countessian

p is for…

…Poland, land of my misnamed and illiterate ancestors? Apparently somewhere there’s an immigration document signed (with Xs) by “John” and “Mary” on their arrival in England. They were my great-great-grandparents and their surname stayed in my family until their grandson, my grandfather, got sick of people asking how to spell it and changed it to something entirely more simple (and, interestingly, somewhat Irish, which matches up great with the rest of my family tree.) It would be my last name, and I think want it back. I went to the Public Records Office in London years ago seeking it to no avail. I figured I’d find my granddad’s birth record, but I tried all the Cs and Ks from five years before and after — yes, I was there for hours — and couldn’t find a trace of him.

Anyway, I spent a few days in Krakow this spring and have been slacking on editing the photographs. I wish I was there again. I hereby swear to the residents of Kazimierz that I’ll wear quieter shoes next time I’m running down Ulica Mieselsa in the middle of the night, but I’ll probably still yell frantically in broken Polish if you try to put ketchup on my pizza. And to the old woman selling fruit in the market, I promise to once again keep quiet when you gleefully let Americans pay double what you were asking for your already overpriced wares. It’s funny. To everyone who works in shops and restaurants, thank you in advance for understanding my dreadful attempts at your language. To Alchemia, save me a seat under that scary little window with the net curtain shivering in the breeze like a horror film waiting to happen. To the train worker who tried to help us with limited English and then, when realising he’d made a mistake, tracked us down on the platform and with a construction worker to translate, thank you for the best welcome to a country ever. You deserve some kind of national medal of honour. To the “Native Americans” busking outside the Barbican, you are great. To the two best cab drivers in the world, I saved your cards. Between Polish, English, Russian and German, we will figure out where we’re going. To the woman at the train station who tried to serve us bread she pulled out of the trash, you managed to be the only person in Poland who was mean to the American. I know, Americans who don’t speak a word of Polish probably annoy you, but seriously. To the beautiful boy who works at the airport, hello! To Singer, please be just as confusing as last time. To all my skinny LA and London friends, I’m gunna get fat and happy on pierogi, so there.

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This entry was posted on Sunday, July 29th, 2007 at 4:54 pm. It is filed under documentary. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.