at the dinner table.

When I'm in Warsaw, I want to see my friends. It is a given. My apartment was especially designed to accommodate a large group dinner. Cooking for these people, whom I've known since adolescence is hugely important to me. Perhaps I have that Polish gene that makes us such great, or at least enthusiastic, hosts.

This time, too, I invited the whole gang to a Tamka supper (Tamka is the name of the Warsaw street where I live). And for the first time, I have everyone here -- even the one person who lives in a distant (albeit Polish) city. We are a band of twleve.

What to cook, what to cook... I've puzzled over it, given that the cupboards are mostly bare and I am here for such a short time.

In the end, I decided to do what I often do for my own family in Madison -- a salad Nicoise, with some twists that make this into a really substantial meal.

My very first task this morning is to visit the neighborhood produce stands (there are three and of these, two are good and one is really outstanding). I'm a little nervous about finding stuff. The salad does allow for great improvisation (for instance, I substitute anchovies with sardines, prepared in a number of ways -- this is what I went looking for when I popped into Paris for an hour, because there is a store that sells only sardines and they are exquisite, and for those who are not sardine fans I offer shrimp), but I don't think you can call it a Nicoise unless it has green beans. Are they popular in Poland these days?

Here's my favorite produce stand:





(A guy comes up behind me... the salesperson asks -- what would you like? He's young, a little rough around the face. Oh, just a handful of the chanterelles for my scrambled eggs this morning. Only in Poland...)


And yes, there are green beans. They are not as good as the American grown French beans as sold by my favorite market Hmong farmer (how many nationalities can I fit into one green bean?!), but they're green. And tomatoes and baby potatoes. Essential components! Oh, but the cucumbers! They are superb! Better than any that I can get back home. And while I'm at it, I pick up some raspberries and strawberries for breakfast. And breads for the dinner: the line is long, but the service -- it never fails to astonish me that a country could change so draconianly in such a short period of time -- the service is excellent. Four women vying to help you with your order...





And as I carry my bundles home (along with the milk, the kefir), and then go out once more to a store far away to buy wine (the bottles are so heavy, the walk is so long!) I think once more how convenient shopping is in the American fashion: by car. Carrying all this across city blocks, up and down metro stairs, then up two flights to my apartment (my building has no elevator) is... well, less convenient.

Upstairs, I unpack and then finally I sit down to breakfast.






And it is the raspberries that do it to me: they remind me that I am in the place of my childhood. Because Polish raspberries are different than those in the US or even in other parts of Europe. They have intense flavor. The flavor of my growing up years.

And I think about how odd it is to be stepping in the way that I do back into my childhood, briefly, but frequently. I dabble in my Polish past and then I go back to what is my true home now and I shake my senses off and it all falls away somewhere. Until I come back to Poland again.

It is so popular to speak of identity these days. I do often think I am without a national one. It got lost somewhere in the stormy waters of the ocean, in one of my frequent crossings. But there is such a thing, I think, as an identity of a childhood place. If you grew up in the Bronx -- that stays with you. If your childhood roots are in Texas or California -- you know it and feel it. My childhood had a touch of Manhattan, but in fact, it is rooted in postwar Poland.

This time the raspberries bring it all back again.


And then I get to work on dinner preparation, with the tremendous help of my sister, who runs errands for me and cheerfully follows instructions.

Ready. Almost! Have to bring out the sardines!






There are many many photos I could take of the gathering. But there isn't time for it. I'm putting up just a few...

Of men talking..






Of women catching up...






Of the whole band, huddled over the dinner...






What? You cant see any of the faces? Here are a few...






Sampling cookies with cherries, and macarons...






I suggest that we all do selfies and submit our efforts to the group. You don't have to do serious faces, I tell them.






They get to it.






And here's a photo of the three guys who have been friends since their first year of adolescence (and a wife of one, still working on that selfie).





It does something to you -- this constant strong pull of friends who were with you when you were just a young nothing, unsure of where you were heading in life. And now here we are, grandparents, all of us!

The evening has a second part to it: we walk over (well, some of us dance over...)


 


...to the home of the couple whose apartment has just been renovated. For an inspection!

Everyone approves! More cheers, more stories, more food and drink of course.






So this is how it is: we gather, we tell all that needs to be told. We eat and drink and talk and talk until the clock strikes some godawful hour and then we all disperse. Until the next time.

(I should do the dishes... But it's so so late! I should do the dishes...)

Côte d'Opale once more

How is it, here, by the Channel coast, in the small town of Wimereux? Enchanting? Ordinary? Delightful?

It's so easy to give an opinion these days. Click onto TripAdvisor and read what anyone and everyone has to say about nearly every destination, hotel, set of rooms. I read this stuff. If there are many opinions finding fault with a place -- that's a pretty damning situation, especially if the proprietor hasn't bothered to get on line to make the (feeble?) claim that they're all fake news, posted by the competition. I understand the possibility that they could be fake. And more importantly, I understand the possibility that people may simply be tired and have had a bad day, leading to a predisposition that is going to shade the nature of the opinion. And still, I read.

And I post opinions on Tripadvisor and on various sites that have helped me navigate the listings. But I don't post many and I only write them if I have liked a place. A lot. I just don't want to blurt out something negative that may have more to do with my mood than the reality of the situation.

Now, if you want to know what I thought of my overnight by the sea, I first have to introduce the day for you. I look out the window this morning and see this: a dappled sky, the calm waters of the Channel, a pair of brave souls taking a morning swim.






I then go down to a breakfast at the Hotel Atlantic. You know a place that takes food seriously is going to have a nice breakfast. And it does. Good home-cured salmon, eggs, a variety of cheeses and a variety of baked goods, with seasonal fruits and the usual morning beverages.






I sit by the window and admire the view again. With the partial clearing of skies, you can just see the white cliffs of Dover on the horizon. There is something both majestic and sad about it. Dover was once a thriving tourist place, but the tunnel connecting Paris with London has had an impact on this coastal town. I've read that refugees now use it as a point of entry into the UK. If you want to get a handle on the consequences of the Brexit vote, I suppose you'd do well to visit Dover. You'd probably walk away with a barrage of very mixed opinions! As for the French side of things -- you've read perhaps about the Calais refugee camps and France's efforts to deal with them. And Calais is about to face the consequences of Brexit now: they're huge! France is adding hundreds of customs officials and has allocated more than forty acres around Calais for customs inspection points. It's one big mess, from the point of view of commerce.

But from the window of my breakfast room, it all looks so pretty!

And so I take the time to go outside and walk. (Do you see the white cliffs on the other side of the Channel?)






And I think how quiet Wimereux is, despite the turmoil just a few miles up the coast. Wimereux is geared toward the French summer vacation -- a season that lasts for only two months in this country. Most everything along the coast is shuttered now. Except for my little hotel, which is booked solid. On a September Tuesday no less.






Is it the popularity of the Hotel Atlantic entirely attributable to the NYTimes piece? I don't think so. In the breakfast room I see one demographic: couples, in retirement. I'd say half speak a British English and half are French. It's easy to see why the British are here: if you want to drive your car to France, you'd likely to do it through Calais. What better place to overnight than here, in this quiet spot with excellent food.






As for the French -- I suppose there are those who hope to beat the summer crowds and high season prices. But the consequence of coming here now is that you see many closed doors. Like on these beach huts that line the Promenade.





Time to check out. I have a train to catch! The mesdames at the front desk are so charming! They fuss about my great vocabulary (they got me on a good day!). This just puts such a smile on my face. I better leave before they say something I won't understand!

The walk to the station is pleasant, especially on a full stomach and under that pretty sky...





And so as I stand on this sweet little station and watch the punctual trains come and go and I think about my visit here, I feel pretty rosy about it.





Had I been forced to give an answer yesterday, I would have said -- well, the room was painted a dark color and didn't have enough lighting and the window was too small. The wait at the station for the local train was outdoors and I would not want to do it in cold weather. The walk that I took along the coast was interesting, but doing it once seems enough. The dinner? It was actually just fine, but I was so looking forward to the dish that apparently they do very very well -- the sole meuniere -- a French classic that turned Julia Child into a lover of French foods. You can't find it these days in many good restaurants, but it is a signature item here, except on days when they don't have it. Like last night.

But today, I'm just tickled pink by this opal coast. Even the view from the train window -- presumably the same view as I posted yesterday -- looks so much kinder, gentler.






And did I mention how much I love traveling through France by train?





My bullet train to Paris is on time, though not without incident. Suddenly, somewhere between Lille and Paris, an armed crew, casually dressed but with Douane armbands appeared out of nowhere. Searches ensued. No one was handcuffed, but some interrogations were pretty determined. A reminder that the new normal is full of stuff like this.

And now I'm back at Paris's Gare du Nord (a train station that surely does not lack a security presence)...




It's time for me to leave France. For now. Which brings me to one more speculation: why do I love exploring this place so much? People tell me that I've seen way more of France than a French woman. What brings me here so often?

It's the people, for sure. Oh, Paris is beautiful and the countryside has many pretty spots and lots of good food and wine. All this helps. But watching and listening to the people who live here is, to me, like reading a fascinating book that never ends. I learn something from the French and I like the lesson to be repeated frequently.

I don't think much of nationalism -- French, Polish or American. So that "being French" isn't to me exclusive, or bound by the country's borders. And in any case, I wouldn't say that the French are excessively friendly (like the Irish), or hospitable (like the Polish), or conversationally revealing (like Americans). What I would say about them is that they seem to me to have a preoccupation with doing life well: finding balance in work, family, friends. They seem to take great care with ordinary daily life: what you eat, how you present yourself to others -- these are important. The greatest compliment that you can give to a French parent is to say they child is tres sage (very wise). And, of course, the French are vocal in their commitment to Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and when someone points out that it hasn't been working well for many who live among them -- they take that reprimand seriously enough to discuss it and to look forward to working on a fix. I like that. 

France may change. Poland certainly continues to swing wildly in various directions. America -- right now I have faith that it'll stay on a good course. In any case, I live there. I owe it my vote of confidence and at times, my critical voice when I feel us to be floundering. A country, after all, is nothing more than a sum of its residents,

At some point, when a vast number of people (a majority) swings in a direction that doesn't feel right to me, the charm of travel there will fade. But it hasn't happened yet -- certainly not in France (and not even in Poland). 


And now I am on a greatly delayed (who knows why) flight to my country of birth, where, at Warsaw's airport, my sister is waiting. And wait -- who is that with her? My nephew! Here on a brief visit from England. We ride the bus together to my apartment on Tamka Street. My nephew is holding a little duck. You would have to be Polish to understand that right now, he is engaging in (or at least explaining) a form of protest to stuff that is happening in this country. (It's a play on words, which you would understand if you knew the Polish name for duck as well as the name of the current leader of Poland.)





And now we are in my apartment. 





Good friends of mine had been using it for a few months this spring while their own home was undergoing renovation. I see that they have left flowers and trinkets everywhere! Too, my sister has brought over fruits, salads and various good things to stave off sudden bursts of hunger. It is a wonderful and warm way to reenter my life as a Pole.

Côte d'Opale

Perhaps you've heard of it, but chances are you have not -- the Opal Coast of France. It is the northernmost tip of the country, bordering the English Channel (the unsexy administrative name of the region is, as of 2016, Nord-Pas-de-Calais; I still remember it as French Flanders, or Picardy). From here, the crossing to England is the shortest -- less than 30 miles from Calais France to Dover England -- a trip I made by ferry with daughters when they were very little and before suitcases had wheels. I have a sweet picture of them hurrying to the boat trying to manage their little luggage at ages five and eight.

I never thought of it as a travel destination. Normandy, Brittany -- they're so alluring! Meander along the Côte Fleurie of Normandie, or hike, as Ed and I did, along the Emerald Coast and best of all, the Pink Granite Coast of Brittany -- now those are trips worth taking.

But here I am, spending a night in Wimereux along the Opal Coast. I have only this one night here, because my great desire to explore this area arose after I'd already booked my flights for this six day overseas trip and committed to five day split between Warsaw and Paris. Still, one night has many hours in it! Enough to smell the sea breeze and admire a lengthy promenade. Enough to do a micro-exploration. If I like it, I'll pocket it for a future return.

It isn't a difficult journey, even if, like me, you've been traveling all night to Paris. I had bet on a more or less timely flight arrival (it wouldn't have worked otherwise: there aren't that many hours in one night!) and bought a ticket in advance for the bullet train from Paris to Calais, and from there, a local to Wimereux.

Life is funny that way: you take the cautious approach and often enough in travel, things go awry anyway. At other times you take risks and nothing goes wrong. Is there a lesson here?

And now I'm getting super bold. I calculate that before my train departs, I have just enough time to take the metro to this place:






It's sunny and very warm in Paris! I'm a bit loaded down, but I came to this Luxembourg neighborhood with a purpose: there's the park itself of course. A mountain of pleasure comes from just stepping inside. But, too, I need something for a dinner I'm cooking in Warsaw. I'm determined to find the shop that has exactly what I need, do my purchase and hustle back to Gare Nord (the train station) for my journey north.

So -- lovely park, familiar neighborhood, who cares if I'm a little tired, hungry, a little loaded down with my bag and backpack. (Not the ugly one. I sent that back.) A little rushed. And with sore feet because vanity had me pull out a nicer, rarely used pair of shoes for Paris and now my feet are sore. Trivial stuff! The beauty of the moment more than makes up for petty inconveniences.











The French do train travel really really well and the strikes that plagued rail service here in spring are over (for now), so I catch my on time train and have a lovely ride to my room by the sea.

I'm staying at the Hotel Atlantic. It's a small place and I came to it via a New York Times article listing ten hotels around the world that are reasonably priced and worth the journey. For France, the writer picked the Atlantic.Why? Well, it's good to write about something that is on a path less well traveled. And maybe he was especially taken with the views (each room looks over the beach, though each room is different and some are more light and bright than others).






(The hotel sits along a lovely, long promenade)






Maybe the lure was in the Opal Coast itself.


'


Or maybe it's all about the interesting little town of Wimereux. (I dont really explore it, but I do cross it on my walk from the rail station to the Atlantic. Here it is, as viewed from the train.)






But really, quite likely he chose it because the rooms rest above two great restaurants -- one with a Michelin rosette. I didn't pick that one for dinner. I'm going with the simpler one (l'Aloze) which still has a fine seafood menu. And a Pavlova for dessert.





And so how is this corner of France? I hear Macron has his summer home nearby. Is it a good spot for an escape? Is it worth my extra travel hours?

I'm so so sleepy now. I'll come back to this question tomorrow!

(Sunset, as seen from the restaurant during dinner.)

leaving

What stands out on this farmette morning? Well of course, everything that continues to bloom, despite the lateness of the season. And all that has grown stronger with the cooler weather.

Here's an admirable plant that I put in just by our porch: it bends toward the morning sun and so it actually grows sideways.






Here's a yellow-budded guy, who is putting up (but just barely!) with my picture taking effort. Breakfast is indoors. It was a tough call, but comfort prevailed. Besides, outside, it kind of smells like garlic, with a hint of peppermint. We used a mist of this evil combo once more for mosquito control. It's pretty effective! And the dragon flies, bees, butterflies and humming birds seem unconcerned.






In the afternoon, I have a brief after-school walk with Snowdrop. To the Bernie's Beach playground.





It feels a little too warm. Dare I say it -- too sunny. Rather than plunge into an energetic romp, we find a spot in the shade and read a book about Velma Gratch and the way cool monarch butterfly.

And soon, Snowdrop's dad comes to pick her up, while I hurry home, so that I can woosh over to the airport and catch my flight to Atlanta. I think I will have dodged the hurricane that's threatening the coast. Maybe my connections will be trouble free. Maybe my next post will be from across the ocean.

Monday

Could you grow tired of Fall if all days looked like this one? Brilliant sunshine, crispy clean air, offering a much needed refreshing change from the summer's heat.

Ed'll say -- the garden is gorgeous, gorgeous! (Around here, nicknames tend to stick!)
It is a matter of taste, I suppose, but it is true that at this stage I let the garden run wild. And Ed likes that. The rudbeckia (black eyed susans and coneflowers), the heliopsis (false sunflower), the cosmos (from the sunflower family) -- they rule, to the point that if they fall down and grow sideways -- I let them do it.

(Morning walk to feed the chickens...)






(Breakfast, on the porch, because there will be few days left when this is possible.)






I am a little bit tied to details today. (That's a pleasant way of saying I'm overwhelmed with tons of chores.) Too, it is my last day (for a while) where I can really play with Snowdrop after school. Our time together tomorrow will be very brief since I'll have a flight to catch. It's a good day to post a few short series of photos of Ms Beenah-Bay (yep, like em or not, our nicknames for each other tend to stick!) at play. Here, it is, our afternoon, as seen through the lens of my tag-along little camera.


(On the playground: Gaga, can I have pigtails?)
















(Snowdrop, it's buggy; let's go inside. No, Gaga, no! I need to run the hose!)






(Victorious!)





(The nasturtium flowers look on...)






(Let's go inside, now! But I need to help ahah!)






(Finally, they play castles and wizards. Inside.)










And then Snowdrop goes home and I return to the trivial, the mundane, interspersed with lovely moments of a quiet evening with Ed.

Tomorrow, late in the day, I travel. No delays, no kerfuffles please!

For now, from under the stars of a greatly speckled sky -- good night.