Follow the Fox

I snaked through the slender streets of Gdańsk, Poland, lost in the shadows of tall, narrow merchant houses. I circled through the city, gliding my hand across the gnarled stone faces that protruded from gothic water drains. It was my first time lingering in these alleys and arcades, so I meandered in, around, over and through the side passages, doors and foot bridges.

I greedily absorbed the dramatic appeal of my surroundings. The gabled structures along the Radunia Canal with their timber frames and beckoning windows. The heaving monstrosity that is Crane Gate, hunched like a sleepy sentinel over the Motława River. Yet when hints of chimney smoke curled into my nostrils, reminding me of old stories, grandpa’s woodstove, my mooseskin moccasins and ginger tea, I longed for home.

Throwing one foot in front of the other, I made my way toward a line of hills just northwest of the center, behind the train station. An entire fort system sits atop Góra Gradowa, the name given to the area. Defensive earthworks peek out from patches of weathered grass. Lovers sat between a pair of brick outbuildings, sharing a bottle of wine.

Then, as if out of nowhere, a red fox appeared, instantly waking me from my traveler’s stupor. Perplexed by the sight of him, I faltered backwards, grabbing for my camera and adjusting the lens. At first, my fox friend darted from one spot to another, refusing to be photographed. But in time, his playful leaps became predictable, and he seemed to enjoy the attention.

So I followed with my camera.

Up one hill and down another, the friendly fox led the way and I bounced along behind him. I didn’t know where he was leading me, but having no obligations for the evening, I shadowed him. Though I tried to be discreet, I was fully aware that Mr. Fox was choosing his every step wisely, knowing I was in tow.

We carried on like this for what seemed like hours in a seemingly unending journey from hill to dale and back again. Mr. Fox was determined to keep me entertained in my pursuit of him. And all the while, he pretended not to notice me.

Eventually, when my friendly companion jolted down a hill and out of sight, I lost track of him. I wasn’t overly surprised that he suddenly vanished. In reality, I was growing tired and he was probably ready to give the next inquisitive wanderer a break from the ordinary.

Looking back, I’ll never forget the fox with his fiery, rust-hued fur, always just out of reach. I needed the enchantment of hopping hills with Mr. Fox; it gave me time to think, time to feel youthful again. On those hills, life was suddenly a thing of magic and discovery.

With grass-stained hands, I walked slowly back to my hotel, but now with a child’s heart. “Why do leaves fall from trees?” I wondered to myself. Now the curling cast-iron banisters on Mariacka street seemed to come alive as I passed.

And that is how a red fox becomes the focal point of a music album titled “Things We Thought to Think.”