Babcia had some cycling guests from Italy. They’re touring Europe, but in a slightly different style than most: they have a van following them with all their gear. Cheaters.
Month: June 2013
What’s New in Lipnica?
“What’s new in Lipnica?” I asked when I arrived in Lipnica in 2000. And again today, the same question. J, my closest friend from Lipnica, arrived in the early evening and gave the same response to the same question.
We first headed to the border crossing that was just past Lipnica. No border crossing anymore. Thanks to the EU, no border anymore. But that would not be quite right: Slovakia uses the Euro, Poland doesn’t. This means a change in border crossings: in the 1990s, Poles went to Slovakia for cheap goods; these days, the reverse is much more common.
On through the lower part of Lipnica to the Elementary School Number 1.
Where I see the first surprise: a new sports complex.
And further down the road, a few more surprises: street lights with solar panels and wind turbines.
All the while, a new road, a road that doesn’t jostle riders to dust.
Not all surprises are plesant.
And not all sights are surprises.
What’s changed in Lipnica? Everything, and nothing.
Thursday at Dudek
Fourteen years -- a long time to wait. One could move to another continent, start a life in an American city, move back to the original continent, start life there again, get married, move back again to the other continent, have a child, buy a house, have another child, and a thousand other things in that time. And when there are two involved, the possibilities are even more endless: new businesses, new houses, and more. The children I just finished teaching were born fourteen years ago. Their whole lives are encapsulated in those fourteen years, and for us adults, in reality, fourteen years is ironically almost nothing when casting a backwards glance in time.
A Thursday night fourteen years ago would have often meant only one thing: an evening of billiards and conversation at Dudek ("Woodpecker"), a bar and music room in Nowy Targ. C, the only other American I knew for several kilometers, and I would head out around seven, have something to eat (the owner of the bar fixes the most amazing hamburgers on the planet), then head to the pool table for an evening of nine-ball. We'd flirt a little with the ladies, chat with friends, and be your fairly typical single guys on a night out.
Fourteen years later, we decided it was time to head back. But how times have changed. Both married, both fathers, both with countless other concerns (the cost of heating oil; the potential water damage done during a recent downpour; the health of our children; myriad other worries) than having a good time on a Thursday evening.
But last night, we put all those concerns behind us for a few hours and acted like it was 1999 -- literally -- again.
We began in the backyard: drinks, cigars, conversation. C's son, F, regaled us with magic tricks; C, his wife M, and I talked about differences between life in the States and in Poland; and a couple of hours slipped by almost unnoticed.
We headed off down the hill, between the hospital and cemetery (the ironies), stopping momentarily to look at the views. At any rate I stopped and C slowed: the views are almost commonplace for C now, and if the Tatra Mountains aren't crystal clear, well, there's not much point in slowing to look. They'll be clearer tomorrow, or the day after.
Down, down, through a small neighborhood, across the river, and suddenly, there we were,
just a couple of blocks from the town square. And how the rynek has changed. I was honestly too much in awe about the changes to think of taking a picture. Or maybe I just want to save that for some other time.
Yet the tragic highlight of the walk to the club was the construction occurring at what used to be the bus station in Nowy Targ. It was a perfect example of sixties archetecture in Poland.
Now, in its place, they are building a gallery. Why not just renovate? Why throw away a piece of history?
"Perhaps they want to forget about it," C suggested. Perhaps. Maybe I'm just being overly Romantic about it.
But last night was not the time for wallowing in the past. Well, perhaps it was -- after all, we left the site of the old bus station and arrived shortly at our old haunt, and as we walked, almost every sentence began with "Remember when...?".
We arrived at the fenced outdoor sitting area only to find the gate locked. There were a few people sitting at the tables there, but the gate was locked up tight. And suddenly, from the bar, the owner, G, rushed out to greet us. A burly man in every sense of the word, G had always been kind to us when we were passing seemingly countless hours in his establishment. Sometimes he would bring us free food; sometimes he would bring us free drinks; sometimes he would declare that our five hours of nine-ball that evening were "on the house."
It was good to be back, especially when we discovered that, like the bus station, Dudek has, for all intents and purposes, passed into shadow. There are no more concerts; the bar is closed except for patrations of the hotel above it. "But you guys come on in!" he declared. He opened the upper room for us to shoot pool, and fourteen years disappeared, and it was 1999 again.
We played pool, we wandered back into the virtually pitch black concert area, and we reminisced endlessly.
The hours slipped by and before either of us expected it, it was two thirty in the morning. Just like old times. We went down to the main bar area to find we were the only ones in the whole place. G had sat there, putting CD after CD on, keeping us fed and watered, and letting us revel in the last time we'll ever get to relive those magical years of the late 1990's.
G called us a taxi, and we chatted one last time.
"In fact, I'm trying to sell the place," G admits just before we leave.
I know better than to try to capture the long-gone past. I've tried it before, and it didn't work. Still, a thought flashed as G admitted his hopes to sell the place.
"How much would you want for the place? Maybe C and I could go into business together..."
Style
Camouflage shorts and shirt in contrasting pattern. Ankle-high socks with leather sandals. Graying hair in aย pompadour. Man-purse. Shopping for tractor parts in the flea market.
Welcome to Central Europe.
New Market Memories
The 9:18 bus is the only option. There is one at 12:40, but with the return schedule as it is, that leaves only an hour or so to finish one's business in town. No, the 9:18 is and always has been my Saturday choice. It gives me enough time to purchase the items I need, have a bite of lunch, and possibly wander around town a bit, maybe head to one of the old churches to sit and think.
The bus trip lasts about an hour and costs five zloty, though when I first arrived in Poland, it was less than four. We roll through Jablonka, Piekielnik, Czarny Dunajec, Rogoznik, Ludzmierz. Between Piekielnik and Czarny Dunajec are vast fields where local farmers grow potatoes, grains, beets -- everything. There are more between Czarny Dunajec -- the halfway point -- and Ludzmierz.
We bounce and sway on the uneven, hole-filled Polish roads, finally arriving at the bus station at almost eleven.
I'm here for a new sport jacket -- the Polish equivalent of the prom is coming up in a couple of weeks, and while I don't have enough money for a suit, I thought I'd splurge a little and buy a new sports jacket. Without a suit, I'll almost certainly be the most informally dressed person at the dance, but I've learned to accept being just a little different.
I head out of the station, down Krolowej Jadwigi Street, turn left Krzywa ("Crooked") Street, then right Dluga ("Long") Street after stopping at the corner of Kzywa and Ogrodowa to buy a little snack, maybe a sourkraut croquette.
It's winter, so there's snow and ice everywhere. Even the sidewalks have a thick layer of tramped down snow that has turned to ice.
There's an art to walking on ice, and after a couple of winters in Poland, I think I've mastered it. Still, I slip and slide enough to seek out the few spots of pavement that might appear. The two or three steps with good traction is a calming moment: I never realize how my whole body tenses up as I walk about on ice until I take two or three steps on asphalt or concrete. My back loosens up, my shoulders drop, my toes uncurl, and for a brief moment, walking is pleasurable again.
I stop at a couple of shops, find something acceptable, then head to the pizzeria at the corner of the town square for some warmth and food.
Once inside, I unwrap the many layers I have on, order a coffee, and thumb through whatever book I have in my backpack. Experience has taught me never to leave my little apartment without adequate reading material, a change of underwear, and some extra cash.
The waitress brings me my coffee, and I order my pizza, twice making sure she realizes that I most definitely do not want ketchup on my pizza. An odd habit, and one that I've never acclimated to. At the same time, Polish ketchup is better than American: slightly spicy and a little tangy, it goes better with fries than the sweet American alternative. Still, ketchup is ketchup, pizza is pizza, and never should the two meet, in my American mind.
The cook takes a little longer than I'd anticipated on my pizza, and it quickly becomes evident that I won't be taking the 13:40 bus back home. And so I suddenly find myself with two additional hours.
I think about heading to the old church behind the rynek. There's a garden in the back with an elaborate Way of the Cross.
Essentially, the whole New Testament is laid out in small, glass-enclosed dioramas.
It's a little kitschy, but there's something about it I enjoy. I've never seen it in the snow, and it might make for some interesting contrast.
In the end, I decide to take a chance and drop in on the Peace Corps volunteer who lives in Nowy Targ. He's not expecting me, but he often isn't.
I make the long trek to his apartment, almost literally on the other side of town. I walk forever along Aleja Tysiaclecia ("Thousand-Year Avenue"), which turns into Kolejowa ("Railway") Street before changing names again to ulica Ludzmierska ("Ludzmierz Street") until I reach the Bor neighborhood.
He's home, and as always, gracious and kind.
"I've got a couple of hours till my bus," I explain, though I know it's not necessary. I virtually live here just about every other weekend, filling Friday nights with nine-ball, libation, and English conversation.
We sit and watch ski jumping on a German sports channel -- he speaks German, I don't, so I just watch the footage and imagine my own commentary.
At about fifteen past three, I head out for my bus, once again curling my toes and drawing up my shoulders to walk out on the ice.
Such was an average Saturday when I lived in Lipnica in the late 1990s. This evening, I'll be heading back to Nowy Targ for another evening of billards and conversation -- the first such in about fourteen years, I guess. I'll see how things have changed in NT, but already, there are differences: I'll be driving instead of taking the bus. (Indeed, I've heard that PKP Nowy Targ has gone completely out of business, so there is no 9:18 or 12:40 bus anymore. It's all private bus-lettes now, and I don't have the slightest idea about their schedule.) More changes: said friend, C, still lives in NT, but married with a house now, he lives quite a distance from his original Bor neighborhood. This of course doesn't take into account all the other changes swirling around us, most important being that we're both fathers now.
But I expect we'll walk into Dudek, greet the bartender (I'll bet it's the same fellow.) and suddenly, for a few hours, it will be 1998 again.
Her Own Money
L made her first jarmark purchase today: a fine little purse.
Jarmark
Dress shoes, curtains, cosmetics, pig intestines, wrist watches, toys, paintings, binders, nails, cigarettes, t+shirts, pens, hatchets, bras, cookies, hammers, cloth, suits ducks, hand-carved decorations, wiring, pots, chairs, sandals, strawberries, hats, metal detectors, potatoes, toilet plungers,house shoes, sickles, blinds, perfumes, hiking boots, mufflers, pocket watches, panties, puzzles, pans, pipes, scopes, cherries, hedge trimmers, cutlery sets, skateboards, lawn mowers, porch swings, DVDs, planers, tables, knife sharpeners, spoons, screw drivers, CDs, hair brushes, power outlets, hair driers, chickens, Croc rip-offs, faucets, pencils, stomach lining, Teva rip-offs, rake handles, hiking poles, plums, Nike-rip-offs, wrench sets, geese, bikes, tobacco, ties, pencil bags, homemade cheese, levels, skis, pigeons, tank-tops, forks, nuts, tennis shoes, pigs, binoculars, hunting knives, socks, butter knives, rakes, carving knives, fillet knives, Russian cameras, notebooks, axes, inline skates, cats, insulation, pencils, e-cigarettes, tiles, bolts, dresses, light switches, high heels, instant coffee, dogs, shovel heads, baseball caps, chains and stakes for grazing cows, and countless other items, all available at your local jarmark.
Polish Ketchup
The Girl has decided that Polish ketchup, with its hint of pungency and its lack of sweetness of its American counterpart, is most decidedly not for her.
Disrepair
The signs of it are everywhere: houses with roofs that have long-since lost the luster of their newness.
Barns collapse on themselves.
Road repairs, melting in the heat of an unusually warm day, prove themselves to be only temporary.
When I first arrived in Poland in 1996, sights like these were common everywhere, in the countryside and in the capital. In 2013, such scenes are less common.
The Visit
โJ, are you here?โ She somehow knocks at the door, opens the door, enters the house, and says this all at the same time. It took me a long time to grow accustomed to this style of entering a friend's house, but she's lived in Orawa all her life, and it comes naturally to her.
I walk to the door as she enters and she asks, โIs Pani J here?โ
โNo, she went to the store a few minutes ago,โ I explain. โShe should be back shortly.โ I usher her into the kitchen, recommending that she wait here. Then again, Babcia has a gift for coming back home, sneaking into the house, and disappearing upstairs to iron this or to clean that, so I suggest that perhaps she's upstairs. โI'll just check.โ
I head to the base of the stairsโthose countless stairs that lead to a floor of rooms for guests of the bed and breakfast and then to the next floor where the family residences are and finally to more guest rooms on the floor aboveโand call, โBabcia!โ The name echoes through the tiled stairway and dies without response.
โI guess she's not here,โ I explain heading back to the kitchen.
โJ is too young to have a grandchild your age. You're calling her 'grandmother' because...โ
โBecause my daughter calls her that,โ I explain.
โOh! You're K's husband! Oh, okay, okay. You know, I was K's teacher.โ
We chat for a little about K, about E and L, about roads in Poland (why does that topic always seem to come up? Every Pole summarizes the situation with the same words: โholes within holes.โ) and suddenly, there's Babcia.
โI hear voices!โ she sings as she enters. She's always glad to have visitors, and she's particularly glad to see M, her close friend.
โWhat shall I make for you? Coffee? Tea?โ
Before long, they're drinking coffee and talking about who's gotten married, how M's mother, who just turned an incredible 99 years old in May, is doing, about their children, their grandchildren, the neighbors, politics, films.
Yet the conversation always seems to turn back to something we might call in English gossip but in Polish sounds somehow different. It's not just that the word somehow is different. The word for โgossipโ in Polish (plotkowaฤ) traces its etymology directly to the word for โfenceโ (pลot), for that's where it traditionally takes place. No, it's not that the word sounds differentโof course it would, as it's a different language.
It's the act itself that sounds different. All gossip here eventually turns back to a personal connection, and while malicious gossip certainly does take place, the vast majority of it sounds more like a cross between a local newscast and spoken memoirs. The gossip can reach back years and years, to people they knew decades ago, to events that have long passed from the common memory.
And so the two babcias sit at the kitchen table, swimming in the past, present, and future simultaneously.