Poznan, Poland. This is not where I imagined myself at the age of twenty-two, coping with the loneliness that I willingly undertook. A traveler is consumed by constant company, and yet the feeling of loneliness lurks in the shadows of what’s the past, present, and future. I understand this now and I accept it. It was only a month ago that I arrived in Poland, straight from New York; an American in Poland. I still remember waiting in the terminal, waiting for the plane to arrive. It must have been an hour, maybe an hour and a half, yet the hours dragged on and on until I could not get the thought of traveling in this manner out of my head, alone for months. Who’s to say that I’d be alone? I was going to meet fellow travelers, locals, and learn about foreign customs, language, art, and so on.
So how did I arrive at the train station in Poznan? I trace back my thoughts for amusement, for pleasure, for the chance to view my evolution as a human being because we are constantly evolving. The stagnant don’t sit well with the general populace, but the ones who are constantly touching the fire are shunned from society, considered dangerous. And if not shunned, one is publicly ousted for the thoughts and actions that are conjured from within. Who are we to deny those thoughts? Haven’t you ever thought of murdering a person with whom you are having a pleasant conversation with? Should we be afraid to admit these thoughts that appear tainted? It’s pure thought! How could something that’s pure be tainted?
Stagnation has always been a fear of mine. How could someone be comfortable standing still all day? People claim the terror and calamities that come from apathy and stagnation, yet you will always see these people standing in one spot for hours, days, weeks, months, years…
I remember one such time when I met a stagnant louse who claimed that I would grow up with the dream of getting away unfulfilled, spraying out nonsense hoping to knock some common sense into me. A futile attempt, but I’ll explain more about this when the time is right.
Sitting in this train station gives me time to think, whether that’s good or not, I’m never sure. What I think about, especially now, is the happiest moment of my life, a moment that had me in tears, a moment so precious and personal that my attempts to express such an event will not be realized; never now, never later. Even though I know that such attempts will be futile I will continue on with this memory of mine. I will begin this novel with the utmost sincerity and honesty, although I may have to exaggerate the truth.
To begin writing about this beautiful moment would certainly be devastating if I started from the moment of conception. It would be just as devastating if Beethoven began his 9 th symphony with the fourth movement, omitting the previous movements, giving the listener blissful sound without a buildup, without an understanding to how the fourth movement came to be. To understand this Ode to Joy would mean understanding the person who it affected.
I will begin by talking about my college days. I recently graduated college and upon graduation I vowed to travel, to leave Long Island altogether. Long Island is where I grew up. I saw twenty-two years of my life passing by me on the Island, a notion that came to frighten me. Elementary school, middle school, high school, college, all of them attended on The Island. I’ve been living at home with my parents all these years. I’ve never known living alone, grown prone to constant socializing, constant company, similar to that as a traveler, the only difference being that both myself and the company I kept stayed on The Island.
I grew up privileged, not to say that by admitting this I claim selflessness. I am selfish, I admit, but there are those far more selfish than I’ll ever be. Is this to say that I expect everything handed down to me? Never! I work for the ends that are met. If one sentence could describe me it would be this: I’m a misunderstood romantic wrapped in artistic contradictions. Not to say that my contradictions are chiefly concerning my art, but that the contradictions are in itself an art. What’s deeper than infinite? What’s more endless than a contradiction?
Being on Long Island for a good portion of my life brought me down. I felt no affinity for the people living here, nor their actions that I have become accustomed to. Ennui plagues The Island, and rightfully so. To see the youth tortured by toska is painful to say the least. To see them killing themselves off with heroin, due to its availability and inexpensiveness (cheaper than marijuana), sloshing men, women, and restaurants, fornicating and being sexually promiscuous at the age of twelve, is something that comes with a heavy heart and finger pointing. A wasted youth prepares for more wasted years to come as an adult. This cycle repeats itself as most of life does.
However The Island is where I grew up. I may have a grudge with The Island, but it is the environment that helped shape me into the person I am today. I owe The Island that much.
Soon graduation befell leaving behind the banality of four corners, desks, and obedience. Well aware of the end of my education, I’m sorry, the end of my tutelage, I started meticulously planning out a trip. It couldn’t be called a vacation because this trip would help establish an “I”. It was a road to self-discovery, learning about myself and the world around me. Vacations are a means of escaping the mediocrity of everyday life, and although I was doing just that I wasn’t resting. Mediocrity is an outgrowth of stagnation, so how would resting bring me closer to myself?
The first part of my trip was driving across the United States with four of my closest friends. This idea only started as an idea. Many people I know lead the most extravagant lives in conversation, their ideas sprouting up from thoughts only to become lost in obscurity. I vowed never to be this idea, an idea never realized.
The cross country road trip lasted about a month. To properly discuss this trip would take a full novel in itself, considering the fact that there were five personalities constantly meshing for a month. But more about that trip later, first I must recount this extraordinary moment.
The second part of my trip was abroad. I bought a one-way ticket to Poland, planning out about half a year in Europe. In order to stay abroad for a long time I volunteered on farms, offering my services in exchange for food and shelter. Choosing the initial destination was somewhat difficult for me, but in the end I chose Poland.
There are a couple of reasons why I ended up choosing Poland. One reason was that I ended up finding a farm in Poland that seemed to have this Je ne sais quoi about it. The pictures I saw of the farmers and the farm itself spoke to me. There was a nostalgic, rustic quality to them. Another reason why I chose Poland, and perhaps the main reason, was because my grandfather grew up in Poland. Polish is in my blood as well as Puerto Rican and Italian. Hitherto I have visited both Italy and Puerto Rico. While there I experienced this feeling of heimat that I never felt on The Island. It was a feeling of understanding my past, my roots, my being. This feeling was not only brought about by the people but by the culture and land. Because of this I desperately wanted to visit Poland. What better way to understanding oneself than to explore one’s past, even a past never realized?
The end of August arrived. The previous months were restricting for me, seeing as I had to ditch my car due to the breakdown of my transmission. Getting around on Long Island requires a vehicle. There is some public transportation, but the system is far too inept for anyone to put any trust into it. Not only this but the people who use the public transportation, as far as Suffolk County goes, are dodgy characters. The likes of which one would not want to associate with. Public transportation in Europe is completely different from that in America. Just look at the honor system that Europe enforces. That would never be implemented here, and if it was people would more than likely take advantage of it. I trust people, but I don’t.
After returning home from my cross country meandering I was stuck waiting. This bothered me to no end, seeing as there was nothing for me to accomplish. I ended up making some money cleaning up these houses that were being developed in my neighborhood, but other than that the remaining summer was met with boredom. I sat around my room writing and reading, as well as preparing for the trip abroad. After some time at home I came to the realization that I did not like the person I became when surrounded by my parents, a relationship that I’d rather not discuss. I needed to get out, to run away from everything that I knew.
My parents, my brother, and my girlfriend saw me off at the JFK airport. I looked back at them as I stood on the escalator, ascending out of view. It was a typical, cliché scene. I was standing still, yet I drifted away from them, upward and onward to an unknown future. The only thing that was certain was my eventual arrival in Warsaw, and even so that certainty is somewhat arrogant, to assume that I will arrive scratch-free.
The flight to Warsaw was exhausting, consisting of two layovers; one in Reykjavik, another in Copenhagen. I arrived into Warsaw fatigued to say the least. I took a bus towards the city center straight from the airport. As I sat on the bus I decided to get off at a random stop, unaware of my location, wanting to walk around the beautiful city as soon as I could. The following hours I walked around with my heavy backpack, cursing myself for my impatience. I should’ve stayed on the bus.
After contacting numerous people I couldn’t find a person to stay with sur le tas, so I searched for a hostel. I eventually found one in the Stare Miasto (old town). The accommodation was cheap, as hostels are usually inexpensive, sharing a bedroom with five other people. Up to that point I never shared a room with complete strangers, being alone and in a foreign country. As expected I had no idea what to expect.
During the first two days I became acquainted with Warsaw, calling her Warszawa by the time I left to head towards the farm. How shall I describe Warszawa?
The first thing that must be understood about Warsaw is that during World War II the whole city was leveled. The buildings deconstructed by the blitzkrieg from the Nazis, the Jewish Ghetto Uprising, where the Jews were cut off from the rest of Warsaw, the Warsaw Uprising, known in Poland as Powstanie Warszawskie, and the claim to land by the U.S.S.R. It is because of its violent and tragic history that the street corners are decorated with memorials dedicated to the lives that were lost during an unfortunate epoch. The amounts of memorials are overwhelming to any newcomer, as if Warsaw never wants to forget its history, preserving it in all its glory. The buildings are somewhat modern, some of them steeped in communism, with a hint of nostalgia.
Walking down a desolate street in Warsaw is calming to the nerves. As I walked onward I would try to pronounce the names of the stores; sklep, biuro podrózy, something I like to do while walking through a foreign city. I spent much of my time in Warsaw just walking around, watching the locals and digging the various buildings, monuments, landmarks, etc.
Graffiti, naturally, covers many Façades, although not to the extreme as graffiti is seen in Berlin. One word that you’ll spot a lot in Warsaw is Legia. I had no idea what Legia was until I met a pole who was screaming the word, cursing them for losing another game. I met this Pole at Przekąski Zakąski, known as the corner bistro, a popular bar which serves as a pit-stop and a hangout for the youthful Poles.
I ended up at this bar with a couple of travelers rooming with me at the hostel. They invited me out one evening, claiming that they were going to go to a restaurant to grab a bite to eat, a couple of drinks, and so on and so forth. I happily obliged them with my presence as they obliged me with their stories. Two of the roommates were brother and sister from Israel. They were visiting Warsaw so that they could apply for citizenship. I still remember him first walking into the hostel and stating, “Those goddamn Germans are unbelievable!” I was somewhat confused when he said that, so he explained to me that his grandparents lived in Warsaw during World War II. While trying to find documentation proving his grandparents citizenship he kept on running into dead ends. All the documentation was destroyed, as the Nazis had done to erase the past from anyone’s memory. His name was Isaac. Unfortunately I cannot remember his sister’s name.
The other roommate who came out with us that evening was a man from Luxembourg named Fernando. He was much older than us as I was the youngest. He repeatedly said, “mate” and had a friendly disposition. When speaking English his accent was not very noticeable. To be perfectly frank the siblings from Israel didn’t have much of an accent either. As soon as we left the hostel Fernando pulled out a spliff and lit up. He shared the spliff with everyone on the quiet, desolate streets of the Stare Miasto.
Upon finishing the spliff we walked towards the designated bar. I told them about my trip and what I planned to do in Europe. They thought it was fantastic, telling me that I was young and that I was doing it at a great time in my life. Many people have told me that whenever I mentioned my sojourn traveling. It was nice hearing a positive reaction from the group as well because I have had some of my teachers and other adults claiming it was not such a smart idea. They would tell me that I should concentrate on finding a job upon leaving college. How could I continue on this merry-go-round without stopping to take a break for a bit, making my way towards another ride? In any case my temporary roommates found everything rather interesting.
As we were talking they mentioned how important learning English was. When in a foreign country you will hear a lot of talk mentioning the English language, especially if you’re from an English speaking country. Without the designated language for international relations, or as I’ve heard it called before, “Arbeitssprache” (business language), Isaac and his sister, Fernando, and myself would not have been able to communicate to one another on the level that we were communicating. When dealing with people who don’t speak your language you are still able to communicate with them, but the communication can’t get so far. Of course I’m only talking about the spoken language; art transcends this, i.e. conversing through music.
When we arrived at the bar we noticed protests going on outside of the President’s House (Pałac Prezydencki). At the time I had no idea what was going on with this protest, its reason for being and whatnot, but later while on the farm one of the daughters told me about this protest. It had been going on for months. The start of this protest involved a cross, doesn’t it always?
The Polish president was killed before I left to go to Poland in a plane crash. Due to the plane crash killing the president, as well as many other government officials, there was a cross put up in front of the white house as the Poles mourned the death of their president. Candles filled the entire sidewalk adjacent to the fence that separated the public from the government building. As it is here, although never truly practiced, Poland has a separation of church and state. Because of the cross laying in front of the President’s House, the government officials thought that it wasn’t right to have a church symbol in front of a government symbol. This talk of moving the cross down the street to the church a block away from the building made some people very angry. Protestors stood outside of the President’s House protesting the inevitable moving of the cross. After about a week of protesting the cross was moved in the middle of the night when all the protestors went home. Soon after people read about the moving of this cross more and more protestors rallied against the “debauchery” and “heresy” of this act. The protests became so bad that it disturbed public transportation as well as the everyday flow of life in Warsaw. Eventually this caused the students in Warsaw to protest against the protestors.
We all ordered a shot of vodka, for the sheer fact of being in Poland (vodka being the national drink), and a glass of beer. The bar was crowded, full of people, life, and energy surging through the walls and ceiling. Fernando looked around for an empty chair by the front of the bar, but there was nothing, so we all stood in the middle of the room instead. In fifteen minute intervals the entire crowd would evolve, changing and moving. Many of the Poles used this bar as a pit stop while walking from one place to another, whether it was another bar, a restaurant, a club, etc.
Overhearing us speaking English this Pole approached Fernando and me. He asked where we were from. After answering him, I – America, Fernando – Luxembourg, he looked at us in a drunken stupor, happy to be talking to foreigners. Out of his mouth came nothing but obscenities, screaming towards women, womanizing, trying to make it with any lady that would give him the time of day, while at the same moment shouting at them in a chauvinistic manner, completely unaware of what he was doing, completely consumed by the vodka that brought him to such a state of delirium and confusion. What’s better than talking with a local who’s ousted by his fellow people? After making a pass at a lady, cursing at her and talking to her in a disgusting fashion, I went up to her and apologized to her for his discourtesy. She acknowledged my apology, understanding very well that it was not my fault, that the guy wasn’t even my friend, but a person meandering from bar to bar in search of a way to help him escape the formalities and normalities of everyday life.
The drunken Pole bought me and Fernando a shot after a heartfelt discussion concerning the loss of the day’s game by the football (soccer) team Legia . (This is when I realized, and when I was told, that Legia was a football team, thus realizing why Legia was written all over the city of Warsaw.) I told him that I had a difficult time drinking vodka, that my stomach was not feeling good. He looked at me in confusion.
“No, no, just drink the fucking drink.” After cursing in Polish I decided to take the shot just so he would shut up. He looked at me, grabbed me and told me with his eyes half open, “Not bad, huh?”
By this time my stomach wasn’t in the best of conditions. I didn’t eat much that day or the day before, as my body was still trying to adjust to the time difference. As a result, the shots of vodka that I had consumed hit me harder than I could have imagined.
Ten minutes later the drunk Pole bought us all another shot. Was this guy joking? I couldn’t believe he was still drinking. How someone has a tolerance built up like that is beyond me, I certainly don’t have a tolerance that high. I looked at him in shock.
“Here!” He screams, giving me another shot.
“Oh come on! I told you before that I couldn’t drink too much because of my stomach.”
“Yeah, but I bought you vodka.”
I took the shot from him, reluctantly. We toasted one another, na zdrowie in Polish, and I went outside afterwards to get some fresh air. The outside was just as crowded as the bar, people congregating every which way. The air, I remember, was cool, being perfect night weather. I stood against the building, looking at the protestors, watching them continue as the police stood their ground, watching over the crowd, making sure nobody became too rowdy.
I returned inside.
The crowd consuming the inside of the bar was different from before. The drunken Pole however was still talking with Fernando, joined now by Isaac.
” Cześć! ” (Hello) a girl said to me as I was looking around the bar.
” Cześć! ” I said, smiling at her.
“She was giving you a look!” Fernando said to me.
“Go for it!” followed Isaac.
“I can’t guys! I have a girlfriend.”
“But you’re here and she’s here and we’re all here.” Fernando tried convincing me.
“No way man, I can’t.”
“You know, women are unbelievable creatures.”
“Oh I know all too well.”
I end up making conversation with a group of students from the University of Warsaw. They were fairly interested in talking to me because I was from the States.
“In America they make jokes about Polish people being stupid. Why is this?” One of the guys asked me randomly.
“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t understand it myself and I’m part Polish.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! My Grandfather grew up in Poland, not too far from Warsaw if my memory serves me correctly.”
“What do you think of Warsaw?”
“It’s wonderful! I love the whole atmosphere here, with history soaked into the city and the magnificence of the people.”
We continued talking and as the crowd dissipated, a new crowd consuming the bar, I talked with more and more students from the university. If I had a mere minute long conversation with anyone they would buy me a shot of vodka. I had to turn some of them down due to my stomach; as a result they looked at me with a surprised expression on their face. It was as if I was breaking some sort of taboo, some unspoken social agreement that once offered a drink of Vodka you accept. However, I was more concerned for my stomach than I was for committing faux pas .
Fernando, Isaac, and his sister left while I was talking with the university students. These two girls in the group were very interested in the fact that I was from America.
“I actually tried learning some Polish.” I told them.
“You’re learning Polish? Can you say something?”
” Mam na imie Michael .” (My name is Michael)
“You have a nice accent.”
” Dziękuję , but unfortunately I can’t speak the language. I only know some words and expressions.”
“You’ll pick it up if you stay here long enough.”
It wasn’t until the mother at the farm told me about Polish women chasing after American men, because they thought that American guys were wealthy, that I realized why those girls were interested in the fact that I as an American.
They both dragged me out of the bar with some of the other students I had been talking to. We rounded the corner where even more people were congregating outside of what looked like a club.
“Are we going to this club?”
“Yes, of course.” the girl answered.
Instead of entering we ended up consumed by the outside crowd, gathered around the club, loitering, running up and down the desolate streets of Warsaw after midnight. I sat down on the curb, gathering up energy to continue onward. As I was sitting down the two girls approached me, sitting next to me. One of them put her arm around me and started to rub my neck. I looked at her but I said nothing, there’s nothing I could say, perhaps “get off of me”, but I remained silent. They talked to me for a couple of minutes then got up, going into the club, telling me that I should join them.
“In a minute.” I exclaimed.
“What do I do?” I remember asking myself. It was obvious that one of them wanted to make it with me, which I couldn’t allow. Had it been me a year ago, wrapped in my folly, I would’ve happily obliged their request, but it was me a year later, clear-minded and happily together with Layla, whom I will talk about later. A night of pleasure could never measure up to a lifetime of passionate romance. I made my decision, picking myself up from the ground and walking back to the hostel. I never even said goodbye.
I ran to get to the west-end station (bus station) after hopping onto the wrong streetcar. My bus was leaving at nine and it was a quarter to nine. Whilst on the streetcar, heading towards the west-end station, I noticed that the main road was somehow different.
“Another road?” I thought to myself.
I silently panicked on the streetcar with people surrounding me. No one even knew that I was screaming, I did it in such a quiet manner. That’s what led me to running towards the west-end station, depending on myself to get there. It was this bus that would take me to the farm where I would volunteer for a month.
My feet started aching as I continued onward, pushing myself to the limit so that I wouldn’t miss the bus, as I told the mother on the farm that I would make the nine o’clock bus. I couldn’t miss the bus, I just couldn’t. The weight of my backpack was a catalyst to the pain that accumulated in my feet. I looked desperately for a cab, but the road was too busy for a cab driver to pull over.
Eventually I made it to the west-end station with about five minutes to spare. I bought my ticket and waited outside of the station. My bus was not in the lot, plus I couldn’t find platform three, where my bus should have been waiting. I approached a lady with her daughter and mother, asking her if she spoke English.
” Troche ” (a little) she answered.
I proceeded to ask her about the whereabouts of platform three. She told me it was on the other side of the station. I was a bit confused due to the way she worded her answer, so I continued waiting for the bus on the unknown platform outside of the station. After a couple of minutes she approached me, asking what time my bus was leaving. I showed her the ticket, telling her it was to leave at nine o’clock. The clock struck 8:59.
“You have to leave now, you’re bus is going to leave without you.”
“I’m not waiting here for the bus?”
“No, come with me.”
She took me and brought me into the station. We walked to the other side of the station where there were a myriad of platforms, some with buses waiting, others empty awaiting the arrival of a bus. She looked for platform three, pointing it out to me. I thanked her with all my heart, then walked towards the platform.
The bus proceeded to pull out of the platform, leaving me behind.
” Przepraszam! ” (excuse me!) I screamed to the bus driver continuously, hoping he would wait for me. The driver noticed me after a couple of seconds of screaming and running. He stopped the bus.
” Dwa? ” (two?) I asked him (it was bus number two that I had to catch). He took my ticket from my hand and inspected it. He looked towards me, handing back the ticket he nodded his head.
I thanked him while entering the bus, my heart still pounding from the moment I saw the bus leaving without me. I put my backpack on the empty seat next to me, sitting in the third row behind two ladies. As we pulled out of the west-end station and Warsaw I began to cry. I was full of love for the Poles and Poland itself. As I entered into this foreign country of theirs they invited me graciously; no prejudice towards me, no hostility towards me. If it wasn’t for that lady going out of her way to make sure I made it on the bus I would’ve missed the bus indefinitely. Had it not been for the students at that bar I would’ve felt unconnected with the youth of this wonderful city, although I should say country, capital cities are often much different from the country in which it is located in. Had it not been for the hospitality of Gregory I would never have experienced the home life of a family living in Warsaw, notwithstanding the separation his family was experiencing at the time I arrived.
Let me explain, I found Gregory through CouchSurfing, a popular website dedicated to people offering their hospitality to travelers. Gregory told me about Warsaw, life in the city, and we discussed many topics in minute long spurts. He was in a depressed state due to the fights he was having with his divorced wife and the ever-growing disconnected relationship with his children; his daughter a teenager who wanted nothing to do with him and his son who spent his days in front of his computer, never leaving the room. He apologized for his lack of communication and thanked me for talking to his daughter just before I left to make the 9 o’clock bus.
“It’s just nice to hear her voice again.” He said, as he rarely communicated with her anymore. It was a sad moment, but at the same time a beautiful one.
This all accumulated into the most beautiful moment I ever experienced in my life. During that ineffable moment on the bus, after the lady helped me find platform three, I recognized a surfacing feeling that I took to be a connection with the people of Poland, a tribal feeling almost, even though I was an outsider. Without the tragedy of the father, without the carousing of the students, without the walks along desolate Warsaw roads, without the lady helping me find my way, without the bus pulling out of the platform, without the fact that I was traveling alone, without the willingness I had to throw myself into Polish culture, without my cross country road trip and the months of waiting to leave America, without the ongoing estrangement I felt with The Island and its inhabitants, without my years in college, confined to four years of four walls and a body of ocean surrounding me, inhibiting me from realizing my day dreams turned reality, I would never have experienced this feeling. All these small pieces make up a tableau grande , a picture of great proportions.
All this had led itself to the most beautiful moment of my life. It wasn’t a superficial moment, a moment that could easily be observed from the outside, but an introverted scene that I have a difficult time explaining. It’s one of those moments so personal you would think that you were the only one in the entire world to experience something so divine. But I know this to be false, as there are too many people in this world for the experience to be unique. What was unique, however, was how I came to feel that way; everything at the moment, before the moment, and even after the moment.