Crazy Little Thing Called Love

It’s not like I had anything better to do.  We walked off of the plane, and into the terminal at Warsaw Chopin Airport.  I was intimidated by the signs and advertising in a language I didn’t understand.  I flashed back to the jail in Panama City.  The feeling of being in over my head.  But Artur was right next to me, and the s**t-eating grin had never left his face.  After 51 years, he was finally home.

My apprehensions began evaporating before the taxi left the parking lot.  Jan looked to be about 40.  He had a grin that matched my father’s as he held the sign with Artur Wlodarski written on it.  I was surprised, he spoke with an accent, but his English was quite good.

He started the car, and turned on the radio.  Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana was playing.  Jan said, “Ugh.  That’s the kind of stuff my daughter listens to.”  He changed the channel.  Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb filled the cab. “Floyd, now that’s what I call real rock and roll.”

I began to think Poland might not be so bad.

It was dark by the time we checked into the hotel.  We ate at the restaurant next door, the food was excellent.  I could tell Artur was tired, we’d just done 15 hours of flying.  He said, “Son, I’m going to turn in.  I am looking forward to a good night’s sleep in my hometown.”

Amazingly, I didn’t feel jet-lagged at all.  I was used to getting started after sunset.  Jan had given me a list of clubs where I could hear “authentic Polish rock and roll.”  He said the bands ranged anywhere from garage band on up.  But he promised me, the guitar player of The Bleeding Blues would blow me away.

I’d been to Birmingham and Atlanta. I was leery of being alone in a large city at night.   Much less somewhere I didn’t speak the language.  I asked him, “Will I be safe, by myself?”  He said, “You’ll be safe, trust me.  It is very safe.  Go, have fun.”

When I came around the corner I could hear the guitar.  It had to be the guy Jan was talking about.  I’ve been in a million smoke filled bars.  You don’t hear a guitar make sounds like that very often.

Kasia was the name of the waitress.  Slender and pretty, but she said, “very little” when I uttered the one Polish phrase I had memorized.    

“Czy mówisz po Angielsku?”  Even though she did not speak English, the language of bars is universal.  Kasia and I communicated via gestures and I did not go thirsty.

After a few beers, I saw Jan walk in the door.  I waved and yelled, and he sat at the table.  He said, “I can’t stay too late or my wife will divorce me.  But I like to wind down with a few glasses of draft before I head home.”

The band broke into a kicking rendition of Eye Of The Tiger.  The guitarist’s name was Piotr, the same as my grandfather.  I couldn’t believe how comfortable I felt, and how much fun I was having, halfway around the world.  Maybe it was the beer.

When the band finished the set, I realized how tired I had become.  Jan walked with me back to the hotel.  Dad was sound asleep when I crept into the room.  As was I a few minutes later.

The next day was “meet the family” day.  The drive across Warsaw to the Mleczny Bakery took a while.  I was surprised at the size of the city.  Jan and Artur provided a running narrative as we passed landmarks.  So much of the city was destroyed in the war and had to be rebuilt.

Both of my grandparents had died years before.  Of Artur’s siblings, only Uncle Alek and Aunt Sophie were still alive.  Sophie moved to Kraków when she married, we would visit her later.  The Mleczny family still owned the business.  Alek was the head baker and manager.  

Alek and Artur hugged, and the tears flowed.  My uncle was of average height, but built like a linebacker.  When I think of Alek, I see him carrying a commercial sized sack of flour up the steps from the basement.  He made it look easy.  I did it once and swore I’d never do it again.

Artur and I sat and waited for our sandwiches.  That was when it hit me.  Warsaw is a really cool place.  The bakery, the hotel, the bar.  My new friend Jan, Uncle Alek, all the people I’d met.  Everything.  I realized why my father wanted me to come.

Then the coolness got run flat over.  By a woman walking through the front door.  Renata.  A waitress at the bakery.  

When she said hello to Alek, I was transfixed.  Her smile and the sound of her voice…  There aren’t words for that.  Renata walked into the kitchen.  Alek leaned toward me and whispered, “She’s divorced, you know.  You’ll like her daughters, they are precious.”  Artur said, “Son, the last time I saw someone with that look on their face, it was me, looking at a mirror.  After I met your mother.”

Poland, all of a sudden, had become a complicated place.