Day 8-9: Zapraszamy

I blame the lack of yesterday's blog on Polish hospitality. At 2 a.m., full of food and wine and good cheer, the only words I could find were Polish ones. Specifically, one, which I learned this week: Zapraszamy. The literal translation is "We invite you," but it means so much more.

Here is what I have learned about Polish hospitality. 

I've learned that my mother's insistence on feeding guests copious amounts of food and beverage isn't a personality quirk; it's a cultural norm.

No matter where we go, we are greeted with a spread of food. It doesn't matter if it's a meal time or not.

Welcoming nighttime snacks at my aunt's home

We visited some relatives at 3 p.m., which is fruit and dessert hour.

Polish strawberries are in season; I can't get enough of them.

It's not just the food that flows abundantly, but the conversation too. Our coffee visit spilled over into late afternoon, at which point it was time for sausage, bread, and home-infused plum vodka.

Sausage, bread, and vodka hour needs to become a thing.

All of this visiting made for a late dinner at my other cousin's house, which of course had more food and abundant wine.

And more wine.

The amount of care that goes into feeding guests isn't lost on me. My cousin grilled hamburgers and hot dogs to help my little American girl feel at home, and his wife made me a special portion of vegetable salad without onions.

My aunt made a special trip to the farmers' market across town in search of jagody, a tiny forest berry that is perfect in pierogi. They are similar to American blueberries but smaller, more flavorful, and can only be picked by hand from the forests where they grow.

Not my photo, but it's helpful to illustrate the difference.

Jagody got the Evie seal of approval.

I am not sure of all the protocol of being a good Polish guest, but it seemed right to help our hosts finish the open wine after dinner. Even my mother, who normally prefers early bedtimes and sobriety, stayed up until midnight drinking with us. 

I grew up without really knowing my extended family. My parents fled Poland illegally, and were not allowed to return throughout my childhood. My grandmothers and a couple of cousins visited us in America or Western Europe a few times, but the language and distance barriers made it hard for me to keep close relationships. The last time I was here, it was 1993 and I was a moody teenager.

I am overjoyed to discover that my relatives don't hold a grudge about those lost decades. They seem as happy to have us here as we are to be here. I have received invitations to return here, to bring my husband, to visit cousins in other parts of Poland and Europe. I'm getting Facebook friend requests from long-lost relatives, and I am hearing the warmest word that I've learned on this trip: Zapraszamy. 

Day 7: Things I learned about driving in Poland

There are three speeds on Polish highways:     

1. 147 km per hour in the left lane while the Mercedes driver behind you flashes his lights because you’re driving too slowly
2. 68 km per hour in the right lane behind an enormous tourist coach from Greece or a semi truck from Slovakia
3. 0 km per hour because there’s a little old man ambling through the crosswalk with a cane in one hand and a cigarette in the other

If you get off the highway in search of ice cream without a destination in mind, you might find yourself stuck behind this guy:

My mom snapped this photo from the passenger seat.

But you might also find views like these:

Polish cows, or krowy

In big cities, you’ll have to share the road with trains, pedestrians, and cyclists.

Which lane would you choose? 

Parking on the sidewalk is just fine.

Do what you need to do.

Waze works in Poland, but the navigation narrator has a different voice and doesn’t even try to pronounce street names.

Charming road signs will tell you when you're leaving a town, unlike American signs, which give no sense of closure:

Farewell, Zakopane.

Even more charming signs will warn you about horse-drawn carriages:

Careful!

If you see a Karczma by the side of the road, it’s a place that serves traditional Polish food.

A "bar" is a restaurant.

Even the sketchiest roadside convenience stores probably have fresh bread and more meat options than the average American deli:

This place had a surprisingly fancy meat counter.

Gas station convenience stores sell hot dogs and candy, but they're just a little bit different.

At the end of a long day’s drive, there’s nothing like arriving to a house full of relatives and a home cooked meal. 

Relatives not pictured; stay tuned for tomorrow's blog.

Day 6: The Next Stop on our Tour is Zakopane

We did not go 135 meters underground into a salt mine, nor did we go to the top of a 1,120 meter mountain. In spite of our plans to do both, Earth kept us on her surface today.

On our way out of Krakow, the three of us attempted to visit the Wieliczka Salt Mine, one of the rare tourist destinations in this area that my mom had never been to before. After transportation hassles too dull to account here, we learned that the wheelchair-accessible tour only ran twice a day and we were either 2 hours late or 6 hours early. My mom could not climb 800 steps on a fractured foot, and leaving her behind for 2 hours was out of the question.

I felt bad about not researching the mine tours more carefully before showing up there.

Traffic made our 2-hour drive to Zakopane into a 4-hour one. By the time we arrived, it was probably just as well we hadn’t stayed longer at the mine. Everyone was weary. Even good-natured Evie, usually up for everything, asked if she could skip dinner and have some relaxing time alone.

While my tired tween recharged, my mother and I ate our fanciest meal of the trip; she had traditional flaki which she hadn’t tasted in almost 20 years. She stopped cooking it after my dad died; she didn’t see the point when nobody else was there to enjoy it with her. I tried a Polish duck dish, but couldn’t bring myself to have tripe with my mom.

After dinner, Evie wanted to take a cable car to the top of a mountain, but we got lost and walked in circles for half an hour before realizing we were too late. Instead, I bought her cotton candy and pizza, and I felt bad about not researching the cable car schedule more carefully.

There’s a group of Americans staying at our hotel. They’re on a two-week guided tour through Poland. I'm a little jealous. They don’t have to drive winding mountain roads in silent prayer to the patron saint of manual transmissions (St. Frances of Rome) or figure out how to open the gas tank of a rental car. They don’t have to know when things are open or how accessible they are. These tourists have paid someone else to sort out the details, and they just show up and enjoy. I asked a couple of them for directions to the mountain cable car, and they shrugged: “We just got dropped off there.”

Then I look through the pictures of my day and remember where I am and how I got here.

I’m in a charming town in the scenic Tatra Mountains.

There are carts on every corner selling hunks of delicious cheese.

My daughter didn’t get to a mountaintop, but she did have some moments of pure joy.

My mother didn’t get to explore the salt mine, but she did get to eat ice cream with her granddaughter and traditional Polish food with her daughter.  

I even got a non-selfie photo of me, the first of my trip.

I’m not a perfect tour guide, but I think I’m doing OK. I am going to allow myself to be proud of how far I have gotten us, and how much fun we have had.

St. Frances, I hope you’re ready to help us get to Lodz tomorrow, where my aunts and cousins will enthusiastically greet us - and take over as tour guides.