Mickow in Warsaw.

In Warsaw I met a Londoner. Mickow he was Polish, but he had been living in London for years. He didn't look like a Pole, he dressed like a British man. I don't know what it is but you can see us a mile away. Its the way we dress, those bright colours and shabby look.

We clocked each other from across the concourse of a concrete hulk of Warsaw central station

"Are you English?" He asked, quietly and sheepishly.

"Yes, you?"

"I live in London".

I spent a long time talking to Mickow, he helped me find my train. Back in London, I think he was quite something in the Polish community. He told me that he would help out at the job centre in London bridge translating for new entrants to London's Polish community. While we were talking he took a call from a London number. He spoke in rapid polish, it was a random Pole, who had been passed his number by another. Mikow seemed to be the go to guy, to get yourself started in the big city.

He was London through and through, he preferred it to Warsaw. Now here was something I had noticed on my travels. You could call it my great insight, the countries I had been in, the people I had met, had become a mirror on which to observe and draw my own conclusions from our own great nation. I met Australian -Londoners, Polish-Londoners, Bulgarian and Greek Londoners. They were all from London first their countries second. London is a city so large so full of character it consumes nationality. It is the international city. If you live in London for anytime no matter where you were born you're a londoner first a nationality second. Of course I suppose those born in ear-shot of Bow-bells would disagree, but they have to move with the times. The world came to London and city conquered it.

I left Mickow at Vilinus, we exchanged emails, but I know already we'll never get in contact. It was dust in the wind. A meeting caught by a thin net of mutual distraction, that would fall apart as soon as the train left the station. He gave me a sandwich his mother had made him. It was basic, cheese and ham, but it tasted delicious. It had been made in Warsaw the day before, but unlike my swiftly cooked Pasta chewed down the day before, the sandwich was made with the missing ingredients, I couldn't put into my own food. His mother in Warsaw, who hadn't seen her Son for two years had put her heart into the sandwich. It was home food, made with love for a prodigal son and my taste buds basked in every stolen bite.