Compassion: Lodz Fabrycznya Station

It's a new month. I had thought it might be noteworthy by some drunken revels, or rife with stories of famous monuments. Yesterday, I found myself typing into an IM screen: I'm kind of ready to be home. Or at least, stationary...

I've always traveled with family, or with friends, with someone whose knowledge and planning skills I could rely on better than my own. There were hotels, or RVs or rented cabins, maps, penciled notes, directions. This time, it's just me and my backpack, the old, powder blue one I used to wear hunting with my father, or backpacking in summer.

I'm almost-lost. A very nice man, who sits across from me at the station, takes my train ticket (which I cannot read a word of) and returns just in time to tell me, in broken French, that it leaves NOW. I run like hell. The woman at the ticket counter, who spoke enough English to sound disdainful, told me it left thirty minutes from NOW, at 11:58.

An hour ago, I hopped off the tram and said goodbye to Rich, with whom I'd also left half my belongings: shorts, bikini, sunglasses. Things I packed for Portugal's beach weather, and won't need here in Poland. I sat down to an instant vanilla cappuccino, at 5 zed, not really a steal, and scalding hot. An elderly woman next to me chatted with a tattered-looking man, pigeons following at his feet like the bird woman from Disney's Mary Poppins. I don't speak Polish. Their dialogue made perfect sense:

Excuse me, ma'am. I don't mean to intrude. But it's cold...

Oh, not at all, not at all. I don't know how to help you.

It's only that I'm a bit chilled, and a bit hungry.

Well, I can't give you any money, but...

At this she unwinds the scarf from her own neck, handing it to this man from whom even the pigeons have finally moved away, sensing there won't be any crumbs dropping down for them. She smiles and pats his arm, folding the scarf over it. She is not disgusted, nor afraid. He seems more timid now, as if the tactile nature of this gift, still warm from the woman's neck, embarrasses him.

I couldn't. Won't you be cold now?

No, no. Take it. I can buy another.

It's clear that the scarf is not cheap. Perhaps not luxe, but not cheap, a sturdy knit of browns and grays.

Thank you, thank you. I thank you so much.

Now you've something to help fight off the chill.

From nowhere, the station's security guard appears, burly, blonde, and angry. He asks if the woman is being harassed, to which she plainly answers, nie, nie.

Nonetheless, he begins to shout, raising his voice and then his hand, as if to cuff the beggar-man in the ear. The tattered man flinches: He's been through this before. Perhaps last time, he was struck in earnest. Perhaps he chose not to move. Despite the elderly woman's protests, he is dragged away, but doesn't say a word in his own defense, just clings to his handed-down scarf. I can't meet his eyes, nor the woman's. Since I speak no Polish, I could exempt myself here, claim not to understand, ignore this evidence of injustice. Instead, I meet the Polish woman's eyes and frown. Disgraceful, I think she's saying, he wasn't doing anyone any harm.