On Layovers

WARSAW, Poland – Warsaw Chopin Airport is a desolate place. Perhaps its somber mood is accentuated by my demeanor upon arrival – as my last layover of the day, an almost 3-hour pause before take-off to Berlin, Warsaw is less than a choice destination – however, the atmosphere does little to redeem itself. Narrow grey corridors slide seamlessly into windows slanted obtusely outwards into more grey, the cloudy skies smoldering into charcoal while I wait.

Gate 45, Warsaw Chopin Airport. 

The grey areas of life, those muted tones between black and white, right and wrong, if only they were as easy to navigate as the deep orange accents and scattered posts where bold white numbers label the gates. Although maybe these color bursts would be as offensive in my moral consciousness as they are here, breaking up the otherwise monotone scheme. I’d rather move like the clouds, slipping softly through smudged skies, grey like the walls and rows of metal chairs whose polka dot design is illusion – the punched-out holes only show through to drab carpet beyond.

Of course, being situated at the very last gate, the fingertip of the airport’s spindly arm, adds to the isolation. As I lug my 25-lb. baby blue Jansport backpack down the long corridor, the advertisements for duty free purchases, snacks and, naturally, the omnipresent McDonalds leap off their posters, loud English letters attracting international consumers. But when I acquiesce to their offer, my exchange with the barista at Empik Café proves less than accommodating to my non-Polish speaking self.  I utter barely three words: small black coffee, simply wanting something to stave off the fatigue that has followed my flight across the continents. She seems dissatisfied with my request, stringing together words in Polish as I slowly shook my head.

“With milk. Café Latte. Americano?” she queries, voice heavily accented.

“No, just coffee. Black.” I repeat. And “small,” when she asks again about the size. “Oh, and can I pay in Euro?”

“Yes, but I give you Polish zloty for the change.”

When my coffee rings up under €3, I pull a half liter of sparkling water from the cooler in front of the register, using the single €5 bill tucked in my wallet to cover my purchase and hopefully provide enough caffeine-induced energy to propel the last leg of my 20+ hour marathon journey.  Mostly because the Polish change is irrelevant to me, I toss the remaining cents onto the tip plate and carry my dripping cup of coffee back down the hall to the still empty gate.

In A Year in the World, Frances Mayes wrote that travel allows release because “you are insignificant to the life of the new place. When you travel you become invisible if you want […] When travelling, you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you.”

Perhaps I’m not as seasoned as Mayes in navigating countries and tongues; perhaps I’m still too fresh from the coddling comfort of Christmas break at home in Oregon. Nonetheless, insignificant and invisible are not normally attributes I strive to achieve. And not understanding what is being said usually proves more frustrating than liberating.

But perhaps travel itself is somehow separated from the limbo of layover – this strange in between of times and places, whose experience, yes, aura, is so closely connected to what awaits after the next flight but also to its present location.

In Chicago, for example, I was happy to play the obsolete observer, though the bustling crowds were upbeat, and my cell phone kept me company – a last round of texts fired off over the hour before the device would hibernate for the next six months.

Now, however, the silence is not soothing. Far from loved ones, I crave connection, not anonymity. If pure waiting is purgatory, I am relieved there’s an end. If separation is Hell, I am beyond thankful for Heaven and, more so, for the One who has promised to never leave, even when a journey is solo or an airport lonely.

Slowly, the differentiation between exterior and interior has heightened – artificial lights steadying the hue at Gate 45, while outside details disappear into darkness. I’ll be on my way again shortly, headed this time not for another round of waiting but at last for arrival, the journey complete.

Poland: land of pottery and pierogies

Introduction: Being in Berlin is, of course, splendid, but this month’s travel itinerary filled up in surprising – and very unexpected – ways. Since the beginning of September, I’ve spent time in four different cities and three different countries. Wait, what?

For the record, the cities are Zurich, Vaduz, Magdeburg and Boleslawiec. The corresponding countries outside of Germany, for those not tipped off by the cities, are Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Poland. I’ve been just a little busy. To my point, though. While all of these countries and the corresponding outings deserve posts, the most recent excursion takes precedence in my memory. Without further ado, I give you POLAND.

***

Arriving in Poland has always been rather unusual for me – the two times I’ve journeyed over its borders, that is. The first time, I simply meandered over a bridge, the Oder River spreading its long blue tendrils out underneath, while I savored the sensation of walking into a different country.

The second time, though, I zipped past the welcome signs in the back of a 7-passenger automobile, truly alerted to the change of country when my smooth ride transformed into a roller coaster of bumps and constant vibrations running up my legs. Road upkeep obviously occupies a different priority level in Poland than in Germany.

Conversation for me and the girl sitting beside me on the back seat soon became hopeless, and I simply stared out the window, lulled by the monotonous –though neither sonorous nor soothing – grinding of wheels on unkempt road. Thankfully the signs were interesting. Despite neighboring Germany, Poland has an extremely foreign language, and I could only guess at the pronunciation of words with unknown vowel combinations and figures.

We’d left early in the morning, and even though I’d inhaled the coffee contents of my travel mug, the pre-7 a.m. departure, combined with the prolonged jarring, had left me somewhat groggy, spurred on only by the promise of two illusive p’s: pottery and pierogies.

Boleslawiec, a city flowing (and overflowing) with pottery. With such a sign welcoming
visitors, it's obvious that the shopping experience will be a delight.

Before the trip, I had a vague idea of what both entailed. One of my friends, and the organizer of this particular trip, has outfitted her entire kitchen with the cheerful, brightly colored pottery: plates, mugs, baking pans and all. And, two years ago, when I’d made the trek over the bridge, I was pretty sure I remembered the evening ending with stuffed-doughy goodness. If those particular delicacies were known as “pierogies,” I was set to be happy.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t prepared for the pure abundance and sheer beauty of the pottery shops. As we entered the first store, encountering the row upon row of blues, reds, yellows and greens in all sizes and shapes, I quickly realized one thing: I had not brought enough cash for this shopping adventure.

Pottery-lined shelves, pottery-covered floors, pottery
everywhere you looked! Such a feast for the eyes and
such fun to dream about dishes and decorations, compar-
ing finds with friends and handing over the cash.

I’d imagined casual pottery perusal, hoping, at best, for a Christmas present or two. But I met such an overload of dream-inspiring dishes that I could have spent all day (and all my money) drooling over the exquisite patterns. We spent the morning walking from shop to shop, comparing designs and prices and making tough differentiations between wants and needs. It may have been all wants in my case, but in the end, I settled on a beautiful pie plate, adorned with flowers and polka dots. After all, I’d missed having a pie plate several times over the last year, resorting, at times, to sticking a foil-covered stove pan into the oven for my culinary creations. Furthermore, pies are about as American as you can get, and baking them is almost a cultural obligation for school events. At least, that’s how I justified my purchase.

Following the first hours of admiring the gorgeous displays, we headed to the restaurant for lunch – an affair that did not disappoint. Based on recommendation, I ordered the spinach garlic pierogies. By the time the food arrived, I was hungry enough for the flavor to peak, and the small pouches of goodness covered in a delectable cream sauce were well-worth the resulting stomachache (Note to self: Do not leave lactose pills at home when travelling abroad for the day). Each mouthful was filled with flavor – exactly the right amount. Thanks to generosity and table trades, I also tried the meat and onion cheese varieties, though I was thoroughly satisfied with my personal choice.

Every shop we visited had outdoor displays, showing off samples of the goodies to be had inside. 

The afternoon concluded with a few last minute dashes to the closing shops. Saturday’s early evening meant we were free to head back to Berlin around 5 p.m., toting our treasures and still smiling about our delicious lunch…or maybe that was just me.

I fell in love with these dishes but, unfortunately, lacked the financial
means to purchase them and the physical space in my suitcase to transport
them back to the United States. Oh well, one can always dream.

All in all, Poland for a day was well worth it, for those in the vicinity and with the means – by car, by foot, by train – I’d recommend the outing. Just remember your “p’s!”