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...