I google it and a Martha Stewart site displays some thre dozen Easter desserts that I have never served, eaten, or even seen on any Easter dinner table (rhubarb pavlova? meyer lemon pastry?). Poland is so full of culinary tradition and I see that they are as vivid now, even in this rather westernized country, as they were when I was growing up here.

And then I ride the metro to my sister's home. There is an increased security patrol and I think nothing of it until I read on the news screen in the metro car that Brussels has had a terrorist attack. The human element at its worst.


In the evening, on the other hand, I see the human element at its best. My friends gather at Oliva, a restaurant that's pretty close to the Apartment. We have a lot to talk about. The evening is beautiful and long...


 


... and you have to wonder why it can't be this good for everyone on this horribly complicated planet.

And still, the full moon shines brightly over us all tonight. I know this to be true. I saw it on our late night walk home.

Monday

in Warsaw

Well, what a surprise! The sun came out this morning and the city faced the prospect of real spring! (Have I used enough exclamation marks to make my point?!)

I arrived in Warsaw very late last night (that strike...). The Air France staff was grumpy, the passengers pushy, but my sister greeted me at the airport and we made out way to her home in good cheer. It was a late night for us -- so much to discuss since my last stopover here! I am, after all, now a (partial) resident of Warsaw. I am back to where I started in life.

[It's hard to reenter the world of the everyday in a country whose everyday you never really knew because you left as a student. And besides, forty some years ago, you paid your bills at the post office and you stuffed extra cash in your mattress. Now -- much of your affairs are conducted on the internet, once you know what to do. Which leads me to the observation that in Poland -- perhaps elsewhere? -- there are those who did not make the leap to the new state of affairs. When my sister and I went to the bank to straighten some old documents that she found in her heaps of papers, we held up the line considerably -- a line of old grandparent type people who still go to the bank on foot to withdraw cash. What are your plans for the day, dear? I'm taking care of our grandchild. And you? I'll go to the bank.]



My sister fed me my standard breakfast...







And immediately after we set out to various bureaus and offices. On the way, we passed a man beating his rug in the parking lot of an apartment complex.






(While flower vendors all over town sold bunches of Poland's favorite early spring bouquet.)






I commented on the rug beating.
That's right, it's Easter week, my sister nodded.
In Poland, the sign of Easter week is that you air your quilts and beat your rugs.
They really do get cleaner that way -- she assured me.

Of course, my grandma had a rug beater, but I thought the habit of spanking the dust out of a carpet died somewhat with the introduction of the vacuum cleaner. No one I know in the States beats their rugs.

After attending to paperwork (what? you misspelled my father's first name? The document has to be redone! When will it be ready? Next week? Well now, I'm not here next week) we take the subway downtown. To the area of my new home.

What if you don't like it?
I don't intend to like it. It's ugly. That's the point.

The apartment is in a place that (I hope) is improving as we speak. It's close to a fashionable and money-ed boulevard, it's also close to the university, and finally, it's close to the riverfront, which some say is the future trendy district in the city. Of course, all this is speculative and rather chancy. Right now in my blocks, there is a Comme des Garcons perfume store, a bike shop, a Lego exchange shop, a chocolate making store and right below my apartment -- a coffee shop. (How convenient, no?) Across the street there is a rather vast building (with empty store fronts) that I'm really hoping is slated for demolition.

Here's the street -- pay attention to the art on the two buildings. On one side, the theme is Chopin. (You can actually see my own building in the photo but I wont tell you just yet which one it is.)







We just take a peek now. We'll be back later in the afternoon. In the meantime, we walk the neighborhood. You'll recognize parts of it -- I've photographed it before. (The building on the left  (below) once housed the Department of Economics at the University -- it was my cerebral but also social home in my post high school years.) 


 



I want to check my email and generally get my act together and so we pause at a cafe -- it's called Vincent and it is at once intimate and delicious (and the internet is superb).






It'll be a close walk for me...
Everything here is a close walk for you...



the Apartment

And now we are in a hurry. I have an appointment with Pani Karolina in a cafe that is just below my apartment. She will be my remodeling team leader in  Warsaw. I like her immediately and I will grow to like her even more in the course of the day. Karolina is calm. She does not throw her hands up and say -- impossible! She doesn't shake her head, slam the door and run away. When an insurmountable problem is presented to her, she says reassuring things like -- we do have good plumbers in Poland... [This rises to the level of an inside joke: many of Poland's great plumbers have gone to the west where the pay is perhaps four times what they can earn in Poland.]






At first, it is just plain fun. I talk about things I like: light. Brightness. Light. Style.

And then it's time for us to go up to the apartment. I will be meeting with the students (and negotiating their departure) and Karolina will be inspecting the apartment.

At first, I am pleased. The stairwell is modest, but well cared for. The entrance door -- fine.
This is going to be a breeze!






And then we enter the unit. My unit. My project, my investment, my Warsaw home, my hope.

Where do I begin? Well, it's not the pink horror anymore because the students took a paintbrush to it and it is now mildly creamy. Perhaps with a blush, but the pink is definitely of another time.

And there the beauty ends.

Oh, the horror! The pipes, the weirdly elevated shower, the smell, the peeling, the ugliness of it all!

I was prepared of course. I did not purchase it for the looks. But the work will be tremendous.

And so the students win by default. Karolina looks me in the eye and says, calmly, sweetly -- you know how I said I need a month to do the job? In this case, I need two or three. At least.

It's wrong to say that the students will have left a mess. If anything, their cleaning habits seem more than adequate. But the apartment looks like someone threw something together carelessly sixty years ago and so it remained. There is nothing good about it -- not the floors, walls, ceiling. (Did I mention the pipes? Including sewage pipes running from the bathroom of the upstairs neighbor?)

Not to be discouraged! The students stay, Karolina has a good construction team, we are set to go.
I'll sleep on this and let's meet again to talk about specifics -- she tells me.
I hope one specific isn't -- this job sucks and no amount of money will fix the dumb pile of junk you bought.

We shake hands all around. I tell the students I want a private concert when all is said and done. They smile. So agreeable!






I leave then and leave Karolina to more measurement and contemplation (and the students to their music). My sister and I walk the street and find another cafe rather quickly. The skies change from partly cloudy, to tempestuous with sleet and rain, and now they're partly cloudy again.

The cafe is lovely (with a nod to France)...






... and I drink hibiscus tea in a warm and clever industrial-like setting.


 


I'm lucky, really. Karolina forges ahead (I hope), my sister helps with the paper work -- I am here to merely accept and confront my new status as a temporary (and unwilling) landlord and owner at this moment of a junky but someday lovely (I hope) apartment.

In the evening we eat herring and sauerkraut and dark bread with slabs of very fresh butter.

It is a beautiful day to be in Warsaw.