Monday was a big day. We were getting our PESEL numbers. Like the American Social Insurance Number, this opened the door to getting settled in Poland – bank account, phone, security check. We would start to feel like we had arrived. But before any of that, we had to get our crap out of the fridge.

Polish burauacracy dicates two medical clearances be taken for employment as educators – a throat examination and feces samples. I won’t go into the details – and avoid supporting imagery – but there were Q-tips and test tubes with fluid, three sets of each taken three nights in a row, each placed carefully in plastic baggies in the fridge.

It was impossible to avoid the surreptitious glance when opening the fridge door, the tubes in the baggies, then grabbing whatever quickly and getting it shut. It wasn’t the elephant in the room. We talked about it – always at meals – and meticulously prepared the necesary documents, triple-checking tram schedules, adding a note on the kitchen table “Remember Your Poop!” We arrived at the clinic well ahead of our appointed times. It was all very professional, passing the tubes over, and we were done.

The PESEL office was next, which was touch and go when the officer noted an electronic notatation that was not verified. Truth be told, she wasn’t pleased with us from the moment we arrived, asking if she spoke English. “This is Poland.” “We’re sorry but we only know Dziękuję (thank you) and piwo (beer).” On the verge of pushing our documents back at us, she paused and said that she would talk to her manager. I knew we would just have to come back. That’s how these things worked. It was just another step. Our shit was out of the fridge. At least there was that.

“I have good news for you.” She hung up the phone. “We will process you today.” She took our passports, wrote and stamped, printed and gave us the simple yet beautiful, pieces of paper, our numbers at the bottom. “This will open all of the doors for you.” We walked out into the glorious sun, strolled down the boulevard to the Lidl and lucked into pizza pastries fresh out of the oven.

The copy store was next, then T Mobile and ING, Marcin, our customer rep, sharing his thoughts on the misery of Polish history, a quick visit to the police department for an incomprehensibly stamped document, and then shopping – a blender, carpetted cat house and groceries to buy – and we were home. I glanced up as I opened the fridge. Yes. It was gone. We’d gotten our shit out.