Pictures for the day -- a day of exploring and bike riding of old -- are trapped on the memory card. The cable to connect the camera is still in Poland; the built-in card reader isn't working. And so the pictures remain on the camera...
g
Back To Normal
“Well, now everything is back to normal,” I said just the other evening, when the kids were having an evening snack, and K and I were divvying up the evening responsibilities — who does the bathing and tooth-brushing, who does the reading/praying/tucking-in.
“Not quite, Daddy,” L corrected. “We’re still missing Bida.”
Our oldest cat had run off just before I’d left for Poland, and no one had seen her since. “She’ll come back” was K’s constant refrain, but I wasn’t so sure. How well could an arthritic, deaf, virtually-toothless old cat survive without human intervention?
Apparently, she could survive quite well, because this evening, she came trotting into the carport as if nothing had happened. Her long, gray hair was starting to mat after a month of neglect, and it was filled with little twigs, seeds, and dirt. She’d lost a fair amount of weight. But other than that, she was just like normal: the old grumpy lady who hisses at Elsa, our year-old-cat, for the slightest little thing, who trots up the stairs and hides under our bed whenever she’s offended (which doesn’t take much).
Elsa, for her part, was thrilled to see Bida, and eager to help. She gave up her food for Bida, backing away when the elder cat approached, and she stood watch as Bida ate slowly.
Elsa’s restraint has always impressed me: with her sharp teeth and sharper claws, she could tear Bida apart in a fight. Yet every time Bida hisses and swats ineffectually at Elsa, Elsa just backs down and submits.
So tonight, when we’re all divvying up responsibilities and snacks, I can try again: “Everything’s back to normal now.”
Return
Routines, it turns out, are easily formed. It only takes a few mornings of waking alone, eating breakfast alone while glancing through the news on the Internet and sipping coffee, and enjoying the peace of a quiet morning. Only a few mornings of this and it becomes a new routine, replacing the old. On the other hand, it only takes one morning of noisy breakfast preparation, of kids laughing, fussing, and playing—only one morning and everything returns back to normal. The Saturday morning ritual conversation with Babcia through Skype, with the kids downstairs while I sit upstairs reading the news and sipping coffee, falls back into place as if we'd been doing it all summer.
Collision of Centuries
Another Day in the Valley
To the Forest
Berries and Soldiers
Approahing Floriańska
As you emerge from the tunnel that passes under the intersection of Westerplatte, Pawia, Baszowa, and Lubicz streets in Krakow, you emerge into a green park that surrounds the old city center. All tourists who arrive from a train or a bus must walk this way, and it's the logical place for buskers, solicitors, and beggars to line the wide sidewalk and compete for attention. There's always an accordion player or three along the way, numerous students working for a few extra groszy by handing out fliers, and beggars. One tends to grow accustomed to them all. "Dziękuję," you learn to say politely and briskly to the students who are near enough that you can't simply ignore. The buskers merge with the city traffic and the general conversation to form an ignorable element of the soundtrack, unless a given performer is really gifted. And the beggars: they're everywhere. The conscience hardens, especially when you suspect their motives. (Beginning in the nineties, some younger beggars were more honest, holding placards that simply read "Piwo" with "Beer" possibly scratched underneath for foreigners.)
But some of them get to you.
Last week, as we were walking the kids towards the old city center, we passed by an elderly woman sprawled on the sidewalk, her hands shaking violently and her medicines spread out in front of her.
"Why is she shaking?" L asked.
"She's sick, honey," K replied.
We took a few more steps and realized what we'd done.
"Here," I said, giving L a couple of five-zloty coins. "Go take this to her."
The Girl grabbed the Boy by the shoulders. "Come on, E," she said solemnly. They went back and clanked the two coins into the small metal box that held a handful of change. Hopefully, a small, quiet lesson for them.
Birthday Party
Kinga threw a little party for herself for her birthday because I was such a loser that I went back to the States the day before her birthday.
Krakow 2015
