My cousin Jagoda, who is my Dad's brother's daughter, lives in an area of parks, hills and "strolling woods". Her house used to belong to my paternal grandparents. After their death, during the communist era, a large part of their property was taken away and an ugly, huge multistory building was stuck right in their backyard, a pretty typical event during those times, when personal property became "the property of the people". The part of the land they were allowed to keep is now a tiny front and back garden. After the fall of the Communism, the house has been divided, and totally renovated. Jagoda owns the right-hand side of the house, and lives there with her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend, an Italian sculptor.

It felt strange to walk into the rooms where my grandparents lived, and which I remember so well from 45 years ago. The layout has been changed a bit, but the attic and the basement are still the same and Jagoda and I reminisced about playing hide and seek in the attic and how I fell asleep behind the wardrobe and they couldn't find me for a while. I also found out that a famous, huge copper pan of my Grandmother's, which she used to produce heavenly jams, is still in the family. These trips down memory lane are so intense, we cried and laughed, and hugged.

I took a photo of a photo of my great-grandfather, Marceli Dukland, and of the painting depicting the house during my grandparents' era, when I played there with my cousins.

The plans for tomorrow are to visit the Amber Museum in the old Torture Tower and I'm looking forward to seeing all the torture machines from the 16th century.