I’ve been sitting on this post for awhile now. I guess that’s obvious by the amount of time that has passed since my last post. This post is deeply personal to me and I feel a little vulnerable putting it out there. But the time to take counsel of my fears has passed, and it’s time to not listen to any fear, to paraphrase General George S. Patton.

While visiting Poland, the hotel where I was staying was about two miles away from the casino where the poker tournament I was covering was being held. I decided that walking to work would be a good way to get outside and fight off the winter blues.

Along the way, I noticed on my left a large overgrown area surrounded by a large fence, and inside I could see what looked like a couple of sheds. It looked like an old orchard, with the old farmhouse sitting there. I thought it was some sort of historical reserve and made a note to leave earlier the next day so that I could explore it further.

The next morning, I walked along the fence and found a gate. There was a sign up, but not being able to read Polish would be the excuse I would use if I got in trouble. The gate was open anyway, so I didn’t think I was trespassing.



I walked onto a little road, and on each side of the road was little plots of land with little houses. Some of the yards were overgrown, some were well-kept. Both added to the charm of the place. I wandered around in a daze, wondering if what I was seeing was real.



I noticed a woman working in her yard, and I said, “Hello? Hello?” She was bent over, working with her hands. She paused. Didn’t look up. Then she kept on with her handiwork. That made me fall in love with the place. See, I didn’t fit. I’m just some dumb American standing there with a camera in my hand. And she ignored me, like she should. I was in her space. I was in her country. And I didn’t even have the decency to try to say “hello” in her language.

I kept walking.





As I walked, I kept wondering how a little beautiful secret place like this could be in a metropolitan area like Warsaw, Poland. I felt like Harry Potter, when he went to the train station he had been to over and over again, and his friends said, “You have to run at that column as fast as you can, and you’ll go right through.” He ran and found a whole hidden world he didn’t even know existed, even though it had been under his nose the entire time.



I think the place is where Warsaw workers go to get away on the weekends. Just a little cottage, with a bed and a sink and a small stove and maybe an old record player and a few books. And they go there and putz around and don’t do much of anything for a weekend. And I would love to have a place like that. But it wouldn’t be my weekend getaway.



After the kids grow up and leave our home to go out and take on the world, Banu and I are going to buy a little piece of land hidden away in some secret place, and we’re going to build our little cottage. I’ll go out and prune the tree. Banu will make a little loaf of bread and some stew for dinner. She’ll plant some daffodils and I’ll replace the little rubber washer in the hot-water spout that’s been leaking lately.

I’ll put some Dean Martin vinyl on the record player and we’ll sit down at the little table and start to eat that stew Banu made. And there’s a knock at the door. I open the door and it’s you. I couldn’t be happier to see you. I grab the only other chair we have and put it at the table. Here’s a bowl of stew for you and you have to try Banu’s bread. It’s the best.

And we’ll eat our meal together and you tell me about what you’ve been doing lately, and I tell you I haven’t been doing much of anything lately. And I’ll put another record on. Banu pours more coffee, with a little brandy mixed in to relax. And the conversation will go on, the night will get darker, colder. And I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead, but it doesn’t really matter.