Thanks and farewell Warsaw

 

 

My fivemonthsinwarsaw has come to an end, and so has this blog.

I want to say thanks to many people who made my stay rich and rewarding.

To my daughter, who made it all possible by marrying a Polish man and producing Polish-Australian twins. She showed me what intelligent, loving imaginative mothering looks like. She also talked about her childhood and gave me a chance to remember and review.

To my son-in-law, who took me to the doctor and for a lip-wax – and offered to take me to the dentist, as a special treat. He also made me laugh.

To my delicious grandchildren, who gave me a chance to see babies develop from pre-birth to 10 weeks, who filled my arms, and maybe even smiled at me.

To my co-grandparent, who took on shopping and household management while I was legless, and pioneered an understanding of Polish transport, shopping, food and language.

To my son-in-law's parents, who made me very welcome, provided me with household goods and plied me with wonderful meats and fruity “medicine” and bottles of pickled vegetables and spiced fruits.

To my physiotherapist, who not only gave me back mobility, but chatted to me in English and introduced me to many aspects of Polish life. She also made me think about Australia differently with her questions about life there.

To my Australian family and friends who emailed me regularly, especially when I was house-bound, and stopped me despairing.

To people in shops who dealt with my lack of language and my fumbling with money, and occasionally even passed the time of day.

And finally, to my blog-followers, especially strangers, whose following gave me entree into their worlds and endless speculation about how they found my blog, and what piqued their interest.

 

 

 

Now, I'm going back to Australia to reclaim a life there. My blogging will no doubt continue at http://morselsandscraps.wordpress.com/

 

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Last things

It's Saturday morning and on Monday evening I leave Warsaw for Potato Point. Already I'm marking last times.

I've been to my physio for the last time, caught the Metro for the last time, walked up ul Długa for the last time, come home on the 116 at night for the last time.

On Monday I'll leave the apartment and the views of the window-tree and the double spires for the last time. I'll catch the bus up ul Miodowa, round the corner into Krakowskie Przedmieście, and on into Nowy Świat. I'll pass doors and balconies and windows and street lights and statues that have become familiar companions. I'll remember the sweaty, nervous commercial transactions of my early days – the umbrella, the pretty well unused Nordic walking sticks, the black coffee, the SIM card for my iPad. I'll see roads I've followed – from Mariensztat and from Stalin's Gift, both surprising me by bringing me back to Nowy Świat. I'll remember the early morning trams to the hospital just after the twins were born, my leg still quite painful, and the Saturday afternoon trams: to Smyk to buy a mobile and a bouncinette and to the Museum of the Uprising.

I'll register again the unpronouncability of Trzech Krzyży. I'll note a black cylindrical construction that appeared near Piękna bus stop in the last few weeks. I'll pass Łazienki Gardens where I marked the seasons and met my first squirrel and walked in pristine snow. All for the last time.

For the last time, I'll see the Biedronka supermarket and the flower stalls at Dolna. I'll get off the bus at ul Kostrzewskiego, tap in my daughter's code, walk up a flight of stairs to the lift and enter the flat that contains what I'm really leaving behind when I leave Warsaw: my much-loved daughter, my wonderful son-in-law and the two babies who have shaped my life since last October. I'll watch those babies kick on their play mat for the last time, Janek vigorously and with an earnest frown and the beginnings of delighted squeals, Maja more intermittently, her scrutinising eyes sparkling, her feet lifting high in the air. I'll hold them to feed them and watch them as they shut their eyes and succumb to sleep. I'll score a few last smiles and I'll pat their little bottoms soothingly and murmur grandmaternal sillinesses for the last time. When I see them in December, they'll be beyond all that and I'll have missed their growing.

Płaczę w moim sercu.

 

 

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The Law Courts

For a photographer obsessed by reflections, the architecture of the Warsaw Law Courts is a gift. Every day it seems to offer differences, as does the bush at home, an odd comparison given the contrasts between the two places. If I have to choose between loving and hating this very modern building, I would have to join those who love it, persuaded into that relationship by my camera. It deserves a post of its own.

 

 

 

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Ethnographic museum

On my penultimate Warsaw Sunday, I took my map and my determination and set out to find the ethnographic museum. Maps and I aren't on very good terms: they challenge my spatial sense far beyond its capacity. But my determination is usually in pretty good nick, even on a raw Warsaw day. Coordination proved to be another matter. I found the museum and then managed to sweep a sugar bowl off the table in the cafe, which diluted my sense of achievement, especially when I had to stand up like a naughty child while a very young man swept up my mess, paying close attention to every grain. However, I badly needed the coffee, so I didn't slink away with my humiliation.

My stamina was also limited, so I only prowled for an hour, astonished by the diversity, and realising the extent to which Polish scientists had travelled the world. There were artefacts from New Guinea, Afghanistan and the Pacific as well as from close neighbours in Europe and Poland itself. Once again the camera enabled me to carry away and see later more than my limited attention span could cope with.

This armchair was made in 1924 by Konstanty Chojnowski from birch wood. The design was based on patterns from about 1820. The amount of detail is stunning.

 

The museum holds a vast collection of textiles, lace and embroidery, some traditional, some inspired by traditional designs.

 

 

It also features traditional costumes from different regions, heavy with embroidery and trimmings.

 

Craftsmen in wood are represented by toys, models, musical instruments (a suka and a folk fiddle) and a spinning wheel. A beehive in a hollow log, intricately carved with a nativity scene, unfortunately resisted the camera.

 

 

A reamed chest from the Hutsul people in the Carpathian Mountains was typical of the decorative intensity of many exhibits.

 

 

And of course no Polish collection would be complete without a display of amber.

 

There were a few surprises. A spectacular fish trap from the Białystok region …

 

 

… a painting from the second half of the twentieth century showing a stylised confrontation between Ethiopia and Eritrea, of great personal interest because my mother-in-law was a missionary in Eritrea at the time …

 

 

… and the biggest surprise of all. I rounded a dim corner, and there, glowing with desert colours and familiarity, were two dot paintings from Yuendumu.

 

 

 

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A Warsaw miscellany

I hate waste. When I realised I had a collection of photos that were significant to me, but didn't fit in other posts, I thought “Aha! Miscellaneous is a good theme!”

Flowers at the medical centre

I spent a lot of time at the medical centre, getting my leg functional again. Once I got over the trauma of booking in without language, I had time to look around. Every week there were fresh flowers on the marble seat where I perched, practising my weekly Polish sentence and looking across the busy four lanes to expanses of snow and black figures moving through the white landscape. That was when I wasn't tipping over someone else's abandoned cup of coffee, or trying to explain to an aggrieved patient that I couldn't understand a word he was saying so vociferously, or indicating that I wasn't waiting to enter the mysterious innards of rooms 4 or 6.

 

 

Rubbish bins in the Plac na Rozdrożu underpass

Warsaw has an excess of two things – benches to sit on and rubbish bins. This line-up was irresistible. No doubt there are occasional crowds pouring through here at peak hour – it is after all an exchange point for the bus system – but mostly I shared it with no more than four other people, and often had all the bins to myself.

 

Keeping soil warm over winter

When I arrived, planters all over Warsaw were brimming with chrysanthemums, rust coloured and sunshine yellow. When the weather began to chill, and they died off under snow they were replaced by neat tree trimmings covering the soil.

 

How to keep the lights on

My apartment is up three flights of stairs. On a slow day, I might not quite make it up before the timed lights go out. On each landing there is a light switch but even after five months I'm still not quite sure which are light switches and which are doorbells, so I'm hesitant to revitalise the light, and equally hesitant to stumble on in the dark. One of my neighbours has solved that problem. A few twigs strategically placed make sure the lights stay permanently on.

 

 

The narrowest footpath in Warsaw

I first met this famous bit of Warsaw footpath the rainy night early in my stay when M took me off to pick up my bus pass. Since then I've encountered it every Tuesday and Thursday on my way to physiotherapy. I poke my head cautiously round the corner to make sure no one is coming, especially on days when I might encounter the treachery of ice or a swoosh of water from a passing car if I have to step onto the road. I've rounded the corner in considerable pain, and then with increasing speed and confidence as my leg improved. Today, my last visit to Anna, I will stride triumphantly through the light snow, and round it in a spirit of both triumph and elegy.

 

 

Lost gloves

Warsaw is littered with lost gloves. I have seen them draped forlornly over the buzzer at the entrance to my daughter's apartment block; trodden into the snow on the verge of the road; perched on the bare branches of a tree; lying on a snowy bench; half submerged in a pile of dead leaves; or hanging eloquently on a mottled planter box. The one I most felt like rescuing was lying in the gutter at a busy set of lights. The morning traffic was passing over it, leaving treadmarks in its elegant leather. These gloves are always solitary. Somewhere, one of my Australian knitted ones, especially darned for the trip, lies abandoned and alone.

 

 

Sticks

Just outside the door of my apartment is a stash of sticks, propped up against the wall. The number increases, but never exceeds eight. They are the playthings of the dog next door. He brings them home from his walk and his owner confiscates them before they go inside. I have never seen the dog or its owner, although my nose is up against their door when I step through mine.

 

 

Locking love (a ring-in from Częstochowa)

I encountered these locks on a small bridge in the park in Częstochowa and remembered a story of love locks on the railings round the road that sweeps over the sea near Bulli. (As home time approaches, more and more references to Australia invade my Warsaw mind.) So I had a vague idea about why they were there.

The Polish language blog I follow gave me the story of the source of this international custom the next week, obviously inspired by Valentine's day. She says: “The legend behind this particular tradition is remarkably modern. In 1992 Italian author and filmmaker Federico Moccia published a love story entitled Tre metri sopra il cielo. The book told the story of two young Italian lovers. The hero convinces his girl that it is traditional to seal their everlasting love by attaching a padlock to the third lamppost from the north side of Rome’s Ponte Milvio. Having closed the padlock the key was then thrown into the Tiber flowing below signifying the bonding of the pair forever.”

 

 

Carpet cleaning

In the first snow, I looked out the apartment window into the courtyard. I saw a man lay his carpet down and tread it into the snow. Then he turned it over and trod on it again, before rolling it neatly and carrying it over to the courtyard bars. He flung it over the bars and spent twenty minutes carefully and vigorously sweeping it down.

 

A child's sled

Everywhere after snow you see young children being dragged along on a sled, leaving two parallel marks in the snow. Even when they tip off mounting the curb they are cheerful and lie there laughing before they get on board again. One day J saw a man pushing a pram, pulling a sled and leading a dog, all three at once.

Sleds became the subject matter of the fantasies I murmured to my grandchildren as I soothed them looking out the window near the changing table. “Soon little Janek – or Maja – will be able to ride on a sled. Mummy will dress them warmly in their down coat and mittens. They will wear a hat with a pompom or maybe a hat with a panda face and ears. They will be very warm and babcia will pull them along through the snowflakes. When we go to the shop, we can leave the sled tied up to a lamp post like a dog so it doesn't run away while we buy milk and butter and bread.”

 

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Up Stalin’s Gift

 

After lunch on Saturday, my son-in-law took me up Stalin's Gift, the Palace of Culture and Science, to give me a view of Warsaw from the terrace on the 35th floor. It's Warsaw's equivalent of Gulaga at home: wherever you go, you can see it. In fact, Poles joke that it's the best place in Warsaw, because it's the only place where you can't see it. Once the leaves fell, you could even see it from my apartment, glowing lurid purple in the middle of the New Year fireworks.

As we went up in the lift I suddenly remembered my horror of heights at Katoomba last year, but I was well buttressed by a solid parapet and could look straight down without shaky legs and hyper-ventilation. It was snowing very lightly, and the view ended pretty well at the familiar dome in the New Town Square, rather than at Pruszków, 20 kilometres away, which is the scope of a clear-day view.

I was glad I'd left this bit of sightseeing till the end of my stay, because I had the delight of spotting, with M's help, familiar landmarks: the Filter near the hospital where the twins were born; the strangely-terraced, steep-roofed church and the configuration of the 18th century skyline in the Old Town; Centralny railway station; the dome of the New Town church; and of course the Wisła and the soccer stadium.

 

 

 

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The twins lunch out

 

 

There's not much time left now before I leave Warsaw. On Saturday, we all went out to lunch – two huge Polish platters, fish and meat, in a vast restaurant, with room for the babies to sleep in their capsules on the floor.

I finally dared to try a bit of prepared and still execrable Polish, which needed to be translated as much as my English does. I also managed a comment in verbless unprepared Polish when J handed his wife his present to put in her bag: “Kobieta … torba …zawsze” which also needed translation and the addition of “człowiek”: roughly ” the man's stuff always goes in the woman's bag”.

 

 

In the course of conversation we discovered yet another reason to admire O, my daughter's mother-in-law. She made the pilgrimage from Warsaw to Częstochowa, walking for a week to cover the distance I covered by train in three hours. The longest day's walk was 40 kilometres, at the end of which she fell into the pitched tent, exhausted. The next morning she was ready to unpitch the tent and set off again. An aphorism that appealed: “It's better to be sorry for having sinned than to be sorry not to have sinned.”

The babies slept peacefully in their capsules until we had eaten our fill, accompanied by a small (half a litre!) tankard of beer and followed by a small glass of rich red cherry almond wine.

As we were leaving a fellow-diner approached Marcin with volubility. We thought it was a paean in praise of the babies. In fact, it boiled down to “I saw a rat in here!”

 

 

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Shopping bags

 

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Art gallery, Częstochowa

After all the glitz and excess of Jasna Góra, this gallery and these paintings were solace and relief: the unadorned arches: the fineness of black and white, the dazzle of 3D in 2D, the simple domestic still life, the mother at the beach with her child; the black and white portraits of a face.

 

Agata Gertchen: Unbridled (detail)

Agata Gertchen: Unbridled (detail)

Grzegorz Dobiesław Mazurek: digital printing

Grzegorz Dobiesław Mazurek: digital printing

Tomasz Chudzic: Exemplum 3b

Tomasz Chudzic: Exemplum 3b (detail)

Ryszard Otręba: detail

Tomasz Tobolewski: self portrait

Tomasz Tobolewski: self-portrait (detail)

 

A few rooms were devoted to Robert Bubel, a local artist. I loved his paintings of children and of domestic details, in a palette far removed from the garishness of the Chapel of the Black Madonna.

 

 

 

 

 

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Częstochowa

I arrived at Częstochowa station primed for easy sightseeing. After all, my first encounter with this town was a mult-view postcard, showing beautiful buildings in a neat circle and I was heading to a prime tourist and pilgrimage site. In actuality I managed to get lost (and lose my scarf), having given up on map reading and misread a signpost. I'd also realised there was no rescue in buses if my leg objected, because I had no idea how to buy a ticket.

 

When I finally oriented myself I was shamed. Jasna Góra dominated the town, towering on the highest hill I have seen in Poland, with a wide avenue leading to it. How could I have missed it?

I walked briskly towards the monastery, stopping to enjoy architectural and sculptural pleasures on the way, even sneaking a photo of the odd window and balcony.

 

 

The sculptures were a special pleasure: Halina Poświatowska, a poet from Częstochowa, and an important figure in Polsih post-war literature, on her seat with her cat; and the girl with the birds, one foot twisted slightly and lifted from the ground in a stance beautifully typical of children. Even the rubbish bins gave pleasure.

 

 

As I approached the monastery, I realised that the church is better at domineering than the state. This whole complex is like a town. The glitz and excess inside is quite overwhelming and for me removed any sense of holiness and any real urge to photograph. The simplicity of farm animals at the entrance with their humble wooden shelters is deceptive.

 

 

However there were things that charmed me outside: arches and iron gates and massive doors and domes and white windows and decorative creatures.

 

 

Sated by an excess of grandeur and in dire need of food I headed back down the hill through a pleasant unassuming park to Dobry Rok and a hearty lunch.

 

 

I relaxed over chicken wrapped in bacon and spicy ravioli, with mineral water to slake my perpetual Polish thirst.

 

 

Strength recovered, I headed back to the monastery to find the Black Madonna, who was the second reason for choosing Częstochowa for my journey away from Warsaw. I was interested in her story: the legend that she was painted by St Luke; her arrival in Poland in the 14th century; the stories associated with the scars on her cheek; the fact that many people make an annual pilgrimage to visit her. She had reappeared in my thinking when she was vandalised in December last year.

 

 

I remembered her as serene and sombre from the first image I had seen of her. I returned to her chapel and found a crowd sitting in the pews and kneeling in the aisles. In front of me was a travesty of holiness: the Madonna and child decked out in sparkle and glitz that hid her from me rather than revealing anything.

I headed back down the hill towards the station, with an hour to spare and a certainty that I would find Częstochowan pleasures to fill it.

 

 

 

 

 

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