Matching Tracksuits

Pyzówka is a small village a few miles outside of Nowy Targ, the county seat, and in some ways, a world away from the rest of Poland. Relatively isolated, it still has the look and feel of a Polish village as I remember it from the 1990s.

To get there, you have to go up this road. Well, there are other ways of getting there, but I chose the back roads that I cycled so often when I lived here: narrow streets crowded with large house-barn complexes typical of this area, long stretches of road with only hayfields in forests in sight.

When L and I arrived at G’s and D’s charming new house, the sun was still high and soon G had meat, meat, and cheese on the grill while all the ladies took a short trip to Nowy Targ.

I couldn’t help but be a bit jealous. Not of the house so much, though it is beautiful. No, I was jealous of the views, of the sounds, even of the smells. A house set in the middle of pastures, bordered by forests and a stream. The odor of hay and pines and dung making an unmistakable odor that, in its muskiness and simplicity, provide a hint of what life was like before cars, the internet, cell phones, nightly news, and the thousand and one other distractions that we call modern life.

After dinner, D, who is L’s godmother, chased the rest of us out of the house for a while so she could prepare some things for the next day — sounds very familiar — and so the five of us hiked up the hill to the cross. “Do krzyża.” It has a specific name; it has a specific history; we discussed it. I remember none of it. I only know that as we were approaching the village, as I was not sure I’d headed the right direction, I was terribly relieved to see the iron cross on the mountain: I knew we’d made it.

“Does anybody live in that house?” I asked G as we passed by an old-style mountain home.

“No, nobody,” came the anticipated reply.

“It’s a shame — such a beautiful house.”

Yet unlike the Communist-style bus station in Nowy Targ, this structure has a fighting chance. Someone could remodel it, keeping the character but bringing it into the modern era. Still, such an endeavor is more costly that simply building a house.

We continued on our way, pausing occasionally to talk to this individual or that, stopping to buy some homemade treats. And then M, G’s and D’s two-year-old son, saw the tractor. And when a two-year-old sees a tractor, the earth stops its rotation and all else loses significance. Others are welcome to play about on the tractor as long as the two-year-old sits in the driver’s seat.

Further up the slope, items of interest for older boys.

We finally reached the cross, climbed on the cross, looked up through the cross, and ate a few of the freshly baked cookies we’d just bought — masterpieces of Polish baking. Crisp to the point of being brittle, lightly sweet.

By this time, the fog was settling in the valleys and the blue hues of dusk softened the views.

We headed back down

past the church and cemetery,

and returned to the back patio. By nine thirty, the littlest trooper was in bed, D’s brother, K, arrived with a friend, and a long evening of chatting, discussing, and snacking ensued.

Just a little slice of perfection in this six-week adventure.