Dear Nation,

I once was in a foreign country. Barely entering the realms or semblances of adulthood, alone, for quite a long time. I did not drink art. Not so much. I rather wandered in hopes of various initiations, but without means and without boldness. Completely. Yearning.

One day, on one of the central squares, I passed by a portrait painter's stall. He encouraged posing, but did so ineffectively, too insistently. Seeing me, he asked if I was here for long – in Polish. I quailed. Maybe I turned pale. I tried, picture this, to reply, trying to give it the right accent, in the local language. That I did not understand. He roared with laughter. He mocked me, and I fled, stumbling.

I won't apologize, for I've outgrown apologizing. But know that I am ashamed.