4/18/14 - "A Polish Wedding"
Blogger's Note: Roman's fourth birthday has arrived, and I considered writing about that. We gave him presents and some candle-lit cupcakes; we're throwing a big party for him on Tuesday. I'm really enjoying this stage of his life, and I selfishly want to pause the process right here for a while.
But I have an agenda.
Coming in June, Joanna and I will be heading to Poland. This trip will mark our fifth journey to our Polski neighbors, and I'm really looking forward to it. We'll be celebrating Amelia's first birthday, her baptism, mine and Joanna's Polish anniversary, and HER BROTHER'S WEDDING. Why did I write that in all caps? Because Polish weddings deserve all caps. Why? Well, that's the subject of today's post...
I considered saving mine and Joanna's adventures overseas for after our "How We Met" story. And I probably will for most of them. But, I'm hoping that I'll have a lot of free time while we're on our European vacation. If I do, then I want to write. About what?
I sometimes daydream that I write this Layman's Travel Guide.
While Joanna and I were in Crete, I had bought this travel guide that explained in very systematic, drab text about the various points-of-interest on the Greek island. It was useful I suppose, but rather stale.
Imagine if you will that someone like you or I were to write such a guide. A drunken, Kentuckian with a penchant for writing goes on some world tour describing the sights and sounds in a such a way that the average person could enjoy reading it. Here's an example:
"The four major cities of Crete are, from east to west, Agios Nikolaos, Heraklion, Rethymno, and Chania. A snobby, British tour guide that we met said that each city is reputed for shit like art and war and science and... hell, I don't remember which is which. Except Chania. Chania is the city of love on Crete. If you're going to Crete, make sure you check out Chania. The Adriatic Sea laps against a cobblestone landing where umbrella-covered tables line the shore and a maitre d encourages strollers to come try their fish or their lamb or their rank-ass cheese they call Saganaki. Their food tastes like shit except for their fish if you don't mind picking through the fucking bones. And, as soon as they have you sitting at one of their tables, the maitre d, previously charismatic and smiling as though he's your best friend, wants nothing to do with you. But it's all worth it because you're sitting just a block from narrow, market-lined alleys where peddlers are anxious to haggle anything from scarves to sandals to original art. And you're sitting there listening to a sect of Mediterranean Sea washing against the sandstone while a mix of French, Italian, Russian, German, and Polish tourists are conversing over wine and ouzo. What's ouzo? Well, it's just Jager on steroids. They make the shit from grape vines, not grapes but the fucking vines and leaves. What asshole thought, 'I'm going to make some alcohol from vines and leaves.' And a little dab'll do ya. It tastes like black licorice. And I don't recommend a lot. One shot and you'll be fucked up. I saw this Greek mother fucker drinking ouzo and he didn't even know his fucking name. I don't think. He didn't look like he did. But I don't speak Greek. So he might've."
So, while we're in Europe, I want to write shit like that. If I have time. And I'd better have time.
Arek (Joanna's brother) and his fiancé Ewa are having a wedding that I think I'm prepared for. My first experience (what I'll be describing today) didn't go so well. My second experience was mine and Joanna's wedding where I practiced what I learned from the first wedding (which was stay sober if you don't want to be a total fool at your own wedding). But Arek's and Ewa's wedding? I think I have it figured out now. We'll see. Now I'm free to drink and dance and have fun, but I also think I know my limits. I think I'll know when to say "time to chill for a bit." We'll see.
So, for everyone else to understand, it's important to explain what a Polish wedding is like. I get asked that all the time. It's impossible to explain in just a few words. And, being raised a Southern Baptist, I'm not sure which traditions are Polish and which are Catholic. So, I'm just going to recount my first Polish wedding experience and let you sort through what's what.
So, grab a bottle of Pan Tadeusz and be well rested. Because, we're about to go to a Polish wedding. What's the big deal? Oh, buddy, let me tell ya...
Listening to: John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John "You're The One That I Want"
Joanna had told me to rest all day. Polish weddings are almost always on Saturdays; and, we had just been lounging around. She also told me not to eat too much. "We'll be eating a lot later," she said. What the fuck ever. When I'm hungry, I'm going to eat. But, I'd tried to take it easy. I'd try anyway.
Around 3:30pm, Joanna said it was time to go. We loaded into her father's minivan. We crammed her mother, her father, her brother Arek, his girlfriend Katie, Joanna, and myself into the vehicle. We were heading to Wadowice, the hometown of Pope John Paul II, also the place where Joanna and her childhood best friend, Joanna (cute ain't it?) grew up. She told me we would need to stop and get a bouquet of flowers. The traditional, Polish wedding gift is a bouquet of flowers and about $200 cash.
Now, I've always thought that money is a terrific wedding gift. When a young couple is first getting started, what better way to help them blast off than a bit of cash? But $200?? At first, I thought that seemed pretty steep. Later, once I found out what we got for the money (basically $100 per person), I changed my tune.
"Pay attention," my wife said. "We'll be having a wedding here the next time we come. You need to learn how it works."
We arrived a little late. When we got there, the large cathedral was so full that the audience had spilled onto the steps outside. I was a little saddened upon the discovery, because I had never seen a Catholic wedding (or a Polish one for that matter). I really wanted to see what they were doing in there. But, we patiently waited with the pigeons for the ceremony to end. Joanna told me not to fret. The rite is long and boring with exhausted orations from the priest and ceremonious customs. We had, she assured me, been spared.
Soon enough, the crowd began to exit the cathedral. People tossed pennies (or grosz) into the air.
Joanna and Marcin Jurzak, a picturesque couple that looked stunning in their wedding attire, stepped outside. They knelt and began picking up the pennies. Apparently, tradition dictates that whoever picks up the most pennies will be the best with money. I wasn't sure who won.
At last, Joanna and Marcin stood just below the cathedral steps as a line of people holding envelopes and bouquets was formed to greet the alluring couple. One by one, the bride and groom greeted their family and friends with hugs and kisses as they were handed their gifts.
As we approached, I shook the groom's hand and the bride kissed my cheek. At first, I thought it was because I was looking so good; but, then I noticed that she was doing that to all of the guys in line. Joanna and Joanna exchanged brief but heart-felt pleasantries as we handed them their gifts. I was introduced to her life-long friend, and we began to load back into the minivan. We left the cathedral around 5:15pm.
We followed a caravan of vehicles through quaint villages and charming countryside until we arrived at this lake-side country club with a crew of servers and valets. I, having trimmed my diet per Joanna's advice, was rather hungry. I knew how receptions such as this went in America. We'd be waiting an hour before food was offered; my grumbling stomach wasn't feeling very patient.
Inside, long tables were columned throughout the large room. A head table sat near a bar, and a live band was playing something elegant. The band consisted of a drummer, a guitarist, a bassist, and a violinist. They seemed rather talented; the singing duties volleyed from the male guitarist and the female violinist.
When we found our places, I was, simply put, amazed. An empty bowl with some small crackers sat in front of me beside an empty glass that I could fill with anything I wanted. Glass bottles of Pepsi, wine, and water had been generously displayed before us next to a pitcher of some type of juice. A large fruit plate had everything from grapes to apples, and a tiered display of pastries sat tempting my eager eyes. I looked around ravenously for someone to start; I didn't want to be the first.
Also, small bottles of something called Pan Tadeusz were innocently stationed at each place setting.
"What's Pan Tadeusz?" I asked Joanna.
"Polish vodka. Pan means 'mister' in Polish. So it mean Mr. Tadeusz. 'Pan Tadeusz' is to Poland what 'Huckleberry Finn' is to America. It is celebrated book in our literature. The vodka was named after the book," she explained.
I've never been crazy about hard liquor, so I asked her if beer would be an option. She explained that at Polish weddings most people drank either vodka or wine; but, if I wanted, I could go to the bar and ask for a beer. I begged her to join me, because I didn't know anyone. Also, I was afraid there would be a language barrier. After a little pleading, she acquiesced.
After landing a tasty glass of Polish Żywiec I returned to the table a little happier than I had left it. "Happy now?" Joanna checked.
I smiled and took a big swig in response. "Just don't mix vodka and beer," she warned. Whatever.
Just a couple of minutes after we had sat down, servers quickly began ladling out grzybowa or mushroom soup into our bowls.
I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to food, but I had come to discover that the Polish palate ranged from one end of the culinary spectrum to the other. I cautiously tried the zupa (soup). I was very relieved to discover I liked it. It wasn't too dissimilar from our version of mushroom soup except that it may have been a little more brothy with larger pieces of mushrooms.
I gulped down the soup and willed myself to be patient. I was still hungry, but I felt certain that the wait for the next course would be lengthy. I could do this. "Pace yourself," Joanna warned. Whatever. Apparently, she forgot to whom she was married.
No sooner than I had finished the soup, another bowl was sat in front of me. I recognized the beet soup with what I called a Polish egg roll sitting in it. It's called barszcz z krokietem. The Polish "egg roll" was a ground beef-filled pastry that was deep fried. I knew I liked it, so I didn't pause. I just gulped it down.
"Pace yourself," Joanna reiterated.
"I'm hungry," I insisted.
"Just pace yourself," she punctuated.
I had decided that Polish tradition must dictate that two soups would be served before the main course; but, no quicker than I had finished the barszcz then another plate was sat in front of me. Rolls of raw salmon were artfully flourished on a plate garnished with a dill sauce. I love raw salmon, so I giddily went to work.
Halfway through the plate, I finished off the beer; so, I made a trip to the bar to get another. I noticed no one else seemed to be drinking beer, but the stuff was just too delicious to divorce.
"Pace yourself," I mocked Joanna as I returned to my seat. Smitten, she shrugged, "ok. you will see."
I finished the salmon, which was removed in place of a plate filled with fried fritters and sausages and cabbage salads. Apparently, this was the main course.
At last, as far as eating was concerned, I began to pace myself. The previous rounds had done the trick of curbing my appetite. The food continued to be piquant, but I was nearing the final battle and felt no need to hurry.
I checked on my companions. Joanna and Katie had slowed down considerably. They had relegated themselves to sipping on wine and nibbling at their plates. Arek, on the other hand, as far as food was concerned, was keeping pace with me. However, he was sipping on a shot of Pan Tadeusz much like others at our table, sometimes chasing it with a drink of Pepsi. I was enjoying most Polish customs, but I was secretly wondering why no one was drinking their savory beer. Oh well, their loss.
After I had picked apart the fried plate, a server came and took it away. In its place, a plate filled with an odd assortment of meats and salads replaced my setting. I was introduced to a clear gelatin that had shreds of meat and pieces of sausages suspended in it. Joanna said that it was called kurczak w galarecie. I tried a taste of it, and for the first time that night, I found something that I did not like. Whoever came up with the idea of suspending meat inside of clear Jell-O deserves to be punched in the gut. I looked around and saw that no one else shared my sentiment. People were loving the stuff; some were even complimenting the strange delicacy. I was pretty full anyway, so I decided that leaving the meat gelatin alone might be prudent.
And, as far as food and drink were concerned, so the night went. I kept my beer glass filled. I would occasionally taste the wine or the vodka. Plates would be removed and replaced with something else. I began to think that they were playing a practical joke on me. I mean no one could eat this much, but everyone was being treated equally.
I'll quit describing the food now; but, please understand, that it kept coming for the remainder of the night. Servers would make sure that we had the drinks that we wanted, be it wine or juice or water or vodka. After a while, even after a large duck was sat in front of us, my studies of the Polish cuisine began to soften. My heavy gut and beer-influenced head began to grow tired of food and drink, so I turned to the merriment around me and to the customs of the bride and groom.
Occasionally, the band would stop playing, and the crowd would begin to chant something in Polish. "Gorzko! Gorzko! Gorzko! Gorzko!" which, Joanna explained, meant to kiss one another. The bride and groom would finally comply, much to the cheering contentment of the audience. At one point, they toasted a glass of champagne which they tossed over their shoulders. Apparently, whichever glass shattered the most dictated who would be the boss of the relationship. I'm sorry to say that I couldn't ascertain who won that contest.
When an elegant song began to drift across the room, the dance floor cleared. The bride and groom took up position in what was apparently their wedding dance. They were performing a waltz. By the gentle flow of her gown and the rhythmic guide that her husband's adept tempo suggested, the couple had practiced the routine time and time again. And they performed it flawlessly. I had never seen, at a wedding, such an eloquent and involved routine. I felt honored to bear witness.
The rest of the time, also unlike any wedding I had ever seen, the great majority of people were on the dance floor. Aging from young children to the frail elderly, people were dancing and clapping to tunes that ranged from some traditional folk to some American rock 'n' roll. I tried to partition my sights from the band, to the dance floor, to the head table, and to the audience. Everyone seemed involved.
More chants and customs erupted spontaneously, but my beer consumption wavers my memory a bit too much for recollection. At one point, a large chain of people joined hands and circled the couple as they were chanting something joyfully. The atmosphere was rustic, and I felt comfortable.
The band played songs ranging from stuff I recognized to folk tunes that I had never heard before but still enjoyed. At one point, they began to play "My Little Runaway". Most of the English songs they had played had been lyrically correct. I had been grading them on their English, though they hadn't realized it. But, they were destroying this song which I found absolutely delightful. "Mah litta Rah-way, rah, rah, rah, rahway!!" The singers were very much in tune, and the music was perfect. Overall, the band had done a terrific job; but, I somewhat recall those amusing lyrical attempts going unnoticed by pretty much everyone else. Which was just as well, the song was still fun.
The bride and groom began making their rounds. They went from person to person, greeting them and making sure they were having a good time. They stopped at our little corner where Joanna and Joanna joked and laughed about something in Polish. The bride Joanna spoke some English and told me that it was nice to at last meet me. I was glad that she made me feel welcome.
Food and drink and dance continued, when, around midnight, I noticed that everyone was drinking vodka except me. I wasn't feeling much pain, so I decided that, well, when in Rome...
I took one of the empty shot glasses on the table and poured myself a swig of Pan Tadeusz.
"Na zdrowie," I said raising my glass. Automatically, Joanna, Arek, and Katie followed my lead. I took the shot, as we would do in America. They took a sip from their glasses.
"You guys don't take the whole shot?" I asked.
"Sometimes," Joanna said.
"Here, we do another," Arek said as he, smiling, poured us another round of Polish vodka.
"Na zdrowie," we all chorused as we all downed our glasses.
"Are you American?" A small, dark-haired girl interrupted our festivities. She spoke with a British accent; so, of course, I assumed that she was from England. I'd find out later that most English-speaking Poles have a British accent. Obviously, I suppose, because England would be the closest English-speaking country and that's what they learn.
Being rather inebriated but feeling rather famous, I responded with a smile. "Yep."
"I love the American accent," she said. I wanted to respond with something clever in my charming, American accent; but, Mr. Tadeusz had grappled and bridled my wit. I simply smiled.
"Would you care to dance?" she asked me. I felt a wave of anxiety at the prospect of dancing amid all of these traditional dances and strange customs. I was about to decline when Joanna responded, "Yes. Please take him to dance. He has sat there all night."
She grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.
One thing that I've never had much of a penchant for is dancing. I just don't have much rhythm, and I always feel uncomfortable on the dance floor. Fortunately, I had Pan Tadeusz to walk me through the steps.
I remember neither the girl's name nor the songs that were played, but I was pretty sure that I was dancing like a rock star. At last, the band stopped playing. I was about to return to my seat when a song that I recognized started playing from the speakers. Grease's "You're the One That I Want" as performed by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John had begun to cheerfully encourage the dancers on the floor to quicken their pace and sway their hips. Feeling like I was representing my country, I decided to stay on the floor for the remainder of this song.
I felt pretty sure that I was moving as well as John Travolta ever had. I twirled the girl this way and that like a pro. On the couple of occasions that I nearly tripped I just pretended like it was part of the routine; certainly, no one could've noticed. I was a dancing, American superstar!
Joanna, Arek, and Katie joined us on the dance floor, and we stayed out there for what felt like hours. By the time the band started playing again, we were exhausted and sweaty and ready for more alcohol. We returned to our seats and shared some more of the Polish nectar.
Joanna noticed her parents stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, so she suggested that we all do the same. We did another shot, and then headed outside, bringing the vodka with us.
Someone gave Arek a cigarette. None of us smoked, but we were a bit fucked up so we decided to share it among the four of us. Even Joanna's mother, Krystyna, came over to grab a quick drag. She, too, was looking like she was having a good time.
Roman, Joanna's father, was talking to a gentleman with wind-worn creases adorning his face and crow's feet at the edges of his eyes. He seemed like a down-to-earth man with a friendly smile and a humble demeanor. Via Joanna's translations, her father introduced the two of us. I'm sorry to say that I don't remember his name, but he seemed like a genuinely good person. Joanna strayed into another conversation, and I, holding a bottle of Pan Tadeusz in one hand and a shot glass in the other, was left alone with my father-in-law and my new acquaintance.
The gentleman was holding a shot glass of his own. He raised it as if to toast me, so I poured myself a shot and said, "na zdrowie".
He echoed the sentiment, and we shared a drink.
"Czy Amerykanie piją polską wódkę?" he asked.
Of course, I speak very little Polish and Joanna wasn't there to translate; but, I discerned the words "American" and "vodka" from the statement. I pieced together what he must have said, "This American can drink vodka like none other!"
Happy to be recognized for my vodka-drinking ability, I poured myself another shot and demonstrated my vodka sovereignty with another shot. I stumbled slightly, but recovered nicely. He must have been impressed, because he looked humorously awe-struck.
"Polska wódka jest najlepsza, czyż nie? Wygląda że ci smakuje," my new friend remarked. Once again, I pieced together the translation, "Poland is honored to have a guest with your vodka-drinking powers. I am humbled by your amazing skill!"
Attempting humility myself (and succeeding beyond measure), I downed another shot.
"Quit drinking now!" Joanna was approaching me. She looked rather concerned for me; she obviously didn't know about my new-found ability.
"Oh, don't worry, baby. Everyshing is fine," I slurred.
"No. I mean it. You should quit now." My Polish wife didn't seem to understand that I was perfectly fine; I took another shot to illustrate. Some spilled out of the bottle as I was pouring; she had distracted me.
She walked away without saying anymore. I turned to commune, again, with my new friend. He and Joanna's father must have went back inside, because I didn't see them anywhere.
I took a moment to breath in the night's life. A low moon's reflection rippled with a dusting of stars on the lake's peaceful face; I marveled at how the sky looked different on this side of the world. Clusters of people were scattered across the lot. Some were sitting at the umbrella-covered tables; others were standing in merry factions, smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka. The sounds of cheerful music and lively dancing from inside resonated and fueled my inner-child. I took another shot.
"Ok. Shuttle bus is here. We leaving now." Joanna, unaware that I was just getting started, approached me with the announcement.
"We're taking a rocket bus?" I jested.
"I mean it, Duane. Put down the bottle and the glass and come on!"
When I saw the rest of Joanna's family climbing aboard the vehicle, I begrudgingly sat down the drinking mechanisms and staggered in their direction. "Sheesh, I was jes' getting started," I complained.
In the bus, I wavered down the aisle, past people that I didn't recognize, and to the back where the rest of our group was sitting. I plopped into the seat next to Joanna and waited impatiently for the trek home to begin.
Feeling rather stuffy, I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. By the time the bus pulled out of the parking lot, I was burning up. "What's wrong with you?" Joanna asked, apparently noticing my discomfort.
"Arn'd shyu hot?" I inquired. My head felt rather heavy; I leaned against the seat in front of me.
"No. It's not hot in here. Just hang on. We'll be home in twenty minutes," she suggested.
I tried to look at the other people; I wanted to see if they, too, were afflicted by the heat. Perhaps my wife was the only cold-natured passenger. "Whensh shyu finly gon?" I stated very plainly. My head slipped off its resting place, and I accidentally stomped my foot in an attempt to regain my balance. It could've happened to anybody.
"What are you talking about? Quit it! You're yelling." My wife must have been very intoxicated. She couldn't seem to understand anything I was trying to tell her. I let my head rotate on my neck; that seemed to make me feel better.
"Quit taking your clothes off!" Joanna scolded me in a hushed whisper. I looked at myself and noticed that I had completely taken off my dress shirt, and I was in the process of pulling off my tee-shirt. So? Men can have their shirts off!
"Whashya ben dyul?" I complained.
"I mean it, Duane. Put your shirt back on! We're almost home!"
That's the last thing I remembered.
When I woke up the next day, I knew I needed a bathroom. I needed one quickly, but I also knew that getting to one was going to be a problem. My head was pounding; my stomach was as sick as it had ever been; and, my whole body was sweating.
As I fell onto the floor, I noticed that Joanna wasn't in bed with me. As quickly as I could manage, I partially crawled and partially walked to the bathroom. I made it just in time. I won't share all of the details, but I can say that the next thirty minutes involved some multitasking and some clever timing. The fact that I managed to pull off the feats without any mishaps is my only claim to success that day.
"Duane, you ok in there?" Joanna's voice came through the bathroom door.
"No," I weakly rasped. "I need to go the emergency room."
Joanna laughed. "You'll be ok. You're just hungover."
"No. I'm serious. I need to go to the emergency room. This is bad. This is the worst hangover I've ever had in my life. I think something's wrong." I came out of the bathroom and somehow made my way back to the bed.
Not longer after I laid down, Joanna's mother came in with a bowl of chicken broth. She said something comforting in Polish and insisted I eat the soup. The last thing I wanted to do right then was eat anything, but she insisted. I leaned on an elbow and spooned a little into my mouth. Joanna brought me some aspirin and a glass of water to down it with. Then, I laid my head back down.
"We're going to Joanna's house for the rest of the celebration," my wife informed me.
"What??" I asked. "The reception is still going on??"
"Yes. The next day, we resume the celebration at the bride's house. It's ok, though. You can stay here."
I wouldn't have been able to go even if I would have wanted. I couldn't believe these people. I lay my head on the pillow and fell back asleep.
When Joanna awoke me, I still had a hangover. But now it was more like the kind of hangover that I was accustomed to. I climbed out of bed and could see that the sun was setting; I had been in bed all day. Joanna and her family had just gotten home from an afternoon of drinking and eating on Day Two of the wedding celebration.
"What time did we get home last night?" I asked.
"It was about 4:30. Pretty early," Joanna said.
I walked outside to the patio and sat on one of the comfortable chairs there. I laid my head back and tried for just a moment to recall what had transpired the night before. I couldn't remember much. And maybe that was just as well.
The realization that we would be having a Polish wedding here sank in. I wasn't sure how I was going to manage it. These people were crazy.
For a couple of years, I wanted nothing to do with vodka. The taste, the smell, the very idea of the stuff made me sick. Pan Tadeusz particularly.
I brought a bottle of Pan Tadeusz home with me and gave it to some friends of mine after that trip. A few weeks later they called me. "I don't know what's in that stuff," they said. "But that's not normal vodka. It fucked us up." 'I know,' was all I had said. I know.
-- Don't forget to "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here.
-- Jump ahead and read about "Another Polish Wedding".
Blogger's Note: Roman's fourth birthday has arrived, and I considered writing about that. We gave him presents and some candle-lit cupcakes; we're throwing a big party for him on Tuesday. I'm really enjoying this stage of his life, and I selfishly want to pause the process right here for a while.
But I have an agenda.
Coming in June, Joanna and I will be heading to Poland. This trip will mark our fifth journey to our Polski neighbors, and I'm really looking forward to it. We'll be celebrating Amelia's first birthday, her baptism, mine and Joanna's Polish anniversary, and HER BROTHER'S WEDDING. Why did I write that in all caps? Because Polish weddings deserve all caps. Why? Well, that's the subject of today's post...
I considered saving mine and Joanna's adventures overseas for after our "How We Met" story. And I probably will for most of them. But, I'm hoping that I'll have a lot of free time while we're on our European vacation. If I do, then I want to write. About what?
I sometimes daydream that I write this Layman's Travel Guide.
While Joanna and I were in Crete, I had bought this travel guide that explained in very systematic, drab text about the various points-of-interest on the Greek island. It was useful I suppose, but rather stale.
Imagine if you will that someone like you or I were to write such a guide. A drunken, Kentuckian with a penchant for writing goes on some world tour describing the sights and sounds in a such a way that the average person could enjoy reading it. Here's an example:
"The four major cities of Crete are, from east to west, Agios Nikolaos, Heraklion, Rethymno, and Chania. A snobby, British tour guide that we met said that each city is reputed for shit like art and war and science and... hell, I don't remember which is which. Except Chania. Chania is the city of love on Crete. If you're going to Crete, make sure you check out Chania. The Adriatic Sea laps against a cobblestone landing where umbrella-covered tables line the shore and a maitre d encourages strollers to come try their fish or their lamb or their rank-ass cheese they call Saganaki. Their food tastes like shit except for their fish if you don't mind picking through the fucking bones. And, as soon as they have you sitting at one of their tables, the maitre d, previously charismatic and smiling as though he's your best friend, wants nothing to do with you. But it's all worth it because you're sitting just a block from narrow, market-lined alleys where peddlers are anxious to haggle anything from scarves to sandals to original art. And you're sitting there listening to a sect of Mediterranean Sea washing against the sandstone while a mix of French, Italian, Russian, German, and Polish tourists are conversing over wine and ouzo. What's ouzo? Well, it's just Jager on steroids. They make the shit from grape vines, not grapes but the fucking vines and leaves. What asshole thought, 'I'm going to make some alcohol from vines and leaves.' And a little dab'll do ya. It tastes like black licorice. And I don't recommend a lot. One shot and you'll be fucked up. I saw this Greek mother fucker drinking ouzo and he didn't even know his fucking name. I don't think. He didn't look like he did. But I don't speak Greek. So he might've."
So, while we're in Europe, I want to write shit like that. If I have time. And I'd better have time.
Arek (Joanna's brother) and his fiancé Ewa are having a wedding that I think I'm prepared for. My first experience (what I'll be describing today) didn't go so well. My second experience was mine and Joanna's wedding where I practiced what I learned from the first wedding (which was stay sober if you don't want to be a total fool at your own wedding). But Arek's and Ewa's wedding? I think I have it figured out now. We'll see. Now I'm free to drink and dance and have fun, but I also think I know my limits. I think I'll know when to say "time to chill for a bit." We'll see.
So, for everyone else to understand, it's important to explain what a Polish wedding is like. I get asked that all the time. It's impossible to explain in just a few words. And, being raised a Southern Baptist, I'm not sure which traditions are Polish and which are Catholic. So, I'm just going to recount my first Polish wedding experience and let you sort through what's what.
So, grab a bottle of Pan Tadeusz and be well rested. Because, we're about to go to a Polish wedding. What's the big deal? Oh, buddy, let me tell ya...
Listening to: John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John "You're The One That I Want"
Joanna had told me to rest all day. Polish weddings are almost always on Saturdays; and, we had just been lounging around. She also told me not to eat too much. "We'll be eating a lot later," she said. What the fuck ever. When I'm hungry, I'm going to eat. But, I'd tried to take it easy. I'd try anyway.
Around 3:30pm, Joanna said it was time to go. We loaded into her father's minivan. We crammed her mother, her father, her brother Arek, his girlfriend Katie, Joanna, and myself into the vehicle. We were heading to Wadowice, the hometown of Pope John Paul II, also the place where Joanna and her childhood best friend, Joanna (cute ain't it?) grew up. She told me we would need to stop and get a bouquet of flowers. The traditional, Polish wedding gift is a bouquet of flowers and about $200 cash.
Now, I've always thought that money is a terrific wedding gift. When a young couple is first getting started, what better way to help them blast off than a bit of cash? But $200?? At first, I thought that seemed pretty steep. Later, once I found out what we got for the money (basically $100 per person), I changed my tune.
"Pay attention," my wife said. "We'll be having a wedding here the next time we come. You need to learn how it works."
We arrived a little late. When we got there, the large cathedral was so full that the audience had spilled onto the steps outside. I was a little saddened upon the discovery, because I had never seen a Catholic wedding (or a Polish one for that matter). I really wanted to see what they were doing in there. But, we patiently waited with the pigeons for the ceremony to end. Joanna told me not to fret. The rite is long and boring with exhausted orations from the priest and ceremonious customs. We had, she assured me, been spared.
Soon enough, the crowd began to exit the cathedral. People tossed pennies (or grosz) into the air.
Joanna and Marcin Jurzak, a picturesque couple that looked stunning in their wedding attire, stepped outside. They knelt and began picking up the pennies. Apparently, tradition dictates that whoever picks up the most pennies will be the best with money. I wasn't sure who won.
At last, Joanna and Marcin stood just below the cathedral steps as a line of people holding envelopes and bouquets was formed to greet the alluring couple. One by one, the bride and groom greeted their family and friends with hugs and kisses as they were handed their gifts.
As we approached, I shook the groom's hand and the bride kissed my cheek. At first, I thought it was because I was looking so good; but, then I noticed that she was doing that to all of the guys in line. Joanna and Joanna exchanged brief but heart-felt pleasantries as we handed them their gifts. I was introduced to her life-long friend, and we began to load back into the minivan. We left the cathedral around 5:15pm.
We followed a caravan of vehicles through quaint villages and charming countryside until we arrived at this lake-side country club with a crew of servers and valets. I, having trimmed my diet per Joanna's advice, was rather hungry. I knew how receptions such as this went in America. We'd be waiting an hour before food was offered; my grumbling stomach wasn't feeling very patient.Inside, long tables were columned throughout the large room. A head table sat near a bar, and a live band was playing something elegant. The band consisted of a drummer, a guitarist, a bassist, and a violinist. They seemed rather talented; the singing duties volleyed from the male guitarist and the female violinist.
When we found our places, I was, simply put, amazed. An empty bowl with some small crackers sat in front of me beside an empty glass that I could fill with anything I wanted. Glass bottles of Pepsi, wine, and water had been generously displayed before us next to a pitcher of some type of juice. A large fruit plate had everything from grapes to apples, and a tiered display of pastries sat tempting my eager eyes. I looked around ravenously for someone to start; I didn't want to be the first.Also, small bottles of something called Pan Tadeusz were innocently stationed at each place setting.
"What's Pan Tadeusz?" I asked Joanna.
"Polish vodka. Pan means 'mister' in Polish. So it mean Mr. Tadeusz. 'Pan Tadeusz' is to Poland what 'Huckleberry Finn' is to America. It is celebrated book in our literature. The vodka was named after the book," she explained.
I've never been crazy about hard liquor, so I asked her if beer would be an option. She explained that at Polish weddings most people drank either vodka or wine; but, if I wanted, I could go to the bar and ask for a beer. I begged her to join me, because I didn't know anyone. Also, I was afraid there would be a language barrier. After a little pleading, she acquiesced.
After landing a tasty glass of Polish Żywiec I returned to the table a little happier than I had left it. "Happy now?" Joanna checked.
I smiled and took a big swig in response. "Just don't mix vodka and beer," she warned. Whatever.
Just a couple of minutes after we had sat down, servers quickly began ladling out grzybowa or mushroom soup into our bowls. I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to food, but I had come to discover that the Polish palate ranged from one end of the culinary spectrum to the other. I cautiously tried the zupa (soup). I was very relieved to discover I liked it. It wasn't too dissimilar from our version of mushroom soup except that it may have been a little more brothy with larger pieces of mushrooms.
I gulped down the soup and willed myself to be patient. I was still hungry, but I felt certain that the wait for the next course would be lengthy. I could do this. "Pace yourself," Joanna warned. Whatever. Apparently, she forgot to whom she was married.
No sooner than I had finished the soup, another bowl was sat in front of me. I recognized the beet soup with what I called a Polish egg roll sitting in it. It's called barszcz z krokietem. The Polish "egg roll" was a ground beef-filled pastry that was deep fried. I knew I liked it, so I didn't pause. I just gulped it down.
"Pace yourself," Joanna reiterated.
"Just pace yourself," she punctuated.
I had decided that Polish tradition must dictate that two soups would be served before the main course; but, no quicker than I had finished the barszcz then another plate was sat in front of me. Rolls of raw salmon were artfully flourished on a plate garnished with a dill sauce. I love raw salmon, so I giddily went to work.
Halfway through the plate, I finished off the beer; so, I made a trip to the bar to get another. I noticed no one else seemed to be drinking beer, but the stuff was just too delicious to divorce.
"Pace yourself," I mocked Joanna as I returned to my seat. Smitten, she shrugged, "ok. you will see."
I finished the salmon, which was removed in place of a plate filled with fried fritters and sausages and cabbage salads. Apparently, this was the main course.
At last, as far as eating was concerned, I began to pace myself. The previous rounds had done the trick of curbing my appetite. The food continued to be piquant, but I was nearing the final battle and felt no need to hurry.I checked on my companions. Joanna and Katie had slowed down considerably. They had relegated themselves to sipping on wine and nibbling at their plates. Arek, on the other hand, as far as food was concerned, was keeping pace with me. However, he was sipping on a shot of Pan Tadeusz much like others at our table, sometimes chasing it with a drink of Pepsi. I was enjoying most Polish customs, but I was secretly wondering why no one was drinking their savory beer. Oh well, their loss.
After I had picked apart the fried plate, a server came and took it away. In its place, a plate filled with an odd assortment of meats and salads replaced my setting. I was introduced to a clear gelatin that had shreds of meat and pieces of sausages suspended in it. Joanna said that it was called kurczak w galarecie. I tried a taste of it, and for the first time that night, I found something that I did not like. Whoever came up with the idea of suspending meat inside of clear Jell-O deserves to be punched in the gut. I looked around and saw that no one else shared my sentiment. People were loving the stuff; some were even complimenting the strange delicacy. I was pretty full anyway, so I decided that leaving the meat gelatin alone might be prudent. And, as far as food and drink were concerned, so the night went. I kept my beer glass filled. I would occasionally taste the wine or the vodka. Plates would be removed and replaced with something else. I began to think that they were playing a practical joke on me. I mean no one could eat this much, but everyone was being treated equally.I'll quit describing the food now; but, please understand, that it kept coming for the remainder of the night. Servers would make sure that we had the drinks that we wanted, be it wine or juice or water or vodka. After a while, even after a large duck was sat in front of us, my studies of the Polish cuisine began to soften. My heavy gut and beer-influenced head began to grow tired of food and drink, so I turned to the merriment around me and to the customs of the bride and groom.
Occasionally, the band would stop playing, and the crowd would begin to chant something in Polish. "Gorzko! Gorzko! Gorzko! Gorzko!" which, Joanna explained, meant to kiss one another. The bride and groom would finally comply, much to the cheering contentment of the audience. At one point, they toasted a glass of champagne which they tossed over their shoulders. Apparently, whichever glass shattered the most dictated who would be the boss of the relationship. I'm sorry to say that I couldn't ascertain who won that contest.
When an elegant song began to drift across the room, the dance floor cleared. The bride and groom took up position in what was apparently their wedding dance. They were performing a waltz. By the gentle flow of her gown and the rhythmic guide that her husband's adept tempo suggested, the couple had practiced the routine time and time again. And they performed it flawlessly. I had never seen, at a wedding, such an eloquent and involved routine. I felt honored to bear witness.
The rest of the time, also unlike any wedding I had ever seen, the great majority of people were on the dance floor. Aging from young children to the frail elderly, people were dancing and clapping to tunes that ranged from some traditional folk to some American rock 'n' roll. I tried to partition my sights from the band, to the dance floor, to the head table, and to the audience. Everyone seemed involved.More chants and customs erupted spontaneously, but my beer consumption wavers my memory a bit too much for recollection. At one point, a large chain of people joined hands and circled the couple as they were chanting something joyfully. The atmosphere was rustic, and I felt comfortable.
The band played songs ranging from stuff I recognized to folk tunes that I had never heard before but still enjoyed. At one point, they began to play "My Little Runaway". Most of the English songs they had played had been lyrically correct. I had been grading them on their English, though they hadn't realized it. But, they were destroying this song which I found absolutely delightful. "Mah litta Rah-way, rah, rah, rah, rahway!!" The singers were very much in tune, and the music was perfect. Overall, the band had done a terrific job; but, I somewhat recall those amusing lyrical attempts going unnoticed by pretty much everyone else. Which was just as well, the song was still fun.The bride and groom began making their rounds. They went from person to person, greeting them and making sure they were having a good time. They stopped at our little corner where Joanna and Joanna joked and laughed about something in Polish. The bride Joanna spoke some English and told me that it was nice to at last meet me. I was glad that she made me feel welcome.
Food and drink and dance continued, when, around midnight, I noticed that everyone was drinking vodka except me. I wasn't feeling much pain, so I decided that, well, when in Rome...I took one of the empty shot glasses on the table and poured myself a swig of Pan Tadeusz.
"Na zdrowie," I said raising my glass. Automatically, Joanna, Arek, and Katie followed my lead. I took the shot, as we would do in America. They took a sip from their glasses.
"You guys don't take the whole shot?" I asked.
"Sometimes," Joanna said.
"Here, we do another," Arek said as he, smiling, poured us another round of Polish vodka.
"Na zdrowie," we all chorused as we all downed our glasses.
"Are you American?" A small, dark-haired girl interrupted our festivities. She spoke with a British accent; so, of course, I assumed that she was from England. I'd find out later that most English-speaking Poles have a British accent. Obviously, I suppose, because England would be the closest English-speaking country and that's what they learn.
Being rather inebriated but feeling rather famous, I responded with a smile. "Yep."
"I love the American accent," she said. I wanted to respond with something clever in my charming, American accent; but, Mr. Tadeusz had grappled and bridled my wit. I simply smiled.
"Would you care to dance?" she asked me. I felt a wave of anxiety at the prospect of dancing amid all of these traditional dances and strange customs. I was about to decline when Joanna responded, "Yes. Please take him to dance. He has sat there all night."
She grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.One thing that I've never had much of a penchant for is dancing. I just don't have much rhythm, and I always feel uncomfortable on the dance floor. Fortunately, I had Pan Tadeusz to walk me through the steps.
I remember neither the girl's name nor the songs that were played, but I was pretty sure that I was dancing like a rock star. At last, the band stopped playing. I was about to return to my seat when a song that I recognized started playing from the speakers. Grease's "You're the One That I Want" as performed by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John had begun to cheerfully encourage the dancers on the floor to quicken their pace and sway their hips. Feeling like I was representing my country, I decided to stay on the floor for the remainder of this song.
I felt pretty sure that I was moving as well as John Travolta ever had. I twirled the girl this way and that like a pro. On the couple of occasions that I nearly tripped I just pretended like it was part of the routine; certainly, no one could've noticed. I was a dancing, American superstar!
 |
| Arek and I |
Joanna noticed her parents stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, so she suggested that we all do the same. We did another shot, and then headed outside, bringing the vodka with us.
Someone gave Arek a cigarette. None of us smoked, but we were a bit fucked up so we decided to share it among the four of us. Even Joanna's mother, Krystyna, came over to grab a quick drag. She, too, was looking like she was having a good time.
Roman, Joanna's father, was talking to a gentleman with wind-worn creases adorning his face and crow's feet at the edges of his eyes. He seemed like a down-to-earth man with a friendly smile and a humble demeanor. Via Joanna's translations, her father introduced the two of us. I'm sorry to say that I don't remember his name, but he seemed like a genuinely good person. Joanna strayed into another conversation, and I, holding a bottle of Pan Tadeusz in one hand and a shot glass in the other, was left alone with my father-in-law and my new acquaintance.
The gentleman was holding a shot glass of his own. He raised it as if to toast me, so I poured myself a shot and said, "na zdrowie".
He echoed the sentiment, and we shared a drink.
"Czy Amerykanie piją polską wódkę?" he asked.
Of course, I speak very little Polish and Joanna wasn't there to translate; but, I discerned the words "American" and "vodka" from the statement. I pieced together what he must have said, "This American can drink vodka like none other!"
Happy to be recognized for my vodka-drinking ability, I poured myself another shot and demonstrated my vodka sovereignty with another shot. I stumbled slightly, but recovered nicely. He must have been impressed, because he looked humorously awe-struck.
"Polska wódka jest najlepsza, czyż nie? Wygląda że ci smakuje," my new friend remarked. Once again, I pieced together the translation, "Poland is honored to have a guest with your vodka-drinking powers. I am humbled by your amazing skill!"
Attempting humility myself (and succeeding beyond measure), I downed another shot.
"Quit drinking now!" Joanna was approaching me. She looked rather concerned for me; she obviously didn't know about my new-found ability.
"Oh, don't worry, baby. Everyshing is fine," I slurred.
"No. I mean it. You should quit now." My Polish wife didn't seem to understand that I was perfectly fine; I took another shot to illustrate. Some spilled out of the bottle as I was pouring; she had distracted me.
She walked away without saying anymore. I turned to commune, again, with my new friend. He and Joanna's father must have went back inside, because I didn't see them anywhere.
I took a moment to breath in the night's life. A low moon's reflection rippled with a dusting of stars on the lake's peaceful face; I marveled at how the sky looked different on this side of the world. Clusters of people were scattered across the lot. Some were sitting at the umbrella-covered tables; others were standing in merry factions, smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka. The sounds of cheerful music and lively dancing from inside resonated and fueled my inner-child. I took another shot.
"Ok. Shuttle bus is here. We leaving now." Joanna, unaware that I was just getting started, approached me with the announcement.
"We're taking a rocket bus?" I jested.
"I mean it, Duane. Put down the bottle and the glass and come on!"
When I saw the rest of Joanna's family climbing aboard the vehicle, I begrudgingly sat down the drinking mechanisms and staggered in their direction. "Sheesh, I was jes' getting started," I complained.
In the bus, I wavered down the aisle, past people that I didn't recognize, and to the back where the rest of our group was sitting. I plopped into the seat next to Joanna and waited impatiently for the trek home to begin.
Feeling rather stuffy, I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. By the time the bus pulled out of the parking lot, I was burning up. "What's wrong with you?" Joanna asked, apparently noticing my discomfort.
"Arn'd shyu hot?" I inquired. My head felt rather heavy; I leaned against the seat in front of me.
"No. It's not hot in here. Just hang on. We'll be home in twenty minutes," she suggested.
I tried to look at the other people; I wanted to see if they, too, were afflicted by the heat. Perhaps my wife was the only cold-natured passenger. "Whensh shyu finly gon?" I stated very plainly. My head slipped off its resting place, and I accidentally stomped my foot in an attempt to regain my balance. It could've happened to anybody.
"What are you talking about? Quit it! You're yelling." My wife must have been very intoxicated. She couldn't seem to understand anything I was trying to tell her. I let my head rotate on my neck; that seemed to make me feel better.
"Quit taking your clothes off!" Joanna scolded me in a hushed whisper. I looked at myself and noticed that I had completely taken off my dress shirt, and I was in the process of pulling off my tee-shirt. So? Men can have their shirts off!
"Whashya ben dyul?" I complained.
"I mean it, Duane. Put your shirt back on! We're almost home!"
That's the last thing I remembered.
When I woke up the next day, I knew I needed a bathroom. I needed one quickly, but I also knew that getting to one was going to be a problem. My head was pounding; my stomach was as sick as it had ever been; and, my whole body was sweating.
As I fell onto the floor, I noticed that Joanna wasn't in bed with me. As quickly as I could manage, I partially crawled and partially walked to the bathroom. I made it just in time. I won't share all of the details, but I can say that the next thirty minutes involved some multitasking and some clever timing. The fact that I managed to pull off the feats without any mishaps is my only claim to success that day.
"Duane, you ok in there?" Joanna's voice came through the bathroom door.
"No," I weakly rasped. "I need to go the emergency room."
Joanna laughed. "You'll be ok. You're just hungover."
"No. I'm serious. I need to go to the emergency room. This is bad. This is the worst hangover I've ever had in my life. I think something's wrong." I came out of the bathroom and somehow made my way back to the bed.
Not longer after I laid down, Joanna's mother came in with a bowl of chicken broth. She said something comforting in Polish and insisted I eat the soup. The last thing I wanted to do right then was eat anything, but she insisted. I leaned on an elbow and spooned a little into my mouth. Joanna brought me some aspirin and a glass of water to down it with. Then, I laid my head back down.
"We're going to Joanna's house for the rest of the celebration," my wife informed me.
"What??" I asked. "The reception is still going on??"
"Yes. The next day, we resume the celebration at the bride's house. It's ok, though. You can stay here."
I wouldn't have been able to go even if I would have wanted. I couldn't believe these people. I lay my head on the pillow and fell back asleep.
When Joanna awoke me, I still had a hangover. But now it was more like the kind of hangover that I was accustomed to. I climbed out of bed and could see that the sun was setting; I had been in bed all day. Joanna and her family had just gotten home from an afternoon of drinking and eating on Day Two of the wedding celebration.
"What time did we get home last night?" I asked.
"It was about 4:30. Pretty early," Joanna said.
I walked outside to the patio and sat on one of the comfortable chairs there. I laid my head back and tried for just a moment to recall what had transpired the night before. I couldn't remember much. And maybe that was just as well.
The realization that we would be having a Polish wedding here sank in. I wasn't sure how I was going to manage it. These people were crazy.
For a couple of years, I wanted nothing to do with vodka. The taste, the smell, the very idea of the stuff made me sick. Pan Tadeusz particularly.
I brought a bottle of Pan Tadeusz home with me and gave it to some friends of mine after that trip. A few weeks later they called me. "I don't know what's in that stuff," they said. "But that's not normal vodka. It fucked us up." 'I know,' was all I had said. I know.
-- Don't forget to "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here.
-- Jump ahead and read about "Another Polish Wedding".
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