From Laura’s Pocket Guide to Eastern Europe: Poland and the Ukraine
by Laura Ellen Scott

Be sure to organize your stag weekend in Krakow to coincide with the Pope Benedict’s visit in May 2006, so that when you get there all the bars will be closed. Drive to the edge of hell to get your drink on. Drive back to the airport and wait in line for the weekend to end. Here, have a deer-shaped cheese while you watch your luggage being tossed onto a flight to Frankfurt. You’re not going to Frankfurt.

Dzien Dobry means Good Morning.

Tak means Yes.

Smaczny means Tasty.

Dzien Dobry! Tak! Tak! Smaczny! Cheese deer is untranslatable.

You know a Polish girl back home, the Polish girl who takes the bus. Like a Polish cousin. Full of imperfects, the eyes always down. Thong rising out of her jeans. But Indian girls are the new Polish girls, so this Polish girl seems left over, a giveaway Polish girl. One who is pretty much okay with you. You could have stayed home and gone to Poland.

The Polish girl on the bus was hot. Hot-ish with sad eyes, and now you see, here at the John Paul II International Airport, that all Poles are hot like that. Even fat, square, genderless thugs. The Polish girl was probably your cousin anyway. She probably knew where the rest of the cousins were. When you told her that your great grandfather was from Rzeszów she got excited and wanted to know: “How much did your car cost? Why do you take the bus?” Her English bent. An elegant idiot. Pure means poor. Pure people ride the bus.

Poles are hot. And there’s just no beer here! Isn’t that wonderful?

Bold means wealthy. The new Papa is a bold man. He fired the Vatican tailor. He visits Poland while you are there, and a rainbow appears over Auschwitz. This is a miracle you get to watch on the television in the airport. Over and over my friend, until you are mistaken for an American.

A man wants to know, “Do Americans think we did that?” He means the concentration camps. He speaks for all Poles. And he’s hot. For expediency you can tell him that Americans think Auschwitz is in Germany. You won’t be wrong.

The Polish girl on the bus tried to warn you: “The Pope is the new Papa, but he is not everyone’s Papa. And yet the Papa is the Papa.”She wasn’t joking.

The Polish girl wanted to go with you, to Poland and back, but you went with the lads instead. For what, when you think about it? More something? Now the lads are bored drinking warm Ukrainian vodka from bottles stashed in their coats. Very like Americans, especially when they fall asleep. The Polish girl would have shown you her hometown and the graves of your cousins, explaining like a good guide: “Teachers make too much money. Teachers always complain. Jews used to live here, here, and there. They went away, so have you met them?”Also: “There are dozens, if not hundreds, of nun and priest corpses under the floorboards of this church.”

Dull means mean. Do not take pictures of the pretty cakes. The airport pastry seller is dull and stupid. Finish your cheese deer and wait. Just a few more hours and you will be fully fluent.

Stare at the televised news of the Pope.

Then stare at the gate.

Pope, gate. Pope, gate. Be stricken by desire.

 

LAURA ELLEN SCOTT does most of her traveling via fiction, and these days she either writes very short or very long. She’s got a novel manuscript about New Orleans and magic you might like.

t o p
short story short stories poem poetry fiction nonfiction non fiction flash fiction creative writing publish publisher photography