My second night in Wroclaw, we went to a bar in the old Jewish district to talk. I had hot chocolate because I don't drink, and Krzysiek had hot chocolate because he was driving us home. The chocolate was good and the bar was quiet and we were all very calm even though none of us was the least bit tired.
Most of the conversation was in Polish. Krzys doesn't like telling long stories in English because they take too long to think out, and that was fine with me because I enjoyed just listening to the sound of them, which is very soothing and beautiful.
One night I even began to dream in Polish, not understanding a word, and woke to find that Krzysiek and Martyna were already awake and talking softly in the kitchen, which was right next to the room where I slept.
One day Martyna asked me to imitate what I heard so that she would be able to hear her own language without the barrier of meaning to get in the way of the flow of syllables. When I tried, she and Krzys broke out laughing: "That was not Polish," they said, "It was Russian."