A Sunday Kind of Love

I'm in Krakow. It's a Sunday morning slowly melting into an afternoon before my eyes. There's something I can't ever grasp about the Sunday mornings here. The light seems different, and the people seem more calm and just happy. They all wear their Sunday clothes with pleated dresses and white slippers, as though they were all expecting to rendezvous with the Lord today. I pass the park around the centre and it bursts with families eating ice-cream and chasing their dogs. Even the couples seem different today - from the craziness of Saturday night they've moved to strolls, holding hands, and dreams of future families and perfect homes. The market in front of the cafe I'm writing from is buzzing today. Lots of jackets in indescribable colours and local people trying to bargain for another toy for their kid. Oh Sundays. It always feels like you don't need to be anywhere or with anyone to feel at ease.

Sunday more than any other day is also good for accidental people here. These are random individuals in Krakow I know from somewhere, but never sure from where. This morning as I was approaching the tram stop to get into town I passed a guy, about my age, huge, tattooed from head to toe, and with a pit bull on a ornate leash. 'Matt'? I asked. Sure enough, we went to primary school together. I attempted to compliment on his dog, but as he tried to snap off my hand, I decided to change the subject. We didn't end up having that much to talk about as he escorted me to the tram, but nevertheless enjoyed the Sunday exchange of meaningless questions and answers. On a final note, with a sort of a worry in his voice, he confirmed that I wasn't dating a black man, nodded, and sailed back to his life. Oh Sunday, the things you make us do.

Anyway, I'm here and leaving again in a couple of days. I'm sorting though piles of clothes, electricity converters, letters and photographs. Soon all my folded goods will become my home base with a timer set to unfold in London.