What do YOU do after heart surgery?

I wasn't really planning on writing today, but I'm here at the internet cafe, so I thought, hey, why not?
Just so you know, I now have a home. Yesterday I met with the nice people at Rentsellers Group (I will never understand why people pick English names for stuff here) and went to go see my probable new flat. I walked in and was rather blindsided. It is beeeeeeeeeeeeeautiful. Hardwood floors, white walls. My room is the biggest (and most expensive), and I nearly keeled over when I saw it. It's big and square, with a large wardrobe and two small tables that are a nice light wood color. It has an entire wall of windows in addition to a balcony. Yep, balcony. Amazing. The bathroom is gorgeous also. The walls are covered with rose-patterned tile, and there is a very deep bathtub that made me incredibly happy to see. Everything's good. I even have a rolly chair for my desk/table. Anyway, I shelled out a ridiculous sum of money for the flat (920 pln deposit, 920 pln rent, and 460 pln agency fee), which, without my parents sending me more than I asked for, wouldn't have happened. I wasn't counting on the agency fee. The good thing is, I get the deposit back when I move out, and I'm paid through the 12th of October.
Anyway, I'm quite happy with that. I'm very much looking forward to sleeping in a home tonight--in my very own bed, no less.
Moving to the flat this morning was an ordeal. I had to take two trips because I'm ridiculous and have too much stuff. TOO MUCH. Egad, Brain. Seriously. True to Emily form, half of my belongings are books (see picture to right). BOOKS. Can we say...heavy? Once more, with feeling. The taxi drivers were amused. Especially the second one, who laughed at me and assumed I didn't speak Polish, but then we had a nice conversation about one-way streets, because he got lost. That was amusing...a taxi driver...lost. Yeah. Anyway, when we got to my flat, there was this little old guy coming out of the gate to my building, and he saw me with my elephant suitcase and promptly offered to help. I thought he was just offering to carry it to the door, but he didn't. Oh, no. This tiny, rather withered little old man started trucking right up the stairs with my 60-pound suitcase. I told him apologetically and a bit caution...arily...that I live on the fourth floor. Which in Poland means the fifth floor, because they don't count the ground floor like the Americans do. Also, there is one flight of stairs before you even get to floor "P," which is the ground floor. So I told him I could do it, because I was slightly frightened that he would hurt himself. The bag was pretty much bigger than he was. He insisted, though, and kept on going. About five flights of stairs up, he started struggling a bit, and I offered to carry half of it, which he refused again and kept going. I was starting to feel rather abashed, because I only was carrying my little purse, and this guy looked like he might die on the spot. A couple more flights up (remember: two flights per floor), he confessed, "Jestem po operacji serca." I just kind of stared at him, because THAT means he had heart surgery recently. HEART SURGERY! And here he was, lugging my gigantic suitcase up 11 flights of stairs. I thanked him about fifty times on the way up and kept offering to take half of it, but he wouldn't hear it, even though by the last three flights, he was heavily panting and having to do the step with both feet on the stairs thing that little kids do. I felt so incredibly awkward. I myself carried my other book-laden bag up the stairs earlier, and it just about killed me. And I think I'm a bit more robust than this guy. Anyway. He got it all the way to my door, and I thanked him with all the gushy adverbs I could muster, and he just said I was welcome, smiled, and went back downstairs. Amazing. My back was very grateful, but I was shocked that he didn't kill himself, seriously. When I say old, I mean the guy was at least 75. So...yikes. And he was smaller than me. Granted, I'm quite tall, but still....sheesh.
So, the moral of this story is...um...I guess "keep on, keep on, keep on, keep on dancin'..." Or something.
This concludes my second entry. I am going to go buy some coffee, I think. And then go buy some groceries. Because hey, food. And some food for you--here are some more pictures of my flat.