The light was doing that thing it only does in August, that soft, golden wash that makes even concrete look warm. I was up early, earlier than I'd been all week, and I had one thing on my mind before I packed my bags for the train north: the Neon Muzeum. I'd heard it had just reopened in a new space, up on the fourth floor of the Palace of Culture and Science, with an exhibition called 'City Lights' about Warsaw's neon golden age, and I wanted to see it before I left.
So I walked. That's the thing about Warsaw in the summer, you walk. I started in Śródmieście, near my temporary flat, and just let my feet carry me down towards the Palace. The streets were quieter than they'd been all week, most of the city's workforce already decamped to the Mazury or the coast. A tram rattled past, almost empty, its bell a soft, insistent clang. I passed a milk bar, the kind of place where you can still get a plate of pierogi and a bowl of żurek for about twenty-five, thirty zloty, the cheapest honest meal in the city, and I made a mental note to come back for one last lunch.
The Palace of Culture and Science loomed over everything, that huge Stalinist wedding cake of a building, all 237 metres of it. It's a strange thing, how a building can be so divisive and yet so central to a city's identity. Some people hate it, see it as a relic of Soviet oppression. Others have just accepted it as part of the skyline, a useful orientation point. You can see its tower from almost anywhere in the city, which is handy when you're new and still getting your bearings. I took the metro from Centrum to Świętokrzyska, just one stop, to save my legs, and then walked the rest of the way through the park that wraps around the base of the building.
The museum itself is up on the fourth floor, and the space feels completely different from the old converted power station in Praga. It's brighter, more gallery-like. The exhibition traces the story of Warsaw's neon signs, from the pre-war Jewish quarter, through the propaganda-era illuminations, to the vibrant, creative signs that defined the city's modern streetscape. I was standing in front of a sign that once hung over a cinema, a huge, stylised bird in mid-flight, and I thought about how these things are more than just advertisements. They're memories, snapshots of a city that has been rebuilt over and over again. The entry ticket set me back about thirty zloty, around eight dollars, which felt about right for an hour of wandering.
After the museum, I walked back down towards the river. The Vistula is still the wild thing it's always been, the only major unregulated river flowing through a European capital. You can see it from the boulevards, wide and brown and utterly unconcerned with the city around it. I strolled along Bulwar Jana Karskiego, past the summer pop-ups and the young families, past the kayak rentals and the clusters of people just sitting on the steps with beers, watching the light change. There's a particular energy to the riverbanks in August, a kind of lazy, holiday-meets-industrial vibe that's hard to describe. It's not the Riviera, it's better, it's this scrappy, improvised beach culture that springs up every summer on a working river.
I stopped at a beach bar on the sands near the Poniatówka bridge, the one that looks like a shipwrecked trawler. I ordered a local draught beer, about twelve, thirteen zloty, and just sat there for a while, watching the swallows darting over the water. The sun was warm on my face, and for a moment, the week's bureaucratic fatigue, the PESEL number, the bank account, the SIM card, the endless queue of forms, just melted away. I was just a person, sitting by a river, drinking a beer. That's when it hit me that I was actually here, actually doing this thing.
I got a coffee at a little place near the university library, one of those specialty spots where the barista knows the origin of every bean and the cappuccino costs around fifteen zloty. I took it up to the roof garden of the library, which is this incredible hidden terrace with a panoramic view over the city. The garden was in full bloom, and the bees were working their way through the lavender. I sat on a bench and just looked out at the skyline. From up there, you can see the whole of Poland's resurrection, the old town's red roofs and the modern glass towers of Wola, the river snaking its way north, the green canopy of the parks. It all fit together somehow.
I had one last meal in the city, a proper farewell lunch at a milk bar in Śródmieście, the kind of place that still has a canteen feel, with a tray and a queue and a counter lady who calls you 'kochanie'. I had a plate of pierogi, this time with sweet cheese and blueberries, a last taste of summer, and a bowl of żurek, that sour rye soup with sausage and egg. The whole thing cost me about thirty-five zloty, which is less than ten dollars, and it was the best meal I'd had all week. This is the thing about Poland, you can eat like a king for next to nothing if you know where to look.
After lunch, I walked the Old Town one last time. Stare Miasto, the UNESCO-listed medieval core that was rebuilt brick by brick after the war. It's a strange place, a perfect reconstruction of a city that was almost entirely destroyed. The market square was busy, full of tourists taking photos and horse-drawn carriages waiting for fares. I didn't stay long. I've seen it. What I wanted was one last view of the river, so I walked down to the viewpoint at the bottom of the Royal Route, where the embankment drops away and you can see the bridges and the beaches on the far bank. The stadium was just a white blur in the distance.
I found a bench near the Copernicus Science Centre, that weird, scary-slanted building on the riverbank, and I just sat there for a while. I watched the water taxis crisscross the river, watched a sailing boat tack its way upstream, watched the rowers, the joggers, the tourists on Segways. And I thought about the week I'd had. I'd arrived here with a suitcase and a list of errands, and somehow, somewhere between the bank lobbies and the food halls and the sirens on August 1st, I'd started to feel like this could become home.
The thing about Warsaw is that it doesn't grow on you gently. It grabs you, shakes you, makes you work for every small victory. Getting the PESEL number felt like an achievement. Navigating the tram network felt like a PhD. But it's also a city that rewards you if you pay attention. The summer evenings on the river, the smell of grilled sausage from the food stalls, the sound of a jazz band drifting from a courtyard, the sight of the Palace of Culture turning pink in the sunset. It's a city of layers, and I've only just started to peel them back.
As I walked back to my flat to grab my bags, I passed a small sign in a shop window. It said 'Pokój do wynajęcia', a room for rent. The price, about 2,800 zloty a month for a modest place, was scrawled on a piece of paper underneath. I paused for a moment, considering it. The rent in Warsaw has gone up a lot, record highs, they say, but I still felt a pull. But no, I'm not ready to stop yet. The lake district is calling, and then the Baltic coast, and then the Vistula towns and the Sudetes mountains. There's a whole country out there to see.
I hoisted my backpack on my shoulder and took a tram to the central station, feeling the familiar rumble of the city beneath my feet. The 4.40 zloty ticket, a little over a dollar, bought me a slice of this place, a connection to its rhythm. I watched the city slide past the window, the glass towers, the parks, the river flashing silver in the afternoon sun. I'm leaving, but I'll be back. Warsaw has a way of pulling you back. And I have a lot more of Poland to see first.
The train north is smooth and quiet. I have my trusty phone with a new Polish SIM card, and my bank app is finally open. In my pocket, my PESEL card feels like a key. As the city skyline disappears behind a patch of forest, I feel a strange mix of excitement and a little bit of sadness. This leg of the journey is over. But as my grandmother used to say, leaving somewhere doesn't mean you haven't found a home. It just means you're ready for the next one.
The train hums along the tracks, carrying me north towards the Masurian Lake District. The landscape is starting to change, the dense suburbs giving way to farmland and patches of pine forest. I'm told the lakes are something else, hundreds of them, clear and quiet, connected by canals and rivers. I'm ready for the silence. But I'm also ready to bring a little bit of Warsaw with me, in my PESEL number, in my familiarity with the ZTM ticket machines, in my taste for żurek and a properly made pierogi. That's the thing about a week in Warsaw. It changes you, no matter how short it was. It marks you as someone who has, at least for a moment, called this phoenix of a city home.