Morning: a trip to Slovakia to do some shopping. Babcia explained that the flour there is much better quality and that the crocheting thread is much cheaper, so we headed to Trstena, the first real town across the border.

Despite all the changes in Lipnica and Jabłonka, Trstena really hasn’t changed all that much. The town square still looks more or less like it did the first time I went in 1996. Sure, there have been a few updates in architecture, but mainly face-lifts to get ride of the old socialist realism of the previous era.

We made our purchases and then found a cozy restaurant for a bit of lunch. And of course since we were in Slovakia, there was only one thing on my mind for lunch: bryndzové halusky. I could eat the stuff by the kilo if it weren’t for the fact that it’s a complete fat and carb bomb.

Since Babcia wanted to stop and get some trash bags — the local trash collecting agency will only pick up trash and recyclables that are in the proper bag, in typical bureaucratic fashion — and since the bags are available only in one location, we decided to drive around Lake Orawa and come at Lipnica, where the trusty bags are located, from the backside. This meant we went over the dam that formed the lake some decades ago and prompted the creation of the town of Namestovo for the displaced residents of the valley. Of course, the boy loved it.

Part two: Nowy Targ. K had some shopping to do and wanted to get her hair done, and since two people recommended the same hairdresser in NT, there was only one place to go. I on the other hand had other things on my mind: no trip to Poland is complete without a visit to C, the Other American in the area with whom I spent countless weekend hours in the late 90s.

A quick walk over the river and through the cemetery and soon, C and I were catching up, reminiscing.

K came by, showed off her lovely new hairstyle, and chatted with us a bit before we turned back toward Jabłonka.

In some ways, nothing special about today’s events. Had today been eighteen years ago, it would have been almost typical — not for a Tuesday, perhaps, but maybe for a Friday or Saturday. All it takes to turn the typical into the extraordinary then is eighteen years and a few thousand miles.