Word(y) Wednesday: Camping in Ohio

Last weekend, my children, husband and I made the over 7 hour drive to Ohio.  It was the midway point to Maryland, so that some of his family could meet us there.  It was also the location of another event which my husband enjoys, a mud run.

The most memorable moment I had personally on the trip was visiting Conkle's Hollow.

Driving along the country road from our camp site, I saw a thick dark unending pine forest.

There was a hush coming from the woods.  It beckoned me, pulled at my blood memory.

The forests in Poland looked like these woods.

Thick towering trees blocking out the sun, needles pillowing the ground, ferns uncurling their greenery as they have since the Age of Fishes, before the Dinosaurs.  Life quietly growing, undamaged by Man's hand.

Mushrooms waiting for the right rains and temperatures so that they can ripple the pine needle floor and peek out, fairy tales and legends recited on them by Krasnoludki.

The eyes of creature residents, unseen by us, yet I know they are there.  There is a slight tingling sensation that I am being watched by something.  Something that knows what I am, human, creator of fire and death.  Perhaps it's a flock of deer, a chipmunk, a bear.  They know of me, of my kind, of how we tear apart the Earth and claim it all as ours for the taking.

Shhhhh...  The wind blows, the tops of the trees sway, the forest remains quiet.  Calling me.

We move down the road, the forest on my right side, steady.

On the trail, our group of seven spreads across the trail, adults stepping in stride with the children, teaching them.  How to watch for snakes, to stand in silence a moment around water so that you can see that the creek is indeed teeming with life, to find new life on plants, to touch a tree and look up and to rightfully feel the awe of this wondrous life, brown and green and strong.

Reminders to stay on the trail, not to disturb the life there, to know that in Nature, animals live here and that we are entering their house.

Little needles on the ground, green with two white stripes, eastern hemlock, a species from the end of the Ice Age.  On tiny fingers, eyes absorbing the details quickly, ears hearing the hush and our voices.

A turn of the head and we see a Native American couple walking the path, slowly, looking at all that is around them, in traditional dress.  They are beautiful.

I smile at them, knowing that here we are doing the same thing, conversing silently with God.  And sharing with the next generation so that they know as well.

My mother-in-law bravely approaches them and asks if we can take a photo of them, which they agree to.  Conversation naturally flows, like the creek a few feet from us.

The woman tells me they are Cherokee.  The man is quiet but his eyes shine with wisdom and his words carry weight.

She speaks words that could have come from my mother, my father, my grandparents, my cousins.  From across the ocean, from Poland. 


"Nature is important."


"This is our church, God is here."


"Each tree and rock is unique, has it's own characteristics, just like people."

We agree that it is a wondrous thing to see people walking in the woods and teaching the next generation to behold Nature and enjoy it.

She talks about giving thanks throughout the day for the Sun, for a new day, for the rain, and everything else around us.

In my heart, their wisdom hits every chord of how I want to mother my children, what impact I want to have on my great great grand children.

It's a moment of clarity, refocusing me.

I didn't catch their names but we ended up agreeing that perhaps we will see them at a Pow Wow sometime.  I hope we do.  They truly blessed me that day.

Na razie...

 

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My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, On the Plane and in Munich

The plane raised through the air and my older daughter grinned from the strange feeling, telling me loudly how exciting it was.  She looked at the windows and all we could see were dark clouds and lightening flashing all around us.  The wings of the plane were not visible.

"Mommy!  Are we in the clouds?" she asked in disbelief.  "Look, look, everyone!  We are in the clouds!  I wonder if we'll see Angels!  Or God!"

When the pilot spoke over the intercom next, among the topics he discussed were that we would be experiencing turbulence for a while so it best would be to remained buckled in our chairs whenever we are not standing. 

I took my daughter to the bathroom where she gushed over the small space and how strange everything was.  And that she was "very unhappy" that I had a pair of disposable pull ups on her but I told her that I knew she was a big girl and that she knew how to use the potty since she was 1 1/2 but because the flight would be stressful and sometimes we might wait a long time to use a bathroom, I had them on her just in case so that if she did have an accident, nobody would know.  She nodded seriously and told me that she needed "my privacy to use the bathroom, Mommy."

We hit a patch of turbulence and she squealed in the bathroom but bravely did her business, washed her hands and walked with me to our seats.

We buckled her back in, a flight attendant double checked that she was buckled, gave us an extra pillow and blanket for her and suggested that we remove her shoes.  She also gave my daughter a coloring book, coloring pencils, a children's menu, and a puzzle, all of which she still has in a special box filled with her Poland souvenirs.

After a while of playing with headphones, pillows, singing, watching the television, and coloring, our meals came and she was not happy about spaghetti but I told her this was German spaghetti, it's very different, with a whisper and a wink.  She tried it, hated it and ate the rest of her meal and some of mine and her Dziadek's. 

Nap time came, lights were dimmed, windows closed and she stretched out, her head on her Dziadek's leg and her feet on me.  She fell asleep happily but at one point, pushed her Dziadek and told him "Dziadek.  You are in my space.  This is my space.  Where I am laying.  And you are in it, I need you to move, please.," very seriously.  A short quarrel interrupted while my cigarette craving father laughed and told her she was in his space and she completely disagreed.  She finally settled on switching positions so that her feet were on her Dziadek.  But then, later, woke up to tell him again.  Frankly, the seriousness of her voice was too funny to be angry about. 

And, considering the girl across the aisle from us was 5 years old, peed on her father, and started yelling for milk in her bottle in the middle of take off, I had to be proud of my little "gypsy" daughter.  We ended up giving the father of the other girl a pair of Pull ups, which he accepted.

My daughter looked at me and asked in a whisper "why the big girl had pee peed on her Daddy" and I told her that flying is hard for kids and that all we can do is just try and stay calm.  She smiled sleepily at me and said, "I love flying," before drifting off to sleep again.

We arrived an hour late in Munich.  When we got off the plane, she told each of the crew goodbye and told them "Thank you so much!  I mean, Dziekujem!"  By this point, many of them knew her name and wished her a wonderful trip.

We ended up missing our connection flight by 15 minutes.  But we were very happy with how Lufthansa handled it.  We raced through the airport from one end to the other with a 3 year old who's "legs were
still sleeping" and who giggled uncontrollably as her Dziadek grabbed her by her teddy bear book bag and picked her up and carried her for a bit.  Some people gave us dirty looks as we held onto her leash and carried her first in my arms or by the book bag by Dziadek or walking tiredly between us, but frankly, they were not in our shoes.

We made it to the next terminal 5 minutes too late.  But the staff was very understanding, assuring us that they knew we could not have made it, as had the staff on the plane when we arrived.  We were to take our connection flight 4 hours later. and they gave us each vouchers for 10 Euros at a restaurant in the airport.  Which I mistook for 70, forgetting that in Europe they cross their "7"'s, just like I do, but I was tired and stressed.

The staff allowed us to use a telephone they had for situations just like this to our family telling them know about the flight change.   Using the vouchers we were given, we found a restaurant with antlers, wooden decor, and women dressed in traditional German attire.  My daughter couldn't believe she was in Germany and told the lady how pretty she looked in her outfit.

Weinerschnitzel and french fries were ordered for her and she devoured almost the entire adult sized plate, leaving the french fries because the "German chicken nugget is so good, Mommy!"  My first sign that she would love the food in Poland without question.

We sat around, enjoying carrot salads, soups, frankfurters, and other foods I had grown up loving and missed terribly.

The airport had a glass ceiling with a fabric which was adjusted to either block or let in the sun and she marveled at it.  She asked the waitress a lot of great questions about Germany.

In the bathroom, she asked why there was foaming antibacterial hand sanitizer in each stall.  I explained how the instructions showed to use it, first you put some on a piece of toilet paper, then you wiped the seat clean, use the bathroom, then wiped it clean with the foam and toilet paper again.  She asked more questions about why the bathrooms had different signs for men and women and I told her it was the international sign for that, and that in the US it was just different from the rest of the world.

She also asked why the walls were all tiled and the tiles were shaped different, and why the towel for wiping your hands dry were different.  It was actually on a roll and you would wipe your hands dry, then pull and it would go to a new dry spot.  There was a lot of discussion in that bathroom, more than I think I have ever had with her in a bathroom before or since.  And I think that is when she realized how different it really is in America.

Finally, it was our time to catch our flight.  We were put on a standing shuttle to an airplane that she said was so small, "it looks like a toy, Mommy!  It's so cute!"

We went into the small airplane, where she and I again buckled in with a pillow between our bellies and the seat belt.  This time, she had the window seat and watched, with her nose pressed against the glass, the beautiful countryside underneath her.  When we were flying over Wroclaw, I pointed it out to her.  "That's the city Mommy was born in.  That's Wroclaw." 

She gushed over how beautiful it was.  "Mommy!  It looks like a fairy tale!"

The plane landed and I turned to her and said, "Welcome to Poland, baby."

She smiled and whispered, "Poland."  Then waved her arms and said, "I'm so excited, Mommy!  Hey, Dziadek, we're in Poland!  Where you and my Mommy are from!"

To be continued...

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My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure

My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure

The day of our trip was nearing and my father had told me that he would be accompanying us from Washington, D.C.  After all, this was his father and he should be there for the funeral.  My relief was immense.  And then, I had to begin reminding him to purchase his ticket and renew his passport quickly.  My father is extremely intelligent and driven but what daughter doesn't worry and make sure her father takes care of his non-work related business.

The relief, the night before the trip when my father arrived on my doorstep to come with my older daughter and myself, was immense.  The sound of my daughter's sleepy voice the next morning finding her Dziadek awake on our sofa was priceless.  "Dziadek!  Are you coming to Poland with me and Mommy?"  And the gigantic hug she threw around his neck when he confirmed her suspicions was a moment I think my father will always hold in his memories.

A few minutes later, my house was filled with a flurry of activity.  My daughter was dressed and her hair tossed into two "Kitki" (piggie tales), we adults pulled ourselves together and my husband was hugged and kissed by "his two girls", as he called us. 

We pulled away in my father's car to the airport and the adventure began...

After a drive filled with my father's techno music and a million questions and giggles from the backseat by my older daughter, we arrived at the airport.  My father smoked a cigarette while I put the teddy bear book bag with lease on my daughter and we all took a shuttle from the parking lot to the airport. 

As we sat down, my daughter announced to the driver and everyone else on the shuttle that "we are going to Poland where my Mommy and Dziadek are from!  And, guess what?  I'm Polish too!"  Her 3 year old eyes widened as she saw airplane after airplane take off and land on the airstrips.  My father pointed out a Lufthansa plane and said "See that biiiig plane?  That is the kind you will be on shortly."

Getting off the shuttle, she turned to the driver and waved, "Good bye!  Thank you very much!" and the driver smiled as she closed the door.

I wondered, "Is she going to talk to everyone she sees?  Is she going to be this happy on the plane?  How will this work?"

The sky above us turned dark, clouds blowing in quickly and bringing a massive thunderstorm.  My father smoked one more cigarette before we went inside.  The wind blew our luggage down and my daughter squealed as it blew against her forcefully. Lightening flashed across the sky and I started my usual pre flight panic in my mind.

My hand nervously kept squeezing the handle of the leash, reassuring myself that she was a good listener and that I had the leash as well, in case she was fidgety.  She smiled up at me, knowing that she had on a leash and the reasons why as she held my hand and watched as thousands of thousands of travelers walked through the airport.

We checked in and she noticed that the woman taking our passports had a Polish accent.  "Mommy!  Mommy, she's Polish, too!"  I explained that the woman was German, as we were flying through Lufthansa.  "Oh!  Cooool!"  The woman smiled at her but you could tell this was not the first time a child with an American accent and her mother had said this.  Perhaps, she did not realize this was no novelty but rather my daughter becoming worldly in a way many kids are never fortunate enough to experience.

We went through security and she stayed close to me the whole time.  Not out of fear, but out of an awareness I always thought she had about such situations but which we had never tested out before.  She removed her shoes and handed them to the TSA worker, smiling up at her and saying "Thank you!"  The TSA employees were all very patient and calm with us, smiling at her contagious joy at the entirely new experience. 

I kept her informed during the whole experience in the airport about what we had to do in each section and answered all her questions and she drank up every detail.  This child was a born traveler.  Did she have "Gypsy Blood"?  Very much so.

A mother with two children looked at my leash and commented what a great idea it was, with all the bustle of airports.  I knew I had made a wise decision but it would not yet become entirely clear why.

When we arrived at our departure gate, she asked more questions and began to play with a little German boy while we parents watched on, trying rather successfully to communicate to one another about our children.

My father and I watched out the large windows as the storm raged outside.  I asked him in Polish if the flight would be affected and he shrugged, trusting the pilot to know how to perform his job safely.  My daughter showed no fear at the storm, after all, the angels in Heaven were holding a party!

A plane taxied over to the terminal next to ours and passengers poured out, she watched fascinated.  "That is going to be like us, Mommy!"  Our plane was loaded with luggage and she watched, hoping to catch a glimpse of her luggage.

When it was time to board the plane and hour and a half after schedule, we were allowed to get on earlier than other passengars as we had a child with us.  She handed her ticket to the flight attendant and said, "Hi!  I'm going to Poland!"  The flight attendant told her, "Wow!  That's so nice!  I hope you have fun!"  She nodded and said "Thank you!  Oh, I mean, Dziekujem!"

We found our seats and she tried to help by looking at the numbers.  She sat between her Dziadek and myself, smiling and looking all around, pushing buttons, and asking questions. 

We buckled her in with a pillow between her stomach and her belt, her bottom completely against the back of the chair as the flight attendants double checked her twice.  I was also instructed to do the same as I was at this point becoming noticeably pregnant. 


I instructed my daughter to pay close attention to the flight attendants during the flight, not to jump around, cross herself and ask God for a safe flight and to behave the way I knew she could.  She took a piece of candy from her Dziadek, smiled at us both and the plane took off. 


We were off to Munich, Germany.  Our stop on the way to Wroclaw, Poland.

And she said "Weeeeeeeeeee!"...


To Be Continued...




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My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday

The picture with the first word my older daughter ever read besides her name...

The picture she points to, beaming with pride when people ask if we are Polish, "Yes, my Mommy is!  See?  I'm Polish, TOO!"...

The picture a friend bought in a yard sale for 50 cents many years ago, thinking of me, which was a bit torn and which my now husband framed in a cheap IKEA frame and hung on our wall...

The picture which which dominates and dictates our house and decor...

The picture she would point to when people would ask where she was getting ready to go, "Where my Mommy was born!  POLAND!  See?  P-O-L-A-N-D!  Poland! She's from (looks at me quickly) Wroclaw (with an adorable attempt to roll her "R" and her "V" sounds coming out as "F"'s.)."...

Where we were about to fly to, alone together, to bury my Dziadek...

The pictures on each side represent various "legends" from Poland, the people dressed in traditional regional costume, the card from my cousin which originally held a Wigilia wafer so that we could break it together and be closer to them in spirit during Christmas...

To Be Continued...


Related Articles:  My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning

My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning

My older daughter was then 3 years old when my Dziadek passed away from a heart attack.  I was pregnant with my second daughter and was just out of my first trimester.  It was time to visit Poland and take her on her first trip to the place her mother always talked about.

Time to visit my birth country.

And time to bury a family member.

My husband had to work and couldn't take a vacation. Also, because we were buying tickets last minute, along with having to file for her first passport ever, we were in a time crunch and had to pay an exorbitant amount for our tickets and expedite the passport.

For her passport, I braided her hair into two plaits, which she proclaimed made her look like a "little Polish girl" as she smiled in the mirror and looked at her reflection.  This was not the first time I had styled her hair this way. 

At the post office, she was so proud strolling in to be getting a passport, that she announced to everyone present "My mommy's Dziadek died so I need a passport please so we can go to POLAND!"  She stayed perfectly still as the woman took her photo.  The first photo, she looked last second in my direction, pride on her face and my heart burst.  The woman gave me the photo to keep since "her expression was so precious" but had to be looking straight ahead for the passport.

When we left the post office, every employee at the front desk had by then heard her story and was waving goodbye to us and wishing her luck.  She waved goodbye to everyone and skipped to the car, holding my hand.

This moment was precious and I needed it as I was mourning the loss of my Dziadek.

I went through my maternity clothes and saw yellows, flowers, pinks and decidedly not-for-a-funeral clothing.  This also required a trip to the maternity store to snatch up whatever blacks I could find. 

Can I say I do not wear black?  Others can wear it.  But I have learned something about myself as I have gotten older.  I don't look quite "right" in black.  Maybe it's the color against my medium blonde hair.  Maybe it's the fact that I don't exactly ooze black clad martini sipping designer handbag socialite but instead seem more natural in "bohemian peasant" style clothing.  Maybe it's because I don't style my hair.  It is straight and if you try to do anything with it, it doesn't seem to want to cooperate.  So, I keep it clean, brushed and parted straight.  So, black does not go well with my "aura", if you will.

But for a funeral, what do you wear?  Black, of course.

This was June and the only clothing on the racks were for overheated pregnant moms who were sweating even in air conditioning in June.  In Poland, the week I went?  It was cold.

After spending money for funeral appropriate maternity clothing, we had to pack my daughter's bag.  Her obsession at the time was Disney Princess t-shirts, the color purple and bright sparkles.  Again, not funeral attire.  In Poland, and I would imagine in the US as well, you especially do not wear purple to a funeral.

Of course, children her age are exempt from having to wear black head to toe.  But still.  Sparkles and Princesses don't fly.  Another trip to the store and we bought her a navy blue skirt, 2 pair of Capri chinos in black and brown, 4 peasant style shirts in brown, navy blue, black and white, a red button coat which screamed "adorable girl from Europe", black Maryjane's to match Mama, and a navy blue long sleeve shirt.  Just in case.  Thank goodness I thought of the just in case.

Toys were purchased for my cousin's children which I couldn't wait to give to them.  My daughter kept pulling them out and staring at the Sleeping Beauty doll asking about her cousins' names and any details I could give them.  She couldn't wait to meet them.

The trip total cost us over $3,000 for the two of us with all expenses.

I started panicking between all the rushed planning that I had not taught my daughter Polish.  She knew a few safety words in Polish and how to express love and affection and a song.  How was this going to work?  How was she going to play with my cousin's children?

In the meantime, my daughter was telling everyone she saw, even strangers, that she was going to visit "the country my Mommy is from!  POLAND!" with such squeaks of joy, I couldn't understand it.

I stressed that there would be no macaroni and cheese, no chicken nuggets and french fries, nothing she was used to on a daily basis.  And that she would eat whatever people gave her because it would be rude otherwise.  Eye widened at this information, she would nod and say "Yes, Mommy." 

In my stomach, butterflies were turning while the baby was beginning her first signs of movement inside me.

A teddy bear book bag with leash was purchased.   I received strange and often disapproving looks as we carried it to the register and purchased it.  Look, stare, and judge however people wanted to, I was going to be a pregnant Mama on my own with my child travelling from Washington, D.C.'s Dulles airport to Munich, Germany to Wroclaw, Poland.  To bury my Dziadek.

It turned out, there was nothing to worry about....

To be continued...

Related Articles:  My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure

A Cemetery in a Small Village in the Polish Countryside and WWII

My first experience seeing, feeling, and understanding the effects of WWII on Poland and myself was not while reading history books, or watching television, or talking to my Dziadek.  At those moments, WWII was an abstract idea, surreal, not tangible.  It just didn't seem real.  It was as distant as the Revolutionary War.

I was in a village visiting a Ciocia ("Aunt" in Polish) the first moment it really dawned on me what WWII meant.  What WWII was in terms of a human event, in terms of my family's history. 

This was my first trip back to Poland.  And it was life changing.



I stand in a small cemetery.

This is not a cemetery in America.  There are no artificial flowers, Styrofoam wreaths, and other such grave ornaments.  There aren't miles of meticulously manicured grass, limited plants and trees and bushes, tombstones flat on the ground so that from the highway running next to it, you are not reminded that it is a cemetery.  There is no mausoleum of hundreds of unrelated bodies.

This is a cemetery in a small village in Poland.  On a path travelled for centuries by villagers as they go about life.

This is the village's cemetery for centuries.  The local Catholic church towers over the village, as all Catholic churches in Poland tend to do.  The path to the cemetery had been lined with trees, tall grasses, and fields.  Not empty fields, but fields planted and growing food, some with cows and other livestock.  Farmer's fields growing what the village would be eating and making a living from. 

The walk had been beautiful, peaceful.  I knew we were going to visit a grave of some family member.  I don't know who.  Perhaps it is my other Dziadek's but I'm sorry to say I can't remember.

It is a warm sunny summer day.  There is a sign above the cemetery.  I don't remember what it says. 

The cemetery is surrounded by trees and cool shadows.  At first, the cemetery seems small.  All the graves have tall tombstones and stone covers.  Many have bushes and flowers planted around them.  Some have candles on the covers. 

Behind the cemetery is a once white stucco house with a red roof.  The yard is bursting with flowers.  Clothes hang on the line, gently moving with the warm summer breeze.  A cat, dark brown, peeks at me from under a bush.  Winks and crosses the yard toward the other side of the house.

Browning tall grass bends and bobs it's seedheads as the wind plays across them on one half of the cemetery, to my left.  All around, Nature is singing and celebrating Life.  Yet, I stand in a cemetery, with tombstones marking places where the dead rest, to my right.  To the left, tall grasses.

I look around, curious.  Begin reading tombstones.  Walking down each row.  So many names that never would sound "normal" in the USA but names which I grew up hearing around me.  And many with my first name.  "Katarzyna".

I always loved my first name.  I thought it was elegant, exotic and yet not strange, classic.  But until I visited Poland, I had never ever heard of anyone else having the same name, let alone met anyone.

I begin to pick small yellow flowers that were growing wild in a section of the cemetery.  They are small and beautiful.  They seemed so joyous while I walk around this final resting site.  I place a flower on one particular grave which has my same first name.  It feels right.  I begin to do the same for others.

The dates in this cemetery go back at least to the 1600's, with some faded, covered in moss.  The idea begins to hit me, as it does everyone at some point in their life, that one day I am going to be a marked tombstone somewhere.  The thought makes me uncomfortable.  And the more "Katarzyna"'s I read on tombstones, the more the idea hits me.

I place more flowers on graves.  This urge is primal.  It needs to be followed through.  It is the root for All Souls Day.  This is my Polish blood, whispering to me in a way I had never heard before.

The sun shines on my head.  On the flowers.  On grasshoppers and insects flying away from me with each step.

I step to the other half of the cemetery, grass as tall as I am in most places.  Wild flowers grow here, blue, yellow, red.  I start to pick more flowers.  My mother and Ciocia look at me and laugh.  They ask what I am doing and realize I have placed flowers on every grave that looks slightly neglected or has my first name.

They don't understand and I can't explain it.  Not to them.  They grew up around here.  Their names are normal to them and people around them, this cemetery is like all cemeteries to them, their history in the soil they tread is normal to them.  To me, this is so strange. 

I feel something that I had not understood before start to creep over me but I can't explain it.  I just can't.  I turn away from them and continue what I'm doing.  I don't care what they think.  It doesn't matter.  This is something spiritual I must wrestle with that they never had to.  I'm jealous of them.

In that area of the cemetery which I assume to be the empty section meant for future graves, I begin to pick flowers.  A few blades of grass move.  I find a tombstone.  My breathe stops.  I look around more carefully, moving wildflowers and grass out of the way and find many many more.  More than in the other, more cared for section of the cemetery.  And almost all their death dates are during WWII.  And there are many other Katarzynas.

I look at my mother and ask "Why hasn't the caretaker mowed around these graves?" 

My mother looks at me with a strange look in her eyes.  I think now it dawns on her, at least a bit, how much I just don't understand.  Not just in life.  I'm still a child, after all.  But about my family's history, Poland's history.  The culture.  Little subtle things that I could never really learn about living in the US.

She replies in a quiet voice, "Kasiu, there is no caretaker.  In Poland, the family cares for each grave."

I point to the graves, some knocked over or sitting crooked.  "But in this village, why don't they take care of these graves also?  The tombstones are broken, falling over.  The grasses are so tall.  The dead must be sad."

My Ciocia doesn't understand.  She waves a hand dismissively.  I don't like her.  "They are Jews.  Some Poles.  Their families left us here with their graves when they fled to America and never came back to care for their family (meaning their dead).  You don't understand how much work is to be done here.  People are too tired to care for more graves."

"But a lot of these are children.  And how can they be Jews?  I see a lot of Katarzyna's."

My mother looks at me, shakes her head, and says, "Kasiu, that's how it is."  She turns herself to end the conversation.  I wanted a hug from someone who understood what I was wrestling with.  My brother was there, he was walking around as well but he was quiet.  And he didn't touch any graves.  I don't know what he was thinking.  I should have reached out to him but didn't know what to say.

I continue walking around the graves.  I'm angry.  I see that there is a group of graves which all share the same death day.  Another grave has a Star of David.  So many are children.

I realize these people were killed by Nazis.  I don't know what the exact event was.  Perhaps I never will.  But first hand, for the first time ever, I see the effects of WWII.  In a village where some family member of mine is buried and therefor a part of my blood is from. 

It could have been over 100 graves, I'm not sure.  But there were so many.

I continue to walk and begin pulling up grass.  I leave the flowers.  But the grass I start to pull up and toss into a pile in the back of the cemetery that must have been from others tending graves before.

I keep pulling up the grave.  Graves which had not seen light in many years begin to bask in sunshine.  I know my Ciocia is upset.  Perhaps I'm making someone else look bad.  I don't care.

I would not want to have my final resting place forgotten.

But then, which is worse?  Paying a stranger to care for the cemetery and family not feeling the need to come visit and care over your final resting place?  Or being forgotten in a corner of a cemetery.

But not really forgotten.  I understand that this is an event which still rests freshly in the memories of the Babcias and Dziadeks of this village, they saw it first hand.  It can never be forgotten.  No matter how horrible.  But life must go on.  And if caring for those graves chokes people up all over again, remembering such a horrible event in human history, perpetrated right there, in their own backyards, in the backyards and fields which for centuries had been in their family, can you imagine the feeling?

Graves continue to be pulled free from the wildlife taking over them.  Light brings more names back to the present, reminders of others who passed away, who I don't know.  But I will always remember them.

I keep pulling grass and picking flowers...

Guest Post on Mummy in Provence

Today, I have the honor of being a guest on a blog, Mummy in Provence.  MiP lives in Southern France with her baby and husband, although her heritage is not French.  She talks about Breastfeeding, Elimination Communication, Baby Led Weaning, living in a foreign country and in general, is very interesting to read and talk to. 

Her series, The Global Differences in Baby-Making, has featured fascinating Mummys (or Mamas as I call them) in Qatar, Turkey, and France, with many more to come, I am sure.  Of course, when Mummy in Provence was looking for guest posts I jumped at the chance, as a fellow Breastfeeding, Elimination Communication, Babywearing, Immigrant Mummy/Mama.  Please check out my post about being a Polish Mama in the US and comment.

Also, I will be sharing my recipes for Fresh Mushrooms Soup and Stuffed Rolled Beef in the Warsaw Style shortly...

Na razie!

Fasolka po Bretonsku with Piekny Jas and Memories

On my last trip to our local ethnic store, I found a bag of Piekny Jas and bought it.  Tthe packet cost me nearly $5 for just 12 oz. 

But one glance at the large white plump dried beans and I was reminded of a pleasant memory I hold of my mother's family...

I am a teenager, visiting my family in Poland, one household at a time on both my mothers and fathers side.  It is my first trip back to Poland.

A Ciocia of mine, from my mothers side, lives in a small village in Wielkopolska, sitting in the middle of Polish fields. 

Ciocia has a small apartment, a husband and two children.  She also has a garden.

Her small garden feeds her family though out the year.  In her garden, my Ciocia grows apples, with which she makes a compote.  I ate so many of those apples that summer, that one of my life's goals now, as trivial as it may seem to others, is to make that same compote.

My Ciocia also grows dill, parsley, cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant, chives, cabbage, and beans, perhaps more but these are the fruits and vegetables I remember.

One day, she took me with her to harvest some of the food she would prepare and preserve for winter. 

We walked down the stairs of her small apartment complex, out the wooden door, and into the street. 

Down to the wooden fence by a house I could imagine being well over 200 years old, a little before the village's looming Catholic church. 

A turn in the road, past a roadside shrine, and we walk down a dirt road passing several other houses, ducks and chickens eying us with a mild curiosity.  Flowers decorate yards, bees sing about their sweet summer nectar, butterflies fly away from us.

My cousin, brother and I talk a bit but mostly, we look around.  Every other shuttered, red roofed house we pass, I think "I wish this was my home".  I wonder about the people inside.  If they loved that house as much as I do at that moment.

A woman looks up from talking to a small child, sheilds her eyes with her hand and waves before going back to the child and the blue flower he is holding.

The houses stop and a field spreads before us for miles, dotted with trees, clusters and remnants of an ancient forest. 

We turn to the side and follow a trail.

We enter her garden with large baskets on our arms, my Ciocia, our younger cousin, my brother and myself.  She showed us which beans were ready to harvest and we picked them fresh off the vine together under a warm Sun, the Polish fields which stretching for miles around us.

The same Polish fields which Poland is named after, as "Pole" (pronounced "Poh-leh") means "Fields" in Polish. 

The same Polish fields which my ancestors nurtured and harvested, their very lives connected to the soil inseparably.  Generation to generation, father and husband to son, wife and mother to daughter, working together for their sustenance.

For their future. 

For moments like this. 

Sitting under the warm Polish sun, eating freshly picked apples, and removing the beans from their pods into a plastic bowl.  Beans which look so similar to Piekny Jas that perhaps that is what they were...

So, perhaps this is why I spent nearly $5 for a bag of beans, went home, and made a pot of Fasolka po Bretonsku.

Na razie...

I Sense Spring

Winter has always dragged me down. 

I change.

I change from an optimist who smiles at everyone constantly (it's rather contagious, I have to say) to becoming grumpy and suffering from cabin fever.  Even the kids notice it and I try to explain to them that Mama prays a lot during Winter and why.

This year was harder because last winter, I was living on the East Coast and suffering through a freak blizzard last winter.

We moved to the Midwest and are living on the flat Prairie with no respite from the wind and an unceasingly bitter cold which I had never really suffered through before. 

And it felt like it would never end.

I literally began to feel like I was living in some sort of frozen tundra Hell.

And I wasn't really alone in my suffering.  People I interacted with were also becoming more snappish and short tempered.  Of course, that in no way encouraged any sort of comraderie with others.

Until...

A couple of weeks ago, we had almost 60 degree weather and it was heaven sent.  Since then, it has been cold but I will take an average of 30's and 40's over just above 0 degrees Fahrenheit any day.

I have been desperately keeping my eye open for signs of Spring. 

Birds have been singing in the Dawn lately.

We have been going on walks more lately.  I am used to hikes.  There is a huge difference.  Hikes leave me feeling as though I exercised and conquered something, even if it is a small rocky hill.  There are no hills here. 

So, instead we go on a walk.  Still, I relish the walks because they are walks through Spring.

I saw a little fly come in through the front door and land on my hand...

At a local meadow which was originally a pond, mating pairs of ducks and geese were eating nonstop what I believe was algae...

At a local park, I found green moss growing...

I saw what looked like pussy willow leaf buds to me and tried to take a picture but the squealing wiggling excited toddler in the baby carrier wouldn't allow me to focus the camera properly.  I think she could sense the Spring and the moisture in the air as well...

We combed a local beach for interesting rocks and found fossils since the temperature was finally bearable...

We even found a "seeing stone".  Do you see any fairies in it?  My older daughter walks around with it looking for the fairy folk all the time now.  I think it's time to look for old Polish stories about ghosts and spirits...

When I step outside, I smell earth and grass outside, a sure sign of Life. 

I am only wearing my East Coast winter coat unzipped instead of my knee length down insulated coat with 5 layers underneath. 

When I step outside and feel all this, I look up to Heaven and just smile.  I'm sure He knows why I am smiling.  Finally...

Between all this and Paczki Day yesterday, I know it's Spring and that God was hearing my desperate prayers for an end to this long miserable lonely Winter.  I hope you can feel it as well!

Na razie...

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a place where we step back and take in the SIMPLE things in life. Simple moments in the mundane or in the hectic that take our breath away. A picture maybe? A poem? A gesture of kindness or things we unwrap during the week. We encourage you to take this opportunity to take a moment and view the Bigger Picture. Whatever that means to you. Whatever way you want to outlet that in your blog.

We hope you'll join us. Take a few moments. Think about your week, and pour however little or much onto a page. Then share. Tell us your moment. Link up at Hyacynth's blog Thursday! grab our button, and share your 

BIGGER PICTURE MOMENT.

"Pizza" and Thinking About My Family

Today I decided to make "Polish Pizza", as we call it in my house.  This wasn't any ordinary pizza.  In fact, it really wasn't pizza at all.  It was what I made while in the Polish countryside with my cousins the first time I returned to Poland to visit them. 

We were staying in their parents "Kolonia Letnia" (Summer Camp).  It was gorgeous!  I was so envious of them.  Could you imagine?  Living at a summer camp?  Anytime you wanted to, a campfire could be made and your mother could play her guitar and everyone could sing together.  Or you could go ride horses, hike up the mountain, go raspberry or mushroom picking.  Look up on a chilly summer night after a warm summer day, and really see the Milky Way.  I don't mean the way most can see it in their suburban backyard, I mean standing on a Polish mountain.  Clubs, malls, shopping centers, cities miles and miles away so that there is no light pollution blocking you from seeing what our ancestors saw so many years ago.

Anyway, I'm rambling.  But I miss them and when I think about them, I usually eat or do something to think about them and talk to my kids about my amazing family.

I was recalling us as children, teenagers mostly, sitting in the white tiled kitchen which served the entire "Kolonia" (for short).  I was craving pizza.  At first, I was irritated that I couldn't have any.  After all, in the US, I would just call and order some.  There was no pizza place here and now I am so glad there wasn't!

My mother and their parents suggested we think how to make one.  I don't know who came up with the idea but it was brilliant!  We took Wroclawski Chleb (a very light rye bread), smeared Ketchup on it, topped it with a soft white sharp Polish cheese (think something like Sharp White Cheddar Cheese) and toasted it.

I know what some, particularly my husband's very funny and honest cousin, might say.  "That's hood/ghetto pizza!"  But it is different. 

First, the flavor of Ketchup in Poland is different.  It is called Lagodny Ketchup.  In the beginning of the trip, I didn't like their version of it.  But then I opened my mind to the experience and realized I love it better than the American version I was used to.  It is one of the items I prefer to buy at the Polish store.

Also, the cheese was obviously not the Mozzarella cheese I was used to on pizza.  I didn't see how this could taste good.  Oh, but it did!  I think we each ate probably 4 slices of bread like this. 

So, today I made some and shared it with my children, along with the story.

I hope you enjoyed it as well as my children and I did!  Na razie!

A Souvenir From Poland

I don't normally like souvenirs.  But then, most of the time, they are cheaply made and not able to be used in daily life without making you or your home look like a commercial.  But, I have picked up some very usable and unusual souvenirs in my travels through Poland.

Can you guess what this is?

Yes, it's a mushroom.  By now, I think you have gotten the fact that we Poles love mushrooms.  But, can you tell better now?

Hmmm, I'll give you a hint if you haven't figured it out yet...

I know, I fell in love with it also when I saw it.

But how to get one for yourself?

I guess you will have to visit Poland now, won't you?

Understanding Flower Traditions in Poland

Visiting a friend or family member in Poland requires a beautiful tradition not practiced in the United States. Buying flowers as a gift. If you have a family member, or even a tour guide, with you who is helping you in your travels, they will suggest it and take you to one of hundreds of thousands of sites around Poland to buy flowers.

Flower stands are abundant in Poland. They are on street corners, in some one room huts overstuffed with gorgeous bouquets, in the Rynek (Town Squares) of each city, town, or even most villages.

Flower bouquets are inexpensive in Poland, I have seen bouquets for $2-5 being the average range in my personal experience. Bouquets could be of Sunflowers, Roses, Carnations, Exotic and Tropical flowers, Poppies (Poland's National Flower is the Corn or Red Poppy), Wildflowers, Gerberas, Tulips and others. They can be decorated with Evergreens, Ferns, Decorative Grasses, and other "Greenery". Flower bouquets always have an odd number. An even number is considered bad luck, and some believe it even invites death.

The flower tradition in Poland is so important that when being invited to someone's house, a wedding, funeral, anniversary, name day, birth, communion, or other social events, it is considered extremely rude not to bring flowers, especially in the summer when flower prices are so cheap.

At Polish weddings, flowers are a very important part of the decoration. The same is true of baptisms and Communions. Traditionally, at a First Holy Communion, the girls are adorned with crowns of white flowers and carry bouquets of White Lilies as a symbol of their innocence. Boys carry candles.

At a Polish wedding I had the privilege to attend, the bride's father had so many bouquets to transport from wedding guests that his car's trunk, back seat and front passenger seat were all filled.

At a Polish funeral I attended, the amount of flowers brought shocked me as well, as the grave was so covered with bouquets that you could not see the grave itself.  One important fact when seeing the abundance of flowers on graves in Poland, is that they tend to be taken care of by family members, rather than the cemetary.  Yet, graves very often have fresh bouquets on them as well as candles.

Flowers in Poland are also very affordable to order online or over the phone and have delivered, even if you are living out of the country.

The tradition of Flowers in Poland is a very subtle but important part of that country's unique charm.  To say that Poles love flowers is an understatement.  Their love of flowers is in everything they do.

Na razie...

My Husband's First Trip to Poland

 After being together for 6 years (I was the one who wanted to wait a while to get married, I wanted to go to college, and be sure of what I wanted to do in life, plus we met when we were young), my husband and I got married. 




From poland.gov.pl , Fot. Mariusz Cieszewski / www.fotcom.biz";



The wedding itself was not as tricky to plan as the honeymoon.  After all, I and every I knew, wanted us to go to Poland to meet my family.  My husband, and his family, did not want us to.

"Let's go to the Grand Canyon for our honeymoon.  I bet it's amazing", he said. 

"The Grand Canyon isn't going anywhere, it's right down the road from us (alright, it's more like many hours down several highways from us, but it's in the same country).  My Babcia is getting older.  And I feel that if we don't go for our honeymoon, you will never want to go and I'll never be able to visit there again if you don't go with me.  It's important you meet my family, see where I am from, where I was born, where I was baptized, understand me", were my arguments for going.

"I don't speak Polish.  I won't be able to talk to anyone there.  I'll be in the corner all alone and confused in some foreign country while you are off talking to your family", was the argument he would answer with.

"I will translate for you.  Many of them speak English.  And we are planning this a year ahead of time, you can start learning now so that you speak and understand some.  People learn a new language in less than half a year, you can do this", I would answer.

I have no idea why his family was against the idea of having our honeymoon in Poland.  Some of his family suggested a local resort town which we had been to many times before, others suggested Florida, Los Vegas (I don't gamble and just don't find the whole "Sin City" thing to be my cup of tea), or on a cruise to a Caribbean Island somewhere. 

I did hear one argument from them against Poland over and over that he did not speak the language.  In fact, I think that was the contention point, the fact that they thought it was unfair of me to expect him to "suddenly" learn Polish for me, while I believed that, since we had been together at that point for 5 years already before we started planning the honeymoon, he should already speak Polish. 

Don't get me wrong, I love my In-laws, as I should.  And I understood what my husband was feeling.  But my father was already paying entirely for our wedding and our honeymoon.  Meanwhile, my husband and his family had originally intended on inviting 150+ people on his side of the family, most of whom did not really get along in the first place while I had only 3 people present for my side.  I was once again (for what seemed like the millionth time in my life) being reminded that I was not born in the US, that my family was far away from me, not states away, but far away, hundreds of miles via airplane away.

I'm not sure exactly why my husband ended up agreeing with me on Poland as our honeymoon.  Perhaps because my bosses, who were as passionately Greek as I am passionately Polish, offered to give me a paid 2 week vacation if I went to Poland instead of a one week paid vacation as I was originally entitled to, and because they sat down and discussed with my now-husband how important this was, for us, for our relationship, for his future children, for himself to start seeing the world.  Perhaps it was because my father had the same conversation with him, that my father was willing to pay for our entire honeymoon if we went to Poland, even though he didn't have to since he paid for the entire wedding himself.  Perhaps it was because my then-fiance spoke to a few of my family members shortly on the phone and they were genuinely warm and spoke English to him.  I don't know, but I thank God for whatever made him change his mind and agree to go.

That does not mean he was a smiling cooperative person at first.  I still remember how grouchy he was that he would have to fly for his first time ever.  He was angry , nervous, complaining and regretting coming even as we collected our luggage in the Warsaw Airport.  But then...




Photo by krewetka Ania Krawet on Flickr.com





My Wujek (pronounced Voo-Yehk, and meaning Uncle) and two of my dearest cousins were there to greet us both with warm open smiles, hugs and kisses on both cheeks.  Not just for me, also for him.  My cousins spoke English to him and sincerely showed they wanted to communicate to him and told him "You are now Family".

Following our greetings, we went for a daytrip to Warsaw.  We then drove from Warsaw on roads, lined with trees kissed with the beauty of Polish Autumn. 

From poland.gov.pl , Fot. Mariusz Cieszewski / www.fotcom.biz"

We drove to my home city in Silesia, winding down tree covered roads, through countryside, passing farms, houses, villages, railroad stations, towns, and stopping to eat in a little spot which sums up the charm of traveling through the Polish countryside, to me. 

We took a break and enjoyed what was my husband's first meal in Poland. 
Further on the road and we eventually reached my home city.  During the ride, my cousins asked many questions and offered answers to any questions we had, and the conversation was very natural and friendly, toward myself and my husband.  We listened to Bach until my cousins made my Wujek turn off his music and put on something modern, and I giggled, discussing with my Wujek about his preference for Bach and my fathers preference for Beethoven.

My personal photo from our trip to Wroclaw

The week and a half in Poland went by in a blur, a fantastic fairytale blur.  Our apartment in which we stayed was breathtaking.  It was a gift from our family to stay there, although I had intended on our renting a hotel room.  The view was stupendous with the tram rolling by several stories below, the Botanical Garden and oldest part of the city around us, and multicolored houses on our street.  I have a wonderful picture I personally treasure of my husband on our balcony once we were alone just smiling ear to ear.

My personal photo from our trip to Wroclaw

We spent time with my Babcia and Dziadek, who greeted my husband with warm hugs, kisses on both cheeks, and proclamations of him belonging to our family now.  My Dziadek attempted to get us drunk on his brandy and another time took us to his favorite store, Tesco, which is a bit like a Sam's Club or Aldi's.  We ate cake together with him at IKEA.  My Babcia made us Bigos (pronounced Bee-Gohs and meaning Hunter's stew, also my husbands all-time favorite Polish dish which he calls "The Big Stuff") and Crepes filled with her very own homemade Applebutter.  My Babcia was so pleased to watch him eat 6 bowls of her Bigos, and my Dziadek, who never cared for it, ended up joining in and eating 3 of his own bowls.

My cousins and their husbands took us to a fantastic local bar for beers and wine, which was in the basement of what used to be a very old bakery.  Later during the trip, we went with them to another local bar which used to be a part of a nobleman's house. 

We went with my family picking mushrooms in the Polish Mountains. 

We spent time during our honeymoon holding hands strolling together through the streets of my home city, walking along the park trails that my mother had taken me on "spaceri" (pronounced "Spah-TSEH-rih" and meaning strolls) as a baby before we left Poland, and feeding ducks in the ancient river that my home city sprang up around centuries upon centuries ago. 

My personal photo from our trip to Wroclaw

We visited the church I was baptized at, a Gothic Catholic building in which my husband finally felt what I had told him about before, that in the churches of Poland, you walk in and suddenly feel the blood, sweat and tears with which they were built, something you generally did not feel in American churches, as they weren't so old or built by the peasants and their sons and their sons. 

From poland.gov.pl , Fot. Mariusz Cieszewski / www.fotcom.biz"

We purchased flowers for my Babcia from the abundant flower stands in the Rynek Solny (pronounced "Rih-nehk Sool-Nihk" and meaning the Salt Square), I explained to him briefly the importance of flowers to Polish hearts and the history of the minor Square, where once Salt was weighed as more precious than gold and Poland was an important ecopower in Europe and Asia, where caravans stopped to purchase this life-giving mineral and transport it hundreds of miles through major trade routes.

My personal photo from our trip to Wroclaw

We walked around the Rynek, gazed at the Town Hall, I reminisced how beautifully my home town had changed, from the renovations taking place after Communism when I had first returned, to the vibrantly colored facades.  And enjoyed the popular restaurants and stores which are now open and celebrating European living. 

When asked about his trip to Poland, my husband always tells people about his experience at a well known restaurant in Poland. 

From my home city, we took the train back to Warsaw, which was also my husband's first train ride ever.




Fot. Mariusz Cieszewski / www.fotcom.biz



All in all, the experience for me was one of the most romantic weeks of my life, sharing with my husband a true piece of who I am.  You can tell someone about yourself, show pictures, and everything like that.  But you can't really explain to them fully who you are until they see where you are from and they meet your family. 

Taking my husband to Poland was easier than telling him about what it was like for me growing up as an immigrant.

So, how successful was the trip?  My husband now has a Polish tattoo, encourages me to call my family overseas, looks for recipes for me to make for him, and has since sent me twice to Poland to visit my family without him because he now understands how important it is to me and how wonderful it is.  He wants our daughters to also share in my heritage, to have their Feet in Two Worlds. 

I hope this inspires you to travel and see the world and enjoy the wonderful people, culture, and sights it has to offer. 




From poland.gov.pl , Fot. Mariusz Cieszewski / www.fotcom.biz"

 

Who knows?  Maybe I will see you sometime in Poland...

Our Honeymoon Daytrip in Warsaw-Warszawa

Photo by Mike McHolm

On our honeymoon, my husband and I flew from the US to Warsaw.  From Warsaw, we planned to drive to my hometown.  But first, we all walked a bit through Warsaw after leaving the airport. 

I will be very honest right now.  When I thought of Warsaw prior to this trip, I thought of a city which frankly left me puzzled and a bit angry.  Yes, angry.  You see, Warsaw is Poland's current capital, prior to Warsaw the capital was magical Krakow and before that it was the legendary "birthplace" of Poland and later, the site where Poland and her country became irrevokably Catholic, Gniezno (literally, meaning "The Nest", as in an eagle's nest).

By comparison, Warsaw is new.  New buildings, roads, everything.  It's all steel, concrete, metal, glass.  At least, that was all I ever saw going from the airport to the car and driving straight out in the afternoon, jet lagged and not interested in exploring.  I just couldn't understand why the Polish people would want their capital to be so, capitalistic, in appearance.  Sure the buildings are beautiful in their modern architecture but I'm personally not "into" modern architecture but rather, prefer historic.



Photo by Adam Fagen 

But, when you consider it's history, you get a sense of the bigger picture.  For 200 years, Poland was occupied by Austria, Prussia and Russia, then thrust into the middle, literally, of the Great War as the three nations battled over their borders and territories, between one another and against the Allies.  Following that, only briefly was Poland given back what was rightly Poland's, before the Nazis marched in.  World War II saw Warsaw being ripped apart, with 80% of it's buildings destroyed.  After the War, Poland was handed over to Soviet Russia and the Soviets did what they wanted with rebuilding Poland.  That included the metal, glass, and concrete.  Because that was what Socialist Realism and Communist Architecture is, after all.

But, apparently, I owe Warsaw an apology, because...

We peeled back the top layer of Warsaw and found it's heart.  Warsaw can be for lovers.  It's romantic.  It's filled with amazing and inspiring history and architecture.  It is also filled with sad, profoundly sad history and monuments.

I can tell you about the various sights in no particular order simply because I was so taken by surprise by Warsaw that it was a fantastic blur, with my memory recalling it all but not in chronological order.

We stopped to look at the King Zygmunt III Waza Column (Kolumna Zygmunta III Wazy) and my Wujek explained it's history to us, with my translation lacking dates because I am terrible at Polish numbers and months, no matter how hard I try.



Photo by Alan Light

Inside the Warsaw Royal Palace, we wandered from room to room, my Wujek and cousins telling us about the history around us, myself feeling like I should know all of it as well as they do, but I don't.  We came upon a group of elementary school students who were on a school field trip and were sittng on the floor in a magnificent room listening to their teacher.  They were saying the names of the various kings and rulers of Poland as the teacher held up pictures of them.  I looked at my husband and whispered "I can't tell you all of the U.S. Presidents, can you?"  He shook his head. 

He was particularly fascinated, while walking through the museum, by a suit of armor worn by the famous Hussari (pronounced Hoo-Sahr-ih, in English Hussars).  To this day, that was one of his favorite highlights of his trip.  I believe he may actually one day get a tattoo of their wings on his back, which would be fantastic.

We walked around to a church where Pope John Paul II had prayed.

Through a doorway in what was the defensive wall of Old Warsaw, we strolled hand in hand and I translated as best I could (after all, I am terrible with translating dates), his eyes changed their perspective.  He saw that Poland was full of beauty, culture, history, amazing things to see and absorb.  And, I hope, he started to understand who I am, where I come from, and why this was so important to me that we made this trip.

We walked around the Barbican, or Barbakan, which is a gatehouse of red brick dating from the 16th century and which separates the Old Town from the New Town.  At the time, some maintenance was being performed on it and what I believe was the moat area around it.  He commented that it looked like out of a movie, which I can understand, it does have a feel of "Robin Hood" or other end of the Medieval Era buildings about it.



Photo by Iwona Erskine-Kellie 

After walking through a gateway with sections of Warsaw's 14th century defensive walls visible, which to me is one of the thrilling charms of Poland, the constant peek-a-boo with history, we browsed through an antique store charmingly tucked into a corner and filled with items which could easily have been up to two centuries old. 

Overlooking several residential buildings on a light stone terrace,we stopped for a time to absorb one of many views while my cousin tossed a bit of bread to some bickering and well-fed sparrows and we discussed the drive to my hometown. 

We stopped to pay quiet homage to the famous statue A Boy Insurgent, and I thought about how my grandfather must have suffered mentally to have lived through World War II as a young boy in Poland.  I didn't have the words to say to my husband but I could only think "What lucky times we live in now to know that our future children in, hopefully, not suffer so much as those poor children did then".  I guess that's a part of being Polish, going about your daily existence and, here and there, being reminded of sadder times.

My Wujek told my husband that the symbol of Warsaw was a mermaid, which confused him as we were "not by the water".  However, my Wujek pointed out the River Vistula, or Wisla, and said "Yes, we are, that river goes to the Baltic Sea and there is a legend about this mermaid.  Some say her sister went to Copenhagen while she swam to Gdansk and eventually up the Wisla to what was then the village of Warsaw.  She was eventually captured by a greedy merchant but set free by Wars (the mermaid's name being Sawa) and vowed to always protect the village from harm.  Another legend, a prince was directed to a hut on the Wisla by the mermaid, where she blessed the area and vowed to protect it, and from there the city of Warsaw began.  Either way, she is said to protect Warsaw forever."  I love that story.  We saw the symbol of the mermaid all over Warsaw in our travels.



Photo by s3k

As we drove through Warsaw to leave, he commented that Warsaw to him in many areas seemed very similar to New York, in the style of the buildings, the dress and manner of it's people all looking as though they had important business to attend to, it's traffic, and general feeling.  It is how I felt about Warsaw until that day trip. 

He also saw his first Eastern bloc residential buildings.  To him, it seemed very different from what someone would expect in an ancient country like Poland.  To be honest, they do as well to me, however, they are a part of Polish history, beautiful or not.

We drove past Warsaw's Palace of Culture and Science.  I pointed it out to my husband and my Wujek stated that many called it "Stalin's Penis".  I have to laugh at the name, because some don't like to use that word for it, but if you understood at the time how people felt about Stalin, Communism, and it's affect on Poland, it was a true example of Polish humor regarding Communism at the time. 

I do caution you, it isn't as common but occasionally a Pole will ask a foreigner what they think of the Palace of Culture and Science.  Some Poles think it's beautiful or a symbol of Polish history, like it or not, others hate it.  Your best answer is to say something like "I'm not sure what to make of it" or "It's different" or something like that.  You can't go wrong with vague and polite.



Photo by Huzhead

When we left Warsaw, I was so thankful to my Wujek and cousins for allowing me to see that city through different eyes than ever before.  Without their knowledge of the sights, I would never have explored Warsaw to find out what it truly was.  I suppose now, Warsaw seems a tremendously appropriate representation of what it is to be Polish.  After all, it is known as the "Phoenix City" for it's remarkable recovery, and to me, that is a great way to describe Polish people.



If you enjoyed this, please feel free to read about My Husband's First Polish meal.

 Also, please check out our trip Mushroom Picking in the Polish Mountains.

 And the funny story about my husband's experience at a well known restaurant in Poland.

 The photos used in this post are not my own as all of our pictures of Warsaw include myself, my husband, Wujek and cousins, and I don't have permission by them to share their pictures.