If you get enough Poles together to fill a private room in a restaurant, there will surely be some after-dinner activities.
And if you get enough of those Poles to congregate in one home afterward, there will surely be some singing.
After Dinner
polska
My always obsession...
“I’m Going to Poland”
Ever since we returned last month from our visit to Poland, the Boy has been obsessed, absolutely obsessed, with going to Poland. He constantly asks when we’re going back, and when we finally explained that we won’t be going back for a long time, he simply declared, “We’ll I’ll go alone.”
“And how will you get to the airport?”
“Mama will take me.”
Every Saturday morning, when talking to Babcia via Skype, he proclaims, “Idę do ciebie!”
Since then, he’s been packing. He’ll pack up toys into a box and declare, “This is for Poland.” He’ll put things in a pile and explain that “this is for Poland.” The other night we couldn’t find his toothbrush because he’d packed it in with his toys “for Poland.”
When we ask him what he’s going to do in Poland, he explains that he’s going to play.
“You can play here. Anything else?”
“I’m going to Poland to visit my friend Babcia.”
Choices
K walks out the door first today, and we're chatting in Polish. I turn to the kids and continue in Polish: "Hurry up and finish eating because we're leaving soon." Emil responds in Polish: "Not in Polish, Daddy, in English. Mama's not here."
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.
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
