Around Lipnica, Autumn 2001
polska
My always obsession...
Borders, 2013 — Part 2
It was a lovely spring afternoon, and I was done with school early, so a bike ride was in order. I decided to go on one of my favorites: dip down into Slovakia that loops back to Lipnica, where I lived.
Crossing into Slovakia was no problem. I made my way around Orava Lake, through Trstena and to the border at Sucha Hora ("Dry Mountain"), where I duly handed over my passport to the border guards. The Slovak guards stamped it and gave it to the Polish guard.
"Gdzie pan mieszka?" he asked.
"I live in Lipnica," I replied.
The guard thumbed through my passport like the bloke in Mis, and then he looked at me with a puzzled look. "But how?"
At the time, I didn't have a valid work visa: I was in the process of renewing it, following all the protocols the fine folks in Krakow had laid out, and they had assured me I had nothing to worry about. And yet here I was, on the border, starting to worry.
I explained my situation to guard, but he insisted he couldn't grant me entry. "You don't have a valid visa," he said.
"Yes," I explained, "but you can't keep me out for that reason. Perhaps you could suggest I can't live and work here, but you have to let me in on at least a tourist visa, which means a stamp of the passport and off I go." I didn't say exactly that -- I used much more diplomatic terms, but that was the general idea.
"But you don't have a visa," he insisted, waking into his little office and punching some things up on the computer.
I stood there, dressed in my Lycra shorts and top for cycling, having only a bit of cash in my jersey pocket, and wondering what I would do if this guy seriously didn't let me in. A friend of mine was one of the head border guards at the Chyzne border crossing, so I thought I would just ride back there. But what if he wasn't working? How could I pull this all off? I was tired; it was nearing sunset; I had very little money. Disaster seemed just over the next hill.
The guard came back and gave me my passport, waving me through with a smile. "We'll let you through this time," he said, "but it would have been a different story for me if I were flying to America without a visa, wouldn't it?" His smile grew.
"That's what this is about," I thought. "Someone in your family -- a sister, a brother-in-law -- got turned away from the States on some technicality, and now you're having a little fun." Naturally, I said none of this. I simply thanked him, took my passport, and rode as fast as I could over the border, which was actually another half-kilometer or so from the crossing station.
In 2013, we drove through that crossing, which was empty due to Poland's and Slovakia's mutual EU membership. It looked exactly as it had a decade earlier.
18 Years Ago Today
Living in South Carolina, the possibility of such snow is not even minimal: it's non-existent.
I do miss it.
Opłatek 2019
It's the fourth year I've shared the oplatek with students here in America, which means it's the eleventh time I've shared it with students in my life. The first year we did it, I found it to be so magical that I was sure that it couldn't ever be so perfect. The kids enjoyed it more than I remember seeing thirteen-year-olds enjoy something proposed by an adult: I expecting at least some reluctance, some groans, some pushback.
Every year since then, it's been the same, though. I show them images of Wigilia in Poland, explain the sharing of the Christmas wafer, and suggest that it might be enjoyable to do it here. Some heads shake doubtfully. Most just look at me suspiciously, perhaps a little expectantly.
This year, though, I tried something new: I suggested to my journalism students, whom I teach in the final period and most of whom I've had earlier in the day for English I Honors, if they wanted to do it again. "After all," I said, "there are several in the room here who didn't do it earlier." The enthusiasm was as clear as it had been earlier in the day.
A good day to be a teacher.
Previous Years
Opłatek
Oplatek
Wigilia 2015
Kolejka
The reality of life in Poland in the 80s was the line. The queue. People stood in line for everything. People stood in line not knowing why they were standing in line. A friend once told me, that she often ended up standing in the line just because there was a line. “If there was a line there must be something she reasoned and no matter what that something was it was something that her family could use or trade with someone else.”
Kinga told us of a story about waiting in line for shoes. “We didn’t even know what kind of shoes they were,” she said, “but they were shoes and we needed shoes.”
I had my own experiences waiting in lines in Poland in the mid-90s, but they were not due to the lack of goods. I mostly waited in line for bureaucratic reasons. When I would go to Krakow training my Visa, I would arrive at the office in question an hour or more before it opened to find the line already stretched halfway down the block.
What better thing to do then some 30 years after communism ended in Poland than to play a game based on this reality. That’s exactly what the game Kolejka is all about: all the frustration of communist Poland in your living room.
10 Years
Thee Pictures for Sunday
Helping
Babcia informs us that L has been absolutely wonderful -- "We have a great relationship!" she proclaimed. She's put the Girl to work, ironing, cleaning, changing bed clothes in the guest rooms.
This is honestly such a relief. The Girl can be, well, a typical twelve-year-old when it comes to helping around the house. I think I expect too much of her sometimes; I think I expect too little of her other times. Even though I'm a teacher and preach this to my students constantly, I forget it with my own kids: perfection is the goal but only insofar as continually striving for it ensures we never settle. Mistakes are part of that process; half-assed jobs are part of that process; even fussing at not wanting to do it is a part of that process.
I don't want to tinker about with the dishwasher tomorrow. I don't want to move the left-over bricks into the crawlspace tomorrow. I don't want to re-mount Papa's TV tomorrow. I say these types of things to the kids every time they complain about not wanting to complete this or that responsibility, but it's often more sarcastic than it needs to be.
The Boy likes helping, but he too is starting to complain about things. We all complain. I guess that's part of it.
Sunday
Morning
The Boy started the day with K on the back deck, working on something the Boy didn't really enjoy and also making a Father's Day card for me. I went out with a cup of coffee, and they resorted to whispers.
Afternoon
A 12.67km bike ride with the Boy. He tackled some climbs that he's never conquered before, and a couple of climbs that always kick his butt kicked his butt again. The one surprise: a climb he's never made it up kicked him. He stopped halfway up. It's a tricky climb: off-road, with a sharp left that also ramps up in steepness. He took a drink of water as he rested while I showed him how to take such a challenging turn.
"Hit it from the outside, then turn in sharply," I said. "Want to try it again?"
"Yes."
And he got it.
Evening
The buzz going around the Polish community lately: Aldi is selling kabanos, and all the Poles' opinion was unanimous -- surprisingly good. Today, I noticed them in Aldi. I showed a package to Kinga. Her eyes got big. "How many should we get?" I asked. "All of them," she said.
And of course, there was a bonfire.
Zab Walk
