Post Script

Farewell, Polska

So. I'm leaving today. And it's a bit too early for me to be writing, so I'm just going to leave you all with one last bit of footage. It's entitled "The Worst Meal Ever." It was Erin's farewell dinner. But please don't get the wrong impression, because the food in Poland is actually quite amazing. As long as you eat Polish food, I've discovered. All other "ethnic" foods appear to taste like red peppers. Or just gross, according to Lemon Bar. Here it goes:

Saturn Returns...

I got an email the other day -- the sort of email that makes me glow with the giddiness of human connection and compassion. It was from a woman I haven't seen since I was in high school. We were never close. But somehow, she felt a connection to what I was writing here and she sent me a link to a website about the phenomenon of "Saturn's Return" -- a particular alignment of the planets that instigates massive change for people between the ages of 28 and 30 -- me! I finally read the article today and it gave me intense chills. Here it is:

Saturn Return: The Twenty-Ninth Year

By Skye Alexander

Many of us approach our thirtieth birthdays with anxiety, even dread. We start looking for gray hairs and paying attention to ads for wrinkle creams. We question whether we are climbing the career ladder quickly enough. We hear the biological clock ticking loudly and worry that soon we will be too old to bear children.

Astrologers call the period between ages twenty-eight and thirty "Saturn Return." That's because it's the first time the planet Saturn completes its cycle through your birth chart and returns to the spot it occupied when you were born. Internationally respected astrologer Rob Hand calls Saturn Return "one of the most important times in your life. . . a time of endings and new beginnings."

For most of us, ending a phase of life that is familiar and embarking on one that is new and untried is unsettling, even painful. Few people describe Saturn Return as a pleasant period. While undergoing your Saturn Return you may find yourself turning inward and reflecting on your individual destiny. You examine your true needs and desires and the role you want to play on the world's stage. You may feel lonely and alienated from those around you, while family and friends think you are shutting them out. But this is a necessary period of consolidation, when you must retreat from the distractions of the outer world and focus on yourself at your most fundamental level. The Saturn Return is every individual's search for the Holy Grail.

Coming of Age

The first Saturn Return marks the end of youth and the beginning of the productive adult years. It is now that you truly become an adult--not at eighteen or twenty-one. You realize your need to define yourself as an individual within society and to demonstrate what you've learned. Newswoman Jane Pauley described turning thirty as having grown into womanhood. German film director Werner Herzog compared this period in his life with a maiden's loss of virginity, a line drawn across his path marking the end of his youth.

This transition into adulthood is often accompanied by a sense of urgency, a feeling that you must try to accomplish everything you've ever wanted or planned to do now. Goals start to come sharply into focus. If you have not settled into a definite career, or have been pursuing one that is inappropriate for you, you'll experience a strong push to establish yourself in a more fulfilling occupation. Sometimes this means a complete change. During his first Saturn Return Vincent Van Gogh decided to be a painter rather than a minister. More frequently it means a new direction or specialization within your chosen field.

If you have been building steadily toward a goal that's right for you, Saturn Return can be a time of achievement and rewards. Your labors bear fruit. Runner Bill Rodgers' Saturn Return marked the first of three consecutive Boston Marathon wins. William Faulkner published his first novel at age twenty-nine.

According to California astrologer Stephen Arroyo, author of Astrology, Karma and Transformation, "The quality of the entire experience and the extent to which it is felt to be a 'difficult' time depends entirely on how one has lived during the previous twenty-nine years." If you have been pursuing an unsuitable vocation or merely fulfilling someone else's expectations, Saturn can be relentless in prodding you to make adjustments.

Revising Worn Out Patterns

Saturn strips away illusions and points out limitations, allowing you to view yourself in a harsh, often unflattering light. At the same time, it endows you with prudence, practicality, and the perseverance to work hard toward achieving your purposes. Consequently, this is a good time to rearrange your career or lay the foundation for a new one.

Saturn Return almost always requires some major adjustments in lifestyle, attitudes, and relationships. Anything you have outgrown, or have tolerated but not found satisfying, must end now or be altered to meet your emerging needs. According to Hand, "Consciously or unconsciously, you are pruning your life of everything that is not relevant to what you really are as a human being."

Often interpersonal relationships are deeply affected by Saturn Return. Gail Sheehy writes in Passages: Predictable Crises in Adult Life that during this period "Almost everyone who is married will question that commitment." The U.S. Census Bureau lists the peak divorce years as ages twenty-eight to thirty. Some people experience more subtle or private adjustments in their patterns of relating, such as shifts in responsibilities. Many couples decide to become parents, not only altering their relationships but their financial obligations and perhaps their vocations as well.

If a relationship is sound, based on mutual respect, honesty, and sharing, it will probably survive the test of Saturn Return and become even stronger. But a relationship begun before the partners knew what they really wanted is likely to fall apart. Relationships that start during this period may have a "fated" or "karmic" quality about them.

When Enough is Enough

"Saturn. . . is never easy to deal with because his function is that of promoting growth," explains astrologer Liz Greene, author of Saturn: A New Look at an Old Devil, "and it is only frustration and pain which at present are sufficient goads to get a human being moving." This frustration and pain have given Saturn a bad reputation. But the planet's often misunderstood value lies in its very ability to evoke pain. Like the pain of an illness, it warns that something is wrong. Saturn doesn't create the problems, it merely illuminates them.

Growth is often accompanied by trepidation and turmoil. As the old self is pushed aside to make room for the new, you may feel weak and vulnerable. You want to move ahead, yet are frustrated by a fear of doing so, torn between a compelling urge to throw off everything connected with your past and an equally frantic need to cling to the familiar rather than brave the great unknown.

Even if your external world seems to be in order, your internal structure may feel as though it's being assaulted with a battering ram. Nervous conditions, irritability, depression, insomnia, and feelings of insecurity are common. Most people go through some sort of identity crisis.

Even though your Saturn Return may be disturbing, ultimately it reveals what you truly want and sweeps away the clutter that may have been impeding your progress. Your Saturn Return is a personal spring cleaning. No matter how difficult it seems to let go of inappropriate people and things, the first Saturn Return is the time to do it. For if lessons are not learned, the problems will come knocking again during your second Saturn Return at about age fifty-eight, when you are more set in your ways. Once the conflict is confronted, the tension usually subsides. You feel stronger and more capable of moving ahead.

Saturn Return is one of the most crucial turning points you ever experience, when you assume the greatest responsibility of all: responsibility for your own life.

Scenes from the Ghetto II

Scenes from the Ghetto...or The House That Hitler Built

Random Images

Dreaming of Louise Bourgeois

Train to Trawniki

Olga and Anna at Chlodna 25

Rose Petal Sorbet and Strawberries with Marscapone Make the World Go Round

The Final Countdown, Day 6

Today, Erin arrives! I can't believe how lucky I am to have friends that fly half way across the world to hang out with me in Poland! I was telling Liz just last night -- as she prepared us an awesome dinner of homemade chicken soup, salad, and mushroom perogies -- that I probably, most literally, owed her my life. She laughed. But I was serious.

In honor of Erin's arrival, I'm posting some footage of The Royal Baths Park, where peacocks roam around freely. Erin is obsessed with peacocks and I'm planning on taking her there as soon as she gets in. And then we will go drink obscene amounts of coffee, smoke French cigarettes, and get all girly and shit.

I'm also going to the Jewish Historical Museum to see if I can find any records for my family and then off to my last meeting with Rabbi Schudrich. Should be fun! In the meantime, enjoy the real "Kings" of the park:

Besa Me Mucho

A Bit of Inspiration...

From dear Pola, entitled "I am Married to Painting." It makes me feel hopeful.

The Nine Lives of Cristina Brunak...

...or something to that effect. Here's a little video of several of the places that once meant something to my grandmother in old Warsaw -- from her first home on Zlota to the Church of the Three Crosses. Enjoy!

The Final Countdown, Day 7

Now that I'm only here for a week, I'm gonna try to post all the silly stuff I haven't yet, including some small, silly video clips, more photos, and eventually...CRIBS Part Deux (meaning...a tour of my NEW apartment...or Pola's apartment I should say).

First off, however, I wanted to post the video I took of the performance art piece that Liz and I saw on Monday night.

When we were at the Ghetto exhibition, Dorota introduced us to all of her fabulous New York Polish ExPat friends, including the Zarebski family. First off, Ms. Zarebski is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen -- she has that Edie Sedgwick cool. And I was very flattered when she insisted that she knew me from NYC, that I had to be an actress, and she just knew she'd seen me in a movie. I love it!

Her daughter, Kasia, is around my age and is just as stunning, with flaming red hair, big big eyes, and a dainty gap between her teeth. She, Liz and I hit it off right away and made plans to hang out the next day, after her and her father's performance.

Kasia's father is Krzysztof Zarebski. For those who don't keep up on their controversial performance artists, he is definitely the biggest performance artist in Poland and one of the most respected in the world. He's been working since the 1970s, freaking out everyone from Poland's Communist regime to the USA's Republican politicians with his very brutal work. In fact, Kasia has been working in her father's pieces since she was a little girl and their work together as father and daughter is extremely profound -- adding an entirely new level to the intensely erotic vibe of Krzysztof's work. And they are lovely, lovely, down to earth people to top it all off.

I won't speak much about the piece, but let it speak for itself. It's divided into two parts here, because You Tube won't let me do movies longer than 10 minutes. One thing I will say was that it was extremely evocative of Louise Bourgeois's "Femme-Maison" drawings, which are some of my favorite works of art. Here's one:

Anyway, the piece was really incredible and it was cool to be cramped into such a small space and be so close to the action.

After the performance, we grabbed Kasia away and took her back to Chlodna 25, where we sipped on coffee and chatted...about men, of course. I'm starting to feel a bit like a Sex and The City episode...and I'm not so into it. But alas...this is what we do, no? We were sharing our war stories and Kasia, a native New Yorker with leftist artist sensibilities had her fair share. Honestly -- I'm terrified of dating. I know I don't have to think about all that just yet, but the idea just freaks me out! I haven't done it for...nine years? And I was a teenager then! I am sincerely terrified. I wish I could just throw up a good husband. That'd be nice. And easy.

In an attempt to quell my fears, Liz and I decided to jokingly sign up for an online dating service called "OKCupid," which Kasia had mentioned, just to get a quick sense of what dating in the New World is all about. We filled out the requisite forms, uploaded the photos, and then waited. Slowly, the gawkers began passing by. I could see everyone who stopped to visit my profile. It made feel sick. So weird. So objectified and horrible. Then, men started giving us "star ratings" -- 1 through 5. I didn't want them to look at me. And then I wanted them to leave a high rating. And then, I didn't want them to leave ratings at all and I wanted to slap all of them or give them hugs and say "you'll find the right one some day -- I promise." And then, after about two hours of owning an OKCupid account and getting a "favorite" mark from a man her father's age, Liz cancelled hers. "No way," she said. "I just can't do it. It makes me feel so horrible."

I thought I'd be brave, hold on, see what happened. Just curious. What could it hurt? But I became uncannily obsessed with the activity around my page -- like I was babysitting my cyberself, making sure no weird men took advantage of my precious profile. And I as I perused the sea of men visiting my page, I got very very sad. The whole thing felt so desperate. Everyone seemed so alone and so needy. And I felt so...judged. So I erased my page. And then I erased my MySpace page. And then I limited the information on my Facebook page. And then I dreamed about crawling into a hole and dying.

On that note...I'll leave you with the footage from the performance piece. Oh...and I've decided no dating or even the consideration of dating for a long, long time. I'll just cuddle with Cooper, thank you very much.

Ghetto Art

And in the end...

Wow. It’s exactly one month to the day that I first arrived in Poland. All I can really think is What The Hell Happened?

I came here simply to do research on my book. But now, I find myself dealing with another completely different project: my entire life.

I came here married. I came here thinking I knew who I was, where I came from, and where I was going. I came here to finish something.

Now, I am divorced. I have no idea who I really am. I am only now beginning to understand where I came from. I have no clue where I’m going, really. And I feel like I’m just now embarking on a real journey.

I look back at the last month and it is a blur. A whirlwind of tears, stomachaches, heartache, hot days in downtown, rainy days on trains, realizations about the past, future, and present, intense fear, intense love, intense excitement. It is like the world has completely changed and now I must figure out how I got here and how I can get home – wherever that is.

I’ve never really been sure where my home was. For a long time it was in Los Angeles with my family. Then it was in Akron with my family. Then, when my family fell apart, it was in Akron with Patrick, which was always sort of precarious. Now, I am in Poland, and I feel sort of homeless. And it hurts and it makes me want to cry, but it is also an incredible opportunity to create a real home within my own heart. I know that sounds cheesy – but it’s all I can think to make this situation worthwhile and revitalizing. I must come to embrace that my real home is always with me and always in me. It is with me where ever I go, I guess. I just need to start making that home as sturdy as possible. I need to fill it with all the comforts and love that give me tranquility and peace. So that is my new job, really. Building my heart into a real home, where I can take refugee and settle my mind.

I think that’s what I learned from this trip. Seeing all the places my grandmother was displaced from – her apartment on Zlota, her temporary residence on Nowy Swiat, her apartment in the Ghetto, her apartment in Rozbrat, the camps, Vienna. Chile. Los Angeles.

I remember my grandmother once telling me that she used to cry and cry and cry to her mother asking: “Why can’t I just be a normal person with a normal life?” And her mother would say: “Because you’ve been in a war, Krishu! You can never be normal. You will always be a displaced person.”

I feel like that too right now. A displaced person. But I know, from watching my grandmother, that I can build a good sturdy home and be happy through my own devices. That is what she has taught me. That is what her history here has taught me. And so that is what I will set out to do. It is a scary prospect, but I have faith.

I sort of see my heart’s house like the last standing Warsaw Ghetto buildings on Prozna Street. I was just there on Sunday for an art exhibit that coincided with the Singer Festival – the Annual Warsaw Jewish festival that is being held now until September 6.

There, on Prozna Street, stand a series of buildings that look very much like the tenement buildings you see in photos from New York in the early-20^th century. They are sloppy, narrow brick structures that seem to go on for miles into the sky, threatening to topple over at any second. The Ghetto buildings have remained completely untouched – entirely unrehabbed – and are only used for exhibits during the festival. Inside, the paint is peeling off the ceiling in big, flat chunks, while the floor is covered with dust and debris. They are incredible, incredible relics and it is amazing that Warsaw has done nothing with them.

For the festival, a number of contemporary artists installed their work throughout the wreckage of the buildings. Photographs lined cracked cement walls. Small rooms were filled with smoke and video art. One artist even used the dust from the building to create his piece, while another hung neon signs on the brick exterior.

As I walked through the buildings, up and down circular staircases, in and out of tiled bathrooms and through creaky doors, I thought that this is what grandma’s heart must look like. And maybe, mine, too. A shabby old building, cluttered with beautiful, expressive things that don’t try to hide the decay – but elaborate on it. Build on it. Embrace it.

My original plan was to stay in Poland until September 19. But of course, life is what happens when you are making plans…sorry for the cliché, but it’s so true right now. Still, I was determined to stay, to prove to myself and everyone else that I could stick this out and make it to the end. But, another thing I’ve also learned recently is that I don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. And I feel as though I’ve gained more than enough from this experience to head home in a week, sort out the details, and then make my move to California, where I will be close to my mother and grandmother and can finally finish this book. Los Angeles seems like a good place to start over. At least, that is what my grandmother has always said. “You come to California and never look back,” she says.

I must say that I’m terrified of the future. But I also realize that before I came here, I didn’t really have a better idea on how things were all going to work out – I just deluded myself into thinking that I did. I guess I should find relief that I’m now living in the truth: that I can’t predict the future. And never could.

It’s funny. There are a lot of clichés slapping me in the face right now from: “Life’s Not Fair” to “You have to lose something to gain something else.” Life’s not fair: I think I’ve addressed that already. But only recently have I come to the point of accepting that I had to lose something to gain something else.

Since Patrick and I started the painful process of separating, my parents have been here for me in such an incredible way. Though my relationship with my father was strained for some time, he is now calling me almost every day. Reminding me of how good I am. Of how I didn’t fail. Of how great things will be. And how much he loves me. My mother says the same and our time together here will be something I will cherish forever. And so, it’s funny, because, in losing Patrick as my husband, I am beginning to realize that my family never left me – they just changed, as so many things do. I am not alone. I do, still, have unconditional love. And it is so, so nice to be reminded of that. I am a truly lucky, lucky girl.

And as for Patrick and I…well…I think we have done a lot of growing and realizing and accepting this past month. It’s so ironic that we struggled for over seven years to get on the same page and only now, as we part ways, we finally find ourselves there. I’m willing to bet that this is one of the kindest, most civil break-ups in the history of marriage, which is funny, considering how turbulent our relationship was. We were the kind of people that fueled each other’s fires rather than quelled each other’s minds. Still, it makes me terribly sad, because I wanted our life together to work out more than anything. But I am slowly accepting the truth that it wouldn’t and that we both deserve to be happy and together, that just wasn’t going to be possible. So now we will try it out on our own. And that is both scary and exciting. I have no idea how to live without him. Since I was 19, that is all I have known. “Denise and Pat.” Forever. Now…who knows. All I know is that there is no forever. And I guess that is ok.

Back in Warsaw

So, Liz and I made it back to Warsaw safe and sound. It is raining here right now. The air is a bit chilly. It's sort of perfect. Very sleepy and quiet and grey. I swear -- Warsaw is the Cleveland of Europe. I'm definitely in love.

Krakow was...well...Krakow? It was cute. Very dainty and touristy and colorful and old. Like Prague or Paris. Or something. It was also a backpacking, touristy hell mouth, in many ways. You know -- one of those places where 18-year-olds go to get very very drunk for very, very cheap. Yes. That kind of place. Like New Orleans. Or Daytona Beach. Or Ibiza. Eww. We stayed at a hotel that was in the center of Old Town and I don't think either one of us has had a decent night's sleep in about three days. The hotel was charming -- very Belle Epoque with a rod iron elevator and high, high ceilings and shiny bedding and heavy, golden keys. But it was so fucking loud!

The first two nights, we were subjected to everything from The Eagles to Bon Jovi until about 3 a.m., thanks to the numerous night clubs that surrounded us. And even then we weren't granted a reprieve, thanks to random groups of tourists that would then spill out of the bars and stop to chat drunkenly under our window for what seemed like hours. The first night, a girl decided to scream bloody murder at about 5 a.m. and then the second night, I realized how much drunk men love to kick random shit. Seriously -- at least four different groups of dudes of various nationalities decided to kick the same construction site fence at the corner of our street. At half hour intervals. I wanted to die.

By the third night, we changed rooms. In fact, we were actually planning on leaving Krakow early, but realized we couldn't if we still wanted to visit Auschwitz. So we asked for the quietest room they had -- and we thought it was all good until about midnight., when some shitty live band started playing all sorts of horribly R&Bish bluesy type bullshit until about 4 a.m. I guess this is the karmic payback I get for being a horrible drunken tourist at several points in my own life. I just hope that God finds these last three nights to be enough payback for now.

The main reason for heading to Krakow was really to visit Auschwitz-Birkenau, which is about a 1.5 hour train ride from the city. It's located in a sleepy, industrial town called Oswiecim.

Liz and I grabbed the 2:45 train out of the city. It's amazing how cheap and easy it is to take the trains here. We found our seats and I proceeded to teach Liz how to play One Thousand. It's a card game that my grandmother taught me when I was about ten-years-old. She said that it was my great-grandma's favorite card game -- and the only card game she knew. During the war, they'd play it constantly to keep their minds off the pain and suffering that seemed relentless and never ending.

After two games of One Thousand, we arrived in Oswiecim. I guess you could compare it Lima, Ohio, with a European spin. The train station was creaky and rusty and empty, aside from a watchmaker's shop, where I proceeded to buy a Casio calculator watch for $20! Then we grabbed a cab to Auschwitz.

Auschwitz...I really don't know what to say. It hasn't really sunken in yet. As I skim my mind for what to write, I simply end up with a stomach ache. The smells, the quiet, the buildings, the dirt paths, the barbed wire, the killing wall. It is, in many ways, intangible how oppressive and intense that place is. I don't feel capable of writing about it just yet, other than to say that it is horrific. Walking through the barracks, you could feel the sheer terror of what went on there and the irrationality and senselessness of it all -- more so than I've ever felt reading about the Holocaust or watching a documentary. It was so much, that we couldn't bring ourselves to take the shuttle to the Birkenau camp -- Auschwitz II -- where the crematorium was. It was just too much to handle. The scope of it was just too much.

What I can say is that it was such a jarring contrast to visiting Trawniki -- the camp where my great-grandmother was for a year, before she escaped. There was literally nothing left of that camp, aside from a small memorial and an old wall with barbed wire. The sheer mundanity of the town and the quaint pastoral setting added their own heaviness and surrealism to what I've learned of Trawniki. It's odd, because most people have never even heard of the Trawniki camp. Even Poles. Except for David Tenenbaum.

I was introduced to David through Rabbi Schudrich. David was 12 when his small town near Lublin was liquidated of all its Jewish inhabitants. His entire family disappeared and he was sent to work in four different camps before surviving one of the most infamous death marches. Today, he lives in New York, but visits Poland often. He is a jovial, talkative man full of long, tangential anecdotes and Jewish bravado.

I met him at the Synagogue the morning before I left for Krakow. David knew much about Trawniki. He had an aunt who died there. And he worked at a camp not too far away, where he served cognac and cigars to important SS men. He remarked at how much they loved their boots shined, too.

David worked as a servant for a very important general. Every morning, David would appear at the general's office to deliver milk to his secretary. That is when David would skim through the intelligence of the day, just to see what was going on.

David soon learned that Lublin was the base for the architects of the "Final Solution." It was from this point that the SS was trained in the methodical mass murder of the European Jews. And he said that Trawniki was one of the worst training grounds.

At Trawniki, SS officers were taught how to most quickly and effectively round up, displace, and then murder entire populations of Jews -- from small villages like David's to urban areas like Warsaw. Jewish workers were rounded up from various Ghettos and shipped to Trawniki in order to wait on the German staff. My great-grandmother was one of these workers. She worked as a maid for an officer for over a year -- ironing his shirts, cleaning his room, mending his socks, and fetching his milk.

But what my great-grandmother never realized was the real purpose of her visit. That is because she was only one of two women to have survived Trawniki.

The "workers" who were brought to Trawniki were eventually used for target practice. The Germans would practice the easiest and most effective ways of killing as many Jews as possible. They would line the women up and then shoot as many as three through the head at one time, in an attempt to save ammunition. Once the group of workers was killed off, another group would then be shipped in and the process was repeated over, and over, and over again.

This is what David told me. And this is what has been written about the camp, as well. Yet, its ruins do not bare the mark of such horror in the way that Auschwitz's do...and, I guess, also don't. The value of ruins...yup. I got a lot to think about.

For now...here is a bit of footage I took at Auschwitz. I eventually stopped tapping, because I just couldn't bare it anymore. But here is the bit that I do have, for those interested:

Trawniki and Travel Mishaps

Warsaw Rising Museum and The Milk Bar!

Train to Krakow

Liz and I just arrived in Krakow...I'll be blogging a bunch more over the next few days, plus posting movies from Trawniki, etc. For now, here are some train photos:

Shabbat Shalom (Had to ask Liz if this was right?!?)

So, right now, Liz and I are on a train, heading through the countryside toward Krakow, where we are staying for three nights. As I look out the window, I can’t help but be amazed by how much the scenery reminds me of driving south through Ohio and into West Virginia. All the farmland, the yellowed fields of harvested wheat, the mix of birch trees and evergreens. The flat, flat land dotted by hills upon which fat black and white cows graze. It’s so familiar and so foreign. Which is how I’ve been feeling this entire trip. Even who I am – how I feel to myself – feels so familiar and so foreign. I have a lot of out of body experiences. I feel myself getting up, walking, talking, and writing, but I don’t feel really connected with any of it – as though my spirit is hovering above my body, gazing down and out into the unknowable future.

I should also say that right now is the month of preparations leading up to Rosh Hashanah – the Jewish New Year. Now, I do not know this because I am a faithful, observant Jew. Rather, I’m a very, very bad Catholic. But this is what I learned when I attended my first Shabbos dinner last Friday night.

Rabbi Schudrich had invited us to attend Friday night services and dinner. That afternoon, we worked and did laundry, and fretted over what to wear to such an event.

“Do we need to have our shoulders covered?” Liz asked.

I freaked out. Our shoulders covered? I didn’t even consider all the rules!

I combed my closet for the sort of dress a “nice, Jewish girl” would wear and chose the one that I had opted to wear on my first visit to Menorah Park, the Jewish retirement community where I’d been conducting research since March. It didn’t seem to offend any of the people there, so it should work here, was my logic.

I got dressed and Liz began preparing us a nice salad – spinach and tomatoes and corn and bacon. Bacon!

Liz started to laugh. “Denise!” she said. “Do you realize we are eating bacon before our Kosher dinner?”

“That is so weird!” I said, remarking that I hadn’t bought it intentionally. That maybe it was due to some sort of unconscious fear. “I will never give up bacon,” I said.

We ate our bacon-dressed salad and then proceeded to leave the house.

When we arrived at the synagogue, we were greeted by a man dressed in traditional Orthodox Jewish garb. I thought he was Hassidic, but Liz informed that, no, he was Orthodox, and, again, I was reminded how ignorant of my “background” I really am. He let us in and said that it’d be best if we sat upstairs. I was super grateful that Liz had given me an extra scarf for some added modesty.

We quickly wandered through a line of pews that faced out onto the main floor. We grabbed our seats and then hunched over the rail like little children spying on their parents.

Below, men in all sorts of traditional dress, suits, casual clothes, wide-brim hats, yamukels, and long satin robes greeted each other. Some prayed silently by themselves, while others socialized.

In the pew next to us, a woman marched in place, scratching her head over and over. “Is she praying?” I asked Liz. “Or is it like a mental illness or something?”

Liz confirmed that it was most likely a sort of prayer.

Then the cantor started his chanting. And the congregation followed behind in a low hum, with call and response in Hebrew. I was completely lost, but also completely entranced. It was amazing how formal, yet how random the whole ceremony was. While everyone was praying together, their unique movements and physical distance from each other seemed to heighten their loneliness.

Rabbi Schudrich appeared downstairs, a long linen robe with tassels around his shoulders, and he began banging on a lecturn, making recitations throughout the cantor’s singing.

Liz and I did our best to sit, stand, turn, cover our eyes – whatever the other women were doing. It struck me that there were only 25 or so people attending the service. I wondered if it was because most Jews in Warsaw aren’t Orthodox? Or was everyone on vacation? Or were there really just no Jews to be found?

After the service, Liz and I quickly ran out to the front of the synagogue for a cigarette. As we stood there, puffing away, the other congregants began pouring out. “NO! No! NO!” a man shouted at us. “If the Rabbi sees you!”

Liz and I looked at each other, confused. “We aren’t allowed to smoke on Shabbos?” I asked.

“No! No!” said a woman.

I quickly put out my cigarette and decided to make no further swift moves for the rest of the evening. As we walked, the older participants didn’t seem to happy with our presence.

We followed the group to a small building, inside which were two tables prepared in a sort of long T, covered with linens. Liz and I huddled in a corner and waited for the Rabbi, hoping he’d give us instructions so that we didn’t make further fools of ourselves. When he saw us, he seemed pleased that we had made it and asked us to sit next to him at the head of the table. Even this was stressful! I wasn’t sure whether to sit in the chair next to him, or one over – or what was allowed! And I kept patting him on the back, which also freaked me out, because I’m pretty sure women aren’t allowed to touch Rabbis or something.

The Rabbi stood at the table and began chanting in Hebrew as he fiercely cut through some Challah bread and then distributed grape juice. Then we were ordered to wash our hands in the nearby bathroom. Again, even this was stressful, as people in the line continually eyed Liz and I – strangers in a strange place. When we approached the sink, we noticed a cup collecting water from the tap. Do we wash our hands in the cup or turn on the sink? My brain was really starting to hurt.

Back in the dining room, the food was being served – a plethora of kosher delights, like egg salad, potato salad, two types of herring, eggplant and zucchini, grated carrots. It was all amazing looking. Worried not to take too much, I put about a teaspoon of each item on my plate.

“I’ve seen a bird eat more,” the Rabbi said.

“Eat! Eat!” he said. “You don’t leave here hungry!”

Liz and I piled egg salad and herring onto our plates.

After the first course came more chanting and then some soup and then more chanting and singing again.

During the meal, the Rabbi was having an intense conversation with the man next to him – an Israeli man who’d lived in Warsaw for many years. I tried to eavesdrop, but had no luck, when the man turned to me and started joking about the Rabbi dining with a very important person just the week before. The Rabbi rolled his eyes, nodded his head and then said, “Yeah, I had Shabbos dinner with Madonna,” he smiled.

“Madonna! Like thee Madonna? Why?” I asked.

The Rabbi went on to explain that Madonna had been in town for a concert and her Kabbalah Center had organized some sort of Friday Shabbat. It was his job to oversee the catering and make sure everything was kosher – which didn’t quite seem to click with Madonna’s extremely restrictive diet. But, he said, they made it work. And it was fine.

Then the Rabbi interrupted his story to address the group with a sort of homily. That is when he said that this night we were celebrating marked the beginning of the month in which we prepare for Rosh Hashanah. We do this, he said, by adding little things to our daily ritual – because it is in the little things we do everyday through which the greater things happen. Baby Steps, I thought. I can do that.

When he was finished speaking, I asked the Rabbi what little thing I could do every day in order to prepare for my own new beginning. “Read Psalm 27 everyday,” he said.

The meal continued with a main course, a desert course, and plenty more singing and chanting, when, by 11:45, Liz and I were ready to head home. Before I left, the Rabbi asked if I’d heard from my husband. “Only the lawyer,” I said.

He smiled at me warmly. “How long were you together?” he asked.

“Over nine years.”

“You must have been through a lot together.”

As I wagged my head, I started to cry. It was the first time I’d cried in days. As the group continued singing, the tears just came. And I tried to remind myself – little steps to a new beginning. It will be OK.

Images from Abroad, Part 2

"Meat Market"

"On Mokotowska"

"Praga, Part 2"

"Train Yard"

"Amazing Meal"

Images from Abroad

"Run Cool"

"Hammer of Safety"

"Praga"

"Tram Stop"

"Palace of Culture"