This particular Nero we are at is an island in a not too busy mall. It’s also the northernmost mall, a concept reflected in its name. Most people are there to take a much needed break from shopping (one of the reasons I loved malls as a child was because of the hustle and bustle but also the different displays and lights. And the possibilities to just take a break and enjoy something to eat or drink. I’ve always loved sitting in cafes though – long before that was something everyone seemed to do – whether it’s working or just hanging out with a group of likeminded people. So when it comes to getting work done, I’ll be the first to take my laptop and head out.

The thing in Poland which no one ever really talks about is how easy it is to get harassed at cafes and places that don’t sell any alcohol. In a conservative society that feeds of patriarchal nationalist christian ideals, the onus is always on the females (never women or girls) to protect themselves by dressing nicely (but still leaving something to the imagination), anticipating harassment and knowing there really is no place to turn to. When you have to be on high alert even while using public transportation, your spidey senses really tend to kick in and remain on wherever you are. 

So when we saw a middle aged man heading towards a table by ours we did the customary run through: are we sitting sufficiently far away to prevent any accidental brushes with pretty much any body part? And are we sitting well out of reach of their arms, should they decide to wander.? Are we watching them in a way we can see everything but without giving them the opportunity to make eye contact with us should they want to “engage” with us in any way, shape or form. All this of course after alerting everyone else in the group who is in danger of getting groped. And for some, too, it’s a matter of not sitting too close together. Two girls sitting side by side can elicit the subtlest reaction of a “knowing glance” at best and a stupid comment at worst (providing you’ve already moved out of arm’s reach). Even in a country where mothers and daughters can frequently be seen holding hands.

But to our surprise there was no reaction, no lascivious grin or commentary. The man merely placed his satchel on the armchair and made his way to the counter to place his order. The man who followed him shortly did the same. 

It is a rare thing in Poland. I thought it was only the men from the Sunday picnics I got dragged to as a child in Chicago, or the Poles I saw when I got dragged out to meet yet another relative I would never see again, much less remember. But my new friends in Poland assured me that they were more typical than the exception. The illusion of a matriarchy I’d been sold growing up was just that, an illusion, wishful thinking on the part of the story seller. As a woman your sole purpose of existence was to cater to men, while upholding the illusion of effortless perfection on yourself and around you. And if you got hurt in the process, mentally or emotionally or – worse yet – if you got sexually harassed or raped, well that was just tough luck then, and of course entirely your fault. 

I snuck a few looks their way, careful because no one likes to be spied on (a lesson I learned from reading Harriet the Spy as a kid) and noticed something interesting. The way they were speaking to each other, something was off. It was formal, yet also familiar. As though they were trying to impress one another. A few glances their way later I noticed they were passing a brochure back and forth. When I leaned my body slightly forward and to the left (Harriet would have been proud), I noticed that they had opened the brochure to a side by side photo of a Middle Eastern male of indeterminate age but a good guess would be late twenties to very early thirties. 

The way the music was playing and the tables were set up, I could only catch snippets of their conversation. They seemed to be admiring the young man in the picture. But the way they were discussing him pointed to a professional assessment, most likely of the two photographs. So the material they were looking at was most likely a promo of sorts and they were discussing the final touches. Also, two very white – and Polish at that – men saying anything positive about a non-Polish looking person, much less a Middle Eastern (looking) one is so rare as to always be noteworthy.

Something about the way they were talking and interacting made me think of some of my friends in other places, places that couldn’t care less about who you’re sleeping with or whom you love as long as you’re a decent human being and don’t do anything against someone else’s consent. 

Eighteen months of hanging out in cafes across Warsaw on a daily basis when I’m there and this was the first time I saw a middle aged gay couple sitting together at the table just being. It was a beautiful moment (albeit a little sad that it took so long) and I wanted to write about it to capture the moment and vibe wanting to bask in it for a while.

Until someone at my table leaned in to see what I was typing and shattered the illusion with one single sentence. 

“You thought they were gay? He literally said he had to go home to his wife.”

Whereas in Hungary – which seems to only now be trying to separate itself from its joined-at-the-hip-twin Poland – I knew a whole bunch of young gay men, I have yet to meet men in Poland who can openly live their truth. Though the people at my table seem to think that things are changing and here and there you can see celebrities being open, which is as it should be. No one should be denied the basic right of love. Or, if you’re a cynic, the right to be as miserable as the rest of us in the heteronormative world. 

Maybe somewhere in this city there is a middle-aged-about-to-be-retired couple able to live out their truth. The same person who told me what one of them had said about needing to be home amended their statement with, “although he did say that they wouldn’t be happy at home if he was late,.” 

So maybe . . . “