The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I left my flat this morning, the kind of heavy summer downpour that turns the gutters into temporary rivers and sends everyone diving for the nearest awning. I'd woken up to the sound of it hammering against the windows, and for a moment I just lay there, listening, thinking about how different this city feels when it's washed clean. The heat from the past few days had broken, and the air smelled like wet concrete and lime trees. I'd been in Warsaw for almost a week now, and today was the day I was going to finish the last bit of official business: getting my PESEL number sorted for real, not just the temporary paperwork from the first days.
I pulled on my jacket, grabbed my folder of documents, and stepped out into the rain. The tram was running late, of course, but I didn't mind. I stood under the shelter at the stop near my flat in Mokotów, watching the drops bounce off the cobblestones, and I thought about how much of this city's history is written in the places that had to be rebuilt literally from rubble. The Old Town, the bridges, the Royal Castle—all of it had been destroyed in the war, and here I was, complaining about a tram that was five minutes late. I caught myself and smiled. The tram came eventually, a 4.40 zloty ticket, about a dollar and ten cents, and I tapped my phone on the validator and found a seat by the window.
The rain made the city feel smaller, more intimate. The glass towers of Wola were blurred behind the water, and the Palace of Culture and Science looked like a grey monolith wrapped in mist. I got off at the urząd dzielnicy in Śródmieście, the district office where I needed to officially register my address. The line wasn't too long, maybe fifteen minutes, and the clerk was patient with my halting Polish. She stamped a few forms, typed something into her computer, and then handed me a piece of paper with my PESEL number printed on it. Eleven digits. That was it. That was the key to everything here—the bank account, the health insurance, the whole bureaucratic machinery of Polish life. I felt a small thrill of accomplishment as I tucked it into my folder. It's not the most exciting thing in the world, but it's the kind of thing that makes a place feel less like a holiday and more like a home.
From there, I had two more errands: a bank account and a SIM card. I'd been putting both off, mostly because I'd wanted to enjoy the city first, but today the rain had given me permission to be practical. I ended up at an mBank branch—they have English-language apps, which helps when your Polish is still at the level of 'dzień dobry' and 'poproszę rachunek'. The process took about forty minutes, all told. Passport, proof of address, a signature on about six different screens, and just like that, I had a Polish bank account. No credit check, no drama. The woman at the desk was efficient and friendly, and when she asked if I wanted to set up BLIK, the mobile payment system that's everywhere here, I said yes without really knowing what I was signing up for. She laughed and said I'd figure it out. She was right.
Next stop was a phone shop in the same neighbourhood. SIM cards in Poland are cheap—I paid about 20 zloty for a starter pack, around five dollars—but you have to register them with your passport. It's a KYC thing, a security measure. I handed over my passport, the guy scanned it, handed me a SIM card in a little plastic sleeve, and that was it. I popped it into my phone and watched the bars appear. I was officially connected. I had a Polish number, a Polish bank account, and a PESEL number. I was, for all intents and purposes, a resident.
The rain had eased by the time I left the shop, so I decided to grab an early lunch. I'd been meaning to try a milk bar—a bar mleczny, one of those state-subsidised cafeterias that survived from the communist era—and today seemed like the perfect day for it. I ducked into one near the edge of Śródmieście, a no-frills place with fluorescent lights and a counter where you point at what you want. I got a plate of pierogi, three kinds, and a bowl of żurek, the sour rye soup, and it cost me about 28 zloty. Seven or eight dollars. The pirogi were handmade, the dough slightly thick, the fillings simple and comforting—potato and cheese, sauerkraut and mushroom, and a sweet one with blueberries. The żurek was tangy and warm, with a hard-boiled egg and a chunk of sausage. It was the kind of meal that doesn't try to impress you, it just feeds you properly. I sat by the window and watched the rain start up again, and I thought about how this city has become a place where I can eat a bowl of soup and feel completely at home.
After lunch, I decided to check out the Neon Muzeum. It's apparently reopened in a new location on the fourth floor of the Palace of Culture and Science, with an exhibition about Warsaw's neon golden age in the 1970s. I'd read about it somewhere, and I'm a sucker for vintage signage, so I bought a ticket—around 30 zloty, about eight dollars—and rode the elevator up. The exhibition was a dark room full of glowing signs, letters and symbols in all sorts of colours, spelling out things that no longer exist: old shop names, hotel signs, a giant pair of scissors from a barber shop. It was like walking through a ghost of the city that used to be, before the glass towers and the food halls. The neon was a reminder that Warsaw has always been a place that reinvents itself, that even in the greyest years, people wanted light and colour. It was strange to see it all contained in a museum, like a butterfly collection, but it made me think about how we preserve the past—not just the grand monuments, but the everyday stuff, the signs and the smells and the sounds.
The rain had finally stopped for good by mid-afternoon, so I decided to take a walk along the Vistula riverbanks. The boulevards were still slick with water, but the sun was starting to break through the clouds, and the city had that fresh-washed look that makes you want to linger. I walked past the summer beaches, where people were already laying out towels again, and I stopped for a coffee at one of the riverside kiosks. A cappuccino cost me about 14 zloty, three and a half dollars, and I stood there watching the river, thinking about how this city has been rebuilt so many times. The Vistula is the only unregulated major river flowing through a European capital, and it shows—there are sandy beaches and wild islands right in the middle of the city. It's a strange, beautiful mix of urban and wild, and on a day like today, it felt like the whole city was exhaling.
I walked as far as the Copernicus Science Centre, which was buzzing with families taking advantage of the break in the weather, and then I doubled back. I was getting hungry again, so I decided to try one of the food halls that have been popping up all over the city. I'd heard about Hala Koszyki, a market hall on Koszykowa that's become a favourite spot, so I headed there. The hall was busy, even on a Thursday afternoon, with stalls selling everything from ramen to pierogi, and there was a wine bar in the corner where you could taste a glass and watch the world go by. I settled on a stall that looked like it was doing a decent trade in Mexican food, which seemed like a good idea at the time, and I ate my tacos standing up at a high table, watching the mix of office workers and tourists and families. The cost was about 35 zloty, nine dollars, and it tasted like a small holiday.
As the evening settled in, I found myself back on the riverbanks, this time on the Praga side, looking across at the Old Town lit up against the darkening sky. The clouds had cleared and the air was cool, and the city lights reflected in the water like scattered coins. I sat on a bench and thought about the day I'd had. I'd done the practical stuff—the PESEL, the bank account, the SIM—but I'd also started to feel like I was actually living here, not just visiting. The rain had forced me to slow down, to take cover and look around, and that's when the city had opened up to me. I thought about the Uprising anniversary, the sirens and the songs, and the way this city remembers its past while building its future. I thought about the milk bar and the food hall, and how both of them were part of the same story: a city that feeds itself, that takes care of its people, that keeps moving forward.
I checked my phone. There was a message from a friend back home asking if I was okay, and I smiled and typed back that I was more than okay, that I was in Warsaw and it was raining and everything was fine. I looked out at the river one more time, at the lights of the city beyond, and I thought about how far I'd come in just six days. I'd arrived as a traveller, and I was starting to feel like a resident. The rain had been a gift, in a way—it had given me permission to be ordinary, to do errands and eat lunch and walk in the rain, to live a normal day in a city that's anything but normal. I took a deep breath, stood up, and walked back towards my flat, ready for whatever the next day would bring.
The day had been quiet, in the best possible way. I'd done the things I needed to do, and I'd seen the things I wanted to see, and I'd eaten well. I was tired, but it was a good tired, the kind that comes from a day well spent. As I turned the key in my door, I was already thinking about tomorrow—about the possibility of a trip up north, to the lake district, to see a part of Poland that's completely different from this city of phoenixes. But that could wait. Tonight, I was in Warsaw, and the rain had washed the streets clean, and I was home.
Goodnight, Warsaw. Dzień dobry, tomorrow.