Nowy Targ Walkabout
the boy
Chabowka 2022
We’ve gone to the outdoor train museum in Chabowka at least twice before: once with L and her cousin S in 2013, once just the Boy and I in either 2015 or 2017. Either way, he was a very little boy the last time we went, so I thought he might enjoy it more as a ten-year-old.
“You mean we get to go in any of those that are open?!” he asked incredulously as we entered.
It was, to say the least, a hit.
But it wasn’t as much of a hit as it could have been: the heat drained us both, and we were certainly less than overwhelmingly enthusiastic as we finished up the visit. If there had been more trains to explore, I think we would have called it quits nonetheless.
We’ve gone to the outdoor train museum in Chabowka at least twice before: once with L and her cousin S in 2013, once just the Boy and I in either 2015 or 2017. Either way, he was a very little boy the last time we went, so I thought he might enjoy it more as a ten-year-old.
“You mean we get to go in any of those that are open?!” he asked incredulously as we entered.
It was, to say the least, a hit.
But it wasn’t as much of a hit as it could have been: the heat drained us both, and we were certainly less than overwhelmingly enthusiastic as we finished up the visit. If there had been more trains to explore, I think we would have called it quits nonetheless.
It’s strange: the temperatures here aren’t anything ridiculous compared to what we experience at home. The high today didn’t even reach the 90s. But it still somehow managed to feel hotter than I would have expected 88 degrees to feel. Indeed, Poland lacks to intense humidity of South Carolina, so I would expect 88 degrees in Poland to feel cooler than it would in SC.
Final Wood, More Rides
First, breakfast — that old Polish favorite, salceson. It’s one of the things along with flaczki and tartare that I look forward to having while in Poland. (I’ve had tartare, and now I can check salceson off the list. Still looking for that bowl of flaczki.) Headcheese (I love that name) is available in the States, but I never buy it. It’s a Polish thing for me.
It is, I suppose, an acquired taste: the consistency is a little odd, alternatingly gelatinous and firm, but the flavor is quite pleasant.
After breakfast, we headed off to the jarmark. It’s Wednesday in Jablonka — there’s only one place to go!
The Boy still has money that’s burning a hole in his cliche, so we stopped at every single knife monger (is that even a term?) for him to look at the available wares. His concern was simple: he wanted something that he could use in scouts, but most of the knives were switchblade-esque: they didn’t look like the old switchblades you’d see in West Side Story, but they did have spring-loaded blades that flipped out at the press of a button.
“I’d better do some research before I buy one,” he wisely decided. (The verdict, as we predicted: such knives are not acceptable for scouting events.)
After we got home, the Boy and I decided to go for a bike ride. After a few kilometers, the Boy turned back. I continued.
It was the same ride as yesterday until the point at which I turned right instead of left. The route I’d mapped out earlier would drop me down toward Chyzne before turning back up toward Jablonka. However, I didn’t count on one thing:
Over a kilometer of deep, thick mud. Virtually impassible mud. I spent a good bit of the middle of the ride with one foot up on the only-slightly-muddy bank pushing myself along or, when the mud to got six or more inches deep, simply walking in the less muddy part and dragging the bike beside me.
After lunch (pierogi z borówkami), Z, a Georgian who rents from Babcia, and I finished up the wood. Even Babcia said we were done — there were no lurking piles that I had not noticed.
Listening to Babcia and Z communicate was a lesson in the value of hand gestures: he speaks a bit of Russian and almost no Polish; she speaks Russian fluently and no Georgian. Their conversations reminded me of Dziadek and Papa talking: I got the feeling neither was really responding fully to the other.
As for me, I used Google Translate to talk with him. I showed Babica and suggested she could use her tablet the same way, but her response was predictable.
Finally, the Boy and I took one more bike ride in the evening, this time through the fields between Jablonka and the two Lipnicas.
The sun was setting so we had to make our ride short. Of course, on the way home, we had to take a spin through his favorite riding location: the empty jarmark.
At the far end were long-abandoned stalls that had seen neither seller or buyer in years. It’s a testament to the changes in Poland: the jarmark is shrinking, probably because of the availability of items in Poland and, truth be told, the comparative lack of quality of many things sold in the jarmark, especially clothing items.
Wooden Bikes
Day two of the wood adventure. Today, we focused on cutting the pieces that were too long to fit in Babcia’s furnace. That meant using an enormous and old homemade table saw to cut the pieces. The blade must have been 14 inches in diameter, with just under half the blade above the table and no way to adjust it. It was, in a word, a nerve-wracking experience. But we got it all done. And there awaits yet another pile, Babcia explained
In the afternoon, we focused on finally getting our bikes ready for a first ride. I had to put the new tire on my back tire having finished the front wheel and tire yesterday. The Boy pumped up the tires of his borrowed bike and we were ready to head out.
It’s been a long time since we’ve ridden; it’s been five years since we’ve ridden here. So many changes in the meantime.
Once the Boy tired and I took him back, I headed out for one of my favorite rides in Jablonka: a 15-kilometer circle through fields and forest.
Wood
Today the Boy and I set out to tackle a basic but important project: sorting and storing all the wood Babcia had delivered in April. It’s largely to serve as kindling for coal-fed fires in the winter months, but during the short time that it’s not necessary to heat the whole house, the word heats the water.
Our job was to move and store the wood. And make a friend along the way:
We had an enormous pile with no before picture for comparison. All we have are pictures of all the various little corners we stored the wood.
And what with my little helper?
Babia Gora
I lived at the base of Babia Gora for seven years and only once tried to reach the summit. Shortly after that, I injured my knee while hiking in the Tatra Mountains. Some time after that, when my knee had healed, I injured the other knee. And so I never made it to the top of Babia. Until today.
Here’s some video showing just how windy it was at the top.
Pyzowka
I keep repeating myself: X is always a highlight of our time in Polska. When you come here only every few years, I guess everything becomes a highlight. Still, going to Pyzowka to visit K’s dearest friend D and her family has to count as a highlight no matter how you define it.
D is the type of friend you have that, no matter how much time has passed since your last visit, the years disappear in an instant and except for the topics of conversation, your relationship feels little different than it did when you were in high school together. These days, you might talk about the cost of your child applying to college versus the cost of your child going to college if you lived in the states. You might talk about friends that only one of you has seen in the last twenty years and how they’ve changed or not changed. You might talk about the cost of heating your house this year as opposed to last year. These are discussions your parents would have had years ago, but now you have them.
Before you know it, your children will be having them as well. But for now, your children are happy jumping on the trampoline and playing with a puppy. The cost of heating is as distant to them as it was to you when you were their age. They hear your discussions, but they don’t pay much attention to them.
Then again, neither did you.
Bowling and Cards
Traveling always risks bad weather; coming to Poland, for us it seems, just about guarantees it. After several lovely days (how many? four? five?), it’s supposed to rain. Every day. For the rest of K’s and L’s stay in Poland.
Still, we make the most of what we’ve got, like using leftover meat from rosol to make pierogi for lunch, or using the rainy weather to chop a little wood for Babcia.
After lunch we met with K’s brother’s family for some more bowling. This time, we took two lanes, and the adults played as well. That was a mistake: my long-injured finger began aching again, and I made it through two frames before I decided that it might be less painful to have my finger in a vice than roll even the lightest bowling ball available.
Afterward, we all headed back to Babcia’s for games and conversation. Hearing the cousins laugh and argue and joke together is a lovely bit of chaos.
And finally, I talked the girls into the first of several photo recreations. The original image is from 2008, when L was a year and a half old and S was a year older. They barely fit into the tub together now.
Wypasiona Dolina Plus
There was so much more — so much more — today that, at 11:59, I don’t care to cover. But this was the most insignificant event of the day.
Trzy Korony
Climbing mountains is something my mind loves but my body questions. Ever since I seriously injured my knee about 25 years ago hiking in the Tatra Mountains, I’ve been wary of mountains. The way up is not the issue. In fact, it’s a great relief sometimes to be heading up. No, it’s the way down – that crash! crash! crash! against the knees. Almost 190 pounds dropping on knees time and time again.
So when we started our trek up to Trzy Korony today, I was a little concerned about the effect it might have on my knee. I was more concerned when I saw just how steep it was. Fortunately, we all made it fine.
And I’m so exhausted that I can’t say much more than that about the whole day.
First Saturday
Originally, the plan was to meet with K’s brother’s family and head out for an adventure on the Dunajec River this afternoon after a morning hike around the Three Crowns Mountains. But in fairly typical Podhale fashion, the weather turned suddenly overcast, threatening rain. We decided it wasn’t worth it: what’s the point of hiking up a mountain if you can’t see any views? And we always have tomorrow.
So since we were all up (meaning, the adults and the Boy) early, we went ahead and had an early breakfast. And as we had nothing else to do in the morning, I went out for a walk in the hilly fields just west of the village.
I saw a gentleman sweeping hay from the floor of his barn with an old-fashioned twig broom. I thought to ask him if he would mind me taking a picture of him, but I didn’t. Why? I really don’t know. What’s the worst that could have happened? He would have laughed, said “No,” and I would have gone on about my walk. Instead, I am writing about it hours later with just a little regret. Next time.
After lunch, the plan was to head to Wypasiona Dolina for a little line-park action, but just as the weather put a quick end to our river plans, the rain put an unforeseen end to our afternoon adventures: though the park is only a few kilometers from Jablonka, and though it didn’t rain all day today, it poured there apparently, and the owner, seeing that all the wood was wet and thus slippery, sent all the workers home.
Instead, we went to the outdoor museum that we almost always seem to visit while here. It seems to grow each time we go.
On the way back to Babcia’s to pick her up for church, we stopped at a new place that had — strangely enough for a small village — a small bowling alley. It was not quite a normal bowling alley: the pins were suspended by strings and seemed to be lighter plastic. The Boy managed to win the first game but didn’t do so well with the second game.
After bowling, we rushed to pick up Babcia to head to church so that we can have tomorrow completely free. Afterward, we dropped by the cemetery to tidy up around Dziadek’s grave and pay our respects. As always happens at the cemetery, we met an old friend of Babcia’s, a former teacher of K’s.
And finally, back home, Babcia began teaching the Boy how to make a fire for hot water — a basic skill in old-school rural Poland
Friday Afternoon Walk
First Day 2022
Coming to Poland is always the same old new: it is always a question of what has changed and what has not changed. The things you would think are timeless are just that: without change from who knows when. Yet some of these things for our kids are indeed new — at least, they don’t remember doing them.
Like drinking hot black tea with breakfast. Admittedly, we don’t even really have that with breakfast in the States. We generally have spiced Indian tea — close to the traditional breakfast drink here, but taken in an entirely different direction.
The food largely stays the same, too, yet completely different from our everyday reality. Boczek, for example, is the impossible dream where we live in South Carolina. Sure, there’s bacon, but that’s hardly the same.
These differences create differences in L’s breakfast patterns, too. Smoothies are out. Scrambled eggs z boczkiem are definitely in.
Or just some slices of boczek on some good Polish bread with a little butter.
After breakfast, a bit of unpacking, and some ironing (everything we packed of course is now too wrinkled to wear around here — what a shame that would be), we head to the store to do some shopping after dropping in at the kantor to get some zloty. Another different-same: while the stores in Jablonka are much bigger than what they used to be but still much smaller than what we’re used too. Granted, such mega-shops exist in cities, but your average rural sklep here will be only a fraction the size of its American counterpart.
On the way home, we stop at Pasieka, the small restaurant where K and I met when dating, for some afternoon refreshments. We look over the menu, commenting on how much inflation is evidence from the time we left in 2005. Beer now costs double what it was, for example.
“Prices are starting to equalize” seems to be our mantra this trip. It’s not so ridiculously cheep for someone earning in dollars despite the generous exchange rate.
On returning, we resort to one of our favorite pastimes: sitting at the table and chatting with Babcia. I don’t know how many times I’ve taken this same picture.
Babcia is so easy to talk to that it’s hard not just to sit around and talk about anything and everything.
After dinner, the Boy, K, and I head out for a walk to the river, stopping to talk to an old childhood friend of K’s for some time.
All in all, a perfect first day — and only the second post on this site that I’ve completed completely on my telephone, pictures and all. The ease and convenience of it all…hard to beat.
Arrival 2022
The trip here seems endless — completely
Coming to Poland is always worse than returning as far as the travel itself goes. Returning to America, due to the time change, only feels like a really long day. The sun just never seems to set. Going, however, is deceptive because you have that night in the middle, but in reality, it’s not much more than a short nap at best. So you feel cheated, tricked — and your body does not appreciate it. It was not expecting one long day with the illusion of sleep in the middle.
Having a six-hour layover after an eight-hour flight doesn’t help much either. It seems like that will be long enough to catch up on sleep just a bit, but just like the night itself, it only teases.
So we board the plane from Munich to Krakow some twenty hours after we began the whole adventure with eyes barely open. K and L try to nap on the flight, but it’s of little use. E and I, each having a window seat, spend the flight looking out the windows at the shapes below.
Anyone flying into Poland with a window seat as we have knows exactly when we’re over the border. The shapes change immediately and drastically. The irregular, large shapes of fields and forest interspersed with houses and towns disappear, and in their place stretch long, narrow fields, one beside another. This is Poland from the air.
Packing
Tonight is our last night in the States for a little while. Four suitcases and four carry-ons are ready to go. The Boy is going around the house constantly saying, “We’re leaving for Poland tomorrow!” K is going around the house saying, “I can’t believe we’re leaving for Poland tomorrow.” I’m going around the house saying, “Does anyone know where the bladder for our backpack is?” And L — she’s been at work, so she hasn’t been saying anything this evening.
Driver
The Girl got her restricted license today. This means that, once we have her covered on our insurance, she can drive alone during daylight hours.
It’s not that big of a change, I guess. She’s been driving for six months now. Ah, but it is a big change: she’ll soon be doing it alone.
The Boy learned about the joys of putting together furniture.
The Girl
When I got my current job teaching eighth graders, Nana said to me, “I don’t know how I survived your eighth-grade year. I wanted to strangle you every other day.” I can’t say that I’ve been as upset and frustrated with teaching eighth graders as Nana might have suggested. Indeed, I’ve come to love it, and I don’t really have any desire to teach any other grade.
My own child, though, was a different story. I began to understand Nana’s hyperbole. I haven’t written much about the Girl here because it’s been a typical period of growth, which means frustration for parents. What are we doing wrong? Why is she pushing us away? What can we do differently? We knew the answers to those questions (Nothing; Because she’s thirteen/fourteen; Nothing — just be there unconditionally), but that didn’t make it any easier.
In the last few weeks (or even months), though, since she’s started driving, since she went back to work, since she’s made it through her first year of high school, it’s like she’s taken a deep breath and made peace with us and herself.
I knew it was coming: the transformation eighth graders go through is amazing, and I know it continues through ninth grade (until they’re sophomores and temporarily revert because they’re sophomores and know everything — or is that just a cliche?), but to experience it has been refreshing. To begin seeing what kind of an adult she will be: a valiant defender of anyone facing injustice, a friend who sometimes lets her love for her friend overshadow reason (not always a good thing, not always a bad thing), self-reflective and self-aware — to see this change really start to kick in just makes me smile.
Tonight, we finished watching Schindler’s List. The reason (other than it’s a moving film that everyone should see) is that L and I are planning on visiting Auschwitz while we’re in Poland, and I wanted her to have an idea of what the scale of the Holocaust in real, human terms. Tomorrow, we will watch Conspiracy, a film about the Wannsee conference so she can get an idea of the “logic” that drove the Nazis.
That I am comfortable letting her watch such a film is a testament to her maturity.
Family
Aunt D is a national treasure. She is at least a treasure to everyone who knows her. Selfless and kind, she’s helped the family more than anyone I know. When her own mother-in-law was ill, she took care of her for several years. When Nana was ill, she came and spent alternate weeks taking care of Nana.
For years she hosted the family Thanksgiving gathering, cooking for the whole family. Of course, everyone brought something, but she cooked enough herself to feed everyone.
She’s generous almost to a fault.
She’s always buying things for people: she sees something that she thinks someone would like, she buys it and gives it to them.
Now she’s taking care of her own husband, Uncle M. He’s facing his own health challenges, and he’s stubborn: that would be more than a challenge for most, but Aunt D is sly and caring.
That’s a combination to be reckoned with.
She always refers to the Girl and the Boy as “my babies.”
“How are my babies doing?” she’ll ask when we talk on the phone.
“Where are my babies?” she asks when she arrives at our house for a visit.
She’s the kind of aunt everyone should be fortunate enough to have.
Monopoly
Some of E’s friends came over for the day. They ended up playing Monopoly — at last, someone to feed the Boy’s addiction. I always feel a little guilty not being willing to play that game with him, but I swear we’re all so sick of it that we’ll be happy if we never play it again. All except for the Boy.
Dice
For whatever reason, the Boy has become interested in dice — as in, the game. As in the gambling game. I’m not sure where this came from. He just came back from a trip to Target with K (or some other store) with a pack of six dice.
He learned how to play by watching a video after he bought the dice.
“How do you even play?” he’d asked.
“I’ve no idea,” I admitted.
So he’s learned and been playing betting with Monopoly money.
It’s been entertaining watching him celebrate when he wins and get playfully frustrated when he loses. We’re glad to see he’s not really taking it too seriously — that might be problematic for all kinds of reasons.
Today, I picked up where K left off in their game and promptly lost all my stash of $500 bills I’d inherited from K. “It’s not real betting: why not just go crazy?” I thought.
And then I promptly won them all back. And then all his $100s. And his $50s. And his $20s. In short, all his money. His response: “Well, happy Father’s Day!” with a smile.