New York City

Timezone: UTC-4.

We arrived in New York City. The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island emerged before a tree of high-rise buildings not long after the “devil's hour”. Breakfast with a retired American diplomat (yet another one), who discouraged me from going to the presidential inauguration in Washington, D.C.: “go watch it in a pub”. A sunrise paved the way for my attempt to set foot ashore and stand there firmly for at least a little while, which I am making after nine days at sea.

Following the Fifth Avenue with my Irish friend, from the Washington Square Park (swiftly swamped by an abortion-themed protest) all the way to – who would have thought – Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Hot chocolate at a boutique, to which the door handle was of the most peculiar kind, which I have never seen in Europe. It took quite a few tries to get in. A saddening sight in the situation was a mother happily leaving a very young child to itself with a smartphone, the poor creature doomscrolling and tapping mindlessly, clearly exhibiting severe neurotic troubles. They will only get worse, I am afraid. Some parents are incredibly dumb.

Things are different here. Of that I was made aware in a drug store, where the shelves with basic products, including toothpaste or shampoo, turned out to be locked up behind glass, to be opened on demand by members of the staff. It doesn't look like I am dealing with a high-trust society here.

An alright evening with acquaintances from a summer school in Oxford. We resumed where we left off in July of last year. But I learn more about people and yearn for simplicity.

Up towards Newfoundland, the water turned quite black and a film of ice settled on the decks. I went to the bridge to watch the officer drawing to scale the icebergs on his map, as the international patrol reported them by radio. We were traveling a hundred miles south of the nearest one, and as soon as we had passed it, the waves changed color and the ice on the ship disappeared. Between Halifax and New York the fog was so deep that the Captain did not leave his bridge. Though the Batory was not long, from where he stood he could not even see the sailor on duty at the bow. We brought him a bottle of champagne, and while he and my husband drank to Poland, to America, to the ship, and to the unborn baby, I pushed the button, once a minute, to make the foghorn blast. Suddenly, at the mouth of the Hudson river, the screen of fog fell away, to reveal the full panoply of the city in the sun. Quickly I presented my Polish child to the passport officials and hurried back on deck to gloat at the theatrical display which, for me, was still home. A tiny boat fluttering Polish flags steamed up alongside and tooted cheerfully. One of the men who came on board inquired whether I was Princess Sapieha. “What do you think of New York?” he asked me. “That's where I come from,” I replied. He went away disgusted.
Virgilia Sapieha, “Polish Profile”