Humility the Path to Linguistic Glory

Today is Polski Piątek, and the last day before Christmas I will think about Polish stuff. B.A. and I are going to Umbria for Christmas, so I must pack up all the Polish in my brain and shove it into a mental closet to make room for the Italian I am going to spend the next week reviewing.

If you take Polish classes, it is very helpful to have Polish friends around to help you with your homework. All over Edinburgh there are Poles of every class and condition hunched over the assignments of their "foreign" friends, lovers or spouses. "The girls at work translated it for me," one chap would say of the Polish songs he presented to class. His songs were always Polish Praise & Worship hymns, and as a matter of fact, the number of Catholics in the top grade is now so high, our teacher has started sending her fictional characters in our readings to Mass on Sundays.

Usually I do my assignments on my own but take or send any extraordinarily long passage to Polish friends to correct. The Principal Authority, however, is Polish Pretend Son, who is rather like the stern priest who shouts his homilies but then is very kind in the confessional. The most important thing about PPS, as an arbiter of Polish, is that he does not let any error slide. So it was with mingled joy and trepidation that I brought my most recent assignment to him on Monday and sat beside him on the couch.

"This is very lazy," said PPS (or words to that effect). "It is all in the nominative case!"

"Whoops," said Seraphic who, when PPS was busily being born, was either dancing with super-cute guys at the Brebeuf College School Christmas Dance or writing all about them in her journal.  "I suppose some of it should be in the genitive."

"HMMph", uttered PPS, which is PPSski for "Yes."

I busily worked that section , and then inquired about the next. PPS looked at it for a long time.

"This is all wrong," declared PPS.

"Oh dear."

For the entertainment of Polish readers and learners, I will now present two versions of my essay, the first draft and the final, so you can see how pathetic my first draft was and I can relive once again my errors, for this is the path to linguistic glory.  (The most egregious errors will be underscored.)

Before I do that I should mention there is a bit of biographical exaggeration, as what counts in Polish class is not factual truth but getting whatever Polish you know onto paper or into ears. I will fix this for the translation.

First draft (exceedingly terrible)

Jestem pisarką i niezależną dziennikarką od ośmiu lat. Najbardziej mi podoba się pisanie noweli ale muszę też pisać artykły wstępne i rownież wiadomość, żeby zarobić pieniądze.

Piszę dla "Catholic Register", tygodnik w Toronto, i dla "Catholic World Report" dziennik w siecię, który jest czasopismo mojego wydawnictwa w USA, które opublikowało moją pierwszą powieść.

Kiedy pracuję dla "CR", opiniuję delikatnie o jakąś sprawie życie, n.p. jak mam tym roku gotować dla bożonarodzeniowego. A kiedy piszę dla "CWR", mam nagrać wywiady, n.p. z księdzem ukraińskim o wojnie, albo przeczytać kziążki, n.p. "Bóg albo nic" przez Kardynała Sarah, albo tłumaczyć jakiś artykły na Polski.

Mnóstwo artykłow w CWR należą do USA--ja zamuję się wiadomościmi z Kanady i z Europy też. Podoba mi się napisać o nowinych w Kosciele Polksi. Mam tłumaczyć, a to jest zabawa....

Final draft 

Jestem pisarką i niezależną dziennikarką od ośmiu lat. Najbardziej podoba mi się pisanie noweli, ale żeby zarobić pieniądze, muszę też pisać felietony i reportaże.

Piszę dla Catholic Register, tygodnika w Toronto i dla Catholic World Report, dziennika internetów, który jest czasopismem mojego wydawnictwa w USA, które opublikowało moją powieść.

Kiedy pracuję dla CR, piszę o przyziemnych sprawach, np. co mam ugotować na Boże Narodzenie. Natomiast, kiedy piszę dla CWR muszę nagrywać wywiady, np. z księdzem ukraińskim o wojnie, albo czytać książki, np. Bóg albo nic kardynała Sarah, albo tłumaczyć artykły z Polski.

Mnóstwo artykłów w CWR dotyczy USA; ja zamuję się wiadomościmi z Kanady i z Europy. Lubię pisać o nowinach dotzczących polskiego Kościoła. Muszę robić tłumaczenia; co jest dla mnie dobrą zabawą.

I hope that is all right. My corrected draft was rather a mess. I showed it to my teacher yesterday, so she could correct anything I missed, and it was mostly the punctuation.

Translation 

"I have been a writer and freelance journalist for eight years. I like writing stories best, but in order to make money, I must also write opinion pieces and news.

"I write for the Catholic Register, a weekly paper in Toronto, and for Catholic World Report, an internet daily, which is the magazine of my publisher in the USA, who published my novel. [And very tired my classmates must be of hearing about it, too.]

"When I work for the CR, I write about everyday things, e.g. what I must cook for Christmas. However, when I write for CWR, I must conduct interviews, e.g. with a Ukrainian priest about the war, or read books, e.g. God or Nothing by Cardinal Sarah, or translate articles from Poland. [Not to republish but for myself, to understand the story and to get quotes.]

"Most of the articles in CWR are about the USA; I [concern myself] with news from Canada and Europe. I love to write news about the Polish Church. I have to translate; I think this is great fun..."

***
Meanwhile, here is my latest article for Catholic World Report. Some readers will probably be shocked, and other readers will probably be impressed. Just remember that this Polish story has nothing to do with a North American or British context and everything to do with A) Polish history and B) contemporary events in continental Europe.

P.S. I know perfectly well that Gazeta Wyborcza is a left-wing, liberal newspaper highly critical of the Church. It is, however, a mainstream, national daily paper with a large (albeit rapidly falling) readership. It's not the Morning Star.

Oh, Brain, Hurry Up!

Today is Polski Piątek, so if you're interested neither in language learning nor in Polish culture, click away now. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I am still working on Polish in 4 Weeks Level 2, and I am now in "Week 4", having this morning begun to memorize the opening dialogue to Chapter 23: Może powinniśmy wykorzystać twój pobyt w Polsce i pojechać do spa? ("Maybe we should take advantage of your stay in Poland and go to a spa?)  Every day I try to memorize 10 - 12 lines of dialogue. This daily habit is, I think, helping me with my spoken Polish. I noticed
yesterday that all these memorized words and phrases came in helpful in doing my homework, which was to write a passage about my job.

The biggest problem with Polish night school, I now realize, is that there are no exams to study for. Honestly, it isn't enough to go to a language night school course and just hope that repetition does the trick. You really have to memorize, test yourself, correct yourself, and memorize some more. It's hard work and it's almost painful, but it is necessary to get results

The biggest problem with learning Polish--outside Poland, anyway--is that improvement seems glacially slow. And I keep picking the wrong books to read. That is, I keep choosing children's books and then discovering that the language therein is at least slightly archaic. I put down W Pustyni i w puszczy when, at my friend's Polish wedding, a Pole told me that he too needed a dictionary to read Sienkiewicz. Sigh.

In contrast, I picked up an Italian easy-read book yesterday in the bookshop and read the first page easily despite not having reviewed Italian for a year. Had I been getting my Italian up to speed for four years, I would be fluent by now. Speaking as someone who is not good at languages, Italian is a snap compared to Polish.

But there is hope. I write in Polish now more often than I did before--usually by email--and if I make mistakes, at least my emails are legible.  Meanwhile, I'm just going to go ahead and try to read Antoni Libera's Madame. I adored it in English, reading it two or three times. The translation was written in excellent colloquial English, so it won't "match up exactly" with the Polish, but what the heck. I had might as well try. And, besides, if I want to learn to write like a Pole, I will have to learn to do it the way I learned to write like an English-speaker: by reading as much as possible.

Słowacki

I suspect most of my readers who played the Thanksgiving Survival Game of yore have gotten married or moved onto other blogs, which leaves me free to indulge once again in a Polski Piątek!

Polish night school is becoming more exciting because the teacher is now introducing Real Polish Literature. Yesterday we read a poem by Juliusz Słowacki, for whom the Słowacki Theatre (i.e. Teatr Słowackiego) in Kraków was named. Poor old Słowacki was not much appreciated in life, but now he is considered one of the most important Polish poets. 

We have been studying "diminutives" (zdrobienia) in class, and there are a fair number in the poem:

W pamiętniku Zofii Bobrówny

In the diary* of Sofia Bobrówna

Niechaj na Zośka o wiersze nie prosi

Let not Sophie ask me for a poem

Bo kiedy Zośka do ojczyzny** wróci

for when Sophie returns to Poland

Każda jej gwiazdka piosenkę zanuci.

every star will hum her a song.

Nim kwiat przekwitnie, nim gwiazdeczka zleci

For her a blossom will drop, a little star will fall

Sluchaj--bo to są najlepsi poeci.

Listen, for they are the best poets. 

Gwiazdy błękitne, kwiateczki czerwone

The sea-blue stars, the little red flowers

Będą ci całe poemata składać.

will assemble for you whole poems.

Ja bym to samo powiedział, co one,

I would say the same thing as they

Bo ja się od nich nauczyłem gadać

for I learned to talk from them.

Bo tam, gdzie Ikwy srebrne fale płyną,

For there, where flows the silver waves of the Ikwa,

Byłem ja niegdyś, jak Zośka, dzieciną

I once was, like Sophie, a little child.

Dzisiaj daleko pojechałem w gości

Today I have gone far away, an emigré

I dalej mię los nieszczęśliwy goni.

and further an unhappy fate me chases.

Przywież mi, Zośko, od tych gwiadz światłości,

Bring me, wee Soph, from those stars light,

Pryzwież mi, Zośko, z tamtych kwiatów woni.

bring me, wee Soph, from those flowers scent,

Bo mi zaprawdę odmłodnieć potrzeba

for I needs must become young again.

Wróć mi więc z kraju taką jakby z nieba.

And so return to me from that land--as if from heaven.

*Engagement calendar

**Do ojcyzny  literally means "to the fatherland",  but that is too many syllables for my taste.  

English doesn't really have diminutives, although you could argue it does, for we add --ie or --y to things like "the kitty" and "the little mousey".  Archaic English has --kins, as in "Odds bodkins", which means "God's little bodies", i.e. the Blessed Sacrament. (So don't use it.) The Scots put wee in front of everything, e.g. "Let's have a wee dram", which can mean either small or sweet, as in "What a nice wee elephant."

Rose Petals, Orange Peels

I have finally cashed in the Mother's Day present Julia of Australia gave me via Amazon. Thank you very much, Julia.

After dithering between Rose Petal Jam: Recipes and Stories from a Summer in Poland and Sugared Orange: Recipes & Stories from a Winter in Poland, I bought the latter. I had already read the former clandestinely in Waterstone's, actually getting teary over the ex-pat Pole's nostalgia.  I would have bought Rose Petal Jam on the spot were it not £25 ($35 Canadian being a bargain, as £25 is $50). 

I will probably buy it eventually, but meanwhile I have Sugared Orange, and although I don't like it as much as Rose Petal Jam--too many pictures this time---I am eager to try out the recipes. Incidentally, either book would make a good Christmas gift to a Polish immigrant over 40 or a second, third, etc., generation Polish-Canadian/American/Australian interested in her ancestral heritage. 

As you can see, it is Polski Piątek. I have nothing to say about boys today. Well, here's another photo of "the Polish James Dean, Zbigniew Cybulski. My friend Dorota says she was crazy about him when she was a teenager, and she watched every single one of his films. If you want to be all sophisticated-n-stuff, have a beatnik party and rent (or order or whatever you do now regarding films) Ashes and Diamonds because it is awesome and about Polish Catholic reactionaries assassinating Polish Communist big-wigs. The reactionaries are supposed to be the bad guys, ah ha ha ha ha ha. The Communist censor board must have been as dumb as stumps. 

To return to cookbooks, I also have From a Polish Country House Kitchen by Anne Applebaum and Danielle Crittenden. Applebaum is an American Pulitzer Prize winning journalist married to a well-known Polish politician. I am told she speaks Polish beautifully, and so there is hope for me. Danielle Crittenden, also a journalist (and novelist), is from Toronto, who converted to Judaism before she married David Frum, the famous son of one of Canada's most beloved journalists, Barbara Frum. Thus, unsurprisingly, there are a lot of specifically Jewish recipes and some stories about  Barbara that Canadians who remember her would enjoy. 

Writing a Polish cookbook when you are not yourself Polish must be rather daunting. Of course, Britons occasionally ask me if I don't find cooking Polish food for Poles rather daunting. To be honest, I never thought about it. I've been making potato latkes (called placki zimniaczane by Catholic Poles) since I was eleven. North Americans are less embarrassed by culinary cultural appropriation than Britons, I suspect.* Meanwhile, I can attest to the excellence of Applebaum & Crittenden's recipe for plum cake. It is super-easy, delicious and exotic enough to impress at dinner parties. My one concern is that it might be too sweet for the Polish palate, as the book was written for an Anglosphere audience. 

Finally, I have Benedyktyńskie smaki i smaczki: Sekrety kuchni opactwa w Tyńcu ("Benedictine tastes and flavours:  Culinary Secrets of the Tynieć Monastery "). I bought it at the actual monastery, so my copy is a souvenir. So far I have only glanced at a few of the recipes, to see if I understand them. Flipping through now, I see that I have partially translated its recipe for plum (pear or cranberry) vodka. Goodness, that looks good. 

*That said, one must not depend on British ingredients for foreign results. Finding (and preparing) the proper ingredients for either Canadian or American Thanksgiving Dinner, for example, is quite, quite tricky.

A Catholic Country

Yes, it's Polski Piątek, and an opportunity for me to ponder in public all kinds of old-fashioned ideas like social cohesion. To give you an example of social cohesion, I will begin with an edited conversation I had in a shop in a small town in the Scottish Borders this week.

Canadian lady of Scottish extraction: Do you have any cheesecloth?
Scottish lady: Cheesecloth?
Canadian lady of Scottish extraction: For wrapping my Christmas cakes.
Scottish lady: Ah, muslin squares! I think we have two packages left. I'm making my cakes this week. What do you soak yours in?
Canadian lady of Scottish extraction: Brandy.
Scottish lady: Oh, I find brandy too bitter. I use port.
Scottish husband of Canadian lady: I like port.

The conversation had a slightly rocky start as I asked for the Canadian "cheesecloth" instead of the local "muslin squares." However, you will notice that the woman knew at once what I meant by wrapping my Christmas cakes, and that she herself was making them. It was all very chatty because Scots are chatty and obviously we had something in common. We have something in common with thousands of women all over Scotland in that we were making a traditional British Christmas treat that has to sit around in booze for weeks on end. Also, of course, we speak English, celebrate Christmas, are open to small talk about our domestic baking, wear ordinary western dress and had our faces uncovered in public. Our discourse was--despite my colonial diction--friendly, easy and celebrated sameness even more than diversity. I use brandy; she uses port. But the fact is, we both make Christmas cake.

[Update: Thanks to an email from a reader, I realize I should explain that what I find so amazing in this is that it is increasingly unlikely I would have such a conversation with a woman in a shop back home. I imagine a third-generation Lebanese-Canadian in my parents' intensely diverse neighbourhood would have a similar feeling of epiphany and connection in Lebanon. When I write about these issues, I am doing it from the point of view of a person whose home neighbourhood is in constant cultural flux and who is now an ethnic minority in that neighbourhood..]

Of course, I was educated in extraordinarily diverse Toronto, so I do value diversity. I think that it is okay to have highly multicultural towns and countries as long as there are also relatively monocultural towns and countries. How boring--and non-diverse--it would be if all towns and countries were as multicultural as Toronto and Canada--although possibly boring is not the word I want.

For example, despite the fact that it is over 90% Catholic is due to a hideous catastrophe wrought upon the country by invading foreigners, I think it is very interesting--and diverse--that Poland is such a Catholic country. (I have never been to a country so wedded to Catholicism as Poland, unless you count Vatican City.) There is a diversity to Poland's Catholicity, too. I will give two examples just from the past two days.

Example One

My Polish teacher writes monologues and dialogues about a Polish family of four, and the father is having some sort of mid-life crisis. In the monologue we were assigned for last night's class, the father reflects on a homily he has heard at Mass about how real love--love of family, love of Christ--is not like "Hollywood" love. After four years of class, this is the first time I have seen Chrystusa in a lesson, so I was quite thrilled. There are two Catholics-who-are-Catholics in Polish class, another Trad Mass-goer and I, and our classmates look somewhat blank as we answer the question "What do you do this weekend?" with "I went to church" or "We went to see our friends, who are nuns, in their abbey in the Isle of Wight." I can reassure the secular powers of Edinburgh Uni that our teacher is not evangelizing her post-Protestant and indifferent-Catholic students.

So I was thrilled again when our teacher played this song, whose title means "Be not afraid"--a phrase that should make any adult Catholic-who-is-a-Catholic think at once of Sw. Jan Paweł II:

The refrain goes, "Be not afraid, be not afraid/I am by you every day./Be not afraid, be not afraid/I am by you, don't be scared." Obviously "Arka Noego" (Noah's Ark) is a children's choir, and the song is--despite the punk rock riffs--rather sweet.

Example Two

So yesterday I mentioned the Polish Independence Day March in Warsaw, and it turns out I had friends among the 50,000 there. This was not a surprise. What was a surprise is that a young priest there gave a homily about preserving the Catholic nature of Poland and the Polishness of Poland with great noisy vigour, leading the crowd in such religio-patriotic slogans as "God, Honour, Fatherland." I've never heard a priest--let alone a young priest in a cassock--shout like that before. Here is a video of him:

"The Gospel, and not the Koran!"

Here is the Church coming to the aid of the state, that is, to the aid of the wishes of the people (or at least 50,000 of them), to preserve the integrity of their borders, borders--let me  remind you--that have been erased or dismantled dozens of times, leading to the deaths of millions of people.

Depending on how you feel about priests shouting and large crowds holding the same flag, you may find that video unnerving. Personally I am impressed that people care that much about their social cohesion, their ordinary life, and their freedom from the challenges of Islam. What shocks me so much about the "migrant crisis" is that what started as acute anguish and anxiety for the Christians and other religious minorities persecuted (e.g. robbed, raped, tortured, killed) by Islamists has become a flood of Islamic migrants into what remains of Christian Europe.

This is a scary The-Emperor-has-no-clothes thing to say, but the Poles are not afraid to say it. [Update: Okay, maybe I went too far there. But one thing commentators do point out is that most of the rich neighbouring Muslim countries have closed their borders to refugees. Saudi Arabia has offered to build 200 mosques for them in Germany, though!]

Update: I have just received an outraged how-dare-you-you-are-not-a-Christian email from, I think, an American not up-to-date on the migrant crisis Europe is embroiled in. For one thing, she doesn't seem to realize that the migrants aren't all refugees. (I have linked to the most sympathetic-to-the-migrants article I've found so far.) Just a reminder that I usually publish comments of people who disagree with me, as long as the language is suitable and you all don't call me names.

Update 2: Incidentally, I am sympathetic if you are shocked to your marrow at the idea of a country not wanting to take in people very much different from themselves. The majority of my readers are in Canada and the United States, and so most of us come from immigrant stock. We're used to the "Here comes everybody" approach to nation-building; at least, we're used to it in Toronto. What we're not so used to, of course, is open provocation and challenge of what turns out to be bedrock values shared by almost--but only almost--all the other ethnic/religious groups. And that said, what has hitherto worked for Canada and the USA will not necessarily work for European or Asian or African countries.

Update 3: Also, I will point out that there is a difference between a refugee who has the good fortune to get to a safe (if not ideal) place like peacetime Turkey or even Greece or Italy, and the one who leaves the safe space to seek his fortune elsewhere. Once you cross from safe country to safe country to safe country, you're not usually a refugee anymore. This is why I have donated to charities working in the Middle East but not, for example, in Calais.

Update 4: Speaking of France, a terrorist attack is taking place in Paris right now.

Wolno, Szybko (Slowly, Quickly)

In pondering the difficulties and rewards of language learning, I have turned to one of my favourite essays by the philosopher Simone Weil, "Reflection on the Right Use of School Studies with a View to the Love of God."  I wish there had been a picture book edition for me as a child, for it might have provided me with a much needed kick in the pants:

"The key to a Christian conception of studies is the realization that prayer consists of attention...

"Of course school exercises only develop a lower kind of attention. Nevertheless, they are extremely effective in increasing the power of attention that will be available at the time of prayer, on condition that they are carried out with a view to this purpose, and this purpose alone."

Read the whole thing. (The translation I have--and I suspect has been borrowed by the site I link to--is by Emma Craufurd.)  It is genius. And although I make no claims for the improvement of my spiritual life, I have to say that it is almost painful concentration that has improved my grasp of Polish. (Oh yes, it's Polski Piątek today.) As I try to write out whole textbook dialogues from memory, I comfort myself with the knowledge that what matters even more than remembering the vocabulary is TRYING to remember the vocabulary. Because for some reason, the more I fail and try again, the easier it is to understand the Poles on the bus, to say nothing of coming up with complex (if quirky) sentences in Polish class.

Some people are naturally gifted by God with a facility for learning foreign languages, and some have to work like a slave, and I belong to the slave class. A Polish friend sent me a link to a man-on-the-street interview he participated in, and the first time I heard it all I could make out was "change" and "finally." So I listened to it again and again and again and again, and eventually I made out that one of his sentences was: "Well.....because....here....I live and study." No, bo tutaj mieszkam i studiuję--super-easy first year stuff. What this tells me is that I really have to listen to more Polish without the handy script of Polish in Four Weeks Intermediate. And listen and listen and listen.

The staggering fact of the matter, when one is seriously trying to learn one language as an adult, is that the language learner has to learn four different languages. In my case, these language are Polish for reading, Polish for writing, Polish for hearing and Polish for speaking.

Polish for reading is the easiest, believe it or not. But it's a bit like code-breaking when you have the cipher right beside you. If you know the fundamentals of Polish grammar and vocabulary, and you can look things up in the dictionary in a painstaking way, you can read Polish. The more you do it, the easier it gets. A summer of painfully reading Sienkiewicz, feeling almost overwhelmed almost all the time--wolno-- meant a pretty good grasp of articles in Polish news magazines in October--szybko.

Polish for writing is next, on the same principles. I am lucky in that I have generous Polish friends who occasionally correct what I write and add helpful comments. I started writing my own compositions in the summer of 2012 and what a slog it still is. My first task is always to peer through the fog of panic. I recommend always starting with a happy thought, e.g. My favourite X is (Mój ulubiony X jest...)

Polish for listening is very, very hard for me, especially if it is A) recorded B) spoken very quickly by Poles C) spoken very badly by my classmates. This is where I really must force myself to concentrate. It doesn't help that I have trouble catching even the lyrics of recorded songs sung in English; I'm not sure if this is unusual or not. Both my brother Nulli and my husband B.A. have incredibly quick and accurate hearing. B.A.--the fiend!--is a natural mimic and can reproduce an authentic Polish accent without having a clue what the words mean.

Oddly, despite this deficiency, I understand more and more of what Poles say on the bus.* Minor improvement, minor improvement, minor improvement....sudden vast improvement.

Polish for speaking is usually the hardest. I think. Actually, to tell you the truth, it may have switched places with "Polish for listening" because I am now at the stage where I can just say stuff without worrying too much about how wrong or stupid I sound. This is probably thanks to my friend's October wedding in Kielce, where I spoke and sang more Polish in 24 hours than I had for the past twelfth-month all together. It is also thanks to my night school Polish class where we all sound stupid or wrong. The most important thing about "Polish for speaking" is constant sacrifice of one's dignity. Again and again, one must take one's sense of oneself as an articulate, literate adult human being, lay it on the altar of Polish and stab it to death. ("What has happened if Mama will not have enough sugar?" was last night's linguistic masterpiece. Mad props for attempting the conditional, however.)

Of course what I want is the magic of the "flipped switch"--the sudden realization ("insight", Lonergan would call it) that I understand spoken Polish and that I automatically respond in good Polish. I am honestly not sure how long this is going to take. But I am sure it will take me much more work. As I wish I had known about learning when I was 14, it's not about "brains" when it comes to rewiring the brain. It's about work.

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*And also what Poles say in phone conversations in my sitting-room. Uwaga! Proszę iść na pole.

O Wyspiańskim

Moim ulubionym muzeum w Krakowie jest Kamienica Szołayskich. Odbywają się tam wystawy sztuki młodopolskiej. „Młoda Polska” była polskim ruchem artystycznym; kwitnął on w Polsce na przełomie XIX i XX wieku. To była sztuka „Art Nouveau” Polski: myślę, że jest bardzo romantyczna.  

Jednym z moich ulubionych artystów Młodej Polski jest Stanisław Wyspiański . Wyspiański to malarz, dramaturg, poeta, grafik, architekt oraz projektant mebli. Jego najsłynniejszym dziełem jest spektakl „Wesele”. Ponieważ jeszcze nie rozumiem słów „Wesela”,  moim ulubionym dziełem Wyspiańskiego jest na razie  ten obraz  „Planty z widokiem na Wawel”:

Wyspiański urodził się 15 stycznia 1869 roku w Krakowie przy ulicy Krupniczej 14. Jego rodzicami byli Franciszek, który był rzeźbiarzem i fotografem, oraz Maria z Rogowskich. Kiedy Wyspiański miał cztery lata, jego rodzice przeprowadzili się do Domu Długosza przy ulicy Kanoniczej 25. Mieszkanie miało wspaniały widok na Wawel, i wiele lat później Wyspiański napisał ten werset:

„U stóp Wawelu miał ojciec pracownię

wielką izbę biała wysklepioną

żyjącą figur zmarłych wielkim tłumem

tam chłopiec mały chodziłem, co czułem,

to później w kształty mej sztuki zakłułem.”

Niestety w 1876 roku umarła matka chłopca, i młody Stanisław wyjechał z tego mieszkania. Franciszek, jego ojciec, nadużywał alkoholu, a więc opiekę nad chłopcem przejęli wujostwo Stankiewiczowie. Stankiewiczowie byli ludźmi wysokiej kultury, i w ich domu Wyspiański poznał słynnego polskiego malarza Jana Matejkę oraz innych ważnych polskich intelektualistów i artystów.

W 1879 roku, kiedy miał 10 lat, chłopiec rozpoczął naukę w słynnym Gimnazjum św. Anny w Krakowie. Ta szkoła była jedynym gimnazjum w mieście, gdzie wykłady odbywały się w języku polskim. (Musimy pamiętać, że Kraków i cała południowo zachodnia Polska w tym czasie należały do Austrii.) Wyspiański był bardzo dobrym studentem, miał rozległe zainteresowania artystyczne i patriotyczne: teatr, malarstwo, literatura piękna, historia, legendy polskie.

W 1887 roku, w wieku 18 lat, Wyspiański zapisał się na wydział filozoficzny Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, i jednocześnie rozpoczął studia malarskie w Szkole Sztuk Pięknych w Krakowie, której dyrektorem był Jan Matejko. Utalentowany student pomagał sławnemu malarzowi w pracach przy renowacji koscióła Mariackiego.

W 1890 roku, kiedy miał 22 lata, Wyspiański wyjechał za granicę—przez Wiedeń, Wenecję, Weronę, Mediolan, Szwajcarię do Francji—a powrócił do kraju przez Niemcy i Pragę. Bardzo lubił gotyckie katedry, dramaty muzyczne Wagnera, opery Verdiego i Webera, a także dramaty Szekspira.

Trzy razy Wyspiański wyjeżdżał do Paryża i tam mieszkał: to miasto go zafascynowało. W Paryżu  uczył się w Acadamie Colarrosi, często chodził do teatru, wiele malował, oraz zaprzyjaźnił się Paulem Gauguinem. W tym czasie Wyspiański zaczął pisać własne dramaty: „Królowę Polskiej Korony” i wstępne redakcje „Legendy”, „Warszawianki”, „Daniela” i „Melegra”. Wrócił na stałe do Krakowa w sierpniu 1894 roku.

W Krakowie Wyspiański podjął pracę prze restaurowaniu kościoła

Franciszkanów. Zaprojektował i wykonał polichromię z młodopolskimi motywami kwiatowymi, oraz fantastyczne kompozycje w witrażach, na przykład „Stań się”, przedstawiający Boga Ojca. Podjął także pracę dla kościoła św. Krzyża oraz kościoła Dominikanów.

Jednocześnie rysował i malował autoportrety i potrety rodziny, przyjaciół oraz artystów. Według artykułu z Wikipedii, „W jego twórczości plastycznej dominowały ...obrazy wykonywane pastelami.” Dla przykładu, tu jest „Helenka”:

 Helenka była córką artysty.

18 września 1900 roku Wyspiański ożenił się z chłopką Teodorą Teofilą Pytkówną, która jeszcze przed ślubem została  matką jego dzieci. Żona i dzieci występują w wielu utworach Wyspiańskiego, na przykład „Dziewczynka z wazonem z kwiatami”  (1902), „Śpiący Staś” (12) (1904), „Portret artysty z żoną” (1904), „Macierzyństwo”  (1905).

Choć Wyspiański już był malarzem, który odniósł pewien sukces, jego spektakl „Wesele”, który miał premierę teatralną 16 marca 1901 roku, zmienił jego reputację.  Według Arkadiusza Latuska, „Od tego momentu Wyspiański uważany był za wybitnego dramatopisarza i niezwykłego malarza, a niektórzy widzieli w nim wieszcza narodowego, ze wzglądu na narodowo-społeczną tematykę jego utworów.” (Arkandiusz Latusek, „Posłowie”, Wesele, Wydawnictwo Zielona Sowa, Kraków, 2007.)

Niestety Wyspiański ciężko zachorował, i kiedy miał tylko 38 lat, w listopadzie 1907 roku, zmarł. Pogrzeb w Krakowie stał się manifestacją narodowa. Wyspiański został polskim bohaterem artystycznym. Pochowano go na cmentarzu zasłużonych na Skałce.

----D. Cummings McLean, 30 X 2015, Edinburgh

***

Thanks especially to Hipsterka and Polish Pretend Son for their improvements to the style. Any remaining infelicities are, of course, entirely my own.

Emergency Help for Language-Learning Ear

It's Polski Piątek, you lucky people. Did I mention yet that when I was in Krakow a couple of Sundays ago, I passed by the Dominican church near the Main Square and the kneeling crowd spilled out the door?

I myself had been to the Extraordinary Form of the Mass at Holy Cross (Kosciół Swiętego Krzyża), which began at 7:15 PM, so it was probably 8:30 PM when I passed by the Dominican Church, its congregation kneeling through the Canon. I had two thoughts about the huge, devoted crowd. The first was, "Hooray for Catholic Poland, ever faithful!" The second was, "Last Sunday Mass in town, eh?" Both thoughts engendered in me a lot of fellow feeling.

The results of studying Polish for two hours daily for a solid month, plus spending five days in western Poland, were apparent in my first Polish class this term. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Polish class last night. Alas. Although I could explain that I did not have a classmate's phone number, I could not articulate my thoughts, in a clever and inoffensive way, on Mass Migration and why I did not think fictional Pan Jurek in our homework was necessarily a racist for fearing a potential  mass migration of Muslims. (In the story, there was no protest that these were bona fide Syrian and Iraqi Christian families fleeing Islamist persecution, i.e. the people Poles really do want to help.)

 I was extremely annoyed that this was to be our topic, so I did not feel badly that the teacher was taken aback by the un-PC sentiments coming from our mature-student class. "Maybe Pan Jurek remembers Simon Mol," was my outrageous remark whereas another student reflected on a very nice, terribly lonely, old lady who is the last Englishwoman in her London neighbourhood. She did not elaborate if this neighbourhood was Ealing. Ah ha ha ha ha!

Home, sweet home.

Speaking of migration, if anyone wants to know what the mysterious sign outside the Polish shop on the Rough Bus route said, it was "Fresh Milk from Poland." Personally, I am extremely sensitive about foreign-language signs which so obviously exclude the host population. Here's a photo from my neighbourhood back home:

But I am totally off-topic, to say nothing of writing about one of my least favourite, and most trouble-making, subjects. I shall cut to the chase and try to get my Polish skills back to their October 5 level by posting a video of a singer singing "Hej Sokoły", a traditional song which all Poles seem to know and sing at the top of their lungs at weddings.

Speaking of the Ukraine--in which Poles used to live in vast numbers (and now live in very small numbers), Poland has taken in thousands of Ukrainian refugees. There's sort of this war going on in Eastern Ukraine, which everyone in the West seems to have forgotten about.

My Latest Visit to Poland Part 3

"Kraków is the new Paris," I thought on Tuesday, as I went for a stroll under the trees ringing the Old Town. Of course, that may have been a hackneyed and shallow thought, for Kraków is certainly as old as Paris and I have been to Paris only once. But when North Americans like me think about Paris, we are rarely thinking about contemporary, "multicultural" Paris, but of old-fashioned French Paris in the 1950s. Or the 1920s. That Paris no longer exists.

Kraków, however, still retains the social cohesion of an earlier age, and the thick green ribbon of park around the Old Town teems with young Polish university students, Polish businessmen and women, Poles on bicycles, Polish grannies leading small Polish children by the hand. Bells ring from towers, and Poles pop in and out of churches.  Polish flower women--their trade passed from mother to daughter through the ages--sell bouquets in the Main Market. There are Polish bakeries and Polish cake shops and cut-price Polish book stores and ratty Polish liquor stores, and the only jarring, Disney-esque note is the golf carts trolling for tourists with Auschwitz/Wielicza written on their sunshades. (Okay, arguably the horse-drawn carriages are fake and Disney-esque, too.)  As I have always lived in multicultural, multiracial cities, I find this 1919 idea of ethnicity/language = nationality romantic and exotic. But of course such ethnic homogeneity is not exactly normal here: there's a gaping conceptual hole in Kraków where tens of thousands of Jews used to be.

I try not to think about that, though. I have always avoided the tourist-heavy reminders of the Shoah--except Auschwitz, which is not in Kraków but 40 kilometres west, beside Oświęcim. I went there last year in a spirit of pilgrimage after visiting Saint Edith Stein's home in Wrocław. When I am in Kraków, I try not to think about the Second World War--or anything sad--at all.

But to return to my travelogue--which my mother is enjoying--on Tuesday I went for an early morning walk from Podgórze to the Old Town to see the early morning sun on the nearly empty Główny Rynek (main square) and to have a coffee and croissant at Pierre. Pierre was playing a particularly noxious CD of French pop--including a bilingual version of Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart"--so I soon went out for my circumnavigation of the park-ring, or Planty. Here I thought my "Old Paris" thoughts and missed my husband, for although B.A. would not have enjoyed some of my other adventures, he most definitely appreciates the beauty of the Planty and its views. It really did not seem fair that I got to be there and he didn't.

Church of Saints Peter and Paul

Then I went back to my publishers' office to arrange a meeting with some friends before going straight back by tram to the Old Town to buy gifts (chocolates from Kraków Kredens on ulica  Grodzka) and have lunch.  Oh, and I went into the Church of Saints Peter and Paul to pray and so as to reassure Benedict Ambrose that I had gone into another of Kraków's churches.  B.A., who is all about art galleries when he is in Edinburgh, is ALL about the churches abroad.

I had lunch at Polskie Smaki at ulica Tomasza, 5, which also reminded me of B.A., for on our one visit to Kraków together, we frugally ate there every day. I ordered żurek (a soup), pierogi with minced duck and fizzy water, which I was very glad of as the pierogi arrived swimming in rich bacon fat. The waitress unsmilingly corrected one of my adjective declensions, which I have trained myself to appreciate, and nobody goes to Kraków to be flattered by servers. If you want flattery, get lost in Wrocław and rescued by a little old man who calls you darling.

After lunch (which cost 24 zł, i.e. £4.80, $9.60), I rolled out the door and made my way to the Szołayski House on Plac Szczepański. Now the light of fanaticism appears in my eyes, for the Kamienica Szołayskich is where the big collection of Polish Art Nouveau usually is, and I am an Art Nouveau junkie, especially when the Art Nouveau is of the Młoda Polska ("Young Poland") school. Thus, the Kamienica Szołayskich is my favourite building in Kraków, which is saying a lot.

Wyspiański's Self Portrait with Wife, on exhibit

The English language guidebooks, being a tad out of date, call the house the Wyspiański Museum, and the girl in the shop has to tell an endless stream of English-speaking tourists that the Wyspiański collection has been off the walls for five years and there are only four pieces on display. Currently the Kamienica Szołayskich has two exhibits: on the top floor Feliks Jasieński's Młoda Polska and Japanese collections, and on the middle floor his French collection. Naturally I hot-footed it to the top floor.

There I repeated my language exercises of the National

The great patron: Feliks Jasieński

Gallery: reading the informative placards one paragraph at a time, alternating between Polish and English, before looking at the glorious paintings. Strangely, what struck me even more than the paintings was Jasieński's personality mediated through the quotes from his writing on the wall. There was a really beautiful (if sad) one describing the city after the 100th performance of Wesele.

I think the best way to look at art in Poland is chronologically. First you look politely at the boring 18th century portraits common to the Austro-Hungarian and Prussian empires. Then you look at the 19th century landscapes, historical scenes and mythical figures to perk you up. You save the best for last, which is everything painted, carved, printed or turned into stained glass windows between 1880 and 1919.

"Szuflada Szymborskiej"

Alas, I came to the end of the collection and went downstairs. But to my great interest, there was a free exhibit of funny little items owned by the late Polish poet Wysława Szymborska. I am of two minds about Szymborska because she was a frightful Commie; a Polish student from Warsaw poisoned my mind against her years ago. But on the other hand she was a splendid poet: funny, imaginative, brilliant.

I confess that I am a little annoyed at that Polish student from Warsaw for telling me about Szymborska's Stalinist action of shame. But truth is what is, and many of us do things in our youth that we are sorry about later. Oh bother. It was very bad. But her poems are delightful, and it was fun to see her collection of oddments, from her postcard collection to her Noble Prize certificate.

I picked up some last-minute items from the Galeria Krakowska (i.e. the mall) nearby and then took the tram back to the publishing office, where I exchanged presents with my friend Gosia and had conversation, cake and coffee. Then I said good-bye to Gosia and Father Paweł and went downstairs to say good-bye to the porter, who made a bit of a fuss and summoned Father Paweł by phone ("Is she rich?"), and the upshot was my red-faced dash to the bank machine to pay for my stay, followed by a heart-thumping ride on the tram to the train station, as I prayed I would not miss my flight.

Heigh-ho. In my Catholic Bohemian world friends constantly stay with friends abroad for free, so.... But at any rate, it was a very reasonable price, and when I tried to give the porter double, he waved it away in a high good humour, and so we parted on good terms.

Laggard's luck was still on my side: I caught the airport train on time. And as it was, my flight was half an hour late, which gave me lots of time to ponder bottles of vodka in the duty free before buying one (30 zł, i.e. £6, $12) and to put my feet up in a plastic chaise lounge at the gate and write.  I re-opened my diary as soon as I got on the plane (aisle seat--yay!), and I did not stop writing until we landed. So that was splendid, too.

My Latest Visit to Poland Part 2

Good morning! You may be interested to know (or not) that I went to Polish class last night, and it was as if wax had been removed from my ears. I understood 99% of what the teacher was saying until my energy and attention flagged near the end. But as I listened to my fellow students struggle  in a variety of accents and inter-languages, I realized that my vast improvement has come from studying every day for a month with Polish in Four Weeks, not to mention listening to Poles speak to each other. Night school class is just not as effective, especially for an morning lark like me.

But back to Poland. So let me see. I left off on Saturday morning when our wild Russian (and Italian) contingent got on the minibus. Russians safely stowed, the bus driver headed for Kiecle where, we were told, we would be taken to our lodgings to get ready for the wedding.

We drove north-east for two hours or so, and stopped outside and ochre-painted high-rise at the Politechnika Swiętokrzyska,  i.e. a student dorm at the Kielce University of Technology. Unfortunately our Polish de facto leader and his wife had been dropped off at their family's home, so when we foreigners looked around for someone who could consult the bus driver, we discovered she was I. "Wait!" said the driver. "Wait ten minutes!"

Home sweet home.

We waited ten minutes, and the bride's brother pulled into the parking lot. He divided us into three groups: the group that was staying at the bride's parents' house (Chinese), the group would stay in the dorm (all the Russians, the Italian chap and I), and the group that would stay at the wedding hall complex (the other Edinburgh residents and a quiet Latin American). My Single friend was pleased that she was going to the ritzy hall, and I was pleased that I was staying put in the city, where I had easy access to food. I zipped up to my little dorm room, which was a lot like my room in the Krakow klasztor, dropped my knapsack, did a little dance and set out to McDonald's, for I was terribly hungry.

A good rule of thumb for weddings is to eat a big meal an hour before the Mass or service, for you never know when it is you will finally be fed. Going to a wedding hungry will make you cranky and cynical, which is a no-no, especially if the bride might notice your bitter-lemon face. So although I never go to McDonald's, I rushed to this Kielce one with joy and hoovered down two cheeseburgers and a small packet of fries and a reassuringly small cup of Coke, which I never drink. I ordered it all in Polish, which was supremely easy, as a cheeseburger in Polish is cheeseburger, fries are frytki and a Coke is a Coke. The meal cost 11 zł, i.e. £2.20 (or $4.40 Canadian).

Then I rolled out the door and along the busy urban sprawl street and then across it to the ochre building and wrote for some time in my diary before lying down for half an hour like a python digesting an elephant. When my phone alarm went off I did my hair, covered myself in slap, pulled on control-top tights, and then dressed in a blue evening dress and my green McAmbrose tartan sash, which I pinned with the official McAmbrose badge, and my green silk wedding shoes. It was a warm sunny day, so I just wrapped myself in a green and blue cotton shawl and went to wait for the next private bus. 

This next bus was very large for the five people it was sent for, and there was an amusing moment after I spoke to the young driver in pidgin Polish and he revealed that he spoke English, an embarrassment I was getting used to. The domesticated Russian and his girlfriend boarded with the remains of a very large pizza as they were leaving right after the wedding and wanted it for breakfast. The Russians (and Italian) all fussed over wedding cards and how much money to put into them, and the bus got us to the church, which was in a semi-rural spot and yet terrifically modern, as in giant-corpus-on-the-outer-wall-without-any-cross-behind-it modern. It did, however, have a lovely big car-park, which as we know is top priority for the contemporary Catholic. 

Alas, I have promised to write about the wedding for one of my newspapers, so I now leave you at the church door and join you again at 6 AM on Sunday when I and the last remaining Russian emerged from a car outside the Polytechnika. He was still drunk, but not as drunk as he had been, and said good night with charming clarity before disappearing into his room. The sun was rising over the Mercedes-Benz dealership across the road, and I slept fitfully until 11 or so, when I gave up the battle against the unruly sun. I staggered in and out of the shower, got dressed and rushed out to dear, dear McDonalds'a, where I ordered a małą, czarną kawę and slurped down its life-giving properties.  The Russian knocked on the door and told me that a car would pick us up in half an hour, and we went outside to blink in the sun and wait for our Italian and the car.

The car took us to the bride's parents' house for lunch---traditional Polish weddings in Kielce last for two days--and afterwards the Edinburghers and the last remaining Russian were taken in two parties to the railway station. Soon we were on our way back to Krakow. I slept like a baby. Result!

Back in Krakow. After sleepily sending off an Edinburgh couple in the wrong direction, I went back to the klasztor and tried to get more sleep. Sleep eluded me, so I gave up and packed for my trip to

Kosciół Swiętego Krzyża is really hard to pronounce.

Wrocław before going into the dark of night for the Tridentine Mass at the Church of the Holy Cross.

I sadly felt the lack of a missal, let me tell you. The sermon was long and Polish and about the family. The homilist seemed a bit worked up about something, presumably the Synod on the Family, which had just started. All over Krakow were posters of Saint John Paul II with the motto "Patron Rodziny" (Patron of the Family).  My Single friend never showed up, so I ran her to ground in a restaurant--she had gone to Mass in the Mariacki instead. We had a short discussion of the wedding, which had been a very good one for Single women, as it abounded in tipsy, women-chasing men, and then I toddled off back to the klasztor.

On Monday I got up early, ate breakfast and went to Wrocław by Polski Bus, which is nice and cheap. Wrocław used to be Breslau and the Germans loved it, so they fought like hell to keep it, but the Russians bombed most of it to smithereens. Thus it is a bit of a mess, architecturally speaking, though it has some nice old bits left. It also contains Polish Pretend Son's English-speaking pal, so we had a nice lunch at a Thai restaurant, which made for a nice change, and then coffee at Starbucks, which costs as much as it usually does and therefore was expensive for Poland, if not me. This was near various branches of the university (or a university), so there were lots of students about.  

Monument to the Victims of the Katyn Massacre

PPSP told me all about Father Charamsa. (Ksiądz Charamsa, actually--in Poland, secular priests are addressed and described as "Priest", e.g. "Priest Oko".) Having been at a wedding for two days, I naively thought I had a big scoop, so when I went to an internet café near the Stary Rynek, I emailed my CWR editor right away. 

But first I went to Ostrów Tumski, which is the oldest and most beautiful part of Wrocław, and looked at churches because Benedict Ambrose would have been shocked if I didn't. (In Poland I prefer art galleries, which makes B.A. shout, "Secular temples!") Then I had a nice half-lost walk to the Stary Rynek via the National Gallery, the Katyn Massacre memorial, and the Racławice Panorama. I visited only the Katyn memorial, however, and prayed there, and read all the signs with much more understanding than I did last year. 

It is generally forgotten in the West that both Hitler and Stalin did their utmost to murder all Polish leaders and intellectuals, so as to reduce the Polish people to no more than servants and semi-skilled labourers. On Stalin's orders in 1940, 22,000 Polish prisoners of war--officers, policemen, civil servants, intellectuals--were shot in the back of the head. If this needs putting into perspective, the Poles got their country back only in 1919--after dreaming and writing and rebelling and crying for well over a hundred years--and had spent their 20 years of independence trying to create an educated Polish middle-class, complete with an "affirmative action" plan for the universities. These efforts were (literally) shot to pieces in 1939 and 1940. 

The traumatized woman in the monument is Mother Poland asking the Angel of Death why he has murdered her son, and the Angel of Death answers through the inscription underneath in the first person, ("I shot....") which is extremely creepy.

There are horse chestnut trees behind Mother Poland, and every time the wind blew the nuts walloped to the ground. It was a bit dangerous sitting on the bench under them, so I soon continued my half-lost march to the Stary Rynek and the internet café. I was hoping to meet with another Wrocław acquaintance, but I found no confirmation in my email, so I gave that up and instead read and wrote correspondence for an hour (4 zł, i.e. 80p, $1.60). The CWR was indeed interested in Polish perspectives on Ks. Charamsa, so I rushed to an Empik bookstore to see if he was in the magazines, and, my word, he was on the covers of four of them! (A circumstance carefully orchestrated by himself, it turns out.)  I bought three, so the poor cashier must have been confused when I didn't understand (as usual) the word for plastic bag.  Then I rushed out to find the bus station and got really, truly, terribly lost. 

Note to self: Wrocław train and bus stations very far away from Stary Rynek. Plan accordingly.

I did have a map; it is now in tatters, testimony to my panic and bad temper when lost abroad. My bus was scheduled to leave at 18 h, and time seemed to speed right up, leaving me who knows where. Happily, I was rescued by a tiny old Polish man, who saw my worried female face and said the Polish equivalent of, "Darling, do you need help?"

"Oh yes, thank you, sir," said your correspondent in the same language, probably looking incredibly pathetic. "Where is the bus station?"

Time ticked inexorably on as the mały staruszek beamed at me and settled in for a comfortable chat.

"Are you a Polish woman?"

"Well, no. I am from Canada."

"Ah! You are not Polish. You are from Canada, and yet you speak Polish. Very good."

"Yes, thank you."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

"You want to find the bus station, darling? The bus station is very far. But I know where it is. I have lived here in Wrocław my whole life. Very good. Let us first cross this street. Very good. Now you go straight ahead past those lights, then under the viaduct to the next set of lights. You understand, darling? Then you turn left."

"Straight ahead, under viaduct, next lights, turn left. Thank you."

"Then you walk for five hundred metres."

"Fifteen metres?"

"No, darling, five hundred metres."

My heart sank. Defeat. But I consoled myself that although, barring a miracle, I would miss the bus, at least I was having a conversation with this sweet old man and therefore had a story I could tell later. Still, who knew when the next bus would be, and being stranded overnight in Wrocław might not be very fun, and I would lose my 37 zł. Even though this was less than £8 ($16), I was starting to develop a Polish possessiveness about my zł. So although my staruszek now seemed to be telling me that my handbag strap across my chest reminded him of his wife, his heart, whom he had recently lost after years together, I said "Very, very much I thank you, Sir. Good-bye! Szczęść Boże!" and rushed off. God bless him.

Jestem gadatliwy.

As it was, the miracle happened. The bus was later than I was. When I got to the station, I found a group of grumpy looking people, and when I timidly said, "Excuse me, to Krakow?", the grumpy man I addressed said, "Tak." The bus turned up fifteen minutes after I did, the driver as grumpy as his passengers-to-be, and when I read him the wrong number on my ticket, he barked, "Już!" (i.e. "Get in, already"), and I zipped upstairs to the top of the bus and one of the front seats. There I thanked God and several saints and settled in to write in my diary and read what Ks. Charamsa had to say to Newsweek Polska. Every time I felt the urge to kick him, I realized that I miraculously understood what he had said and cheered right up.

We arrived in Kraków only ten or so minutes late, and I found, bought and ate a pretzel at the Galeria Krakowska (i.e. the mall) before taking the tram back to the klasztor and its back, after-hours, gate. As you might imagine, I fished my rosary out of my handbag and went promptly to bed. 

Next: Last day in Kraków

My Latest Visit to Poland Part 1

The National Gallery is in here.

Hello, my little dumplings! How are you all? I have returned to Edinburgh from Poland with

a) a new mohair beret (blue-green)
b) some quaint Polish stationary with traditional motifs
c) a large box of sweeties from Wedel
d) a jar of chocolate-and-cherry spread from Wedel
e) a large bottle of black currant Soplica vodka
f) a cracking good story for Catholic World Report (see here)
g) four Polish news magazines, 3 left-wing and 1 Nasz Dziennik.

I didn't blog here yesterday, for I spent from dawn to dusk writing my Catholic World Report story. Oh, cherubs. Somehow reading Polish was easier in Poland. I had quite a pleasant shock on the bus from Wrocław to Kraków when I realized I could actually understand 75% of an interview in Newsweek Polska. However, it didn't last, and in the end I had to resort to Google Translate.

So let me see. On Thursday night I arrived in Kraków Airport and took a cab with some other wedding guests, and chatted gaily with the elegant silver-haired driver until I realized that his English was better than my Polish. Then I shut up, more or less, until I got to my publishers' guest house in Podgórze. I was greeted in very fast Polish by a seminarian, who offered to prepare me some supper, and who claimed he couldn't speak much English. But then he sat across the refectory table from me and spoke reasonably good English over a yogurt while I ate cheese, ham, tomatoes and bread.

On Friday morning I had a long conversation with Father Paweł over breakfast about what sights I might see in the Kielce area on Sunday before we gave up all these plans as impractical. Then I zipped out into the crisp air and beautiful sunshine to buy my Monday ticket to Wrocław and also a ticket at the Słowacki Theatre for Friday night. I had never been out in Krakow after dark by myself, so this would be an adventure. I was suffering from terrible caffeine withdrawal, so I went to the National Gallery in the Cloth Hall, bought a ticket to the permanent collection and immediately zipped up the stairs to Café Szał for an enormous cup of coffee. So intent was I on this coffee, that I didn't realize I could have sat with it on the balcony of the Cloth Hall, which has the best view of the Main Market square below.

Thus fortified, I had a happy hour and a half in the four chambers of the National Gallery, reading all the learned explanations in Polish, and then in English, one paragraph at a time, watched by the mildly diverted security ladies.  I was last there two years ago, and I understood everything a lot better this time, e.g. who Wanda was and why she wanted to throw herself into the river.

Wanda Didn't Want a German.

On my first visit, my favourite painting was "Smierć Ellenai" (The Death of Ellena), but now my favourite is "Sejm Bociani" (Gathering of Storks).

Beautiful Dead Girl. 

Highly Intelligent Storks.

I confess that I still didn't know who Ellena was, but now that I have access to the internet, I see that she is out of a poem by Juliusz Słowacki called "Anhelli". Meanwhile, I had a good giggle at "Szał" ("Frenzy"), which is not safe for little brothers, so I won't post it. (It's a naked lady with big fuzzy reddish-blond hair on a wild-eyed, foaming-at-the-mouth black horse.) Apparently its creator also thought it wasn't safe for little brothers, for he went berserk and slashed it up with a knife. It has been beautifully repaired, but you can see the marks if you look. Anyway, it is a very funny picture if you have a lot of big fuzzy reddish-blond hair, and now I have ruined it for all my Polish readers, who will now have to think of me when they see it. Ha ha ha!

When the Hejnał bugle sounded at one,  I telephoned to my Single friend, who had arrived from Edinburgh in the morning, and we met beside the statue of Adam Mickiewicz before going to lunch at the Hungarian restaurant Balaton on ulica Grodzka. My friend grumbled a little bit, as she wanted to eat something "local", but I assured her that the "Hungarian" food was pretty local, and soon we were chowing down on giant potato pancakes.

Afterwards we rolled off in our separate directions, she to Wawel Castle, and me to Szaleo in Podgórze to buy a new mohair beret. If you are over a certain age, a mohair beret in Poland is a symbol of conservative Catholicism, Polish patriotism, whacking foreigners with handbags, etc. As it happens, I am still under that age, but the women of my family have always worn berets, and I tend to lose mine, and they are cheaper in Poland than in either Canada or the UK. This one was 17 złoty, which is about £3.50 ($7 Canadian).

In the evening I had a small supper in the refectory and then went off, heart beating fiercely, into the Polish dark to see Romeo i Julia in the Słowacki Theatre. The theatre is an amazing building, a cross between a renaissance palace and a giant wedding cake. It really puts the roque in Baroque. To my surprise, my fifth row ticket put me in the third row and so I had a really good view of the stage, which had a Classical backdrop of half-naked gods and goddesses and all that.

From the inside the Theatre looks like an old-fashioned opera house, such as people are always going to in Georgette Heyer novels, with elegant boxes in the balconies. There were adults of all ages and a surprising number of teenagers. Everyone was relatively dressed up, and everyone chatted with their neighbours in Polish--except me. I sat there as meek as a muskrat, feeling very awed by all the Central European grandeur. And then the show began with a dramatic Elizabethan dance (and costumes) which suddenly exploded into rock-and-roll and  Jerome Robbins-y dance-fighting and it was all very Artistic and impressive and I understood about five words for the next three hours. By the intermission (two hours in), I was so exhausted, I couldn't even remember the crucial words "How much does it cost?" which I needed so as to make change for my tram ride back. Fortunately, I got a hold of myself, bought some tic-tacs and thus got change.

Well, all I can say is that I was very glad it was Romeo and Juliet, for at least I understood what was going on, and I enjoyed the dance segments--although some of the dance-music choices (all English-language) were a bit jarring for the circumstances--and the actor playing Benvolio was a dead ringer for the late Heath Ledger. (Romeo strongly resembled Lawrence Fox, whom I quite fancy.) But by Act 3 my Polish-learning ego was squished flat, and I kept thinking "Okay, kids, die already." When they did, a sweet Polish 20-something in the front row actually wept. Maybe she had never seen it before. (I wept inconsolably when I first saw it, i.e. at age 10 or so.)

By the way, the Prince was played as if he were Putin, and he actually strangled a coked-up whore, whose corpse fell on Tybalt's, which was a rather impressive addition to the plot. Lord Capulet was played as a sort of rich thug, Lady Capulet--drop-dead gorgeous--sneered at him and lit cigarettes throughout, Tybalt looked like Goliath, only hot, and poor Count Paris showed up with progressively larger teddy bears. Juliet looked about thirteen, so it was very embarrassing when she stripped down to her white underwear and rolled around the stage with Romeo. Oh, and the man beside me was scandalized when Romeo grabbed the "cross" Friar Lawrence wore around his neck and threw it across the stage. Sharp intake of breath and stiffening of shoulders. I was quite edified by that.

Afterwards I joined some young drunks at a tram stop and was startled when one harassed an Arab-looking guy who got off another tram. The foreigner marched away and stood quite a distance away from the stop, even after the drunks toddled off, which surprised me until I remembered my foreigner-whacking mohair beret. Later one of my Polish friends told me that there would never be sustained riots of refugees in the streets of Kraków because the local men would pour into the streets with baseball bats, which would settle the situation in 15 minutes. (Note to refugees & "refugees": Never mind Poland; just go directly to Germany.)

I got back safely to the "klasztor" and went to bed. In the morning I was up bright and early, packed my bag for Kielce and went to the meeting point behind the Hotel Wyspiański on ulica Westerplatte. There the assembled wedding guests shook hands, put our stuff in the minivan and waited in vain for two missing Russians and an Italian. Where were they? Where could they be? At last a particularly mild-mannered and domesticated Russian made a well-educated guess, and we all piled onto the minibus to the missing men's lodging, where they were still recovering from the night before. Led by the domesticated Russian and the Polish de facto leader of our expedition, they climbed aboard, wearing sunglasses and smelling very strongly of cigarettes. Their reputation was cemented by a tall, elegant, cigarette-smoking Polish girl who turned up at the last minute to slap her hand on the door.

"Er," said our young Polish leader. "Somebody wants to say good-bye."

Tomorrow: Kielce.