The Holiday (Part 1)

Authors Note: Hello.  For those who didn't see me during my holiday trip to the US, please take this return to the blog-sphere as evidence that I am still among the breathing.  For those who did see me during my visit, read the following as proof that I did safely and successfully reenter Poland, despite the fact that I may have illegally transported excessive amounts of alcohol out of their country.  For those Polish law enforcement officials who may be reading this blog please ignore the last sentence (and the part below in which I trash on Katowice).  Props on your English, by the way.


Finally, please note that the passage below details a trip I took in late October/ early November.  Much of the post below was written directly after the trip, but not finished until this moment.  Due to length, I have split the post up into two parts for easier reading.  Please enjoy.  


A couple weeks ago a Polish friend asked if I'd be interested in traveling to her house for the upcoming holiday.

"What holiday?" I asked.
"All Saints Day."  she replied.

Like a good (former) Catholic (sorry Memere) I was quickly able to recall how we celebrated All Saints Day.  We went to Church.  I think the homily was longer than usual.  I wanted no part of this.

"How do you celebrate all Saints Day?" I asked with some hesitation.
"Traditionally, families go to the cemeteries where their loved ones are buried, and spend the weekend cleaning their graves, and decorating them with flowers and candles.  There is mass on the Holiday, and in the evening we visit the graves again to pay our respects."

And then you spend the next week taking anti-depressant medication, I thought.  I politely told her I'd consider her offer and began searching for more uplifting alternatives.

As it turns out, 90% of Poles are members of the Catholic Church, so there wasn't much in the form of alternative entertainment options that weekend.  So I sucked it up and decided that I'd chalk the weekend up to "cultural immersion" and hopped into a car bound for Katowice (Kat-to-veet-sa).  And to be honest, as we got closer to our destination, I was actually a little excited about what I was about to experience.  This would be my first trip to your standard Polish household, and I would also get the opportunity to visit nearby Krakow (Krack-ov), well-regarded as one of Europe's hidden gems.  Regardless of the death I was soon to be surrounded by, I was going to make the most out of this holiday.

But this optimism was quickly thwarted as we pulled into suburban Katowice, which isn't exactly a tourist hot spot.  I'd probably compare it to Newark, but then again I'm been lucky enough to avoid Newark so its only a hunch.  Katowice is the seat of the Upper Silesia region, most recently known as Poland's industrial base.  It has all the qualities I love to hate about suburban America: sprawl, traffic and pollution.  But this being Poland, they have their own take on the picket-fenced acrylic-sided mcmansions sprouting up on cul-de-sacs across America: wrought-ironed-enclosed post-communist cement boxes positioned around a labyrinth of dead-end streets.  Add to this the oppressive air pollution brought on by coal power plants sitting in a valley quickly approaching the dead of winter and you can come to see why vodka is so popular in this country.

But the picture I'm painting is too bleak: My friend's house was actually quite nice.  Both of her parents are building engineers and it showed. Vertical spiral staircases leading to wonderfully grained hardwood floor.  A well-arranged kitchen complete with refrigerator and oven disguised as cupboards.  And my personal favorite, a transparent glass door leading to the wrap-around bathroom complete with that most European of essentials: a bidet (I had actually never seen one before).  The backyard was large and featured flower and vegetables gardens, a pear tree, and a workshop, tennis court and pond (all currently under construction).  Later, when we hopped in the car, I was pleasantly surprised to find a built-in GPS, with capabilities in several languages.  (If this paragraph doesn't break some of your stereotypes of Poland, I don't know what will.) 

My friend's parents were absolutely fantastic.  In a country where the majority of over-40's speak little to no English, her parents were virtually fluent.  They were among the first adults (who knows when I'll start considering my peers and myself members of this special group) I had met whom I could speak with.  And with a long weekend ahead of us, there was a lot of speaking to be done.

On the first full day of the trip, we made a series of visits to the cemeteries.  We had to do the cemetery visits over several days, because my friend’s relatives are buried all over the Silesia and Lesser Poland provinces (not a typo, the English translation is Lesser Poland…could you imagine living in the state of Lesser America?).
 
When we arrived to the first cemetery, I realized that Polish people do not screw around with this holiday.  The first cemetery we went to was quite small (by Polish standards), and the place was packed.  Not only by the cars and people working their way through the parking lot, but especially by the commercial establishments that had set up shop outside the cemetery to sell any and every type of flower and candle that you could ever want on your great-grandmother’s tombstone.  This was big (and colorful) business, and was the first of many rich cultural experiences to follow.

But once you stepped foot in the actual cemetery, the hubbub of the parking lot quickly dissipated and gave way to a striking solemnity.  In Poland, graves are marked not by a simple tombstone, but by the entire tomb itself.  This makes each memorial upwards of 8 feet long and 4 feet wide, creating a stark awareness of the former human life you were now surrounded by.  It was especially powerful when passing the smaller tombs, with correspondingly small gaps between the numbers on the stones.

We visited several graves and spent some time sweeping and scrubbing each one.  Once they were up to snuff, we placed several lanterns on the tombs and lit them.  The candles were large and would most certainly burn for several days.  After the lighting, my friend and her parents took a few moments to pray and reflect before moving on the next grave.  This task was repeated at every grave we stopped at.
 
Without doubt, the most humbling moment of my entire experience in Poland to date occurred when I came across some pot-marked gravestones.
 
“Co to jest?” (What is this?)  I asked my friend’s dad.

“Bullet holes.” He replied.  “From the war.”

He need not elaborate.  You just don’t have to face that sort of thing in America.