Bialystok – The Town Square

       I buckle the latch on my small over-the-shoulder purse as I make my way down 14 flights almost crumbling stairs. The leather on the purse is soft, so I don’t mind that it rubs against my hipbone for the rest of the day. This purse has been worn in for about two generations yet it’s still kept it’s composure and is completely sophisticated.  The hallway smells of fresh paint and the sun shines through the giant glass panes on each floor. It’s almost as if the fumes double in strength from the heat. This seven-story hike is what keeps my grandma so young these days. After my grandfather passed away she dedicated her existence to tending to her farm and playing bridge with a local group. On a day off like today, promise her she is only allowed to make the trip up and down once.

            The creaky door to the street opens and a flock of grimy pigeons burst into the sky. Their wings smack into their sides as they attempt to fly and leave an echo of slaps for me to duck down from. I’ve always been scared of pigeons. It doesn’t help that everyone here feeds them, so naturally the birds come after you and aren’t afraid of a thunderous foot stomp. My grandma simply smiles and says they’re friendly, like all of the people around town. She is right. Everyone always has a smile on their face and tells you to have a nice day when they pass you on the street. They either are all indeed very friendly, or I stick out like a sore thumb and that’s the only thing they can form with their mouths. Each person I encounter barely reaches the five-foot mark. At five foot seven, I naturally tower over all the elderly around me. We cross a small, yet main street called Malmeda, that’s lined with every kind of car imaginable. The lime green and tangerine orange ones always seem to look like toy cars to me. Across the way, the small park square is currently hosting a chess match, a child feeding those pigeons and 15 homeless guests. Each having enough change to buy a forty-ounce beer to go along with the stale piece of bread they’ve somehow managed to get from the unbiased young child.

            Between two buildings is the way to get to the town square of Bialystok. I’ve taken this same path for over 25 years. Each time I pass between these buildings, the walls are covered with paintings from a local artist. The thick layers of paint have now left waves of colors on the canvas. I can feel that some are rougher than others when I run my fingers over them. I always express my interest in his work, but never can find enough cash to cough up for a painting. The ground underneath me is a paved grey cobblestone. Perfect two by two squares make patterns beneath my feet. I can feel how rough the ground is every time I accidentally drag my feet across it. The cobblestone leads me towards my favorite coffee shop and chocolatier; E.Wedel.

            The doors are open and I can smell the fresh ground coffee. The scent is captured in the steam and it rolls out through the top of the doorway as we enter. The hostess seats us on the patio and there we people watch for the next hour. The patio is built on a wooden floor with a soft brown linen roof covering it. It’s just us at this moment, enjoying a small latte. They’ve even asked for our initials and delivered my coffee with an “S” branded into the foam. I can feel the warmth of the drink through the smooth porcelain cup. I hold it with both of my hands and immediately my whole body is warm. For a few minutes we don’t speak. We just enjoy our decadent drinks and soak in the moment. The hum of people is constant in this place. Each person seems to have an important task at hand, yet their faces show that they are absolutely relaxed. This is nothing like people watching in NYC where everyone is always in a rush. In the distance I see a small, fat boy chasing those retched dirty pigeons. The church bells go off and bring us back from our daydream. We finish up our lattes and leave money for the waitress. I reach into my leather purse and pull out fifteen zloty. As with many other European currencies, zloty use coins too. I pull out three, thick five zloty coins and lay them on the table.

            My hands smell of dirty money but that is soon all forgotten about. We walk towards the meat shop but pass many more lively cafes along the way.  Each restaurant has large, white patio umbrellas and old wooden benches beneath their store signs. This early in the morning, each restaurant is baking their goods for the day. The smells that come from each open doorway are exhilarating. I start walking a little slower to make sure I don’t miss a thing. A left after the yellow umbrellas and you arrive at the most amazing delicatessen in Poland. I’m a vegetarian but this place could make me devour anything in the shop on the spot. The smell of cured salami fills up the air as the dried kielbasa hangs from hooks on the wall. We make sure the butcher has put our order on the side and we make our way towards the bakery next door.

            The glass window is the only thing that keeps me from consuming every fresh pastry in sight. There are small buns filled with orange marmalade and sprinkled with sugar crystals, poppy seed cakes two feet in length, and so many different cookies that I can’t even remember their names. We place and order for a raspberry filled cake to be picked up around noon. It’s eight in the morning now and we’ve got a few more stops to make. The sweet clerk bids us a farewell as she hands us a ticket and two small cookies for the road. In one breath I devour my raspberry marmalade cookie and leave no evidence behind.

            A few paces beyond the bakery is the red brick church. We pass it on our left as we make our way to the old palace. When you walk through the palace you enter its backyard, which is a rock-paved garden with grass and small white statues of different astrological figures. Now, this is not the only backyard that belongs to this palace. This palace actually owns a small forest, which over time has been converted to a park for the whole town to use. Here mothers come with their children and let them out of their strollers to roam free. Couples walk hand in hand and stare into each other’s eyes while discussing their next vacation together. My grandma and I talk about the plans we have for the night. My aunt and cousins will come over and we will all celebrate my birthday.  The large chestnut trees sway above us, almost as if answering yes, to many of the ideas we have for tonight. The air is fresh and each inhale is a long one and fills my lungs to their full capacity. We follow the paths through most of the park, so engaged in conversation that we lose track of time. It’s now almost noon and it’s time to turn back and pick up all of our goodies. I couldn’t think of a more wonderful place to spend my twenty-fourth birthday.