Winter, Illness, and Rescue Comes from Bytom
Winter came late that year in Łabędy. I even joked about it, how Poland seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for All Souls’ Eve before flipping a switch. But when it arrived, it arrived with intent. One moment I was stepping off trains into mild evenings, the next I was walking out into night air that hit me like a wall. I wasn’t eating properly. I wasn’t asking for help. I was sweating on overheated trains, then wandering into freezing darkness, and my body simply couldn’t keep up.
One night, all of that fell away.
I woke coughing.
At first, I tried to suppress it, terrified of disturbing the other residents. The cough grew harsher, deeper, until it shook my whole chest. I lay awake, sweating, dizzy, increasingly unwell. Luckily, I had no lessons planned for the next day, or the day after, and the weekend was coming.
I didn’t want to call anyone. I didn’t want to admit I was struggling.
My basic room didn’t even have a kettle. The first-floor room I booked a week in advance was functional: clean toilet, shower, sink. At the end of the landing was a shared kitchen with a kettle and, I think, a toaster.
In the UK we joke about man flu, the exaggerated suffering of a mild cold. This wasn’t that. I knew I needed to hydrate, to eat, to do something. I forced myself down to Biedronka, shivering and sweating at the same time, and bought ibuprofen, bananas, oranges, water, yogurt, and a particular food I never touched in the UK: a packet of processed tost ser, or toast cheese.
The fluorescent lights of Biedronka were a dizzying blur of foreign labels and sharp, crowded aisles. Back in the quiet safety of the hostel room, the fever raged. A small bedside table lamp offered a sense of comfort, I sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by a mountain of oranges and a plastic bag of crusty bułki.
I pulled out a slice of Ser Tost. As I peeled back the loud, crinkling plastic, my eyes caught the word printed across the wrapper: SMACZNEGO. Enjoy your meal.
In the heavy silence of a country where I didn’t know exactly who to ask for help, nor even whether I should, I lay back against the pillow, clutched the square of cheese, and whispered back into the dim light:
“Smacznego.”
My Polish friends later became slightly disparaging about my devotion to tost ser, disputing whether it was really cheese at all and treating my affection for those individually wrapped slices as a minor culinary failing. In fairness, one packet I continue to buy years later in the UK proudly declares itself to be “48% cheese,” which probably strengthened their case considerably. Yet this one brand in particular has remained my loyal favourite: the slices with SMACZNEGO printed cheerfully across the plastic, as if offering a heartfelt blessing over something that had only a passing acquaintance with dairy. Even now, my family occasionally catch me standing in the kitchen holding a packet of questionably cheesy cheese, reading that familiar SMACZNEGO and quietly whispering, “Smacznego,” to myself before opening the wrapper. They think I’m slightly odd. They are almost certainly correct.
I’m still eating tost ser in 2026 — smacznego!
But in 2010, and by the weekend, it was clear this wasn’t man flu. I was very, very unwell. Grypa, real flu, had taken hold. I locked myself in my little room, drank as much water as I could manage, took ibuprofen, ate oranges like they were the only food in the world.
I often thought of Jeanette Winterson’s novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit — except for me, they were.
The housekeeping ladies became nosy, then concerned. They asked if I needed towels, fresh bedding, anything at all. Beyond that, they left me alone. Eventually, I hung a do not disturb sign on the door, not out of rudeness, but fear. Fear of being seen. Fear of being alone in a foreign country with no strength left.
By Sunday, I felt a little better, but I have to be honest: I was afraid. Truly afraid.
Then my phone rang.
It was my friend from Bytom. Her family had invited me for Sunday obiad. Could I make it? Was I able to take the train? Did I need collecting from somewhere?
I apologised and explained I was unwell. Immediately I heard concern in her voice, and her mother speaking in a concerned way in the background.
I told her I didn’t feel well enough to travel and that I was grateful, genuinely grateful, that they had thought to invite me.
“OK, Gary, but make sure you drink plenty of fluids, try to eat, take care. I’ll call you tomorrow and check how you are. If you need anything, just let me know.”
We ended the call.
A minute later, the phone rang again.
Then came the words that broke through my fear, my isolation, my stubborn independence:
“Gary, we are coming to you.”
At that moment, everything changed.
I looked around my basic room and tried to tidy it, though there wasn’t much to tidy. I washed my face, got dressed, carried the small amount of rubbish from my waste bin to the shared kitchen bin, opened the windows for fresh air, and waited. I wasn’t actually hungry. I wasn’t feeling strong. I wanted sleep more than anything. But I wanted to be ready.
About an hour later I heard familiar voices on the landing — steady, purposeful footsteps, the kind that belong to people who have come with intent. Then a gentle knock on my door.
I opened it to find my friend and her mother.
I was so happy to see them. Slightly embarrassed, yes, but there was no time to dwell on that. My friend’s mother was a nurse with years of experience, but what she brought that day was more than nursing. It was care of a kind that exceeded any expectation — kindness beyond measure. They had driven from Bytom, almost an hour’s journey in those days, simply because I was unwell and alone.
My friend translated her mother’s words. They had brought food — not just any food, but the food of Polish comfort, Polish healing, Polish Sunday tradition. Rosół, a rich golden chicken broth, still hot inside a thermos flask. And the holy trinity of Silesian obiad: rolada śląska, kluski śląskie, and modra kapusta.
I had no idea how I was going to eat it. I had only a mug and a small side plate. My friend poured the rosół into the mug and passed it to me. I began gently sipping, savouring each mouthful. It was delicious beyond words — the first decent, hot food I had eaten in days. Within minutes, I felt a little more like my normal self, a small mercy after days of fear — a moment I didn’t feel completely afraid.
Then my friend laughed — a loud, joyful laugh that cut through the heaviness of the room. She explained that her mother wanted to go to the hotel restaurant kitchen. There would be a microwave, or some other way to heat the obiad properly.
I felt overwhelmed. The soup had already done its work. But my friend said, “Gary… mum won’t take no for an answer. Come on. Just come with us.”
I followed them.
We walked into the restaurant together. My friend’s mother — calm, experienced, and absolutely determined — spoke to the staff with a firmness that made everyone stand a little straighter. I couldn’t understand the words, but I could hear the tone: protective, authoritative, uncompromising.
My friend translated, perhaps softening what her mother actually meant. Apparently, she felt the staff should have realised how ill I was.
The staff’s faces were a picture — startled, sheepish, caught off-guard by a woman who had travelled over an hour to help someone she cared about and was not prepared to tolerate anything less than proper treatment.
She carried it into the kitchen, and when she returned, heat rose from the plate in a soft shimmer. The dumplings released thin spirals of steam. The roulade had relaxed back into tenderness, its sauce warm and glossy again. The red cabbage had regained its scent — sweet, sharp, comforting — the smell of a proper Silesian obiad. It looked like a meal meant for someone who mattered.
I looked at the staff and said the only thing I knew to say at that moment: dziękuję bardzo, and helped myself to a knife and fork from a table.
There was no meal service at that time, so we returned to my room with the plate, still steaming from the restaurant kitchen. I sat down, and my friend’s mother placed the plate in front of me with the quiet authority of someone who had already decided I was going to eat.
I tasted the food — slowly at first, then more steadily. After days of surviving on oranges, bułki and ser tost, mugs of dried soup and kettle water, the first mouthful was almost overwhelming. The roulade rich and savoury, the dumplings soft and yielding, the cabbage bright and gently spiced. It wasn’t just nourishment; it was the first real food my body had recognised in days.
I didn’t feel a sudden surge of strength or any neat, cinematic recovery. It wasn’t like that. But as I ate, the warmth of the food, the presence of two people who refused to leave me alone, the sound of my friend’s voice drifting across the room — it all nudged me back toward myself. Not healthier, not fixed, just more human again. A little steadier. A little less adrift.
My friend’s mother watched me with a troubled kind of patience, as if trying to understand what I had been attempting to endure. She didn’t find anything amusing; she wasn’t there for levity. But there was no judgement in her face, only concern — and that quiet, unwavering concern made the room feel warmer than the food ever could.
So I ate.
And they stayed.
Not hovering, not fussing, not making a spectacle of it — just present.
My friend laughed once or twice, quietly, relieved to see colour returning to my face. Her mother nodded approvingly, as if ticking off invisible boxes: appetite returning, strength improving, fear easing.
They stayed until the plate was empty, until they were satisfied that I was no longer in danger of slipping back into the weakness that had frightened me.
Only then did they begin to gather their things. Only then did they let the moment end.
When they left, the room felt different. Not larger, not warmer, but somehow safer. The fear that had been sitting in my chest for days loosened its grip. Every mouthful of food I’d eaten carried the unmistakable message: you matter to someone here. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the quiet of the hostel — the distant hum of a train passing, the occasional footsteps on the landing, the radiator ticking as it cooled. Ordinary sounds, but they no longer felt hostile. They no longer felt like the soundtrack of isolation.
I have never forgotten that act of kindness. It’s impossible to let it fade into the back rooms of memory; it often returns, unbidden, steady, and unchanged.
That night I lay down, exhausted but no longer afraid, and slept easier for the first time in days.
Leave a Reply