Leaving Home

I departed home on Wednesday October 10^th 2007 when my brother Daniel came to pick me up and transport me to the airport. My check in and flight to Detroit was uneventful. I arrived in Detroit at about 1:00 PM and dined in a Japanese restaurant on a steaming bowl of Tempura Udon noodle soup filled with tempura-ed shrimp and vegetables. Thinking back now that meal seems like ages away in the past now.

I boarded the flight to Amsterdam and was seated next to a Dutch man who was dressed somewhat resembling an American cowboy and smelling somewhat like last nights alcoholic beverages but was of a pleasant sort. We did not pass many words and I looked at his Dutch newspaper as he read it. It was a paper filled with headlines and pictures, much of which was unintelligible to me. Unfortunately my cold and cough persisted through the flight and was very annoying to me. I consumed cough drop after cough drop in an effort to quench the dryness in my throat. After a while the cough drops make for a sour stomach which I enjoyed through the flight. I arrived in Amsterdam early that morning as the sun was rising. Amsterdam looked so serene in the morning rosy light and still illuminated by the electric lights of the city. I was glad to be off of the aircraft which for some unknown had a high percentage of passengers under the age of 3, which accounted for the sound of whining babies which never seemed to stop.

I made my connection to Warsaw and arrived at Chopin airport at 11:00 AM. The airport, like much of Warsaw is under construction. The aircraft was parked on the ramp, away from the terminal, no jet way in sight. Stairs were wheeled up to the 737 and like in an old movie I descended them to the tarmac. As in other places in the world I have traveled to, a bus transports you to the terminal. At times like this I often wonder why bus drivers persist in packing their conveyances like sardines in a can. At the last moment another bus is brought out for the few remaining passengers that did not cram into the first sardine can. A few magic words are uttered in Polish and the bus lurches forward. We travel a short distance, one that could have been traveled by foot. Looking back now I am thankful for that bus when I consider what lied ahead in this journey. We arrived at customs and stepped into cues for arrival. I was greeted by a smile and a welcome. I stopped at a “Kantor” and changed some American Dollars for Zlotys, the local currency. I exited the customs area and entered the arrival hall and waited for Anna, the representative of the school that came to Warsaw to meet me. I waited over an hour and finally tried to call Bialystok, where the school is located but found the phone to be of the card type, the type that does not accept currency or coins. I knew this type of phone from my journeys to Romania so I went to the nearest newspaper stand and bought a phone card. One would think that I would remember how to use the card but I was too tired, too sick to even remember how to use the phone. The problem is that the phones give feedback messages in Polish and not English, so I had no idea of what this phone was trying to tell me. Part of the problem was that I had inserted the card incorrectly. On these types of cards there is a little gold colored chip that has to face up and into the slot. I had it exactly backwards. A young, nameless Polish man assisted me and I was able to call Bialystok. I reached Anna by phone and she was relieved to know that I had arrived. I inquired why she wasn’t at the airport. She told me that she had made a terrible mistake and was at the Airport on Wednesday, the day I left the states. Anna, always helpful provided information on how to get to the train station to get to Bialystok. Exhausted, I copied down the information and made my way, with 2 bags of luggage, to the central bus station.

The train station was exactly where I did not wish to go. Typically, the country guide books always say the worst about the train stations. In this case it was old and a bit tattered but people were helpful and I secured a ticket for the train. Bus stations, train stations, and airports are endless queues, waiting for tickets, humanity on the move. The bus ride to the train station was another sardine bus, but this one jerked and stopped and started for what seemed like an eternity. An attractive French speaking Polish girl sat next to me and was kind enough, between cell phone calls with her boyfriends, was kind enough to help me locate the Central train station. I collected my luggage and alighted from the bus. The walkway to the station was below ground requiring me to drag my two bags down forty or so steps, wheel it under the street and then up forty more steps to the station. I cursed under my breath, not wanting to be the Ugly American, arriving finally, covered with sweat and a fever, at the train station. The train station was a sea of humanity. I located some of the Gendarmes and they told me that to buy a ticket I had to go upstairs to purchase it. I again dragged my bags up those forty steps and entered yet another queue to purchase a ticket. I arrived at the window and discovered that the agent did not speak English. Thankfully, Anna had carefully spelled out the name of the train for me and I had written it down, knowing this would happen. I spoke the magic word…Bialystok…take me to where my great grand father came from…she understood. I reached into my passport wallet and dug out the scrap of paper containing the train’s name. I held it to the window glass and pointed to the name like a feverish madman. Yes, she finally understood. I got my ticket and she said something about the time, which was 2 hours earlier than the time Anna had given me. I hurried down to an empty platform, not a person or train in sight. I impatiently waited for the train, which I was beginning to believe I had missed. My stomach churned and not a BATHROOM IN SIGHT. There was no way I would survive a 3 hour journey on a train in this condition I dragged the bag up the ramp again, back to the main floor of the train station. I as still covered in sweat, coughing terribly, and still feverish. This damn cold was killing me so slowly. I knew somewhere in Poland I would be thought suffering with plague. Were people looking at me strangely, or was I suffering from a fever delusion. I was coughing and hacking incessantly and my stomach couldn’t stand another cough drop. This trip up to the main floor was different. I now noticed, for the first time, that there were lockers for luggage. I examined the lockers, very sturdy and even n English it clearly spelled out that these lockers were watched by the Police. I say no slot for bills but slots for coins. I dug into my pocket and examined the coins a slowly fed them into the slot. The locker counted the coins and opened. For about six dollars US I was free of my luggage for a while. I approached a merchant and inquired “toilet” and he said in clear English “down the hall about 30 meters.” I walked quickly down the hall and located it. There was a matron there who told me I could go in. As I entered I noticed a woman cleaning the room. She did not notice me and continued her duties. Americans, in contrast to Europeans who find this natural, would be shocked. It seems to me that Americans, possibly stemming from the puritanical roots, equate bodily functions and the genital area with sex, and as such are put off by a woman working in a men’s room. I finished and paid the .50 Zloty (think .25 US) fee to the matron. I smiled to myself thinking of images of the matrons that controlled society during the communist era, dressed in gray. I purchased a bottle of water, with gas and went to retrieve my luggage. I made my way to the platform and actually found a seat on a concrete bench. The odor of the station was not particularly pleasant but I think the only reason it really bothered me was that I wasn’t feeling all that well due to my cold and the coughing. A crowd began to build as we approached the train’s arrival time. Having been advised by my student Drew Piatek about the trains in Europe, he had suggested that I be sure to get up into the crowd to be sure to get a seat. A three hour ride standing up would have been unbearable. In a short time the train arrived and I pushed my way up into the train employing my bags as a sure way of getting up into the car. Ok, up into the car…first problem…suitcase is wider than the aisle…turned the damn thing sideways and dragged it to a compartment. As you face the front of the train there is a corridor and off of this corridor are the compartments. I entered and nodded to the occupants who were an older…nay, an elderly couple dressed nicely but clearly country folk that had been visiting Warsaw. The third occupant was a young college girl with a Ipod stuffed in her ears and oblivious to the world around her. The remaining occupant was a business man returning to Bialystok. I entered and attempted to hoist my large suitcase up onto the overhead rack. Struggling as I was I felt someone helping me hoist my suitcase. Once the case was safely overhead I turned and saw that the businessman was kindly helping me. He spoke little English and I no Polish but we communicated just the same. He inquired my destination and I said Bialystok and he nodded. Several of the occupants drifted off to sleep as we departed the city limits of Warsaw. The train ride was fairly smooth and the cars were fairly clean. The large windows provided a lovely panoramic view of the country as we glided along on the silver rails that cut through farmers fields, villages, and the magnificent White Birch Forests. I absolutely hate the cold dreary winters in Buffalo and friends will tell you that I ofter say how I want to dig up my ancestors and slap them and say to them “why did you move to such a cold place?” As we rode the silver rails the answer to this question was readily apparent. The forests and fields of Northeastern Poland look exactly like Western New York. They stopped their emigration at Western New York because it reminded them of home. The train continued on and the forests were broken by the appearance of small villages where the train sometimes stopped and people disembarked the train. Moments later we would be off again on our three hour ride to Bialystok. Had I felt better this ride would have been truly enjoyable. A part of the problem was that I was a bit on edge (not to mention suffering with fever. If you ever trouble yourself to read the various guidebooks on Central and Eastern Europe they have stern warnings about train travel, as does the state department travelers information sheets, so rather than being relaxed I was prepared to meet today’s equivalent of the Hitler Youth Groups on the train. Fore warned is fore armed but this was ridiculous. Here I was, in Eastern Poland, riding with ordinary citizens heading to their homes and there is the American Fulbright, complete with what appears to be typhoid, and waiting to meet the Hitler Youth Group on this train. Talk about the U.S. living in a culture of fear. I am sure these poor citizens were more afraid of my coughing. Drew, my student, had also told me that if you had a Polish grandmother in your compartment things would be fine. Evidently they will not stand for shenanigans and that you and your bags will be safe. I finally drifted on to a bit of sleep when my stomach began to talk to me. I roused myself and left my bags and compartment to the Polish grandmother and searched out the toilet. I found it, it was semi repulsive, but after a brief moment I felt like a new man. I stood between the cars for a bit and took in the air, as many of the Poles did, and then finally returned to my compartment. When I returned to the compartment the grandmother was with grandfather, whispering to each other like two teens in love and dining on an apple which grandfather was cutting with a huge knife. After eyeing the knife I knew that I was indeed safe from any member of the Hitler Youth Corp and drifter off for a bit. I opened my eyes to a beautiful sunset on the northeastern plains of Poland where my great grandfathers were born. It really was a movie moment for me. In a few minutes the business man said “Bialystok” to me and the cityscape began to appear in the windows of the train. I was exhausted but I had arrived. I retrieved my bags from the overhead and was again assisted by the businessman. I dragged my bags down the corridor and onec again the businessman assisted me in getting them off the train. The platform was cobblestone and in the semidarkness my bags bounced on the stones as I wheeled them behind me. I wondered if my great grandfathers, no not wondered, knowing that they had endured a much more arduous journey to America. I felt a tear of exhaustion run down my cheek as Pawel, my friend came into view. We hugged as old friends. It had been two years since he had visited us. He took my bags and we walked to his car. We departed the station and arrived at the Academy in about 10 minutes. Dasia, Pawel’s finance greeted me at the school and we dropped off my bags and walked down the avenue Sienkiewicza to a restaurant. I was exhausted but my diabetes required that I eat. I could not even bear the thought of a heavy meal so I had pancakes, or what we would call blintzes, filled with cheese and warm apples. These delicious packages were dotted with whipped cream and drizzled with a fine chocolate syrup. Several cups of hot tea with lemon quelled my cough and we again walked along Sienkiewicza to the Academy. Dasia, like a loving sister, made up my bed and got me settled in. They both kissed me goodnight and took their leave of me. The hardest part was sleeping. For the past thirty five hours my body had been moving, either flying or being jostled on a bus or a train, and my body would not let me sleep. In my past I have traveled the world, both in the military as a loadmaster on C-130 aircraft and as a civilian but this case of jetlag was the worst case emotionally and physically that I had ever experienced. I said a few prayers and drifted off to the arms of morpheus. I slept fitfully through the night, waking more often than not.