I’m in Old Town Warsaw on an autumn Saturday evening.
The sun is fading and already a few stars are beginning to show, despite the light of the city.
As far as I can see, the streets are packed with people walking and cycling.
The streets are filled with buskers, musicians mostly, people doing tricks with fire, a man covered in gold paint and a mask holding an unusual position not supported by gravity.
A barking dog has taken considerable interest in a man dressed as a large gorilla.
Vendors sell their wares – a gift of money if you can hold the chin-up position for two minutes, various glittering toys, one of which rockets into the sky with the aid of a large elastic band, poor-looking people selling their bits of vegetables and hand-woven pieces of clothing, a man bullying passing couples to buy his roses.
And a man standing on a concrete block yelling his philosophy (or his cause) to a passing crowd that ignores him.
Nobody notices me.
I’m the common man just minding his own business.
That is, until a young man spies me and harasses me for money.
I say no several times, but he follows me through the courtyard anyway, pleading, “But it’s for the children of Ukraine!”
Yeah, sure it is.
I’m eager to escape the crowd and decide on a restaurant away from the mob, although it’s still very busy with pedestrians in this part of Old Town.
I am pleased that everyone around me is speaking a language other than English.
Two women beside me are speaking what sounded like Polish, but then their common language with the server was English, so I’m baffled about their language.
I order a traditional Polish meal – chicken and gnocchi in a white-wine sauce and a salad.
I haven’t had alcohol in many days, so I also order a Polish beer – Zatecky.
Initially, I feel somewhat lonely in my chair in the restaurant, watching lovers walk by, friends hanging out in the courtyard, and people at nearby tables laughing.
There are times on this trip when I wonder if I would have been just as happy to have stayed at home.
But then I taste my chicken and gnocchi in a white-wine sauce, take a sip of my Polish beer, and I think there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be right now than in this chair, in this restaurant, in Old Town Warsaw on an autumn Saturday evening.
