I woke up and shuffled around the flat until eleven-ish, intending to go to the Warsaw Uprising Museum.  On route, Emma and I decided that what we really wanted was to go to Tarabuk, this coffee shop-bookstore a block away from the university library that fits me just, that wants me to be there. The Amelie soundtrack was tinkling and the rain started up when we walked in.  A children's birthday party going on in another room eventually spilled over; five girls and a boy pressed their noses and pounded their small fists against the window, shouted and pointed to the people in the rain, dropped their hard candies and dice, crawled under a table.  A basket of white-red-white ribbons sat on the table, for a Free Belarus, for a Belarus without Łukaszenko or any other dictator.

Later, the bus took us to Chikachik, an almost diner where you can order a whole roasted chicken or boring looking zapiekanka (open faced baguette, toasted with mushrooms and cheese) from a dark haired woman who looks like she almost has a sense of humor, whose lips almost curve into an almost hint of an almost smile.   She hands you fries that you've got to salt yourself but are delicious with Vietnamese chili sauce, sitting on wobbly stools and watching people, watching yourself on the mirrored wall across the counter.  There was a black man and his two little girls, with bellies like balloons, tripping along, and it was the first time I'd ever seen black children in Poland.

Looking for Juno, we crowded into Złoty Tarasy, with its ugly glass architecture that resembles coasting hills, or a lumpy spleen.  The mall was packed - predictable for a rainy Saturday - and no Juno.  I walked past a young Asian couple with a child in the food court, and wondered what they were doing in Poland.  I do that every time I see someone who doesn't look like a white Pole or a tourist.  I wonder, then, if they wonder about me too.

We found Juno at the MultiKino in Stalin's Palace, which, inside the MultiKino portion, at least - I can't speak for UNICEF - is more impressive than what we see outside, in the same way the movie house inside 1000 Van Ness in San Francisco is pretty.  They have this grand feeling about them.  When I bought my ticket, I found that I had to reserve seats, and like a fool, I stood there debating where to sit, loudly and in English, with Emma, while the queue lengthened behind us. 

We laughed so hard that Poles were turning around to look at us in the dark of the screening room.  They didn't understand many of the jokes; the intricacies of language and culture didn't translate well.  Watching Juno made me terribly homesick for America, made me realize that I'm never as fully American as I am when I'm abroad, even doing all these things - coffee, almost diner, movie - that make up my life at home.  It was such a relief to completely understand, and to be felt completely understood.  For Emma, it was just another sign that she is long past due to return to California.  For me, though, it was an assurance that things are waiting for me when I come home.  I walked out, feeling wistful, yet knowing that I'm not ready to go back yet.