Last night, then, forgoing the genuinely excellent if inconveniently-scheduled television options (really! I can see not signing on to Batlestar Galactica this late in the game, but there's no excuse for not watching Friday Night Lights. It's so rich and human and anxious and just bursting with life set to an explosions in the sky soundtrack), I walked through a construction zone into a little piece of Poland. There, around a couple of tables, we ate Pierogis, sauerkraut, beets, and drank from large bottles of beer with foreign characters on the labels. An old man, between glasses of vodka, attempted to play the piano. It was all kinds of interesting and made me wonder about how to find other wormhole places like this in the city.
After a while, we walked in the sudden warm rain to the Twilight Exit, which hadn't yet relocated. A man in a sequin vest and matching red pants appeared to be conducting business, the back porch was an emphesema factory, and the latchhook raccoon tapestry appeared to be missing. It turns out that Sunday is their last night; so we made it over just in time.