Mom's House.

Driving a car, freshly cut hair. It's a whole new me!


A visit to New Jersey to mom's house lightened my mood. Away from the harshness of the city into the snow covered suburbs, I felt a sense of calm as the train rolled into the Morristown station. Mom picked me up, looking like same Mom. Only difference? She spoke to me in Polish! We were able to talk for about 20 minutes or so, but when it came time to sit by the kitchen table and really tell her about my trip, we switched to English. Otherwise, the only things I would be able to say was that my trip was "fine," "good," "fantastic" and "pretty." She prodded through the box of family treasures I received and we both agreed that the whole thing looked like something my grandma would conceive. (We can imagine her thinking, "This is a nice box. Why don't I put some random documents in here...")

I learned that what I thought was my mom's report card was actually a health examination. My grandfather's old union identification card had a very young picture of him but was actually from the 1960s. We found out that when my grandfather was a prisoner of war in Germany, after the war, he received a free train ride home to Lipno. But if the war ended in May, why did he not come home until Fall? The answer to that, we did not know.

I went about town, getting a much needed haircut (feels amazing!), stamps from the post office (an easy breezy three people ahead of me in line), and new sheets for the bed (no pushing people!). My brother Pete joined us for roast beef dinner and I barely recognized the guy! After three months, he has gotten very thin, grown long hair and a scruffy goatee that made him look downright grizzly. It was so great to talk to them about my trip and after dinner, munch on some delicious brownies Mom made. I was never able to find brownies in Europe that tasted as good as these.

Going back to New York felt much better this time around, despite the homeless man who tried talking to me in the subway ("Hey! You should look at someone when they are talking to you!") I blissfully ignored him, turning my ipod way up, like everyone else around me.

I thought about why I am having such a struggle with New York now. I think because it represents to me the unhappiness that I felt before this trip: this work centric mentality, the idea of going through life in a rush and not stopping to enjoy anything. This trip really gave me everything that I was looking for: time for myself, the chance to meet new people, explore the world, gain perspective and enjoy the little things. I am nervous being in this environment that I will slide right back to my unhappy self, and that's why I think that I am in some ways, fighting with all might against it, in being back. I do not want to let this city infiltrate everything that I have gotten from this experience.

But I will have to come to some kind of reconciliation quite soon. It is official: Dan and I are moving to a one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. We received approval on our credit (with no help from me but much support from Dan's parents-THANK YOU). We move December 31, and apparently our moving crew will consist of all of Dan's workmates. If you are in the New York City area and interested in spending your last day of the year lifting heavy boxes and furniture, please let me know. Free food and champagne for all!


Pete: Grizzly man.



Mom and Ted. Mom: "That picture is not going to be on the blog, right?"

Is this it?

My local Duane Reade.


Like most New Yorkers I know, I have always had a love-hate relationship with this city. Since my arrival, my feelings have been less than amorous.

I opened my wardrobe, eager for something different to wear. I found only my summer clothes hanging there I left in September. My winter clothes still packed away.


Not winter ready.

I needed to refill a prescription. I have always used mail order through my health insurance, but the problem is that I have no insurance now. My insurance told me to get the prescription transferred to a local pharmacy. I tried my local Duane Reade. I went there THREE times in one day, each time explaining what to do and they did not get it. Finally, they just called my doctor for a refill. The last visit, standing in a crawling line of five people deep, I breathed deeply in and out, annoyed with the banality of real life, and trying to settle myself down. Finally when I got to the front of the line, a elderly woman came out of nowhere asking if her pills were ready. She turned to me, "Sorry, but I have a cab waiting outside." Lady, I have been living in this place all day! The infuriating entitlement complex of New Yorkers! I almost strangled her. Luckily, the cashier rang me up first.

I ran my errands at odds with this city. I got pushed around in the too-small card store, everyone frantically buying their holidays cards at the last minute. Walking down the street, I was accousted by homeless men asking for money and random crazies talking to themselves. The post office had a line of about fifty people snaking around at a snail's pace. Not even worth trying to buy a book of stamps. At the grocery store, however, I made an exciting a discovery: whole-milk yogurt--but only available in a big tub--one I eagerly placed in my cart, alongside some museli and corn flakes. (After tasting it, I think that the low-fat will do. This yogurt is almost too rich). I was dismayed to find the selection of fresh rolls looking not so fresh. Dejected, I dropped in bread in a bag into the cart. This would have to do for now.


Exciting breakfast finds.


Weary and tired from my day out, when I came home, I opened the mail box to find this:




Dan came home late and I cooked dinner for the first time in months. Salmon with vegetables. We talked about our moving plans and while I was excited about the prospect when I was abroad (I have always disliked our little apartment), suddenly it all seemed very scary and intimidating leaving this home. Since I have been back, this is the one place in this crazy town that I feel myself.

Besides my mom, I have avoided calling everyone and announcing my arrival. (Don't worry I will get to you all). It's just that making those calls mean that it is official: I am back in New York. My trip is over. I don't want to let go. Finally, I broke down and called my friend Katie at work. Happy to hear from me, but said she couldn't talk. She had a meeting. I get it. Life has to go on.

Honey, I'm home!

My going away party, in Warsaw.

My flight back is nothing to write home about. I read, I listened to music, I picked at the lasagna, I ate the two ham sandwiches Basia prepared for me (that's right! two! always two!), I stared out the window. I kept waiting for some big revelation to take place, some clever phrase or deep feeling that would sum up this experience and satisfy me. I had no such revelations.

Usually landing into a New York City airport, in this case JFK, its neighboring terrain a grid of copper and white lights at night, I feel a sense of excitement. This time I just felt nervous as the pilot tried to navigate the plane in the gusty wind.

I navigated my way back home using public transportation: the JFK air train, Long Island railroad, New York City subway. I looked out the window into the black night at Jamaica, Queens and again tried to feel something. I just felt tired. My watch said it was 3 am, Poland time.

Penn Station was filled with more sketchy characters than usual. The cold outside have brought the homeless in. The subway came right away, and the amount of minorities on the train initially startled me. Eastern Europe is white man's land.

Finally when I got to the 72nd Street station and began walking on 71st to my home, my mood lifted and I was eager to see Dan who I knew was waiting for me. Even living here everyday, it always makes me happy to see the light on the second floor lit. It means he is home.

Dan greeted me with kisses and hugs. He is the same old Dan but with a little more hair. Christmas music was playing, and he had smartly decorated the apartment for the holidays. A string of white lights framing the window and greenery and more lights on the mantle. Stockings hung, mine already half full, but I am not allowed to look inside. And then a beautiful winter flower arrangement just for me. He also welcomed me with a completely empty refrigerator--nothing except condiments and a half bottle of water I left in there in September! He mentioned in emails that the bed sheet had a little tear, but I was not expecting it to look like Edward Scissorhands had tried to sleep in my bed.

We talked into the night until I could barely keep my eyes open anymore. This morning, Dan left for work, and I went out to get my favorite New York City breakfast: an everything bagel with cream cheese. Walking back to the apartment, the city busy and blustery, kids going to school, adults to work, I felt somewhat strange being here. It's kind of the feeling when you step inside a pool with cold water and it is uncomfortable but you know if you wait a while, it will feel better. In terms of New York City, I just stuck my toe in the water and I am not sure I want to go in yet.



First view of New York: 72nd Street Station near my home.



Dan, waiting for me midst Christmas decorations galore.



Together at last!

Someone likes me.

Little Tomek.


As I write my last post on foreign soil, little Tomek is sitting here in the computer room. I know he is here because I am in here. Somehow he is always near me. When I am sitting and watching television, so is he. When we are eating, he makes faces and gestures and is checking to see if I am noticing them. When I went upstairs to pack, he was sitting outside of my door, playing on the top of the stairs. Usually I find him looking at me curiously, but sometimes he will try to say something to me, but he speaks so fast that I can barely understand a word he says.

Oh, Tomek. He badly needs a haircut. He has constant bedhead. These hairs on the top on his head stick up an inch taller than the rest. He is constantly being yelled at by his parents. He cannot sit still, always shifting chairs, touching things he isn't supposed to, crawling around the floor under furniture. Today, his dad Roman, brother Slawek, Tomek and I drove to this lake to go on a walk, and the kid forgot his jacket. He said it was in the trunk, but it wasn't. He had to wait in the car.

Yesterday, his parents took out of his homework assignments, which was to write who Paul and Peter were. He wrote "Paul and Peter is a deli near my house. They sell good bread and gowamki." He got a bad grade, but his parents thought it was hysterical.

I thought he was 9 or 10. He is 12.

He is so endearing and funny, but I look at him and think, "You're hopeless Charlie Brown. Completely hopeless."

I am sure that the next time I will see him, he will be tall and all grown up, all the spunk and childishness gone away. Probably more like his older brother, Slawek, who tells jokes and rolls his eyes at his parents. So I am glad that I got to capture this snapshot of him. Little Tomek.


Enjoying the fire.



Slawek and Roman, on our walk. Tomek waits in the car.

Coming full circle.

For my last night in Kikol, Tomek arranged for a party just for me at Kayman's pub.

"Who is coming to your party?" my mom asked, when we phoned her. I had no idea.

My party ended up having five guests: Tomek, Ala, Kayman, his girlfriend and me. I barely said a word throughout the evening, and with Tomek chugging down beers and snorting some of Kayman's tobacco he got from Amsterdam (I never knew you could do such a thing, but it's true. Makes your eyes water apparently), I think it was more a party for him. But it was still nice anyway.

When we walked home from the pub, Tomek pointed out the stars which shone almost as bright and brilliant as they did that evening in Lake Tahoe where I had my moment of What am I doing with my life? I looked up and tried to be introspective, considering how much my life has changed since that moment, but then Tomek interrupted me by pointing out the North Star and babbling about other constellations that I could not understand.

This morning when Tomek and Ala dropped me off at the station, I thought Ala would burst into tears. I, too, have grown quite accustomed to them this past week, with their twice-daily ham enriched meals, watching "Jaka to melodia?" (Name that song) and Ala's "serial" (soap opera) on television, speaking to all of their family members on Skype on a daily basis and playing Suduku with Ala on the computer.


One of the Polish serials I watched this week.


"Are you sure one sandwich is enough for you?" Ala asked, as I made myself a ham sandwich for the road. It was a three-hour journey after a big breakfast. I was sure.

I was sad to go but I did breath a sigh of relief when I boarded the train. It was the first time I have been alone in a week.

I met Jurek at the bus station, and from there, we went to his home, the place I started this trip. When I arrived, it was a disaster area. Construction workers were installing cabinets and there was non-stop hammering, the smell of paint, men yelling, Jurek and Basia running around, acting stressed. I felt completely in the way. Of course they fed me, and we spoke a little about my trip, but for most of the day, I was off on my own. I took a long nap, read my book, watched Polish tv, frantically looking for Jaka to melodia? with no luck. Home-sickness washed over me, which was slightly relieved by the visit of Jurek's brother, wife and two sons. Tomek, the youngest son, kept looking at me with interest (Who is this strange American person?) while the eldest son was baffled that I put milk in my tea.

"I never knew you could do that!" he said, stunned.

I wanted to buy a cd of Polish Christmas music and Jurek's brother picked two up for me, and when we played it, I nearly started crying listening the familiar music, almost hearing my grandmother singing along in the background like she used to.

Can you tell I am ready to go home?



Slowek, Roman, Tomek and Ola.



Jurek, me, Tomek, Slawek, Roman and Basia. The leaf in front of Jurek's face was intentional.



New cabinets.

Blast from the past.

Tomek and Ala took me to Sierpc, an outdoor museum of an old Polish villiage. Think of it as Colonial Polandburg. Tomek suggested that I show these pictures to Dan and tell him that this is how modern-day Poland looks like.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, the sky was blue, the sun was shining. It was a lovely day to spend outside. Afterwards, we went to the house where my grandfather was born. Here are some pictures of the day:



One of the old homes. "Tell Dan this is our house," Tomek said.


Where ever we go, Tomek always walks ahead.


My favorite shot of the day: The wind mill.



What pretty teeth you have!



Grandfather's old house.


In addition to a big shopping bag filled with presents, I am also bringing home some family treasure. Wojtek has found some old family documents in the attic of Tomek and Hania's father's home. They are in enclosed in a box of chocolates, which in itself is interesting because it looks like something you would buy in an antique store, and inside are some documents and photographs of my grandfather and grandmother. I cannot really tell what all of them are, but there is one of my grandmother's identification cards from the 1930's that shows her looking younger than I have ever seen her, and another picture of my grandfather where he looks just like my Uncle Kaz. There is some document about my grandfather being a prisoner of war and some other things. It should be fun exploring it with my mom and my family when I come back home to the States.



Treasure chest of old stuff.

Lastly, given that this is the last week of my trip, it has been a marathon session of Polish Ham. I am talking the real thing, not the blog. I have eaten ham every day in the last week, usually twice a day, for breakfast and for dinner. Any notion that I might have lost weight on this trip have been lost. My pants actually felt snug today. It's good food, but I cannot wait to go home to cereal and fruits and the gym.

The firecracker.

The cemetary in Lipno.


I have two very vivid memories of Ania, my mom's childhood friend.

One, is being a teenager, answering the phone, and hearing from the receivor someone scream on the top of their lungs: POLSKA! Meaning, Ania from Poland is calling! Get mom, really quick!

Two, is visiting Ania in Poland, at her home in Lipno. Lipno is my mother's hometown, the place where my grandparents lived during World War II, and seven years ago when we visited was my mother's first visit in over 20 years. It was an emotional trip. Ania, the fiery red-head, talked up a storm and served my mom, stepfather, and me more food than ever imaginable. I just remember sitting around the dining room table filled with every Polish food known to man, feeling so full I could die, listening to my parents talk to Ania, her husband Marek, and Ania's parents. I especially took a liking to Jan, Ania's father, who would pretend to be our waiter and make little jokes that even I, with my limited language skills, could understand.

What a difference seven years can make.

Ania's father passed away in March. Her mother is still alive, but striken with Alzhemier's and now cannot walk. Ania's husband has had two strokes and also has cancer. Ania is handling everything herself. When she opened the door, I barely recognized her. She was dressed in all black. She is no longer a red-head and moves with the world's weight on her shoulders.

But she was thrilled to see me. "Iwona, my little Iwona, my sweet, precious little Iwona," she cooed, hugging me tightly.

"I am not so little anymore!" I said.

"You are always little to me!" she said. I said hello to Marek and mother, the living room which we had previously sat seven years ago eating non-stop, has turned into a hospice. The two sat in seats facing the television but in different parts of the room. The dining room table is now pushed to the side of the room and covered with medications and blankets. Nurses, which Ania has hired, milled around, fluffing pillows, fixing food, making conversation.

"Why don't we go to the cemetary first," Ania suggested. Going to the cemetary is very important to Polish people. Ania says that she goes once a week, and it is common that people go on the weekends. (When we were in Gdansk, Ala even stopped to visit her brother). Ania goes not only to visit her relatives, but also to care for my family's graves. Walking into a Polish cemetary is amazing for an American, because it is a sight you would never see in the States. Nearly every grave is covered in (mostly fake) flowers and candles. My mother recently purchased a new tombstone for our family, including my grandfather who is buried here, and so I saw it for the first time. We cleaned it off and lit some candles. Seeing all the flowers on the other graves, I wanted to get something for our family, but there wasn't much of a selection, so I bought these cheesy plastic holiday flowers that I would never purchase in the States. (It's the thought that counts, right? I am sure Grandpa and co. understands.)


Flowers galore.

Ania had arranged for me to get a tour of Lipno in English, however, the tour guide bailed and so we had our tour in Polish instead. However, I am not sure who the tour guide was: the guy who walked around with us or Ania who spoke the whole time. Being outside of the home, her old firecracker self came back, and she rambled on nonstop. I could probably understand about 15% of what she said to me. The guy showed me old pictures of the streets were walking on and sometimes I was surprised to see that the old pictures looked nicer than the rundown town I saw today. We passed by the building where my grandfather used to work, the same one I saw seven years ago, and I was dismayed that they had modernized it by painting it an ugly shade of lime green. It looked horrible.



Where my grandfather worked.


We went back to the house, where Ania and I ate alone in the kitchen. She had prepared a delicious meal of mushroom soup (with Polish forest mushrooms, of course) and then a meal that she is convinced my great grand-mother might have made: baked potato pancakes and chicken with gravy.

We looked through a ton of photo albums together, and it seemed to me that all the pictures were of the foursome: Ania, her husband and her parents, and I realized how hard Ania's life must be right now. And before while I might have laughed over her loud voice and non-stop chatter, now I really admire her for her strength and devotion to her family and mine. My deepest hope is that when she is left alone without her foursome (hopefully not soon), that she will continue to live long and well, still remaining her firecracker self.



Ania and her husband Marek.



Me and Ania's mother (my grandma's good friend).