Matching Tracksuits

On the way back from Pyzówka where we visited friends (L’s godmother and one of K’s best friends since preschool — my friends too, but that was the initial connection), there’s a small hill that provides the most spectacular views of the Podhale region. Granted, this is not the standard way to get there, which would be Jablonka → Czarny Dunajec → Ludźmierz → Pyzówka. I go via Pieniążkowice because that was one of my favorite bike rides, and I love to revel in the past.

And with views like this — the Tatra Mountains tucked in between heavy, gray clouds and dark green fields — who could blame me for taking longer, more time-consuming route?

After two flights, a moderate layover, a couple of car rides — it all seems to have gone by in a flash when L showing her youngest cousin, D, the treasures she brought with her. Of course she kept calling her by her older sister’s name, but little D didn’t mind.

She had someone to swing with, to pick berries and snack on cherries with,

to play hide and seek with

to hide obsessively in the same spot with.

There was someone to climb the back fence with, or at least to try scaling with.

Each arrival has been somewhat different, and this time began with a visit to wojek D’s house. Met us at the airport, and after bit of time at his place, we took Dziadek’s car and headed south. So for the first time, we arrived with me at the wheel.

Babcia of course had treats and treasures for us: a big lunch, strawberry compote, and a dog who was so excited to see L that they both couldn’t contain the excitement.

Yet after so long sitting — ten hours in the plane to Frankfurt including two hours on the runway in Charlotte, a two hour layover, an hour-and-a-half flight to Krakow, and a twenty-five minute drive to D’s house followed by another hour-and-a-half drive to babcia’s — there was only one thing to do: go for a walk.

Everywhere there was someone working: kids who’d ridden their bikes out ot the fields to help with raking the hay.

And there I was, camera in hand, tromping along the rutted road that generally leads people to the fields to work,

and I was just taking pictures of my shadow and worrying about taking pictures of strangers, wondering whether I should ask permission, wondering what that might look like,

a grown man wandering around the fields he should be working in.

And at the end of the walk, the river, a babcia with her two grandchildren played at the water’s edge, with the boy begging over and over for a picture.

“Honey, I left my camera at home,” babcia answered.

“I’ve got a camera,” I offered, which led to a long conversation about the weather, about moving here and there, about vacation — a wandering conversation that seems like it could have only happened outside the States. But perhaps that’s just me projecting.

Once we’ve met our goal, though, we turned to return. Everyone else, though contiued working. As long as there’s sun to illuminate the task at hand, they continued working.

As I neared home, the tractor rattled up behind us, passangers hanging on the back, other helpers coasting along behind.

Perhaps though not in the same way, we might very well have been thinking, “A good day — a good day.”