About half a year ago, my ancestral village was granted the well-deserved honor of having street names assigned to it. I call it “well-deserved” because Kruszyn is long and wide, and “we have streets aplenty.” Admittedly, some mischievous residents of Bolesławiec commented on this momentous fact by saying that there would be only one street in all of Kruszyn, and that it would be called “Main Street” (incidentally, purely by chance, I happen to live on that very street), but we were not bothered by it at all.
With a sparkle in our eyes, we welcomed the new address plaques on our doors. I must admit, however, that the third change of address (even though I still occupy the very same residence) left me slightly confused. First, there was a letter “G” after the house number, then “M,” and now even the number has changed.
While at the health center, I was unable to give my address correctly within 10 seconds, stammering, “…Kwiatowa, um… no, Klonowa 47, er… 46…” The receptionist looked at me suspiciously, carefully checking whether the photograph in my insurance card matched the original. Well—I survived.
I informed all my acquaintances—near and distant—with some conceit about the change of address. But my adrenaline level rises dangerously when a certain part of my family stubbornly writes “PGR housing estate” in the address. I should actually be very happy about this, since “laughter is healthy,” and it provides my colleagues at work with as much joy as an unexpected present. Admittedly, I myself cannot keep a straight face when I imagine—not in my dreams, but in my thoughts—a huge neon sign glowing in the middle of the night: PGR Housing Estate. What joy for aesthetes.
I could really bring my little battles with my address to an end now, but I must confess to a certain sin. When a stranger reads my address and refers to Kruszyn as a town, I neither confirm nor deny it.