When our plane touched down in Krakow, it was raining. The sky was gray, and the cold droplets got in my eyes as we walked. The airport was not like Warsaw—this one looked more like a grocery store, an old one with squeaky electric doors and peeling paint. The fluorescent light bulbs discolored our faces, and a howling from the wind twirled on the tiled floors.

Security in the airport was lax: a small rope separated us from family and friends. Before looking for my cousin, Patrycja, we focused on finding our luggage. Everyone crowded around the baggage claim like cattle. Arms shoved me over, grasping for handles. We had brought two suitcases-one black, one purple, one filled with gifts for my family and the other all our necessities. The purple one stood out instantly, the bright color against all of the blacks and grays. My mom made me awkwardly stand and wait while she searched for the black one. People passed around me, suitcases brushed my legs, and I attempted to dodge the many wheels.

Standing in the middle of the baggage claim I thought I saw what looked like my cousin. She was dressed in a tight black skirt and leggings with a thin leather jacket. Her hair was dyed a dark blonde, short, straight with long bags. I thought she looked like a model—her style neat but spunky, her makeup accentuated her cheekbones, thick lips, and big eyes. With her was a man slightly taller than herself. He had blonde hair and a slightly square face. A warm smile was engrained on his face as he discussed something with the girl.

My mom came back, dragging the suitcase behind her just as the girl waved in our direction.

“Mama, is that Patrycja?” I said as I attempted to subtly point over in the general direction of the girl and the cheerful man.

“Yes I think so” My mother squinted at my cousin, Patrcyja. She had not seen her in 15 years, then a little blonde haired girl in pigtails, wearing smocks and tights. Now Patrycja was mature, an adult barely recognizable.

But she knew us, running up as we tugged our suitcases past the gate.

“Czesc ciocia” {Hello Aunt}. She bent over to give my very short mother a hug.

Looking at me with a questioning smile, she asked, “And is this Malgosia?”
I quietly said czesc and was wrapped into a hug. The cheerful man introduced himself as David, Patrycja’s boyfriend. He was the only person in the family that could drive and had a car—a small black German-made car with, thankfully, enough trunk space for our luggage. That made him our man of the day, saving us from the cold, drafty airport.

Walking out to car, Poland did not seem much different than America. The parking lot, though small, was packed with small cars. A traffic-infested highway led to a city skyline horizon. Car exhaust filled my nose, the result of an old, sputtering taxi cab failing to start. Rain continued to drip down, and I was happy.

My mother and I sat in the back, David drove, and Patrycja rested an almost empty box of pizza on her nap, nibbling at the crust. She and David had spent the day in the city, shopping and eating out. My mother kept asking Patrycja questions about her home in Rzeszow, the family, and school. I could not understand much of anything, so I watched the passing landscape. It was like changing centuries: one minute we were on a four lane highway with small cars, dodging and cutting people off, the next on a dirt road where cows and chickens grazed in the open fields.

My sightseeing was interrupted by a recognizable language—English.

“So how do you like Poland so far?” David asked from the driver’s seat.

“I love it. It’s so nice,” I squeaked maybe a little too quickly with a very vague response. I forgot to speak slow, forgot he was not a native English speaker and was very surprised when he responded back. David, I learned, spoke many languages: Italian, French, Greek, English, and German. He had even been to Miami for a college vacation a couple years prior.
David became our personal tour guide, pointing out buildings, cities, and parks, teaching us about driving on Poland’s highways and dirt roads. But I don’t think I needed a lesson to understand how poorly Polish people drive.

It was like car racing or a roller coaster ride: cars going at abnormally fast speeds, whipping through tight turns, and carelessly driving on the opposite side of the road. My nails dug into the seat as the car shrieked to a stop inches from a fender bender. David lackadaisically had one hand loosely on the wheel, the other elaborately gesturing like an Italian storyteller. I feared for my life.
Although I had not slept in 18 hours, I was not tired. It was April 5th, 8 PM when we arrived in the little town of Jaslo: shops closed, lights in apartments but streets barren of people and life. It was only a Thursday; outside it was cold, yet I was warm with excitement. In one of these tall apartment buildings was my family – people I had not seen since I was five months old, strangers to me.

I could not keep up with the newness of everything: tiny boutiques, butcher shops, ice cream parlors whizzed by, and tall, aging churches with weary statues and cemeteries remained steadfast, the elders of the town.

I had not seen my mother this happy before. She was home. “Malgosia, I went to school there. That’s my old church, and the grocery store. The park hasn’t changed a bit” She had told me many stories growing up, but to see her hometown, her life, was a new adventure for me. Things had changed in Jaslo, Americanization, modernization, but the town still held the Polish charm.

It is the Polish charm of no greedy department stores, no Wal-Marts, Pick-in-Saves, or Kohl’s. There was no smell of gas, no honking horns, smog, or traffic—it was the charm of rural life with the comforts of the city. The buildings weren’t cold or gray or overbearing like the American shoeboxes. There was a certain warmness in the houses and shops: buildings moved and bended with the streets, and golden, musty, dark, and light browns created a variety of color. This was the Polish charm.

All of the beauty of Jaslo reached a peak as we pulled up to a set of apartment complexes. The confusion of stopping after almost three hours of driving was immediately replaced with anticipation. Counting down days, unpacking and repacking my suitcase led up to the moment where I would finally meet my family.

I was so scared. My mom was not.

We left our suitcases in the car as we went up to the big steel door, tiny buttons on the side for each family in the tall rectangular building.
Beep. Beep.

“Jestem David” {It’s David} He spoke into a small, lit-up intercom.

“Dobrze” {Good} a voice loudly crackled as the door clicked open.

My uncle’s house was on the second floor of the apartment—a blessing as elevators were scarce in Jaslo. I barely had time to register the hanging wreath or the welcome mat as the wood door quickly swung open.

“Ahh czesc, czesc” {Hello! Hello!}

I had not seen my uncle in five years, but he looked the same: soft brown eyes like my mother, wiry brown hair and mustache, short and lean. He was familiar, family.

“Malgosia” he said in his thick, calm voice. I received three kisses on the cheek, awkwardly as I was unaccustomed to European greetings.

But my mom was at peace: her eyes shining with joy and comfort, her tough exterior softened by family. She was so happy, so utterly happy. It was contagious. Her voice was light and quick as she reunited with her baby brother.

We had not even entered the apartment. Standing in the doorway I could barely see the person standing behind my uncle.

There was a young woman, my aunt. Her hair was cut short, a brown bob with hairs sticking up in all directions. She was lean, wearing a large sweater and gray sweatpants. Dark, droopy circles from never-ending hours of work framer her still clear and energized eyes. She bounced to me, gave me a big hug. I did not know her, but the kindness she had shown was so loving, so known.

My Ciocia {Aunt} Zosia was quick to usher us into the apartment, hang up our coats, and bring us food. Since arriving in Poland, I began to see the hospitality that everyone possesses. Upon meeting someone, food and tea were always offered.

And my aunt had to make the best tea imaginable: simple store bought tea mixed with sugar and a lemon slice in a delicate tea cup, the perfect temperature, a sweet and tangy taste. I sat on a little stool because the kitchen was small, barely bigger than my bathroom. My back leaned against the refrigerator, and I was wedged between my mother and aunt. A window to my left had a view of a little courtyard and street. I caught myself staring outside, looking at the pigeons, rusting bicycles, and occasional stray cats.

But the smell from the kitchen focused my attention away from the outside world. My aunt with nimble flair was making us food; her wrists quickly flicking as she cut up bread and ham for tiny tea sandwiches. My stomach grumbled.

Nibbling on the tea sandwiches, I listened to the many voices in the room, the changing tones, the inflections. Oblivious to the words being said, I paid more attention to the mood of the house: Patrycja exasperatedly explaining something to my aunt, my uncle chuckling at and old family story, David playfully teasing Patrycja.

And a certain picture on the wall caught my attention. It was me, me and my babcia, my grandmother. I had this same picture at home in my baby book: my grandmother was just home from the hospital, and I was barely five months old. She did not smile in the picture—her eyes pierced the camera lens, her face worn and creased, cancer overwhelmed her whole body. Yet she was home. She was so sick the doctors thought she wouldn’t make it to see the plain little kitchen where we sat in now. In the picture she was sitting in the same chair my mother was in. In her arms I slept peacefully. Less than a year later she had passed away, but she died happily knowing she saw her last grandchild. I was drawn to the picture. It was only the second time in the apartment, yet I had a part of it, my babcia and I.

My aunt kept feeding me sandwiches. I would shake my head, but she was persistent, determined that I must eat 7 or 8 tea sandwiches in one night. That with the two cups of tea, and I felt like I was going to explode.

My cousin Arek was late to the informal reunion in the small kitchen. He was only two years older than me, barely an age difference compared to the 10 to 40 year age gaps between myself and my other cousins. Arek arrived with a slam of the door. At first glance he was big—not fat. He was muscular, tall, probably six foot. He had light brown eyes, big ears, and a shaved head, making him look more like 25 than 18. But he still acted like a teenager, reaching for five sandwiches in one hand, laughing loudly, and whining about his mother’s request for him to clean his room. He didn’t know much English despite studying it in school. He shyly said hello and continued devouring sandwich after sandwich.

No one except Patrycja knew English well. My uncle could only say hello. My aunt knew random words from television shows. She loved asking “more tea” or “very good?” I only knew simple phrases in Polish, making my mother a human translator.

But the strangeness was somewhat peaceful; a chorus of sounds hummed around me with the passion of the Polish language. We had remained in the apartment until late at night—11 PM by the time we said our goodnights and stepped back outside. Arek and my uncle had sneaked out to carry our two suitcases up the five flights of stairs to the other uncle’s house we would be staying at.

It was not a long walk. The apartments were just across the street from each other. I, however, was not looking forward to climbing the five flights of stair to the very last apartment on the top floor. Panting from exhaustion, I sunk onto my mother’s shoulder as we knocked on the door.

My Wujek {uncle} Zdzichu ansered the door. He was much older than my other uncle—balding, little gray strands combed over his scalp, thin with a lean posture only just slightly taller than my mother. Unlike my mother and Wujek Wiesiek he had translucent blue eyes, the color of water when light catches it. With him was my Ciocia Stasia—a sturdy, older woman with short brown hair. She was much taller than my uncle, closer to my height.

Their apartment was much larger than my Wujek Wiesiek’s. A little hallway led to 4 different rooms: a small guest room that my mother and I would share, a living room with a giant aquarium, television, and long dining room table, a kitchen, and a bathroom. I began to suspect a secret plot of the Polish to fatten me up as we were herded into the kitchen where more bread and jam were sliced and spread. Another cup of tea was brewing, and I was getting exhausted.

By this time it was past midnight; in the US it was 7 AM. I was tired. I quickly rummaged through my suitcase to find a pair of pajamas and collapsed on the bed I would have to share with my mother. I heard a clock ticking slowly, and my mother and uncle laughing in the adjacent room. I was in Poland—Poland, the place I had wanted to go since I was 4. Drifting into a deep dreamland, I was home.















Polish Glossary
Ciocia—Aunt (chocha)
Wujek—Uncle (vooyek)
Czesz—Hello (cheshch)
Jestem—I am (Yestem)
Dobrze—Good (Dobzje)
Babcia—Grandmother (babcha)

Names
Wiesek: Vyeshek
Stasia: Stasha
Zosia: Zosha
Patrycja: Patriseeya
Malgosia: Mawgosha
Arek: Ahrek
David: Dahveed
Jaslo: Yaswa
Zdzichu: Jeehoo