V. Off to Wrocław! No, no, not Warsaw, Wrocraw. Warclaw. Worclaw. Wroclaw. Shit. Nie, nie, wait. How do you pronounce it again? Breslau…Wait, what? Where the f#%k is Breslau?

I first realized Poland would be unlike anywhere else I’ve traveled while still grounded in Newark Airport. There I sat, breathing the New Jersey smut I’m convinced inspired fog machines at Springsteen concerts, and it hit me-- the realization. I couldn’t see any other Americans around me. I have had the privilege to fly to Europe multiple times in my life: to Paris (on route to Morocco), to London (where I worked at a publishing house in Southwark, inexplicably pronounced “Suh-thick”), and to Italy (to celebrate not spending all of college inebriated by, well, getting inebriated). Each time, I was surrounded by other Americans just like me. Together we collectively flipped through the in-flight entertainment to the Blockbuster flick, ordered our Sprites and non-carbonated waters, and loudly recited the first lines in our foreign language phrase books: Parsley voo frenchsay? Paisley view frensass? Pearly voo francy? (the linguists’ equivalent of having to watch Hitchcock’s shower scene on loop, I’m sure). Yet as I surveyed my fellow travellers, there was not a khaki short or sports team t-shirt in sight.  No one needlessly fiddled with an iPhone, popped their chewing gum or incessantly butchered a non-Anglican language (though to be fair, who would even try in Polish?). The only gum popping, language assassinating, t-shirt donning passenger was me.  It was incredible. I hadn’t felt this out of place since my first college Halloween party (synopsis: I went to the biggest frat party on campus dressed as a historically accurate suffragette. It was the most awkward six hours of my life. But it’s also a story for another blog, one that employs the other New Jersey variety of smut).

So, here I stood, the only American in a patchwork quilt of gradating blondes, each one more attractive than the next. “I really need to buy some new shoes,” was my first thought. “And shirts. And earrings. And underwear.”

The offending flip-flops

Okay, this is my last fun fact about the plane ride, and then I promise I’ll fast-forward to Poland. I promise it’s worth it, and, yes, I know: My ability to prolong the inevitable is truly dumbfounding. Just ask anyone with whom I’ve ever dated, worked, talked or slept. Actually pretty much anyone I’ve done anything with, except eat. (And apologies again for those of you in the “sleeping” category. And sorry mom if you’re reading this, which I’m assuming you’re not given that you don’t know how to google search yet. If you are, I’m saving myself for the educated Jewish man of your choosing). So, last fun fact: on the plane ride, I sat next to the cutest babcia in the world. In Poland, babcie, or grandmothers, sometimes acquire the snarky cognomen “moherowe berety,”  (mohair berets), on account of the fuzzy hats they seem to have in every color. I have a secret theory that they truly are small mammals, perhaps those newly identified primate species or a type of marmot, and that the old women are responsible for their protection and conservation. When the babcie return to their rooms, the “moherowe berety” jump off their fluffy white pillows where they sleep all day, and the old ladies feed them and groom them, and, in return, the moherowe berety pee on the carpet and poop little mothballs in the closets.

Examples of moherowe berety

This babcia, dutifully donning her furry beret and emitting that lovely eau de grandma, a nice mélange of too much perfume and medicine, did not speak a syllable of English. Yet this did not deter her from talking to me for two hours straight. Yes, as in 120 minutes. As in 7,200 seconds. (And, yes, I just used my calculator for that). At first, I tried responding with “Nie rozumiem po polsku” (I don’t understand Polish), “Nie wiem” (I don’t know), etc., but she just kept plowing onwards. So I tried English. “I’m sorry babcia, but as an American I have a patriotic obligation to be monolingual.” This didn’t phase her. So I said the same thing in demented French and finally ASL. Still no register. She poked at my stomach and spoke quickly in a perturbed tone. Then she poked my cheek, pointed at my breasts, and started laughing, exclaiming something with blatant joviality. Then she gestured for me to take off my button-down flannel, and subsequently started telling me something in a conspiratorial tone while examining the fabric and pulling at the buttons with concern. Since I had nothing better to do, I just started responding whenever I felt a slight gap between her sentences: “Pies jest duża!” “Czy jesteś kubek?” “Interesuję się kanapkami.” Sometimes she would give me a funny look after one of these sentences (Translations: The dog is big! Are you a coffee mug? I’m interested in sandwiches.), but usually she would just continue as if my answer was unquestionably appropriate and sensible. I really wish we’d exchanged numbers. I would genuinely like to talk to her again.

So, as promised, I got to Poland, Wrocław specifically. And the place was fucking gorgeous. Blue skies, charmingly outdated cottages, and greenery as far as the eye could see. I had no idea green could be so, well, green, for a lack of a better adjective. Seriously! So much green! So many overlapping, rich, decadent greens! I want a velvet dress dyed in these greens. I want to paint this green all over my body, like some Jolly Green Midget. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t be any happier, the most extraordinary sensation filled me from the inside out. It began with a subtle tremble coursing through my spine. Then an astonishing tingle circled the top of my head before diffusing into every limb and extremity. For a second, I think my soul levitated outside my body. What was this feeling? I could almost taste it, so crisp and light, and yet somehow distantly familiar. Was I getting possessed by the Holy Spirit, like the epilectics on Televangle? Was Madonna refering to Polish woods when she sang that she’d “made it through the wilderness,” leading her to feel like a virgin touched for the very first time? (I wouldn’t be shocked if the Catholic vapors in the Polish air have the ability to transform mature, cynical women into devoutly virginal handmaidens.) But no, this was something much more innate, perhaps even primitive. Finally I identified the source of such insurmountable pleasure: I was cold. After a summer in the Manhattan sauna, I didn’t recognize the sensation nor its glory. I put my flannel back on (the babcia returned it in Warsaw) and grabbed the bus into town.

Wroclaw: the garden city