In this chapter, emotional distress is mentioned. For context, read from chapter 46.

PÅ‚ock to Gdynia, Poland. July 29 to August 2.
The delay from sickness and the changing of route to an earlier arrival in Sweden had fueled my motivation to cover ground. From Radomsko to Gdansk I cycled five days straight as I wanted to have a free day when I got there. There were definitely stops on the way that called for more time and colourful locations that I skipped entirely, but I was eager to reach Sweden where my goal could be smelled.
There was more to my renewed energy than just to cross the finish line. During the whole journey I had envisioned some kind of homecoming celebration, a gathering of family and friends to receive me upon my arrival. I had as well, to an equal extent, dreaded a scene where I would return to nothing and nobody. That I simply would not let happen. Now that journey's end grew closer I set a date and time, and started to plan what I could with help from people on site. I would finish the journey on August 10, and I wanted buffer time should something happen near the end. After all I would not want to be late to my own party, and feeling that there was something to come back to gave me strength on the roads.

From PÅ‚ock I treaded along Vistula river to Torun. It's one of the oldest cities in Poland, one that was entirely spared destruction from the world wars, so the old town remains intact and is today a UNESCO heritage site. Like with Krakow and later Gdansk, Torun is a beautiful city that I would be more than happy to revisit with company, a holiday budget and an easy mind. For now though, one night was enough.
In my hostel I met with Damian, a Polish cyclist who had just come back from Sweden. He had cycled anti-clockwise around the Baltic Sea over the summer and was now only a few short days from home. At dinner in local restaurants we also chatted with Tony, a traveler from Macau. These simple meetings might only be one-off occasions, people I saw once and never again. But given my knack for keeping distant connections closer than most, it would not surprise me to see them again sometime, somewhere.
On Warm Showers, the platform where cyclists host one another, I had been in touch with Michal who lived off the main roads some 20 kilometres east of Vistula river near the little town of Gardeja. Northern Poland is littered with lakes and Michal and his wife Anna live right by one. I looked forward to a countryside stay after many nights in cities.

Again Poland put up more resistance than I had anticipated. While I rode some rough roads through Iraq and Turkey, Poland sported the worst of them all and it wasn't even close. There were plenty of paths indicated for cycling both by signs and online maps, where all of a sudden tarmac or gravel could switch to sand. Mind you, that is fine sand with small grains as if taken from a beach. If I would specifically choose a ground that would prevent cycles to cross, sand would be a top contender. Unless I stuck to the main roads my wheels would eventually be spinning holes in the ground, often on several sections in a day's ride. When I approached Michal and Anna's I at least had the option to ride on a different but equally unpleasant cobblestone path. What the cyclists in Poland have done to deserve some such treatment, I don't know.
All was worth it once I arrived. Swimming in the lake, walking in the garden and eating a lovely meal set the homely tone, but as always it was the people that truly made my stay. I had my own issues of course, that brought with me whether I wanted to or not, but at least I could share them. Hearing their stories and struggles in turn, with additional help of Michal's home-brewed beer, made me forgot about them for a moment. Most valuable of all was the laughter. They both had such deep, genuine laughs that they not only made me crack up too, but also filled me with warmth inside.

Anna had just recently learned to swim. Every day she went to the lake and swam straight out. She knew exactly how far she had gone before and she did not want to go any further just yet. For most Swedes swimming is something we take for granted. We learn it early and do it often enough that it becomes hard to remember what not knowing how to swim feels like. Watching a grown-up learn to swim was to me simultaneously endearing and inspirational. Endearing in watching an adult go through something I normally only see kids doo, yet inspirational that they take on a challenge so fundamental, facing most primal fears. Vulnerability is in my opinion an overused word in this day and age, but an adult going into the deep to learn to swim... if that is not being vulnerable, I don't know what is.
Me, I felt a bit like a newborn baby myself, learning to tackle a different kind of challenge. For a while I thought I would drown, fighting simply to grasp for breath. Slowly it had improved, day by day, to a state where I could mostly stay above surface. I hoped that in time, even I would learn to swim again.

The path to Gdansk involved more sand roads, a stop at Malbork castle, a jar of garlic sauces emptied inside my bag and a wobbly back wheel. I had been riding with one spoke off for over 500 kilometres but at the rate that they had broken ever since Turkey I had grown tired of fixing them if not emergently necessary, as they seemed to keep coming regardless. When a second one snapped and the wheel became noticeably out of balance I had to see a mechanic once I arrived in the city. Gone were the days of the eight dollar repair bills I had in the beginning. Still at around 25 dollars it was about half price of a Stockholm bike shop, so in a way it felt convenient. Gdansk would be the last out of many, many visits to bike mechanics throughout Mesopotamia, Anatolia and the European subcontinent.
I stayed with Joanna, a local, and got to give a hand with some gardening. She could relate a lot to my emotional process as she recently had gone through a breakup herself. Her life lesson, dark as it may seem, is an important one to remember:
It can always get worse.
I suppose that the bright side of that coin is that it feels like things couldn't get worse only when we forget all the good that we still have.

My last evening outside of Sweden was spent in the safest environment I know: a table with Magic: The Gathering, my primary hobby mentioned in chapter 40. This time I got to play in a mini tournament of sorts. The final was especially enjoyable where I played a woman, something that sadly happens only rarely, in a close game that drew on time. Still, two wins and one draw put me in first place after tiebreakers. Obviously, this meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it meant something to me right there. Winning is fun and finishing Eastern Europe on a high note gave a satisfying feeling that was much needed. Despite what Joanna said, the worst should be behind me. From here, it ought to be mostly downhill.
And so it was that in the morning of August 2nd I cycled to Gdynia and boarded a ship, one that would take me to Sweden. After six months abroad, the last four of which spent cycling through Iraq, Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, Czechia and Poland, it was time for me to come home.