Author’s Note
This piece is a small tribute to the unexpected kindnesses that shape our lives. These quiet, unceremonious gestures linger long after the moment has passed. It’s drawn from my earliest days in Poland, a time of novelty, uncertainty and strange exhilaration. The bicycle in the cupboard was more than a surprise; it was a reminder that even in unfamiliar places, generosity finds you. Also, that sometimes, life hands you a moment so absurd it feels like a scene from a sketch show. Mine took place in a hotel reception on the outskirts of Gliwice, armed with nothing but a MacBook, a hopeful expression, and absolutely no understanding of Polish pronunciation.
Arriving in a New Country: Uncertainty and Possibility
Life offers moments of unexpected generosity that settle into our memories like warm light. One such moment arrived partly wrapped in bubble wrap and cardboard — possibly with an entire roll of heavy‑duty parcel tape — tucked away in a hotel cupboard in Poland. It waited like a secret.
I had just arrived in the country, still navigating temporary accommodation and the hope of something more permanent. My days were already packed with teaching, deciphering public transport, wandering unfamiliar streets and struggling with beginner‑level Polish, aided by kind, caring, and remarkable friends — whose encouragement never once wavered.
A Receptionist, a Mysterious Package and My Confusion
One evening, far too late for responsible adult behaviour, I returned to the hotel after my evening classes. Exhausted and slightly proud of myself for not getting lost, I walked in to find the receptionist staring at me with a mix of amusement and mild alarm. She cleared her throat and announced, “A very large package has arrived for you.” Then she paused dramatically, as if waiting for me to confess to something.
Her expression suggested even I didn’t know why I’d received anything significant — which was fair enough. Panic set in immediately. Had I ordered something in a sleep‑deprived frenzy? Was this the result of clicking “Yes, I’m over 18” too freely? Whatever it was, I now had to explain a delivery I couldn’t even remember arranging. Still unfamiliar with being addressed so directly, I must have looked like I’d seen a ghost — or at least a particularly assertive one. I was certain I hadn’t ordered anything. Besides, other than the local Biedronka store, I barely knew where to buy groceries, let alone something requiring a “very large package.” Perhaps it was a mistake? Still, I didn’t want to appear completely clueless, so I followed her.
She led me to a walk‑in cupboard. As we approached, my mind raced. She unlocked the door and swung it open, revealing a vintage Dutch bicycle wrapped like a mechanical bubble‑wrapped surprise party gift. The pedals were removed and the handlebars tucked in, looking both noble and slightly ridiculous in its temporary hiding place.
I stood there, mouth agape, blinking at it. “For me? Are you sure?” I kept asking, as if she might suddenly reveal it was all a misunderstanding. A label was affixed to the bike and, even at a glance, it was unmistakably addressed to me. The other details on the label were all I needed. They confirmed, quietly and unmistakably, that this was for me — no misunderstanding, no mix‑up, just a gift placed in my hands with more care than I knew how to process.”
A Gift From a Dear Friend and Wi-Fi at Hotel Łabędy
It turned out a kind and considerate Polish friend — someone who knew my love of old bicycles — had arranged the whole thing. No announcement, no hint. Just a quiet, deeply thoughtful gesture meant to welcome me to Poland and help me settle in. The kind of kindness that catches you off guard and stays with you for life.
When I first moved into the hostel — a clean, functional, perfectly respectable place — I chose the most basic room on the first floor, convinced I was being sensible and frugal. It was tidy and serviceable, but very bare: a fairly comfortable bed, a wardrobe, a small bathroom, and not much else. After a few days of “basic,” I realised it was perhaps a bit too basic, so I paid a little extra and moved up a floor to a room with a few luxuries. There was a rug beside the bed, a small bedside cabinet with a kettle, and a radio alarm that crackled bravely into life each morning. I had Wi‑Fi — not particularly good — and some days I found myself sitting cross‑legged on the floor, leaning against the door to find a stronger signal.
A couple of weeks later, curiosity got the better of me and I tried the top floor — the so‑called luxury level — with its rather nice self‑contained suites. I assumed the floor below was even more luxurious than the ones beneath it, probably with a TV and reliable Wi‑Fi. My suite, however, was perfect for storing my bicycle. It became a kind of silent companion: elegant, patient, and only slightly in the way. I doubt the hotel approved of a bicycle living in a suite, but I was far too overwhelmed, grateful and quietly delighted to worry about it. Besides, I had a small sofa, a table and chairs, a tiny kitchen, and both a radio and a TV. The Wi‑Fi was strong and reliable. Luxury, by any measure.
The Wi-Fi Incident
There’s one moment on the first floor that still makes me laugh. I needed Wi‑Fi so badly that I marched down the wide tiled staircase to reception, carrying my MacBook like it was a medical emergency. The whole place had that classic communist‑era hush — clean, sparse, echoing — the kind of silence where even your footsteps feel too loud. Naturally, the one receptionist who spoke perfect English had just gone off shift, leaving her colleague alone behind the desk.
She was kind — warm, even — but the look on her face when I opened the laptop and pointed desperately at it, pure bewildered politeness.
“Proszę pani… nie ma Wi‑Fi…”
“Wi‑Fi…?” she repeated, smiling brightly.
I stared back, equally confused.
“Tak… proszę bardzo, er… nie ma… nie… Wi‑Fi.”
More pointing from me.
More hopeful gestures toward the air above my head.
More “Wi‑Fi?… Wi‑Fi?…”
Still nothing. Just a very concerned receptionist and me, gripping my MacBook like a flotation device. To anyone watching, it must have looked absurd — two people repeating “Wi‑Fi” at each other like confused parrots. It could have easily been a sketch on TV.
Then I caught sight of a small sign on the wall behind her: the familiar curved‑wave symbol for Wi‑Fi, and underneath it, the word Wi‑Fi. I pointed at it with the enthusiasm of someone spotting land after weeks at sea.
“Wi-Fi… Wi-Fi…”
She turned, looked, then turned back with a huge smile.
“Ach! Vee-fee“
In Polish, Wi is pronounced vee and Fi is pronounced fee.
“Vee‑fee?” I tried, nervously, almost pleading.
Instant recognition. A laugh. A huge sigh of relief from both of us.
Of course, Wi-Fi — pronounced vee‑fee.
How she then explained that my floor didn’t actually have Wi‑Fi is another story altogether. Funny, and absolutely true. You couldn’t make it up
A Fifth‑Floor Flat and the Staircase Workout I Never Asked For
Eventually, that same friend helped me find an apartment. It was an interesting place, full of character, perched on the fifth floor of a building without a lift. I’d always treated the idea that smaller Polish blocks never had lifts as a local myth — something people say with a shrug — until I discovered it was entirely true. Meanwhile, twelve‑storey giants had been built all over the area — towering monoliths that became whole communities in themselves. I remember looking up at them and thinking: if my building didn’t have a lift, then anyone living above the fifth or sixth floor must have prayed for one, and prayed even harder that it actually worked.
And so began the next chapter: carrying that beautiful, heavy Dutch bicycle up and down numerous flights of stairs every time I wanted to go anywhere. The almost superhuman (well, not quite) endurance and the questionable skill required to haul that bike and other bikes up many flights of stairs over the next three years. It became a daily ritual — part workout, part comedy routine, part stubborn refusal to admit defeat.
More Than a Bicycle — A Symbol of Belonging
Reflecting on those early days, I recall the generosity of a friend, the unfamiliarity of a new country and the feeling that life was unfolding in unexpected ways.
That bicycle wasn’t just a gift; it was a symbol of arrival and welcome, marking the beginning of a new life with a story already unfolding.
Closing Reflection
Some gifts simply sit upon a shelf in our homes, while others carry us further than we expect and linger in our hearts and memories. Even now, when I think of that bicycle quietly waiting in a hotel cupboard, I’m reminded that belonging often starts with a single act of kindness — a gentle push that says, “You’re meant to be here,” the first turn of the wheel.
a proud owner and the bicycle that waited in a cupboard — a gift, a beginning, numerous flights of stairs
Ghosts to Carry, Stories to Keep 