The biggest district in the city. A “Bałuciarz”, a born-and-bred Bałuty lad, never gets lost, because he always knows a “przecinak”: Łódź slang for a shortcut. That the shortcut runs through someone else’s backyard is not his problem.

Tenement houses, factories turned into shopping malls and “Pietryna” (Piotrkowska Street) right in the middle. Every gateway leads to a courtyard, and every courtyard to another gateway. No exit was planned.

The green side of the city: parks, a stadium and Łódź Kaliska station. Locals claim even the pigeons are calmer here. Nobody asked the pigeons.

The working-class heart of Łódź: “familoki” (red-brick workers’ houses), Księży Młyn and a stadium whose chanting carries across three districts. Like it or not.

Over four kilometres of promenade that locals call “Pietryna”. People from Łódź can walk it three times in one evening, because they only popped out “for a minute”.

Stars in the pavement for film people, because Łódź runs on cinema. Tourists look down at their feet; locals look out for an oncoming rickshaw.

The fastest transport in the centre, as long as there’s no headwind. The driver will tell you the story of every tenement, especially the ones whose story he doesn’t know.

The poet Julian Tuwim sits on Piotrkowska and patiently puts up with selfies. Rubbing his nose brings luck, so the nose shines brighter than the city’s prospects.

A bronze Arthur Rubinstein plays a bronze piano. The concert has been going on for years and nobody has lived to hear an encore.

Nobel laureate Reymont sits on a trunk as if he had just arrived to research “The Promised Land”, his novel about Łódź. The land was promised; delivery is another matter.

A tram stop with a colourful roof that the city named seriously and locals named their own way. The unicorn finally got a monument. Punctual trams did not.

Slippers, eggs, net curtains, DVDs for three złoty and clothes “straight from Italy”. Not haggling insults the seller and your own wallet.

An octagonal square at the start of Pietryna, with Kościuszko on a plinth. The national hero has been watching the roadworks for years, and his face grows more bronze by the day.

The counter next door. No, the other one. Form A-38 is in room 112, but the lady has popped out and will be right back, meaning after one o’clock.

A former red-brick spinning mill, now a mall with a fountain. People once wove here for sixteen hours a day; today they spend as long looking for the car park exit.

The Louvre of Łódź. The factory owner wanted more rooms than his neighbour, got his way, and then added a dome just to be sure.

Łódź was built on textiles, so net curtains are sold here by the metre, by the roll and by the flat. Grannies from all over Poland arrive by coach as if on a pilgrimage.

A power station that makes stars instead of electricity. Under the dome you can see the sky you can’t see over the city.

A glass station hidden three floors underground. Trains are scarce, but there are enough escalators for the whole province.

A boring machine named Kasia is digging a railway tunnel under the city. Residents ask when it will end. Kasia doesn’t answer. Kasia digs.

Łódź has so many murals that you recognise buildings by their pictures, not their numbers. The plaster is falling off, but artistically.

A facade covered in thousands of mirror shards. In the sun it sparkles like sequins at a wedding; after rain, at least you can see it’s raining.

Red-brick workers’ houses, “famuły” in Łódź speak. Weavers used to live here; today it’s people who can afford a loft with a view of the history of exploitation.

In Łódź a “żulik” is a raisin roll, an “angielka” is a kaiser roll and a “sznytka” is a slice of bread. Ask for a “kajzerka” and you’ve outed yourself as an out-of-towner, and you’ll pay like one.

Potato soup on a sour rye base. A hundred years ago weavers ate it because they had no choice. Today it costs 29 złoty from a food truck and is called “comfort food”.

An old factory, food trucks, fairy lights on strings. A “zapiekanka” (the Polish baguette pizza) from a truck tastes better here than in a restaurant, because it costs the same.

Future directors like Polański, Wajda and Kieślowski used to sit on these stairs. Sit here for ten minutes and you leave with a script about a sad man in a grey city.

Hollywood has hills; Łódź has flat land and one little mound. The sign stands anyway, because films were shot here before it was trendy, and before it stopped being so.

The city is called Łódź, which means “boat”, and it doesn’t have a single proper river. The streams were hidden under the streets, so the only boat in town floats on a park pond, and it’s embarrassed too.

A club founded in 1908 and nicknamed the Knights of Spring. Here spring starts in autumn, and the fans believe that this season it’s definitely happening. Just like the previous ones.

A stadium whose chanting is heard in three districts. The derby is Łódź’s “Holy War”, and a draw pleases nobody, players included.

In Łódź a travel pass is called a “migawka”, from “migać”, to flash: you just flash it at the inspector. The inspector always turns up when your “migawka” is in your other trousers.

In Łódź the tram terminus is the “krańcówka”. The driver smokes, the passengers wait and the timetable pretends everything is going to plan.

Cream and red or yellow and red, depending on the vintage. On the bumpy tracks it shakes so hard your coffee stirs itself.

The delay on the board grows live. The train to Gdynia will leave when it feels emotionally ready.

The estate’s premium CCTV. A pillow under the elbows on the windowsill, range: the whole car park and both bins. She knows who, with whom, when and wearing what.

The most effective notification system in the country. Range: three courtyards and a pitch. Children’s response time depends on the score.

Sunday, eight a.m., time for a shelf. The renovation has been going on since 2009, and the shelves multiply faster than the books.

The carpet-beating rack: gym, playground and council chamber in one. On Saturday at seven it’s for rugs; every other day half the primary school hangs off it.

A prefab block after its insulation makeover. The colours were chosen by someone who really loved ice cream and really didn’t love the residents.

A banner covering half the facade. Fourth-floor tenants haven’t seen the sun since 2011, but at least they know where to get a payday loan.

A row of tin garages from 1983. Mr Mietek has been finishing his Polonez, a Polish car from the 80s, for thirty years. Only the little things are left: engine, gearbox and doors.

Five colours of bins and the eternal riddle of where a milk carton goes. The bin lorry tips everything into one compartment anyway.

The city wardens won’t catch a bike thief, but they’ll find your car on the lawn in four minutes.

The rules forbid it; nobody has read them. Grilled pork neck scents three stairwells, and the granny at the window is already taking notes.

A sow and three piglets out for a walk. The bin by the “Ropucha” is their favourite restaurant. They were here first and couldn’t give a snout.

Comes back from Africa to the same chimney every year. It’s permanently registered here, unlike half the estate.

Hangs all year round. Proudly put out in May 2018; since then nobody remembers where the ladder is.

A “Ropucha” (“toad”) every fifty metres. A hot dog at 3 a.m., a parcel, a phone top-up and life advice from a cashier nobody asked.

Twelve tills, one open, and the queue reaches the “Ropucha”. Deal of the week: a second block of butter for one grosz when you buy fourteen.

Locker 404: parcel not found. In two minutes you’ll get a text saying your parcel is waiting. Your locker is always at the very top or right by the floor.

Prices on the pylon change more often than the weather, always in one direction. A hot dog with coffee counts as a proper lunch here.

Sunday mass for drivers. Programme three: active foam. The car stays clean for a whole twenty minutes, until the first puddle.

Mrs Krysia has been selling crosswords, lighters and “migawki” (travel passes) here since 1987. The kiosk hasn’t moved an inch since, unlike the prices.

The national dish after 2 a.m. The key question of the day: thin or thick bread? Mixed sauce, because decisions hurt.

Between two pharmacies stands a third. The pharmacist will still recommend the syrup you already have at home.

A gold chain, a console and a TV from 2008. The man behind the counter knows the value of everything and won’t give more than fifty złoty for anything.

Ruskie pierogi, tomato soup and fruit compote in an old mustard glass. Spoons on chains, because trust is in short supply.

Always open. The council office, the clinic and the post office could learn a thing or two from it about accessibility.

The queue lasts all year, and on Fat Thursday it gets its own postcode. The rose-jam ones vanish first; the advocaat ones are left.

A scoop costs what a dinner used to, and people still queue. Soft-serve for the kid, the bill for the parent.

Sunday trading ban: the car park is empty and the city doesn’t know what to do with itself. In your free time you can buy a phone case there, but don’t spend an hour choosing it.

Eggs from a farmer, “home-grown” strawberries straight from the wholesaler and socks, five pairs for a tenner. A receipt? What do you need a receipt for, love?

Scissors, slippers, a jack-in-the-box and a mop. You go in for batteries and come out with a bag of things you never knew existed.

A tan like two weeks in Egypt, in eight minutes. Customers leave the colour of carrots and very satisfied.

Smoked mountain cheese off the grill, with cranberries. The mountains are 300 kilometres away, but the shepherd is the same, and the sheep, let’s say, too.

A blue cart that wandered over from Kraków. Bread rings with salt, poppy seeds or sesame, fresh as yesterday’s news.

The season runs from the first sunshine to the first snow. An umbrella with a brewery logo, a beer for the price of lunch.

With whipped cream and fruit. The taste of a holiday by Polish water, the price of a holiday by someone else’s.

Counter no. 7 is closed, the others are on a break. Please take a number and rethink your life.

Registration opens at seven, the queue at six. Next specialist appointment: 2034. The lady in front of you has been in “just for a prescription” for forty minutes.

The priest is doing the “kolęda”, his Christmas home visits, and the whole estate panics, hides the TV remote and gets out the tablecloth. The bells ring on time, unlike the trams.

At noon “Prząśniczka”, a song about a girl spinning yarn, rings out over the city. Kraków has its trumpeter and his legend; Łódź has a song about spinning. Every city gets the bugle call it deserves.

Two hundred guests, three days of after-party and an uncle who always dances first. “Gorzko, gorzko!” (“Bitter!”, so the couple must kiss) until the mortgage is paid off.

The clock is a quarter of an hour slow. Officials claim it’s the rest of the city that’s fast.

A national bard on a plinth. Students give him a traffic cone; the pigeons take care of the rest. The city removes the cone once a quarter, with bureaucratic diligence.

Łódź pigeons don’t eat bread rolls, only “żuliki” (raisin rolls). Click among them and they’ll hold a roll call in mid-air.

In summer a paddling pool for kids, on the night after final exams a pool for grown-ups. In winter a monument to cost-cutting.

A school-monument built from one design for the whole country, one of the “thousand schools for the millennium”. The cloakroom still smells exactly as it did in 1974.

The artificial-turf pitch every town got. You play to ten goals or until someone is called in for dinner. Whoever brought the ball sets the rules, the teams and the score.

Fire brigade, wedding hall and community centre in one. The engine goes out to a fire, provided the catering isn’t blocking it.

Pea soup from the cauldron, candy floss and “disco polo” from the stage. The mayor keeps his speech short, i.e. forty minutes.

High-rises from the 70s for artists and party bigwigs. New York has Central Park; we have a view of Piotrkowska and a lift that likes to stop between floors.

Glass office blocks by Fabryczna station. It was meant to be the City of Łódź; instead there’s open space, fruit Thursdays instead of pay rises and a view of a building site that was here first and will leave last.

“Wiedźmak 4” (almost “The Witcher”): coming soon™. Release date: also soon™. On the thirtieth floor work continues on the trailer for the trailer.

Mr Zdzisław, five garden gnomes and tomatoes you’ll hear about whether you want to or not. His 1979 shed has more layers of paint than planks.

Guards the vegetable beds better than the city CCTV. His bronze cousins have taken over Wrocław and take money from tourists.

On a Polish beach you claim your spot at six in the morning with a windbreak (“parawan”). No windbreak, no beach, no dignity and no view of the water.

Blue-green algae. Like every year, right at the height of the season and right after you’ve paid for the accommodation.

A pedal-powered swan. Half an hour of pedalling, sore legs for the rest of the holiday and a photo where everyone fakes joy.

A cube-shaped house with a flat roof. It stands in every town, the same everywhere, everywhere with an unfinished balcony.

Black metal sheeting, a huge window, zero net curtains. The neighbours in the cube house watch suspiciously and count the instalments.

A green defensive wall. The neighbour can’t look in; neither can the sun.

Compulsory garden equipment, right next to the pool from the supermarket. Used intensively for the first two weeks.

A menacing sign. The dog wags its tail and would give the house away for a sausage.

Breathes fire every few moments. His cousin at Wawel in Kraków can be summoned by text message; with this one, just don’t feed it.

Normally found in the primeval forest. This one wandered into the park and is waiting for someone to finish the slogan.

Paid for from the participatory budget. One man uses it, every day, for three years now, and he’s in better shape than you.

A 17 m² micro-apartment with a view of the bins. Five minutes to the centre. By helicopter.

The crew: one digs, four advise. Locals remember the east–west route works and know that “until 2031” is the optimistic scenario.

Older than some drivers. Locals avoid it from memory; out-of-towners find it by losing a wheel.

The Fiat 126p, “the little one”. It fitted a family of four, luggage for two weeks and the mother-in-law. Physicists still don’t know how; the passengers prefer not to remember.

1.9 TDI, the German cried when he sold it. With laughter. Mileage 180,000 since 2006, unchanged.

Drives calmly. Suddenly everyone around remembers the 50 km/h limit and the existence of indicators.

“Zaraz” means “right away”. Status: “Recipient not found.” The recipient sat at home all day, by the door, with a hand on the handle.

A mobile greengrocer with a megaphone. He has woken the estate at seven on Saturdays for thirty years and nobody has dared to complain.

Runs instead of the tram, which isn’t running because of track works. The works were meant to take a quarter; the replacement line is about to celebrate its third birthday.

Either a protest, or someone went for bread rolls in whatever was parked closer. Either way, nobody is in a hurry.

A yellow box that keeps the council budget safe. Say cheese!

The street is empty to the horizon and everyone waits obediently. The only rule the nation obeys of its own free will.

The timetable is for guidance only. So is the “2 min” display, which has been saying that for a quarter of an hour.

Parked the traditional way: across the pavement. Rental by the minute, tripping over them free of charge.

Pizza arrives in 30 minutes or in 90. On the pavement, against the traffic and through red lights, because the algorithm shows no mercy.

Sandals, white socks, a plastic bag. Destination: Stonka. Goal: a promotion that ended yesterday.

A shopping trolley full of promotions. Frail in the tram doorway, a sprinter on the way to a free seat.

A white and red scarf. Before the match: certain victory. After the match: “nic się nie stało” (“nothing happened”), until next time.

A proposal from the sky. The whole city is keeping its fingers crossed that Andżelika thinks it over carefully.

National Non-Flying Lines (“nielot” = a flightless bird). Lublinek airport greets it with a brass band, because it’s the only flight this week.

Appears rarely and is always looking for a parking space at Manufakturka. The aliens asked the way to the “przecinak” and flew off, disgusted by the prices.

Pixel ŁÓDŹ

Easter eggs hidden on the map