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... 

Warsaw: family, friends

My fierce inner resistance to the time change caved. I fell asleep just as the page turned and August 12th became August 13th. Such a welcome change!

And here's another change: I'm learning to think about Warsaw in a new way. I'll never be able to totally shed my childhood angst when I revisit this city, but recently I've been looking at everything from a different perspective: I've been thinking -- how would Snowdrop, Primrose, Sparrow, Sandpiper and Juniper look at it if they were here? How would they view this street, food, language, park, tram ride? I've traveled with all of them and I've noticed that especially in their younger years, they dont pay attention to the differences. They focus on what's familiar. You're looking at the Soviet architecture of the Palace of Culture and they're likely surveying the ledge above the green strip of grass and wondering if they can get away with climbing it. You're telling them to try the fantastic fruits of the forest ice cream in Italy and they're pondering if the chocolate flavor is as good as the one back home. But what would happen if you pointed out the marks of war on a building in Warsaw's Praga district? Or the braided hair of little girls (American girls tend to keep it in a style that we affectionately call a "rat's nest")? And can they be taught to like blintzes? With sour cream? Because in Poland, that combination of sweet and sour is ever present (only in Poland do I see sour cream sprinkled with sugar over it).

This focus on not even the next generation but the one after, helps me overcome my self absorption here. The question of "how does that affect me" is erased and the new one -- "how does this affect them" becomes the one that matters.

 

Refreshed, full of good thoughts about the two or three days I've had here thus far, and amused and excited about my new attitude, I go down to breakfast.

And now I plunge into a very complicated day. It turns out that the five days I gave to Poland is a day too little. I could use a bit more time for a peak into shops (am I really coming home with nothing from Poland for anyone ??), for a taste of paczki (those Polish doughnuts with rose jam), or jagodzianki (yeasty blueberry rolls). This day and the next are full of good things -- there's no room for more. So, I should have stayed a day longer. 

No matter, let's concentrate on today: and it's a whopper! The first half I will spend with my sister and nephew. And then in the late afternoon, I am going to go to my own idea of a party, one that I'm throwing for my full set of friends here. We're all in our 70s, so out of the 13 that should be there, one had to bow out at the last minute due to health, and one will be coming straight from the hospital, after a prolonged and serious stay there. It's a warning to all of us: there are no more guarantees (even if we believed, in our youth, that we would always be energetic, strong, smart, creative!). 

I got Karolina, my architect friend to help me find a place where I can host these old school friends of mine. She came up with a great restaurant that offered a private room. I paid, reserved, then found out the place went belly up. We scrambled. She came up with another -- the place where I ate dinner with her last year. By the old Fort in southern Warsaw (Mokotow). It's not easy to get to. But, we are all energetic, strong, smart, creative, right??

First though, my morning with family.

I meet my sister, we catch the metro, then walk the familiar path through the familiar neighborhood... 

 

 

 

... all the way to the Lazienki Park. With a quick detour to the Botanical Gardens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lazienki Park is right next door. I cannot imagine a visit to Warsaw without a walk along the stately avenues of this beautiful green space. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My nephew meets us there. Eventually, we find a table at a cafe-restaurant that I have visited too many times to count. Right by the Summer Palace. There, I order a nalesnik (blintz with cheese). My grandmother made these. Every Polish child has had many a meal of them. I couldn't tell you which is the more popular:  nalesniki or pierogi (dumplings).

 Fortified, we walk. All along the Royal Way again, to my hotel. It's not too far. Maybe 3.5 kilometers. And it is a lovely walk (on a very warm day!).

 

 

 

We pause at a pastry store that my two walking companions like (they have the same one in their neighborhood).  They have them here! Jagodzianki, paczki...

I must come back, come hell or high water. Tomorrow.

By three, I am back to my hotel, getting ready for my "party." And by five, I am at Gardens by Fort.

(the table is set)

  

 

(they're all here now...)

 

And, too, Karolina, the person who helped me come up with a place to host a dinner party, comes over with her friend.

 

 

 

Polish friendships are different than the ones in the U.S. (I speak as one from the postwar generation. Things change, customs shift. Perhaps there is more similarity among younger age groups.) Not better, not stronger, not gentler, just different. Most people live in the same city all their lives. For better or worse, friends never quite leave your field of vision (unless they emigrate, like me). Or, is it that even after all these years I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that I am no longer part of this group, that our lives have split so widely and in such different directions that I hesitate to plunge into any discussion of what happens back home, at the farmette, with my kids, because what if they wont understand? 

(we eat; it's not a great photo, but then, I didn't take it!)

 

And I do take out my Hygge Game of conversational cards. For the fun of it. But I choose carefully the questions posed and discussed. I'm dealing with Polish sensibilities. I want them to love playing, to treat this gathering as a happy event on this hot August day.

 

I get back home late. Of course I do. At the risk of disrupting my sleep cycle once again, I jot down these thoughts, but I'll save the rest for later. I am tired, but deeply content.

with so much love... 

 

Warsaw: a new way to look at something from the past

 Here's a game I could play: Warsaw without  --- (fill in the blank), is not Warsaw. The city has so many striking features and monuments and historic events, that were you to ask a group of Varsovians to make a list of five iconic items, that define Warsaw for them, each list would be vastly different. But I think I am correct in believing that every list would include the Palace of Culture. Warsaw would not be Warsaw without it. 

It isn't universally loved. In fact, it's like an on again off again boyfriend. You're indifferent to him, then you are pushed to love him, but you wind up hating him, and eventually you settle into a more casual "like". But heck, it is Warsaw's central point, its most photographed building, its fixture, and with a sigh of resignation -- its accepted iconic structure.

There are many stories about it, but this we know for sure: its construction started in 1952, the year before I was born. Completed in 1955, so 70 years ago. It was a "gift from Stalin," a "symbol of Soviet domination over Poland" and perhaps for this reason jokes abounded as to how to hate this tallest tower in Poland. ("Go to the top and then you don't have to see it.")

But, it grew on most of us. The performance halls within were far more beautiful than those elsewhere. The first western rock group to come to Poland during the Communist era, the Rolling Stones, performed there. There is a vast and beautiful swimming pool inside, open to the public. 

The full name of the building is the Palace of Culture and Science and indeed, science was important to the many who worked there. When I was a student of econometrics beginning in 1969, we would have to walk to it from the university to run our computer programs, because that's where the university's giant computers were housed. The square that surrounds it is vast and when Poland turned to a market economy in 1989, it first became an ugly parking lot, then equally ugly booths sprung up selling every piece of junk imaginable. It was like a bazaar of clutter. Some lobbied to tear down the whole structure and the square (after all, before the war, there were city blocs with housing units there), and start anew. But emotions calmed and in the end good sense prevailed. The building stayed and eventually was buffed up again. The stalls were cleared and this year, in celebration of its 70th birthday, a new, more inviting space opened and a new era of the Palace of Culture has been launched. (You can get a snapshot of its history here.)

You could always go to the top; it does offer the best view of the city. My childhood association with it (which I describe in my book) is, however,  awful. My paternal grandfather went with us to the top. I was afraid. To make me braver, he picked me up and dangled me over the side, 32 stories above the pavement, repeating to me "you can not be afraid." I didn't hate him for it. I suppose having just survived the war, he felt it important to create tough kids, who could survive anything. But of course, I did not toughen up over the episode and I do have now a solid fear of heights.

 

My day today belongs to Bee. I have thought for a long time now that Bee would be the perfect neighborhood friend for me back in Madison. The one you have walks and coffees on a repeat basis as needed -- meaning every few days. Of course, she would not then be Bee. She'd be a Madison person stuck in a Madison mindset, offering a Madison perspective on the world. I love her friendship, and I also love her Polishness. So we are slated to do this across an ocean, with only the occasional (now seemingly annual) visits of mine to Warsaw.

First, let's set the stage: the day is very warm. They say it'll be a high of 80f/27c, but we know that's just plain wrong. It will go higher, because the morning is already warm. And sunny. 

(was I just writing about the Palace of Culture? Here it is, from my balcony window)

Breakfast? I'm trying to stay focused on what's good but also good for me. Dark bread, oatmeal, watermelon, a small sweet roll, a soft boiled egg.

I'm done. Bee is waiting in the lobby.

I asked her to come up with a plan for the day. She does, and as always, it is perfect. We are to walk over to the Palace of Culture and take a peak at the newly constructed Museum of Modern Art (described by Time Magazine as a top place to visit in 2025) on the Plac Defilad (loosely translated as Parade Grounds, because during the Communist postwar years, this is where the parades passed through to be observed by the highest dignitaries; it was the kind of show of power and loyalty that our administration back home would very much like to replicate today). 

Our walk from the hotel takes us through Saski Park -- created for the royalty of the early 18th century.

How I love the parks of Warsaw! So many, so grand, so soothing.

And now we approach the Palace.

The Museum is closed in the morning, but we are really here for the Palace trip up to the 30th floor for the view form the top. And even before we get there, we spend a long while admiring the open space created all around the Palace. It's truly lovely!

Bee had tickets for our ride up, so we got in line for the two elevators. I suppose this could get really crowded at some point, but at 11 am on a summer Tuesday, it is very reasonable. Maybe a ten minute wait.

And now the views from the top. 

Warsaw isn't the type of city that really makes a grand impression from a summit. The city's architectural potpourri is best observed at street level. If I'd bring my grandkids here, they'd do a quick walk around and then ask to go back down, maybe to visit the spider exhibition below! [I say this facetiously as Snowdrop has a powerful case of arachnophobia.] Me, I have a rush of remembrances: of my search from up above, as a little girl, for the apartment building where we lived, then of my feet dangling over the edge (it could not happen today -- there is wire fencing all around), and of my then retreat to the back in tears. 

(view of my hotel: the short white building in the middle, with almost black looking windows, and perhaps more importantly, a view toward the Old Town with the red roof tiles)

(view of my childhood neighborhood)

 

(view of the new Museum of Modern Art -- white and rectangular but absolutely beautiful inside) 

(view of the market economy sky scrapers to the west, finally out-competing the Palace in height)

 

We go down.

Though the new museum is still closed, their cafe is open. We check it out. Just for the hell of it.

 

 

Bee then takes me to the edge of the former Jewish district. Again, to remind you, before the war, the city was one-third Jewish. World War II basically erased that population and most of those who survived, moved away. The number of Warsaw Jews dropped from 300 000 before the War to 2 000 today.

We sit down at a lovely outdoor table of the Cafe Menora. It's on the newly improved Próżna Street -- a pretty block of white buildings, with coffee shops and eateries that reflect the style of this neighborhood from before the war.

 

 

 

 

 

I order a Chocolate Raspberry Babka slice, she has a lemon croissant and then a Chalka bread to take home.

It is the most perfect moment to sit back, to talk once more.

Out of the blue, I ask her -- if you had to be born in another country (and thus likely live there), where would it be? I've been thinking about this lately, because for myself -- I have no good answer. My life in Poland was reasonably good because though I was born poor, my father's diplomatic ties to the west gave us advantages that most others did not have. Too, I went to a great and very competitive high school, I had exquisite friends. But Poland was hugely impoverished after the war and the Soviets made sure to  keep levels of investment from the outside low. And before the war? Poverty was rampant. I can't say then that being dropped by a stork onto the streets of Warsaw would have been my first choice! Chances of landing as well as I did would not have been high. As for America? Well it's the same -- were I to be in a situation of privilege, without the encumbrance of poverty, race, and any other number of markers, then yes -- my life there would have been and indeed has been awfully good, and for many decades I loved the freedom and diversity of my American environment.  So which country, without regard to status or wealth? A Scandinavian one? France? Where? I dont have an obvious answer except to say that I loved Poland when I lived here and I love the country I moved to as a young adult and continued to live in to this day. And there you have it.

From the cafe, we walk to the nearby Hala Mirowska. I wanted to see a Polish market once again and I think this one is one of the best. Perhaps the best.

You'd think that all northern European farmers markets would be the same. The growing season is similar, the fruits and veggies mature and ripen at the same pace. So why is it that I view a Polish market to be so unique that I could recognize it anywhere? Here, let me show you a few stalls of what I regard as absolutely essential Polish foods. I'll list them in red.

 

gooseberries -- red and white, red currants, chanterelles, wild blueberries, hanging garlic 

 

 

sunflowers, cabbage 

 

 

 fraises de bois

 

 

pickling cucumbers, wild blueberries, dill, radishes, chanterelles, Porcini mushrooms, raspberries 

 

 

sour cherries 

 

 

more mushrooms more cucumbers, potatoes 

 

 

(Bee joins the line) 

 

 

very many potatoes, plums 

 

 

I buy some wild blueberries. (The big cultivated ones they dont call blueberries at all. They're "American Bilberries." Weird but true.)

And raspberries. All Polish, all delicious.

[Walking back, I pass one of the many signs commemorating an anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising during World War II. As long as I am alive, I will have with me memories of a destroyed city. I'm not surprised that Poles of my generation cannot let go of that period. Trauma stays with you and Poland was most definitely traumatized. The younger generations? These commemorative banners are probably wallpaper to them.] 

 

 

 

Bee and I part now. I take my fruits back to the hotel, I log in and catch up on email and Ocean, and then I set out again. I'm meeting Bee at the tram stop. I asked her to try with me a relatively new vegan restaurant on the other side of the river: Peaches Gastro Girls. Run by two women, with a mostly female staff. Concentrating on Polish fruits and veggies, prepared in a clever and innovative way. [I read about it in the Fare book on Warsaw. My daughter pointed me to the text and I've found it totally absorbing -- an account of the ever changing food and shop scene in Warsaw.]

Warsaw for me is never without memories and I have that strange tightness within me as we ride through the old "West-East Tunnel",  then cross the river, and swing past the train station from which I would travel to my grandparents' home in the deep Polish countryside. 

We get off a couple of stops later.  

Peaches is in Praga, which is the part of Warsaw that was least destroyed during the war. The Germans concentrated on the left bank -- the heart of the city. And since during the Warsaw Uprising (when the city was so totally destroyed) the bridges across the river were knocked down, the Germans continued to focus on the central district, on the west bank of the river. This means that Praga retains some of its prewar architecture, though in the past, Praga was the poorest part of Warsaw and that too is only slowly changing.

As we get off and walk the couple of blocks to Peaches, we pass buildings that you would not see these days on the other side of the river.

They remind me of the Warsaw I knew as a child. Scarred structures, terrible courtyards. 

Of course, this is bound to change. Already there are plenty of new building and refreshed facades on old building  and yet, that past remains visible. I feel like a five year old child, walking with my mother, looking at the dank entrance ways, clutching her hand tightly because they looked dark and scary.

But the Peaches Restaurant is an entirely different story. It's an open kitchen, and perhaps you'd call the interiors "very modest,"  but it has a lovely courtyard, and of course the evening is perfect for outside dining.

 (our waiter is being taught how to open a bubbly wine bottLe. Non-alcoholic, French, and very good for once!)

 

And the food is fabulous! Probably the best vegan food I have ever eaten (and they are right, you dont think of it as vegan, it's just good food exquisitely prepared. Mushrooms, dumplings and a cucumber and peach salad. 

Totally remarkable.

We dont order dessert because Bee has baked a cake and purchased some fruits. We go to her house and her husband joins us for a very warm an lovely and comfortable celebration of friendship.

(so good!)

 

 

Tomorrow will bring more gaiety and celebration. Tonight? Could I bargain for a decent night of sleep? Anyone in charge of that? I'd be very grateful!

with so much love...