Warsaw and Beyond, Day 3 for Everyone!

 1. GNIAZDOWO AND BABCIA

My grandmother's name was Stefania Haracz (do you know, from my stories here, Steffi's House? I named the house after her). Born a Pole, at a time when there was no Poland on the map, she spent her childhood in what is now the Ukraine (she spoke Ukrainian), in a village that was then part of the Russian Empire (she did not speak Russian, Polish was her first language). Once Poland gained its nationhood again, she moved back to southeast Poland in what was a massive exodus of Poles returning to Poland.

In my eyes, Stefania, or Babcia as I called her, was heroic. She was no "feminist." Subservient to my grandfather (who was some 15 years her senior), dedicated to her family, in all the years I lived with her, spent summers with her, I never saw her relax with any friends. (Did she even have friends?) She worked to keep the house and home and family afloat at a time when there was no electricity in the village (oil lamps for light, water warmed on the coal burning stove), or running water (she had a well outside, the toilet was an outhouse), no road leading to the village (she walked, or in the rare case where she needed more distant transport, she (and I as a young child) was ferried by horse and wagon, hired from a farmer nearby. 

She'd lived in the south of Poland, she moved to Detroit then New York (she worked as a cleaning person, having dropped out of elementary school to care for her siblings when her mother died), then northern Michigan, then finally back in Poland, where she and my grandfather moved to shortly before I was born. 

Her legacy was this: I felt loved by her. Really loved, without condition or reservation (a feeling not common in my rather shattered family). And I loved her right back. She was the one I would turn to, not with my thoughts, worries, or words, but with my heart. 

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My grandparents bought half of a small house in 1952, just after my sister was born. Close to Warsaw (an hour by train -- the local station less than an hour by foot), it was built in the hamlet of Gniazdowo (or the wider village of Kaliska). I lived there with my sister and my grandparents until I was three and deemed ready for Warsaw's daycare. Thereafter, I spent, with few exceptions, every summer with my grandmother (and sometimes by grandfather).

Gniazdowo had no stores, it had nothing really, just a few houses. But, it was bordered by a splendid pine forest on one side, the river Liwiec on the other, with meadows and farmland right outside the fenced yards of those who lived there.

The portion of the house belonging to my grandparents was small. (And really, I saw it as my grandmother's house, as my restless grandfather moved in and out frequently, having a passion for social justice, which took him back to the regions of his birth in the south often, and for long years, returning only as a sick old man, needing her care once again). It had a kitchen where we ate and played as tots, a bedroom for my grandparents, and a tiny room to the side of the kitchen where I slept with my sister. Babcia was a fanatic about cleanliness and entry to our sleeping nook during the day was out of the questions. She saw family members and village people die of disease. Germs terrified her. 

My grandfather was a skilled builder of everything, and slowly he added to the house. A three season veranda where we ate in the summer. Eventually, they could buy the second half of the house. And when we were coming back from my father's six year diplomatic stint in New York, my grandfather added a second story -- with a vast attic space for my parents (who rarely visited, but still, it was there for them) and a small room for my sister. I stayed in the nook by the kitchen, liking the warmth, the noises from the kitchen in the mornings, and the east facing window that brought in sunshine to wake me up.

The Gniazdowo house was my sanctuary. My slice of heaven. Once I could ride a bike (age 7), I had complete freedom to come and go, to do whatever I pleased. Always outside in the yard, or by the river, or in the forests on dry days, my sister and I were sure to show up for meals. That's how Babcia kept track of us. I suppose if we didn't show up she'd send out a search party. But we always showed up.

When my grandfather died (in 1971), my mother helped Babcia sell the house, so that my grandmother could live in the city, closer to civilization, stores, medical care. Babcia must have been lonely in Gniazdowo. She was surely even more lonely in her small Warsaw apartment. She knew no one. Except for occasional family drop-ins, no one visited her.  These were the years when she discovered books. With hardly any education, she read voraciously. Magazines, books my mother gave her -- she read them all. But she missed her son who had stayed in the U.S., and eventually she moved to be close to him in California. There, she died, just after my daughters met her on a brief visit out west.

My sister, who has lived in Warsaw all her adult life, wanted to return to Gniazdowo with her sons, in the summers of their childhood. At first she lived in a house a short stroll my my old grandparents' home. When their once home was up for sale, she sold her summer place and bought (at a very cheap price) the home she and I basically grew up in. My sister loves the place in a way that I no longer do: it is part of her adult world. Once I left to live in the United States, I never looked back. Gniazdowo belonged to my past. Like a great love who stayed behind, across the ocean.

 

2. TAKING MY FAMILY TO GNIAZDOWO 

As important as showing Warsaw to the two younger families was to me, I'd say equally important was showing them Gniazdowo. They're in Warsaw for only four full days, but one of them had to be handed over to a visit to this hamlet by the river. This is the day for it -- the day for Gniazdowo.

Weather-wise, it's not ideal. They still predict some showers, and the high will reach only 62F/16.5C.  But, it took some planning to fit the trip in. We can't do the train because, nice as it is, the trip would sallow most of the day for us. And since there are 11 people who need to get there, I decide to book a transport. At 9:30, a van comes to pick us up. A far cry from the horse and wagon rides we once had on dirt roads there!

First, there's breakfast.

(an enthusiastic breakfast boy!)

Then we pack ourselves into the van, and we are off. 

 

 

 

After about an hour's drive, we arrive in the village. Just before 10:30.

 (My sister and nephew, out to greet the kids, who bound in before us)

 

Gniazdowo: the place that has all my emotions from my childhood and adolescence locked inside. I went from being deadly sick to thriving here as a babe, then toddler, from being a city kid to a summer country girl as a child, and I had my romantic days here with my high school crush as a teenager. And then I left, and now I'm back, with these guys.

We tour the house. None of the American crew has ever seen it. And because my sister, along with Artist's help. put together odds and ends that were once in that house, it does have an historic feel to it. Snowdrop commented that it reminded her of touring a museum of "how it was long ago." But at the same time, it's comfortable. Informal. Livable.

 

(upstairs in the attic) 

 

 

 (downstairs where we will be eating lunch)

 

All the artwork in the house was done by my nephew or in some places by my sister. At the end of the day, I walk away with two of Artist's paintings -- of the meadows, the fields, the dirt roads, the river here.

The kids all want to play outside. And why not? There's an occasional raindrop, but nothing spectacularly wet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

My sister fixed a lunch for us -- a remarkable thing, given that she does not own a car and there are no stores nearby. It's all by train and bicycle or on foot. We have the first courses -- salads, herring, cheeses. An old friend who once played with us in the summer and whose grandmother lived in the house across the house, comes over with her husband. Remarkable... So many years, so much has happened...

 

 

 

 

 

 

We look over old family photos. One that hangs on the wall has an interesting story: it's of my mother in high school when she was just 15 (so from 1938). She is the one in the back row, fourth from the right. The photo was left hanging there when my Babcia sold the house and moved out.  And it was still there when my sister bought the house from its next owner.

 

 

 

 The rains, the drizzle seem to have stopped. We interrupt our eating and go for a walk. 

 

 

I know exactly where I want to go: to the Julin forest where we picked so many mushrooms! We follow the path, to the River Liwiec. 

It may be cold, but of course I roll up my pants and go in. The big kids follow.

 

 

 

It's deeper at the other shore. Snowdrop, the tall girl, urges them to come with her anyway. I say no. Wet pants on a cold day are not a great idea. 

 

 

 The little kids do not want to be left behind!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 (one last toss...)

 

 

And from there, we cut through the forest of tall red pines...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To the fields out back, where I always find the loveliest meadow flowers...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(this one girl just can't have enough of flower picking! She has my genes for sure!)

 

(Just one more!)

 

 

More food at the house -- pierogi, pancakes, cakes...

 

 

 

And very soon, it's time to leave. With many many thanks and hugs for our hosts...

 

 

 

As we pull up to our hotel, I ask the travelers -- raise your hand if you did not doze on the ride back! Only 2 (out of 11) hands go up.

 

In the late afternoon, the kids come in to play quietly in my room and then we set out again. On foot. Past this mural that I'd posted here before:

 

 

All the way past the Square of Three Crosses, to a restaurant I'd liked before -- Alewino. In making a reservation for 11, I was given a smaller menu, with set appetizers shared by the table, three main courses to choose from, and two desserts. 

I cannot fully express how good their food was. It has to be my favorite restaurant in Warsaw. And kind to kids too. And animated. It was a long dinner and the kids were great throughout all of it.

 

 

 

Three and a half hours later, outside...

 

 

 

 (waiting for our Ubers, the kids were still going strong)

 

Am I repeating myself when I say -- what an incredible day it was? But of course, it's true. Memorable. For the ages.

with so much love!!! 

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...