The hotel lobby is plush, with huge crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and highly polished marble floors, and amongst the other guests mingling in the space, I hear plenty of English—in fact, plenty of English accented just like mine. The driver brings my bag in, and I approach the counter.

“Checking in?” The young receptionist greets me, again in English.

“Yes, thanks. I’m Alice Michaels. I have an early check-in arranged.”

“One moment,” the receptionist says, and her fingers fly over the keyboard, then she looks up at me and winces. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Michaels, your room isn’t quite ready.”

“Oh—but my guide said she’d confirmed an early check-in? I’m just getting off an overnight flight and I haven’t had any sleep...”

“I’m sorry. It won’t be too long, maybe another hour or two? You can leave your bag here. Why don’t you go for a walk, find yourself some lunch and come back in the early afternoon.”

I blink at her. What I want to do is put my head on a pillow and get some sleep. Exploring a foreign city on my own probably wouldn’t sound appealing even on a normal day, but when I’m this tired? Hell no.

“But...”

She smiles at me reassuringly and withdraws a map from beneath the desk.

“You’re here. Old Town is just here, and the Square is there too. Enjoy!”

I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s 11:45 a.m. here in Krakow, which means its 5:45 a.m. back home. I can’t call yet, even if I do get into my room, and I’m starving.

Looks like I’m going for a walk.

It’s busy on the street. The traffic is manic, with endlessly congested cars and trams and buses competing for the narrow street space. The sidewalk is packed with people too, all flowing in the same direction I’m headed, so I slip into the crowd and start to walk. Bicycles push past me on the sidewalk, and a few adults ride on skates and rollerblades. It’s now midday on a Tuesday morning, but as I walk with this crowd, I feel a bit like I’m headed to a party or a festival. Soon, the restaurants start—brands I know from home, as well as unfamiliar restaurant names promising “authentic Polish food” and even “authentic American cuisine.” I’m struck by the flowers all around me—brightly colored blooms on live plants are featured in pots on tables and in planter boxes along the street, even hanging in pots from balconies, and cut flowers rest in the arms of men and women as they walk. Babcia’s love of flowers is starting to make a lot of sense.

I planned to stop at the first appealing place that I came across, but I just keep walking, because everyone else is walking and I thought I’d feel alone, but I don’t. The sidewalk is paved with a delicate cobblestone comprising slightly uneven square granite bricks. Maybe heels would be impossible to manage on it, but I’m just wearing canvas shoes and even the sidewalk seems charming.

Soon, I arrive at an expansive square, and it’s clear that the crowd and I have arrived, because this is a place that would draw you. There are immense, ornate churches and restaurants and stores around the edge, and young people holding giant strings of helium balloons and carts for lemonade and pretzels and coffee in the center. One young man is working enormous sticks wound with rope, and he’s dunking the rope into a huge bucket of watery bubble mixture, so that when he lifts it into the breeze, giant bubbles float all around the square. Masses of young children squeal and run to pop or try to catch them. Other performers sit on cushions and sing or play accordion or guitar. Several of these have adorable puppies or kittens sitting sedately on cushions beside them, patiently watching their owners work. It’s a magnificently sunny day, but the sunshine has no bite to it, and as I step into the square, I close my eyes for just a moment and I breathe it all in—the sunshine, the laughter of the children as they run around the car-free space, the scent of sausage and beer and even cigarette smoke.

I wonder if Babcia ever visited Krakow—if she ever visited this square. I wonder if it looked just like this, seventy-odd years ago—the buildings feel old, so surely it did. I fish into my pocket for my phone and I snap a few quick, casual photographs, then I turn the camera around and take a selfie in the square with the buildings and crowd behind me. I stare at the photo, and then I can’t help but grin, because I look exhausted but also, I look happy. Proud. Excited.

I send all of the photos to Mom and ask her to show Babcia, and then I march across the square to a restaurant with planter boxes of red and white geraniums all along the outside of the outdoor seating area. The menu on display is entirely in Polish, and I hesitate a moment before I walk toward the waiter.

“Table for one?” he says in English. When I give him a surprised nod, he reaches under a counter and says, “English menu?”

“Yes, please. How did you know I speak English?”

“We assume everyone speaks English until they tell us otherwise.” He shrugs. “All young Polish people speak English and so do most of the tourists so...makes sense, no?”

As I settle at my table, I plan to order the safest dish I can find, maybe just a sandwich, perhaps a strong coffee—I mean, perhaps with some caffeine, I could stay up until a more sensible bedtime and explore just a little. But then I read the menu—and there are no sandwiches on offer at all. Instead, it’s herrings and soups and sausages and odd cuts of pork and something called bigos and stews, and then several pages of varieties of pierogis. And the beverages list is equally decadent—there’s vodkas and wines and beers. So many beers.

“Have you made a selection?” the waiter asks me. I close the menu.

“Yes please,” I say. “Can I have a beer and some pierogi?”

“Which kind, miss?”

“Surprise me,” I suggest, and he laughs as he nods.

* * *

The pierogi is a revelation—but the beer goes straight to my head, so I’m a little too happy as I wander back to the hotel, and more than ready for a nap by the time I get to my room. It’s 7:30 a.m. back home now, so I crawl onto the hotel bed and Skype to Wade.

“Honey,” he greets me. As the video feed kicks in, I see he’s sitting at the kitchen table. He’s clean-shaven and his hair looks damp. He’s wearing a neatly pressed business shirt—and I normally do the ironing, but I ran out of time this week, so I know he’s had time to iron it himself.

He looks perfectly put together, and not at all flustered. I’m surprised and kind of impressed.

“Hi,” I say.

“You made it safely?”

“Yep. I just had lunch in the Old Town Square. It’s...”

“It’s what?” he prompts when I trail off, and I smile uncertainly.