Crete

Since I am blogging now on a memory lane via retrospect, I must tell you about our last year’s honeymoon destination, Greece, Crete. A city where time stood virtually still. A place where sleepy residents relax in the never-ending rays of sunshine. And a rhythm of life so slow that is almost odd to me. A handsome and picturesque little island, with old cars, old street signs, and a peculiar mixture of ancient and modern architecture, intertwined with occasional backyard mess or “something” long ago abandoned. 

One time, we ventured out of the resort to look for an ATM machine. We walked down a quiet boulevard lined with local restaurants, and private homes, some of which had peculiar front line views. A fridge in front of the house, an abandoned toilet on its side. Random chickens busy looking for worms, and curious goats snacking on something resembling “grass-roots”. Ancient cars without wheels collecting archaeological rust. Old women sitting in wooden chairs dressed in black, chatting. Local men smoking cigarettes, drinking. All of them oblivious to it all. And, occasional tourists passing by in blue and white, Cretan choo-choo trains. 

At one point, we stopped at a small motel to ask for directions. I asked a woman who was sitting at the reception if she knew where we can find an ATM machine. This was her lovely, Cretan response: “Kalimera." - Smile - “Oh yes, there is an ATM machine.” - Smile -  “It’s in a market further down.” - Smile. My reply: “Okay! But are you absolutely sure that it’s there?!” And, once again the Cretan woman: - Smile - “Maybe yes…”- Smile - “Maybe not.” - smile - “But don’t worry, everything is going to be o.k., you will find it, just keep going.” - And, a very wide smile!  What?? 

Ok, so, as I understand this, don’t worry, keep walking if you find the goddamn ATM machine then you’re lucky, and if you don’t find it then life is good anyway. Be happy, SMILE! Life is beautiful, you are in Crete, why are you so tense? Have an olive, drink something, eat something, take a nap….and if a pigeon shits on you, darling, that is a Greek sign of good luck. Yes? Yes! Ooooopa! 

Billy-Goat...

Last week was my three-year anniversary of being in Poland. Time flies and things happen. Back in the beginning of writing my blog, I wrote about an interesting analogy. I compared moving here to jumping off the Verrazano bridge. Well, the analogy was quite on the spot. When you jump off a bridge many things can happen. You can either drown, be rescued or luckily, be swept ashore and climb out on your own. I think it was the latter for me. I'v learned how to swim in a pool of different waters, and when I reached the foreign shore, I had no choice but to adapt. You see, it's not like you can come to another country, and expect for things to be the same as in your own country. It just doesn't work that way. You have to adapt. You have to put certain things you're used to, aside. It's like when you travel to Japan and take with you Japanese dictionary. And, you learn Japanese etiquette, like bowing to people or eating with chop-sticks. It's the same thing in Poland. I've learned that I couldn't expect that because I was an American, things were going to be American for me. Well, they were not. It's me that had to adjust, not them. It didn’t mean I liked it. But, in order for me to live a happier existence it was better that I learned. And, in the three years that I've been here, I've leaned a lot.  

When I first came here, I started this very blog naming it "Where my home is".  Well, I was in search of a home, and I came to Poland to find out if perhaps this is it. But, after three years, I've learned that my home is where I came from. My home is America. Why did I have to leave in order to find this out? I am not sure. Maybe that was part of my journey, my lesson. Nonetheless, I am glad I did it. If I hadn't done it, I would have never found out where I really belong. A woman born in Poland, raised in America, wondering around Europe trying to find out where she belongs. Looking back, I’ve learned that it's the mother that raised you that is your true mother. Sure Poland gave me birth, but she didn't participate in the day to day parenting. To me, time spent in a place that one lived the longest shapes that person to be who they are. I will always have deep sentiments toward my birth country, but the attachment, identity, and homage belongs to the country that raised me, America. 

There is a Polish children's book about a goat who was looking for a town where shoes for goats where made. The town's name was Pacanow. Matołek aka Billy-Goat was looking for Pacanow all over the world, hence numerous tales of his traveling adventures. In the end, the goat finds Pacanow but in his own country, in Poland. It turns out he looked all over the world for something that was right under his nose. Well, I am that goat. I am Billy-Goat who left my country in order to find out where my true “home” is. Only to learn, just like Matołek, that my home was right under my nose, where I’ve lived, in America. 

Similarly to Billy-Goat, I will be returning to my "Pacanow" very soon. I can't wait. This time in my suitcases I am packing:  priceless experiences, memories, and countless stories to be told...

Slippers

Source: etsy.com via Candice on Pinterest

Do you wear house slippers? I must admit, I rarely wear them. My choice of footwear around the house are rubber flip-flops. In the winter, too keep my feet warm, I wear wool socks. In Poland, when you visit somebody’s house you are excepted to take off your shoes, and are automatically given house slippers. I don’t understand the concept because the slippers are not brand new, they have been worn before. Many, many times, by various guests. You get the point! Upon arrival at a friend’s house, I found myself immediately rejecting the host’s slippers. But that’s not enough because the hosts usually insists on me wearing them around the house. In case I catch a cold since the floor is cold, or because they want me to feel comfortable, or for other inexplicable reason. Being put on the spot, I am usually forced to come up with various excuses why I don’t want to put them on. Sometimes, I am even faced with a delicate pressure. “Why don’t you want to wear the slippers?!” or “You don’t like my grandmother’s antique, hand-made crochet, pink slippers??”. Followed by a bewildered face expression and utter confusion. Then by a persistent attempt to place the slippers near me wherever I sit in the house; just in case I change my mind. One time, I tried gently pushing the slippers under a large piece of furniture but that didn’t work. They were found and mysteriously placed in front of me again. I understand now that this is because the slippers must be seen in plain sight as a symbol of the old-world Polish hospitality. Viva heirloom! Viva almost vintage, sometimes recycled, and always, always “gently” broken-in, home slippers!

Nonetheless, I must concede, this old Polish tradition is a very sweet gesture. I should appreciate that someone actually cares about my feet enough to offer me their own house shoes. Ha! I should be grateful! Instead, I feel awkward, my face gets red, and my palms start to sweat. I panic. Basically, I just want to run away. In America, it’s unlikely that you’ll be wearing someone else's bedroom mules or any kind of used shoes at all. I guess, I am just not used to it. However, being a person that favors solutions not problems, I decided to stop complaining, and prepare for my next visit. As such, I shall carry with me an extra pair of socks wherever I go. Just in case I get the dreaded offer to wear the host’s slippers again. I think that extra large socks with rubber lining underneath will be perfect.

Next, I must find out how to hand-crochet a pair of magnificent, one-size-fits-all, guest slippers. I mean, I must follow the tradition. Right?

Jumping Off The Verrazano Bridge

Source: Uploaded by user via Elkin on Pinterest

So, I am almost coming up on my two month anniversary being here in Poland. Today, while talking on Skype, my mother reflected on how me getting on that plane back in November was like jumping off the Verrazano Bridge. I mean, I was getting on a plane, and flying, kamikaze style, into an unknown location, without anything or anyone waiting for me when I landed.

When I talk to locals about where I come from, most can’t comprehend me. They don’t understand when I tell them that I packed everything I own into two suitcases and flew into a place completely unknown to me all the way from New York City. Some quietly think that I’ve lost my mind. Especially when they learn that I came to Gdansk without a place to live, friends to crash with or family to stay with. And, though the locals are very nice to me, the minute they hear that I come from the USA, they get very suspicious. Clearly, something major had to happen in order for me to just pick up and leave like that. Why leave NYC, the big Metropolis for small, in comparison, town of Gdansk?

I often hear: Oh, dear, did you suffer from a broken heart and needed to move very, very far? Or...darn, honey, maybe you killed someone? Are they looking for you? Or...oh, I know it! You came after a man you fell in love with while vacationing here! Ahem, I chuckle. Apparently, I am the one that is having the most fun with this. I simply smile and say, no not really, none of those things, I just fell like flying off the proverbial Verrazano bridge. Is there something wrong with that? Then I hear, not at all, but why did you land in Gdansk? My retort: my dear, when you jump off a bridge you don’t ask questions...

Let It Snow

Source: bridalmusings.com via The Bridal on Pinterest

Today the city of Gdansk looks like an excerpt from a Hans Christian Andersen novel. Falling in light, white flakes, bit by bit, ice crystals are covering the streets and age-old buildings. But this snow is different than the one I know from New York City. This particular snow is on a mission. It is a predetermined calling that says, I will turn this city into a magical, little town that it’s meant to be in a dead of winter. I will enhance the landscapes of the ruins by painting its tops with frozen, white fluff. I will put a white blanket over everything to hide any imperfections. On this very day, I will frost-white senseless!

Last night, when I walked around the streets of Gdansk, I was in awe of how beautiful the city is at night during the winter. Contemplatively, I admired how the delicate veil of white snow, and dim street lamps accentuated the ancient, brick stone edifices. Massive churches tucked inside narrow streets, standing proud as the oldest buildings. I must admit, there is something mystical about walking into a tight corridor, lined with worn out cobble stones, brushing up against a thousand year old wall. It always gets me thinking; how many fingers have brushed up against that wall in the past centuries? What had happened in the dark alleys of these streets? What were the people like? What did they wear on a freezing, wintery night? What did they look like? Were they joyful?

Today, the snow decided to take it up a notch. It is now diligently covering the perimeters of the city in an abundant layer of white, heavenly substance. It’s as if though God was saying: “I am charge, I say when it’s going to be truly white. Get out your snow boots, your hats, your gloves and be ready. I have painted the world white. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

I say, let it snow...

You Can't Rush Caramel

Photo: jothetartqueen.wordpress.com

Someone recently told me that home made caramel is tricky to make. Specifically, caramel has to be cooked on low heat until it forms the right consistency, otherwise it will crack. A recipe I found on the internet states: “Make sure the sugar is completely dissolved in the water before the mixture boils; stray granules will turn your caramel gritty.” I couldn’t help but make an analogy to the process of making caramel resembling new relationships. The sugar, in this case love, has to be completely dissolved in water, as in a new way of life. Otherwise stray granules will form and turn caramel gritty, just like unresolved issues will soil a new relationship. Making caramel is like forming a new relationship, it takes time.

Once again, my cinematic persona is traveling along corridors of my earlier movie rental alleys. I am thinking about a movie titled “Caramel”. The plot takes place in a small beauty salon in Beirut where a young hairdresser falls is love with someone completely inappropriate. The movie circles around that particular beauty shop where home-made, hot caramel is used as a beauty treatment. Amber in color, mellow and sweet, it almost resembles the delicate personality of the main character. The sticky syrup, used in Lebanon as a waxing product, sometimes brings pain. Interestingly, so does love. But not always. Though the young woman eventually gets rejected and consequently hurt, soon she discovers that fate had something better in store for her. One sunny day, when she least expects it, she looks out the window, and sees the man she’s been waiting for, and falls in love.

Caramel, the movie. 

You can’t rush caramel, you can't rush love... ;-)

How To Make An American Quilt

Source: flickr.com via Almara Shop on Pinterest

My life revolves and has been largely influenced by my deep passion, the great American cinema. Often, I bring up a lot of references seen in movies that had a deeper meaning or carried a specific message. One of them was a movie titled “How to make an American quilt”. The movie was about a girl named Finn who, before her wedding, decides to visit her great aunt and grandmother to work on her college thesis. There she discovers that her aunt organized a sewing group which was creating a quilt meant to be given to Finn as a wedding gift. The theme of the quilt was “where love resides”. During the making of the quilt, stories she hears from the women, slowly open Finn’s eyes to a different love that exists.

The movie stayed with me for a long time. Later on, I realized that the film presented an analogy on how fate sometimes takes us to unexpected places, events, and people. And, like the handmade quilt, our life takes on its own unique tapestry. I can see the connection...

On the day I arrived in Poland, I knew that through faith, I am letting destiny take its reins. It’s remarkable how letting go of fears, believing in God, and trusting that everything is going to work out invites positive energy.

Consequently, at the end of this year, quietly knocking on my door, thread and needle in hand; without rushing or forcing, fate has meticulously began creating my own new, brightly colored quilt. I haven’t named it yet but I know that it will be amazing...

Happy New Year everyone!