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After many connections, I arrived weary at Poland's tiny
Poznan Airport. Unfortunately, my backpack carried
its own passport and continued on to Istanbul. I filed the
necessary papers then left with Marek, director of the volunteer
program. He worked at a site in Giecz as an archaeobotanist,
a specialist in ancient plants.
The two of us drove through the Wielkopolska region,
an area of grassy farmland filled with meandering cows, oversized
chickens and nesting storks. Green and placid, the beautiful
surroundings were perfect for a working vacation. Marek spoke
about his profession and the discovery of 1000 year old grain
at burial sites, food for the afterlife. As I pondered the
importance of ancient grain, he alerted me to a sign that
read Rybitwy, announcing the small town where I'd be
staying. It contained twenty stone farmhouses and even fewer
automobiles.
We pulled into the driveway as Adrianna greeted us with waving
arms. She was the sweet owner of the agrotouristic on Lednica
Lake, an entrepreneur after the fall of communism. Her
converted house provided guests with a room, four meals a
day, and lawn chairs to sun themselves. I looked forward to
eating her homemade plendze or potato pancakes and yummy pyzy
or white buns. However, before dinner I needed to consider
my missing backpack and its contents.
Marek generously loaned me clothing that fit his 6 foot
5 inch frame, perfectly. I stood a foot shorter. For three
days, his socks slouched around my ankles and his T-shirt
caught on my knees as I walked. I looked like a six-year-old
playing dress up.
Wearing my new baggy outfit, I sat down very hungry for
dinner. Adrianna made an announcement in Polish. Marek's English
translation detailed how she had prepared a special meal for
the guest. Excited and touched by her hospitality, I nearly
drooled at the thought of biting into authentic potato pancakes.
The garden fresh food probably came from the same lineage
as the ancient seeds Marek excavated. Adrianna placed my plate
onto the lace tablecloth. Looking down I saw something glistening.
Quartered, it lay motionless. Shiny and black, my dinner was
in the shape of a garden hose. Since we were both monolingual,
it was impossible to politely refuse the eel she had caught
for my special meal. My appetite abandoned me. Staring again
at the plate, I wondered if I could eat this thing bearing
such a strong odour. The dead eel smelled like a stagnant,
murky lake.
Marek grinned.
Noticing my apprehension, he said, "Well, at least it's
not 800-year-old peas."
I bit into the eel and smiled, graciously. |
Travel Writers: Peas in Poland By Lisa Taylor
