I just arrived back from a whirlwind of ten days filled with city scoping, grim stares, sunny skies, mineral water, a mountain excursion, and enough pierogi to fill my heart for about a month.
I am back now, and I arrived with a good chunk of myself restored. So much was lost of who I was over the past two years. Sometimes you need to go somewhere far and fleeting to fall back into yourself.
I traveled to Poland — somewhere I have been dreaming of going to for many years. The place where my family comes from, the place that feels closest to my heritage.
Even so, the truth about being from the United States is that culture and being is very much so intertwined in what it means to be “An American”. Many people like to think there is no “American” culture. Geographically speaking, that is certainly true as the Americas span a region way to far and vast to constitute one particular type of being that agrees upon similar ideas, customs, and patterns of behavior. What I mean to say is the culture of the “United States” is generally referred to as “American” culture — but you likely knew that. I digress.
Traveling to Poland felt familiar. Everyone had the same look in their facial expression I often do. Considered “the Polish stare”, I usually refer to it as “resting bitch face”. From the moment I stepped on the plane, I fit in quite well. Along my trip, several people noted that I certainly looked more Polish than American, and were surprised I did not speak Polish. Not yet, of course.
Needless to say, while it felt familiar, I wanted to highlight the ways in which those from the United States generally relate with their culture — and that is through food. While I felt in kindred spirits to most Poles, what helped make me feel even more comfortable was getting to try the foods I had grown up around. Pickled this, pickled that. Dumplings on every corner. Jelly filled donuts as big as your head. Soup in high fashion.
Quintessentially Polish food made me feel ever so welcome, and so at home.
Beets remind me of my grandmother. Horseradish my grandfather. Pierogi my sister. The more I ate, the more I felt restored. Closer to my family, while being over 4,000 miles away.
Over the past two years, I distanced myself from the pain and misguided judgement i have felt from them. I promised myself I could never go back, and never be a part of their lives again. Numbers were blocked, memories faded, and time barely proved to heal.
This time was different. I felt closer. I felt like it may be okay to go back one day. It may be okay to be myself again. To let myself relax into my being. I still face that day with great fear, but I pray it is not that far away.
The pierogi sure did a number on my heart.
As I come back to a state of more structure, I yearn for the days spent filled with awe and adventure. To travel is to learn. To travel is to connect with those you have not seen in awhile. To travel is to eat, to feel, and to be free from patterns of normalcy.
The foods I ate, the people I met, and the places I experienced felt like a blessing I did not quite know how to receive.
Sometimes you don’t have a choice but to be happy, be sunny, and be ever so grateful.
You never know when that might change, and I forever respect the right to live in the present. To travel is to live in the present.
Anyway, that is enough of that. I will be writing a full city guide to Warsaw and Krakow once I get over the hurdle of moving next week. I am glad to be back with my cat Rigatoni.
I got my PICC line this week and have started the heavy antibiotics again in preparation for surgery. The antibiotics are tough, but I am getting through it.
The blooming lilac and cherry blossom trees near my apartment are helping wonders.
Chat soon, I have a cake to go make!
Lillian