I now LOVE the Bad Obwarzanki Lady. The thaw began a while ago, when she offered me some helpful advice about the flavours of different apples, and I was delighted to have actually understood her.
From her kiosk she sells the most delicious sok jabłkowo-korzenny (spiced apple juice). It's a kind of pressed apple juice with cinnamon, cloves and ginger, and the only thing I can really liken it to is New England apple cider.* If you combine it with a drożdżówka z śliwkami (plum bun- not a pastry), it tastes like Christmas.
I bought a bottle of the stuff this morning and didn't have the mandatory 5gr change.
- Don't worry. It's a bargain. You can give it to me next time.
- . . . *totally speechless*
NB. When I return to England for the hols next Saturday people will hate me in supermarket queues and at the bar. In Poland, change is worth more than the gold it is named after. The grumpy tattoo girl in the shop next door always says something like 'it'd be really cool if you could find the 8 grosze**'. Woe betide the customer who doesn't have change: floored in one fell swoop by The Mega-Watt Grumpy-Girl Scowl.
It seems that the concept of having a float behind a till is simply non-existent. Maybe checkout girls are rationed in the amount of shrapnel they're allowed to fling around.
I've learnt to prepare in advance. Now, as I'm approaching the till, I start fumbling in my purse and the bottom of my bag for change and counting out tiny brassy coins. Combine this with the moherowe baret and I'm instantly well on my way to fully-fledged babcia-hood. (Not to mention the fact that last Sunday the inevitable finally happened and I pulled out the 'super-octava' stop instead of the 'Flet minor' at the oh-so-appropriate 'Lord have Mercy'. Cue much tightening of trousers in the congregation. For those of you who don't speak music, that was really really funny.)
Incidentally the dearth of change never affects guys. Car guy always seems to have handfuls of the stuff jangling in his pockets. I have no idea how he gets through airport security. I think said pocket must contain a secret mint spewing out 2gr pieces. Next time I go to the supermarket I shall wear his trousers.
*nb, in the States 'soft' cider is non-alcoholic. I know, I struggled with the concept too.
** I'm sorry, I've forgotten how to conjugate it. Forgive me...
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