Note the Fiddler in the upper right corner! Anatevka, Anatevka. Underfed, overworked Anatevka. Where else could Sabbath be so sweet? Anatevka, Anatevka. Intimate, obstinate Anatevka, Where I know everyone I meet. Soon I'll be a stranger in a strange new place, Searching for an old familiar face From Anatevka. I belong in Anatevka, Tumble-down, work-a-day Anatevka. Dear little village, little town of mine. These words, from the lyrics of Fiddler on the Roof , remind us of the value of home, of the small town, of small town life. Even when things are difficult, as they are in this fictional story of a Russian-Polish shtetl, so beloved in American high schools, on Broadway, and on tour in small cities all over America, the value of community -- and its religion, its customs -- offers a kind of comfort in anticipation of the new and unfamiliar. All right. It's hokey. But when we spent the day recently in Łódź -- a day like so many during this long winter, snow...
A blog about travel and staying put, reading and writing, food and food for thought.