Warsaw and the sheep shed

Heat warnings are posted for Europe: it's going to be a scorcher! I think the warning is warranted because most homes in northern Europe do not have air conditioning. It is estimated that 20% of Europeans have  AC, but this figure includes the southern countries. In the north? Not so many. I don't have the figures for Poland, but I know Germany only stands at 3% of all households. Poland's numbers are significantly lower than that. (By comparison, 88% of American homes are air conditioned.) You need to be careful when the sun is out and the predicted temps hover around 88f/31c. 

Most of my friends here hate the heat. They do what you're supposed to do: close shades, create an air flow if possible, avoid cooking, open windows at night. And they avoid going out. And then along comes Nina and now you have to force yourself to ignore the heat and do something fun with her. Four of them suggested we do a trip out to the Sheep Shed. Such a funny confluence of terms: my farmette sheep shed, and now this Polish sheep shed, which actually isn't a sheep shed at all. It's the village of Sheepshed (aka Owczarnia) in which you will find an open air museum. A sculpture park dedicated to the sculpture of the Mexican artist Juan Soriano.

I have to give a brief explanation because if you're like me, you will have little knowledge of Soriano or his art. 

First of all, why place the sculptures of a Mexican artist in a Polish village? Well, Soriano (whose name at birth was different, but that's another story -- family relations can be... complicated) was a Mexican child prodigy and a gifted artist both in painting and sculpture. On a visit to Paris in 1974, he met a Polish dancer by the name of Marek Keller. There and then began a relationship that lasted for thirty years -- until the death of Soriano. The two split their time between Paris and Mexico, but Keller was determined to publicize Soriano's art worldwide and just before Soriano's death, Keller introduced him to the possibility of displaying his art in Owczarnia. Soriano was enthralled with the place! With good reason.

Okay, that's the back story. Now back to the specifics of this day.

I want my Jagodzianka. I know bakeries here open early. I'm out early. 

(interesting spelling, but it conveys the right message)

 

 

 

 

Breakfast: oatmeal for my health, Jagodzianka for my pleasure. Oh, um, yes, I also bought a Polish paczek. For my second cup of coffee.

Two of my friends pick me up immediately after breakfast. We drive to the village of Owczarnia (the sheep shed!). On the way, I see a nest on top of a lamppost, with two storks, likely feeding their young. I wish I had snapped a photo. Polish storks are legendary!

We arrive at the park just as two other friends pull in. 

 (the four of them)

 

 

And here's an interesting fact: the forested park is vast, the sculptures are incredible, and yet we see fewer than a handful of people the entire time we are there. At the end, when we visit the gallery of another Mexican artist (also on the park premises), we see no one, not even a rep from the exhibition. Aren't they afraid of theft? 

I cannot emphasize enough how much the bronze sculpture in the Park impressed me. 

(the larch trees so remind me of those my grandfather grew)

 

 

(and yes, the Rowan trees remind of my Polish village as well; we'd pick the berries for necklace projects)

 

 

 

I could post more than a dozen photos of favorites. I'll try to be sane and limit myself but honestly, the works of art, carefully placed among mature trees were breathtakingly beautiful.

 

(mermaid) 

Really memorable.

We paused on a bench. Both couples brought snacks -- fruits and nut bars. We lingered, watching fish cavort in the pond. Ducks too. We tested our strength by seeing who could throw a plum pit further.

I laughed hard. My friends tell me that this is my characteristic -- that I laugh often and hard. 

 

 

 

It's true, in Poland I do. Why? I do think my friends are thoughtfully clever in their remarks. Humor has always been important for Poles, and these guys never stop wanting to amuse their audience. It comes naturally to them.

We walk on to the stream that cuts through the forest. And again we pause, this time on the bridge, to admire the frogs.

And we talk, this time about politics. About why, why why America's head of state terrorizes his perceived enemies, cruelly, seemingly randomly. Why why why pick on Europe. Why why why allow him to get away with so much. We thought you valued the 1st Amendment! Doesn't anyone care anymore? And why aren't you out on the streets more?

In other words, the usual questions for which I have inadequate explanations.

(photo credit:TZ)

 

 

We visit the art gallery and talk about favorite paintings there.

And then we get back in the cars and drive the ten minutes to another small village -- one that I know from my childhood, though I honestly do not remember in what connection. Was it where I went with my high school class for an overnight on a farm? I'll have to think about it more. But we go there not to see the town. My friend heard of a cafe-restaurant that is supposed to be quite nice there -- one with the beguiling name of Weranda. (verandah in English).

And here is where we show our aversion to air conditioning, which really separates me at least from the vast majority of Americans: we have a choice of a table on the verandah, or inside, in the air conditioned room. "Too cold!" -- we say, retreating to the warmer, some would even say quite a bit warmer verandah.

We all order the set lunch for the day: Pickled cucumber soup with dill (so so Polish!)...

Chicken with chanterelles and drop noodles and a little salad, also with cucumbers...

And for dessert, bezy, which is also as Polish as you can get, even though a version of this dessert can be claimed by Australia -- it's their Pavlova, except Poles serve it as a cake. Here's my piece with red fruits:

To drink? Kompot, the drink of my grandmother's home. (It's juice from stewed fruits.) 

And so here we are, sitting at the table in the warmth of the summer afternoon. As always, in our conversation, we combine the present with our past. I wonder if I bring this on, or if it's just a function of our age. (The youngest among us is 69, the oldest 74.) I learn something new -- during the imposition of Martial Law in Poland (a present from the Communist Party and especially from our then Soviet neighbors to the east), a few of my friends were abroad, on visits, or for work purposes. They were offered passage to the US and American citizenship. Regan was generous to those who wished to seek asylum. (How much America has changed, my friends tell me. Yes, it has.) The catch -- they would have to relinquish their Polish passports. They didn't want to do it. Some for reasons of family back home, sure, but also because, well, they didn't want to do it. I asked if maybe they would have been able to bring family to the U.S. later. And here I see the gulf that separates us. You don't know how it was! You weren't here then!!  They are right. The year was 1981 and Poland was under Martial Law for over two years. But the message was clear: I dont get it.

I remember when we were playing my Questions game last night. One innocent question was "what is the longest line you ever waited in and for what purpose?" Do you, my American Ocean readers, even know of any line, other than for a Taylor Swift concert or the like, that kept you waiting for hours? The women at my dinner party all shouted the same answer: for Milupa! (rarely available German baby food.) 

I had one baby who loved all baby food. I had no problem getting it. I lived in Wisconsin. (My longest line? Can't say that one stands out. Lots of lines in postwar Poland, but I remember them for their frequency and constancy, rather than the length.) 

 

We drive back to Warsaw and I say good bye to three of them. One I will still see tomorrow, but not for long. I have a morning flight to Paris.

They drop me off at the Old Town. 

 

 

 

 (she is the symbol of my city of birth)

 

 

 

 

I still want to pick up some postcards, and maybe a chocolate bar for friends back home. And I see prunes in chocolate! I quickly fill a bag. My suitcase will not be light.

 I return to the hotel, cutting through the Saski Park...

 

 

 

 

 

In the restaurant, I pick up a tomato pesto croissant and a Zero Polish beer and go upstairs. 

 

 

 

Still not ready to think through everything. This is why I need a few days alone (for this I chose France), to process, to understand. Maybe I never will get why Poland stirs me up so much. But I keep trying.

with love...