I nod because she’s not wrong.
“Well, look at me chatting away while you’re probably starving. What can I get you, dear?” Koko asks. The warmth of her smile is contagious, and despite my uncertainty, I feel my lips tug upward in response.
“I’ll have a coffee, please,” I say. “And a… beef piroshki.” Oh, I hope I didn’t just butcher that pronunciation. However, a fried meat pie sounds fantastic.
“Good choice,” Koko responds. “And I’ll bring a salmon piroshki for Mr. Mango here – on the house.”
I stammer out a thank you, trying to protest that Koko doesn’t need to do that, but she waves away my words.
She nods, taking the menu back from my offering hand. “I’ll fetch your coffee now,” she says. “Dobry will whip up your meal in a jiffy and bring it over. I wish I could stay and chat, but I’m in a bit of a rush. I need to get ready for the parade. Enjoy the festival!”
Koko turns away before whirling back to me. “Oh my gosh! I almost forgot. Make sure you visit the wishing bell and make a wish. It’s a Lublin Harbor tradition!”
Just as I open my mouth to ask more, Koko bustles away from the table, leaving me with half-formed words hanging in the air. From the corner of my eye, I see her disappear behind a curtain inside the shop, presumably towards the kitchen.
The town doesn’t seem large enough to justify a parade, but who am I to comment? I chuckle to myself, realizing that in a place as unusual as this one appears to be, perhaps a parade is not so weird. Lublin Harbor is like an old-fashioned small town mixed with a free-love hippy commune and an Eastern European village. It’s not quite like any place I’ve visited before.
A pair of newcomers catch my eye as I sit in the outdoor seating area. An elderly man with a bushy white beard walks up the seating area, holding the hand of a little blonde girl. They settle at a table not too far from mine. The cherubic little girl looks like a doll with buttery blonde curls dancing around her shoulders. She’s strikingly adorable in a pastel blue dress trimmed with white lace. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a children’s picture book. I can’t help but overhear as she turns to the old man, her voice pure as a bell. “Papa Moroz, may I have a slice of cake?”
I’m watching the sweet interactions between what I assume is a grandfather and his grandchild when I’m interrupted by a large, burly man, as silent as he is imposing. I believe that this is the Dobry that Koko mentioned. The man unceremoniously deposits a loaded plate in front of me. His thick, calloused fingers point at one of the shining, golden buns. “Beef,” he says in a deep rumbling voice. Then he points to the other piroshki, “Salmon.” His thick, bushy eyebrows drop as he stares at me as if daring me to question him. I nod my head in thanks but keep silent. Without another word he turns on his heel and heads to the table with the grandfather. I watch the lumberjack-looking baker respectfully dip his head at the old man. I turn my attention to my plate and ignore Papa Moroz as he orders food for him and his young companion. With a hint of amusement, I watch Dobry lumber back into the bakery; he almost has to duck his head just to fit inside the front door.
I quirk an eyebrow and glance at Mango, who is staring at the two buns with the intensity of a cat ready to pounce on prey. I think I’m lucky he’s in his crate, or he might’ve already made a play to steal my meal. “Well, aren’t we in for a treat, Mango?”
I pick up the beef piroshki – I’m always a little suspicious when trying new things. I got burned once when I took a huge bite of uni at Aunt Zizi’s urging, and I belatedly discovered to my chagrin that it was sea urchin. It was like a horrible salty custard. I shudder in remembrance.
Despite my trepidation, I take a small first bite of the piroshki. The flaky pastry breaks apart with a soft crunch under my teeth. Delight washes over my senses. The rich, savory meat is generously seasoned and hearty. It makes me think of a warm homemade dish to serve on a winter’s night. This is the kind of thing I could eat every day, it’s so good.
I break off a bit and give it to Mango, who snatches it up so quickly I’m lucky to keep my fingertips. I move on to the salmon piroshki, and the succulent, smoky taste of the fish greets me. I’m not always a fan of salmon - sometimes it’s too fishy for my tastes, but that’s not the case with the piroshki. The salmon is cooked to perfection and melts in my mouth. When I bite the piping hot pastry, the exquisite fusion of the salmon’s flavor with the creamy cheese shakes loose a moan that belongs in the bedroom. Clearing my throat, I look around to make sure no one has witnessed me having a private moment with my meal. To be fair, one bite of the piroshki brought me more pleasure than Marcus had in the last year combined. I break off a piece for Mango, who gobbles it up.
Mango’s purr is so loud I’m almost surprised he isn’t rattling the crate’s metal door. We make quick work of our meal. As I finish my last bite, Dobry silently arrives to drop off my bill. Opening my wallet, I grab enough cash to cover the bill and include a generous tip. I resist the urge to rub my now-rounded belly like a well-fed king. Instead, I decide that I need to walk off my meal.
Turning to Mango, I ask, “If I put you in your harness, do you think you’d like to explore the park?”
“Mrow.”
I interpret that as a promise to be on his best behavior. I return to my car, drop off the crate, and strap Mango into his harness. Carrying him across the street, I search for a grassy area that’s not too packed with people.
As I approach the bustling park, its vibrancy pulls me in; the echoes of laughter and chitter-chatter fill the air. In the heart of it all, a band is setting up their equipment on a stage draped with fairy lights that dance in the breeze. The clinking of drumsticks, muffled chords strummed on a guitar, and the soft hum of tuning instruments rise above the noise.
Drawing in a deep breath, I drink in the moment, the combined pulse of the town and its people, the festival’s joy, the bakery’s irresistible scent dancing on the breeze. It’s blissfully serene and feels like I’ve found a little pocket of peace for a fleeting moment.
Finding a mostly empty area further into the park, I set Mango on the grass and let him explore. I’m happy to let him take the lead and see where he heads.
Lublin Harbor isn’t New Zealand or Vienna or any of Aunt Zizi’s oft-explored, far-flung destinations… but it holds its own charm and beauty.
CHAPTER 4
Lily
Mango and I are lost in a crowd of loved-up festivalgoers. He slips along the edge of the masses nimbly, not bothered by the crowd, weaving us behind the candy-cotton stall and reappearing between the happy couples ahead. Despite the bustling crowd, people give us plenty of room. As I wander amidst the throng of festivalgoers, it feels like an invisible path opens in front of me and Mango. I glance around, noticing a lot of curious faces looking my way.
The townspeople step aside as Mango weaves through them, their sunny smiles not missing a single beat. It’s clear that we are recognized as outsiders. In a small town like this, new faces are as distinctive as a splash of color on a monochrome canvas. However, they seem genuinely pleased to see me, the townspeople’s eyes reflecting a friendliness that tugs at the corner of my lips.
The children are particularly captivated by Mango. Their wide eyes sparkle with wonder as they inch closer with hesitant curiosity. Mango seems to enjoy his unexpected celebrity status, his tail swaying wildly as a few brave children ask if they can pet him. Mango soaks up the attention, purring with delight. It feels good, this easy acceptance that somehow makes me feel a little less like an alien being in this charming town.
Eventually, the kids are called away by their parents because the musicians are getting ready to start playing. Looking around, I notice the speakers around the stage, ready to belt out the band’s music. “This might be too much for you, little guy,” I murmur to Mango.
I find a small walking trail heading deeper into the park’s more wooded areas, away from the more crowded areas. The airy scent of blooming flowers wafts from the lush, wild gardens peppered along our trail.
A peal of laughter erupts to my left. I turn my head to see a young man playfully chasing a blushing woman, their fingers entwined, eyes sparkling. To the right, an older couple sits on a bench, holding hands. The look of adoration in their eyes as they share a warm pretzel has me giving the sight a happy but slightly envious smile. The woman feeds her partner a piece of their snack before leaning over and softly kissing his wrinkled cheek.
Lublin Harbor’s citizens are strangely captivating. It really does feel like they are seriously celebrating love here. I wonder if I’ve wandered into some kind of free-love hippy commune. Although that doesn’t match the small-town Americana vibe, I’m also picking up from Lublin Harbor.
I spot a young woman standing alone by an oak tree. A young man approaches her, holding a single crimson rose as if on cue. The woman’s face lights up as she accepts the flower with a shy, tentative smile.
Strolling deeper into the woods, I finally find myself alone.
Mango pulls at the harness, scampering into a bush. I worry that he might be trying to hunt some poor, unsuspecting fluffy forest creature – as if he’d know what to do with one if he actually caught it. I reach down to extract him from the branches before he becomes entangled. Pulling him into my arms, I stroke his furry head, offering him a quiet smile.
A faint, strange noise has me freezing in place where I’m kneeling next to the forest path. It’s not the typical flutter of leaves rustled by the wind or the chitter of wildlife. My eyebrows furrow, curiosity peaking even as a frisson of unease tingles up my spine. I’m trying to remember if bears can be found in this part of the country. I freeze, suddenly feeling every nerve in my body stand alert. Then I hear it again, a sort of huffing groan.
“Shh, Mango,” I whisper, my gaze flickering briefly to the cat who’s currently burrowing his way into the warmth of my jacket. I rise to my feet leisurely, brushing off bits of grass from my jeans while focusing entirely on the source of the noise.
Stepping off the beaten track, I move deeper into the shadowed woods, my nosiness and my nurse’s instinct pulling me forward. I take slow, mincing steps, pausing often, ready to run away at the slightest indication of danger.
My heart skips a beat as I cautiously step around a broad oak tree trunk. Movement catches my eyes – something that causes me to stop dead in my tracks. My mouth drops open in shock and I stifle the gasp that wants to escape my lips, blinking once, twice, before my eyes confirm what I’m seeing.
