Friday, August 11, 2006
Time may fly when you are having fun, but it lingers where there is love and laughter. I spent just two little days with Asia and her mother, Maria, in Szczecin (sh-ch-e-ch-een) (rhymes, sort of, with fetching) but left feeling as refreshed as if I had just taken a two week vacation. Their home was so warm and welcoming, their hospitality so freely-given without reserve, and their affection so profoundly genuine, I felt I was home in a sense of home I have rarely touched in life, in neither the one constructed for me or by me. Being with them was like slipping into sheer silk sheets on a warm summer’s night and cuddling in a blanket before the fire on a cold winter’s day all rolled up together. If you had told me just two days in the care and company of two lovely ladies could restore and soothe my body, spirit, and soul so completely, I would have never believed you. But here I am – refreshed and restored and ready for the Scandinavia border that lies ahead of me as I ride the ferry ‘cross the Baltic.
Asia and I met studying Italian in Ascoli Piceno. I immediately took a liking to this beautifully dressed, perfectly figured, round faced, little porcelain doll who was quick as whip yet kind and caring and could be mistaken for my sister (okay so she could be mistaken my daughter). She always aroused an array of emotions in me – sometimes I felt very motherly towards her, others I felt like a college girlfriend (and it has been a long time since I felt like a college anything!). Often I admired her; and, admittedly, often I envied her. There were five girls and one guy from Poland in the study program there at the time, but I never felt particularly a part of their group. With traveling back to the states twice in less than two months to help Patrick, I missed most of the classes and in turn the “bonding” period that ties foreign students together. But I adored Asia and welcomed any opportunity to spend time with her. Ludmilla was often the catalyst to get us together for an appertivo. Sometimes I arranged a get together like skating outdoors at Piazza Arringo or a little Baileys and Coffee party at the house. Some nights the whole group got together to go dancing. Many times, Asia and I would pass the cold winter afternoons at the school chatting over the internet or the American magazines I had brought back from America. Asia gave me many ‘warm fuzzy’ moments in those cold winter months just in the way she accepted me and saw beauty in things about me that others see as flawed.
When I made plans for this trip initially, I wanted to start the trip with Ludmilla in Portugal and end it with Asia in Poland – an alliterated bookend plan you might say. Plans never worked out with Ludmilla and even though the trip had by then morphed into a ‘Western’ Europe trip, I couldn’t go from Berlin to Copenhagen without stopping at Sczcecin on the way to see Asia and her mom who I had met one time for coffee in Ascoli. I arrived to a friend I knew from Italian school. I left feeling like I had a new family.
Asia’s mom is the most delightful, warm-hearted woman with mother-ness just oozing out of her pours. With the same round face, and beautiful pale blue eyes, she is the spitting image of Asia, except older. She too is an attorney and raised Asia as a single mom since Asia was five. I would have given anything to have long conversations with her about love and life and raising children but unfortunately while she understands a fair amount of English she doesn’t speak it. Despite the language barrier, she had taken the whole week off of work just because I was coming to town.
They met me at the train station with big smiles, grabbed my bags, against my protestations, and whisked me off to their apartment outside of town. Dinner was on the table before you could shake a stick – an array of sausages and meats, bread, fresh veggies, and these wonderful sauerkraut filled delicacies – something between a crepe and a pancake. They were mmm, so good. I was about to burst but just had to have a fifth! We lingered over the table in conversation for hours before they finally tucked me off to bed. I tried to argue about taking Asia’s bed instead of the couch, but they said no. When I continued to insist, Asia pointed out, quite kindly, that she would sleep with her mom on the couch. I blurted out, American style, “But why doesn’t she sleep in her room?” I hadn’t noticed that there was not another bedroom. You see in Poland the children get their own rooms and the parents sleep on couches that convert quite handily into double beds (much better than the sleeper sofas we have). I did a very poor job of hiding my shock. “You mean you have your own room and your mom doesn’t?” I asked, incredulously. This was so beyond American conception – if there was one room to be had, it would be mom and dad’s surely – not that even our poorest families have two room houses anymore. Not in Poland. Under the communist regime one child meant one bedroom, two children – two bedrooms, the parents took the living room. I apologetically took my bags back into Asia’s room, noting once again, as I often do how damned lucky we are in America – often in ways we never even stop to think about.
Wednesday morning began with hardboiled eggs with mayonnaise – something I’d never had or heard of but knew I’d like as a tuna fish, egg salad, and deviled eggs junkie - more meats, orange juice, and coffee and again delightful conversation. Asia and I set out after breakfast for a walk through Puszcza Bukowa, one of Europe’s largest forests, emerging on a plateau with a beautiful view of the city beyond and a seemingly alpine blue lake below. In Ascoli I had often felt aware of our age difference, but here it was as if we were the same, not 20, not 40, just two women talking about life and love, mostly love…
On the way to the forest we cut through a cemetery. Now I don’t mean to bring up a morbid topic of conversation, but the Polish have the most beautiful cemeteries I have ever seen. Instead of simple headstones or marble markers, they have marble slabs about four feet long by 2 ½ feet wide (they bury their dead vertically so the markers can be shorter than the size of a coffin) with a headstone at the “head” of the grave. The difference is in the top of the majority of these marble slabs there is a space cut out to serve as a planter, yes a planter. You have to check the picture out on the website. Instead of plastic flowers you can actually plant flowers in the marble grave-covering itself. Certainly there are plastic flowers as well and even potted plants scattered around the plot, but the flowers blooming out of these sculpted grave top planters give the cemetery a most beautiful, living (excuse the reference) touch. The Polish people also try to maintain the tradition of keeping an eternal candle for their deceased loved ones. You can purchase one-week candles (and flowers and anything else grave related) at the dozens of cemetery shops that line the streets on every side of the cemetery. There are closed lanterns of all sizes scattered amongst the graves and traditionally the family gathers together on Sunday to pay their respects to loved ones and light the new candle from the one soon to burn out. Many graves are tended preciously and meticulously like gardens, with little lockboxes under the mourners’ benches to keep gardening tools, candles, and other things needed to keep the graves lovely and respected. I mourned the unkempt graves for they were a sure sign that a family line had died out and been forgotten.
While I feel blessed to be a part of this world of crumbling institutions that have in turn opened the way for women to work, races to integrate, and people to express themselves and their sexuality, I hate that one of the prices we had to pay was that of traditions. I’m sure in time we will develop new traditions, new ways of acknowledging the passing of time and tide. It is in such acknowledgment that we remember our place – both in the sense that we too will pass and in the sense that it is important we are here to link the last generations with the new ones, and especially in the sense of knowing where we are now in the cobblestone path of life.
Apparently not only is paying respects to those resting important in Poland but enjoying the abundance of food that was once restricted by the communist government is also important. They have not three, but four meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and supper. Lunch started with a wonderful goulash type soup. Just as the first plate in Italy is always pasta, the first plate in Poland is always soup. Strangely the soup and the meat entrée that followed it tasted remarkably like my grandmother’s cooking. Even the wonderful jello-with-raspberries topped cheesecake tasted like something my grandmother had made. Not only that, but my grandmother was the only person I ever knew who called lunch dinner and dinner supper. I always thought it was a southern thing growing up, but I think it was just my grandma’s thing. Now I will have to research our family line further. I know that both her mother and father were descendent from Native American ancestors, and I remember her telling me that one of her grandfathers was Dutch – thus explaining our coloring ( the blonde genes ALWAYS win out in our family) – but she couldn’t tell me anything else about our family tree.
Just a few months ago I discovered something fascinating in a Bill Bryson book about my likely heritage. My favorite game my grandmother played with me as a little girl was a face-naming game – she would point in succession to the parts of my face, cooing in her sing-song voice, “Fore-bender, Eye-winker, Tom-tinker, Nose-dropper, Mouth-eater, Chin-chopper…” going slower and slower until she shouted gitchy-gitchy goo while tickling under my chin. Every time I swore this time I would see it coming and I wouldn’t laugh – but she got me every time. I can still feel her fingers running under my chin, across my throat, as I giggled and scrunched my chin down. I thought all my life this was a southern game. It wasn’t until I was an adult I realized no one else knew Forebender. No one.
Flash-forward to reading Bryson’s linguistic book called “The Mother Tongue” (FYI - a fascinating read on the English language). He began the book talking about nursery rhymes and the importance of them to linguistic studies for their tendency to remain unchanged through the times, despite constant shifts in all languages, and the clues they can give to the origins of people and idioms. He told the story of a couple who spent their professional lives studying the linguistics of nursery rhymes. They had been stumped by one rhyme that they could not find the origin of, despite years of research. Having all but given up, one night they heard their own nanny tucking the children into sleep with the mysterious nursery rhyme – it was my grandmother’s very own Fore-bender. The couple traced the nanny’s lineage and found that the rhyme came from a Dutch colony.that had been isolated for much of its existence. Unfortunately, Bryson didn’t mention the name of the colony nor could I find it onthe internet. Maria told me, however, that a small Dutch colony had once been a part of Poland. I seriously wonder now given the similarities with my grandmother’s cooking and language tendencies and other physical traits I see in common with these people, particularly in the body build of my son, if we aren’t descended from that colony. I remember the jokes about the “dumb” Polocks in grade school, but from my experience here, I would be proud to be called a part of this humble, genuine people.
We spent lunch discussing these things. Greg, one of Asia’s dear friends had joined us. Extremely bright, and despite his excited personality, he is the spitting image of John Boy Walton – down to the mole on his cheek. His sandy blonde hair hung in his eyes as he and Asia and I bantered sexual innuendo jokes and English plays on words to Maria’s delight. It was great to see another “cool” mom in action who could appreciate the humor of US kids. It was probably a bit cruel given she was only ten years my senior, but I was calling Asia’s mom, Mom, by lunch the first day. ‘Maria’ just wasn’t filled with enough of the affection I felt for her and appreciation for taking care of me like her own.
Igor, the brainiac I had met in Berlin, joined us after lunch just before Greg had to go back to his over-possessive wifey. While I understand a little healthy jealousy, I will never understand people who have to keep their beloveds on a leash the length of their arm. Nor will I understand the partners who accept it. There are many things I can support in a relationship, but over-possessiveness and excessive jealousy were never on my patience list. We said our apologetic goodbyes to Greg and headed into town for a historical tour of the Szczecin sights.
Szczecin was a bittersweet town. Filled with beautiful architecture and a rich history, home to a once-vibrant port and incredible parks, it has obviously been poorly governed through the last century and now simply left to rot. It was sad seeing buildings that would rival any turn of the century jewels of Paris or Vienna left to the ravages of time - paint peeling, balconies collapsing, moldings falling off the sides. The city was actually modeled after Paris in a star shape with wide avenues on either side of tree lined medians and roundabouts. The eighty years of change, decay, war, and communism, however, have left the people tired, worn, beaten down, and dejected. The population is shrinking as people make way for the bright future of Berlin, just two hours to the south west. They are still trying to rebuild some structures but clearly with little care as to the quality or accuracy of the restructures. It is like a mafia-managed city – you can smell money in the air but it is in people’s back pockets and not in the city where it belongs. In fact Wikipedia states that the mayor, Marian Jurczyk’s achievements are widely criticized and he is blamed for over 10 millions zloyts compensations which the city must pay for canceling a land selling deal, his lack of formal education, and his apparent cluelessness in many important matters. Jurczyk's famous errors include forgetting the name of his own deputy he just nominated, quoting Jesus in his speech to the council, and most recently showing up late to a meeting with a crowned prince interested in investing money to build a resort in the city limits. Under the law, a mayor can be “impeached” upon the signing of 32,000 names to a petition. The people rallied, skipping school and work to sign the petition and oust Jurczyk. The petition carried but the government found a loophole to keep the mayor in place and so the city continues to die under his not so watchful eye.
Pomerania, as it was once known, gained its independence back in 1005 but this land and city was to change hands several times over the next thousand years before being passed from the Germans to the Russians after World War II. It was strange to imagine just sixty years ago, this city had been part of Germany. We walked past city hall where Hitler once spoke and through the park that commemorated Pope John Paul’s visit in the 80s. We strolled a small part of the Central Cemetery, the third largest in Europe and even more beautiful than the one we had seen the day before, and wandered through the numerous parks, admiring and criticizing the many statues in the town. The town symbol is the Gryphon though apparently the town sculptor wasn’t particularly good at creating a likeness for his subject, gryphon or otherwise.
The tour of the city would not be complete without a stop at the most important sight – Galaxy, the latest and greatest edition to the Szczecin scene; a three-story shopping extravaganza fit to rival most American malls. Actually some might say the bar in the center makes it better than most American malls. My favorite spot was Coffee Heaven – one of the dozen Starbuck takeoffs except this one’s got it down. I had a Kaluha, Caramel, Chocolate latte that was absolutely to die for! After warming up with a coffee we continued on, admiring St. James’ Cathedral, founded in 1187, passing the Tower of the Seven Coats, the only structure remaining of the medieval fortifications from the 1400’s, and continuing on to Old Town to see the Pomeranian Duke’s Castle. Unfortunately much of the castle was destroyed during the war and the reconstruction has done little to maintain a sense of antiquity. Finishing up our tour with a quick stroll through the new old town with its romantic restaurants and cozy bars and past the lovely piazza overlooking the harbor we had just enough time to dash home and change to meet two of the other students from Ascoli for drinks, Alecia and Pavlo.
It was great having our mini-Ascoli reunion interesting to see a club called B-52 replete with a replica B-52 which served as a private room in the back and DJ booth up front (I guess no-one else thought it was strange they modeled a club after a plane that destroyed much of their city). Asia and I had fun on the dancing, observing evidence that Polish men are indeed the worst dressed men on the planet in their short-sleeve, untucked, button up, colored shirts, and watching Igor work his magic on two pretty hot Polish blondes. We had even more fun picking up the cuties from Denmark who unfortunately were as dumb as they were cute and laughing over the Polock who sadly supported the stereotype long ago presented to me about their people when he argued that California was considered the Southwest. Apparently this is a common, and understandable, geographic misconception – the stupidity was that he was arguing the fact with an American! We walked home, Asia, Igor, and I, pretty tipsy at 4am (from drinking vodka and applejuice (?!) under the full moon, making up limericks that I’m sure were far more funny with a few drinks and a full moon than they would be any other time. It was an awesome day.
Unfortunately the next day began at 8:30 am with the workers literally outside the high-rise apartment window putting up new rockwall with power drills. It was as if they were drilling directly into my head, or maybe that was the vodka. We all rallied and escaped the construction site, heading for the seaside town Miedzyzdruje. It amazes me how all sea-side towns in all the world are exactly the same – people strolling down boardwalks in that no-place-to-go stride, tacky shops selling postcards, memorabilia, and cheap knickknacks made of shells, – dust-collectors as Asia’s mom would call them - stand after stand of fattening irresistible meats and treats and sweats filling the air with passing aromas – first popcorn, now pizza, now the smell of roasting meat.. We stopped for Szaszkyk – roasted pork on skewers with onions and a special sauce - oh, soo, sooo good! We just meandered the day away, walking the promenade, filling up on meat and ice-cream, coffee and snacks, wandering in and out of the little shops, people watching, and enjoying the warm summer day. We had eaten so much I thought surely we would just head to bed but I barely had time to check email before Maria had another meal on the table! We laughed until almost midnight as they told me stories about the crazy aunt – the one most southern families have who knows everything about everything – love, marriage, children, the world, society - but has never been married, had children, traveled, or really even socialized herself. The days had lasted forever and still passed too quickly. I packed my bags, prepared another shipment for home, and wrote my postcards before settling into my last night’s sleep in this wonderful home. Hugs, kisses, and promises to see each other soon were passed around as we said our goodbyes alongside the local bus that would take me to the ferry that would drop me in Copenhagen. We all marveled over the sense of family that had come between us in such a short time. I hope the day will not be long from now when our paths happily pass again.
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