One Night In Warsaw

I am writing this from the 3rd floor apartment of my friend Ian's apartment in Beyoglu, Istanbul, a neighborhood which he says is a rough spot home to Kurds and transvestites. Though I have been advised not to wander around too much, I feel quite comfortable here.  Ian and I attended high school together, though I'd wager we have not seen one another in ten years. He is a fabulous host and I greatly enjoy his company, his Turkish lessons, and his killer sense of humor.

For those of you with the time and inclination to read everything I have shared, I felt it only right that I bid adieu to my 5 weeks in Poland with a few final stories and ruminations.

In Torun, after being nursed back to health by my friend Kasia with lots of tea, soup, potatoes, and sleep, I roamed around her hometown with her and her crew of friends, visiting her favorite bars and arriving home by bus around 6:30 am two nights in a row.  She was such a great tour guide, and I was tickled at the thought that my guidebook said nothing about her favorite bar, the infamous punk rock bar Pilon under the Torun bridge, behind the wrought iron door you need a secret knock to be admitted into.  Torun has a rough underbelly that I saw a few times, though felt quite safe with her tall, sweet natured, at times hard-drinking male friends.  It also has cobblestone streets, castles, beautiful fields near her apartment on the edge of town, and bright city lights shining over the dark and swift moving Wisla river.

After a teary goodbye to Kasia, I borded the train to Warsaw on monday afternoon, small gifts from a few of her friends tucked safely into my pack, who will be remembered fondly.

I found my hostel easily, as it was very close to the train station, ate my last Polish dinner of pork with mushroom sauce, rice, and roast vegetables, and then had a beer at the hostel bar.  It was here that I had a nice conversation with some fellows travelers, and in swapping notes of where we were from I received the funniest response I have heard so far.  As a side note, when I say I from Seattle most people respond in one of two ways:

"Grunge rock!"

or

"Seattle Supersonics!"

For those broken-hearted Sonics fan, know that the fame of our beloved team is known throughout Poland. However, back to the story! When I told this British guy I was from Seattle, he looked at me with a shit eating grin and basically yelled, "OH MY GOD! Dale Chihuly!" I tried to explain, nicely, that yes, I know who he is, though nowadays some folks consider him to be a bit of a hack.

My 10 hour train ride from Warsaw to Frankfurt began at 6:30am the next morning, and as I attempted to sleep I listened to the sounds of Warsaw and reminisced on my time in Poland. Despite the history, and underlying sadness, and the difficulty of transport, I was moved by the beauty of the landscape, the realness of the people, and the hope held by many for the country to continue to grow and thrive. I will miss eating beets, pastries, coffee on the farm, playing music, hearing the language, and wandering the streets.   I feel like there is something unfinished here, and I hope to return again in the next few years. I never did tell the whole story of my Bubby's immigration and the subsequent annihilation of the rest of my relatives, so instead I will leave you with this bit of coincidence, that may have far reaching effects.

While on the farm I was asked to talk with a group of high school students and play "Paradise" for them, which I did happily. Upon finishing the song the history teacher with them asked why I had come to Poland, and I mentioned that my grandmother was from a town in Belarus called Ivenets. Her eyes lit up and she said, "Ivenets . . . I've been there many times."

With help from Ewa as translator she shared the following: the village does indeed exist, about 80 km west of Minsk.  It continues to be a hard place to live, especially for Polish people, who have trouble finding work. The village looks as if time stopped about 50 years ago.  Before the war, Jews lived fairly peacefully with other residents, and during the war, the local cemetery was spared destruction.  Many people were killed, not only during the war but following it, when the Russians took control. She said that it is a beautiful place, and in the forests on the outskirts of town there are many unmarked graves. Locals, in a show of respect, would tie cloth to the trees to mark where people were buried.  She offered to take me with her high school students this spring, as she is going back for a visit. Though I am planning to be in the states at that time, she also offered to do a little research for me if I can find the name of my great grandmother, to see if there is any information in the local archives.  She had tears in her eyes as she told me much of this, and said for her it was a very moving place. A part of me feels incredulous that these pieces actually line up, but the fortuitousness of meeting a woman who has been to this tiny village in Belarus while working on a farm in Poland speaks for itself.  There is truth that in looking for the answer to a question we find out much more (usually about ourselves) then we may have thought possible.

This thoughts drifted in and out as I slept my way back into the rain and dreariness of central Germany, but after a lovely two nights with my friends Aya and Rodney, I was ready to move.

So, friends, here we are. The sun is out in Istanbul, I have already eaten ridiculously good food, walked steep, bustling city streets, and dropped deeper into my travel experience.  I look forward to what the next four weeks hold, and to sharing whatever might be in store with the likes of you.