Shopping in Praga

After sleeping in till 9 – unheard of at home – I tackle the washing. A seemingly simple task, since all the settings are expressed in icons, not Polish. I still manage to end up with a dripping wash, which somehow doesn't make it to the spin cycle. I cogitate, reset, and go out, leaving the recalcitrant to its own devices.

The morning air is cold, and fog beheads Stalin's Gift. I walk along ulica Chmielna – past chocolate and umbrella shops, a stall selling tulip buds, the entrance to a language school, a window full of bright folk art china, a shop selling organic produce – to Nowy Świat, breathing in the familiarity along with the chill. I am relieved to find that the whole of Warsaw isn't decorated with masked teddy bears.

Near the lane way down to Mariensztat, our 'hood on the last visit, I encounter a giant throne surrounded by giant parcels, a train that looks like a blingified Tootle, and fairy lights glinting on the bare trunks and branches of street trees. In the expanse of Plac Zamkowy, there are small piles of grimy snow and a towering Christmas tree, decorated with bonbons and lolly pops.

The Wisła is flowing wide and grey, and the once-leafy parkland near the zoo is stark bareness. I pass two spectacular churches (St Florian's cathedral and the Orthodox Church of St Mary Magdalene), a colony of polar bears, and signs that Warsaw's second metro line has finally gone underground, although it's not operating yet. As always in Warsaw there is a reminder of the horrors of WW2, a stone memorial to Janusz Korczak. He was the director of an orphanage, and insisted on going to Treblinka extermination camp with the orphans, although he was offered safety.

Then I am in the shopping complex, today's goal. I manage to harvest a frying pan, an egg whisk, a grater, a vase, a flurry of plastic containers, and the ultimate triumph: three plain-page notebooks. These have become essential to managing my life, and finding plain page in a world of lines and graph paper is not easy. I am now well-stocked, although cartoon cows are not my cover-image of choice. I negotiate the checkout with one small glitch, failing to understand the order to leave my basket inside.

Cold makes my legs ache, so I am glad to get back on the tram. I buy three orange and pink long-stemmed roses, something I would not do at home, stung by my son-in-law's comment that my apartment looks like a motel room.

When I arrive home with my booty, the washing machine has done its duty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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