Czesc, Polska!

Post Script

2009-09-09T09:46:00.001+02:00

Farewell, Polska

2009-09-09T09:25:00.003+02:00

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...

2009-09-05T15:57:00.002+02:00

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

2009-09-03T12:26:00.002+02:00

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

2009-09-03T12:22:00.001+02:00

Random Images

2009-09-03T12:17:00.004+02:00

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

2009-09-03T11:54:00.003+02:00

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

2009-09-03T11:51:00.001+02:00

A Bit of Inspiration...

2009-09-03T11:45:00.003+02:00

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

The Nine Lives of Cristina Brunak...

2009-09-03T11:43:00.002+02:00

...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

2009-09-02T22:16:00.005+02:00

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

2009-09-02T21:44:00.001+02:00

And in the end...

2009-09-02T20:38:00.001+02:00

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

2009-08-29T15:26:00.002+02:00

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

2009-08-26T23:30:00.000+02:00

Warsaw Rising Museum and The Milk Bar!

2009-08-26T18:48:00.001+02:00

Train to Krakow

2009-08-26T18:37:00.003+02:00

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?!?)

2009-08-26T18:30:00.001+02:00

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

2009-08-24T19:45:00.004+02:00

"Meat Market"

"On Mokotowska"

"Praga, Part 2"

"Train Yard"

"Amazing Meal"

Images from Abroad

2009-08-24T19:37:00.003+02:00

"Run Cool"

"Hammer of Safety"

"Praga"

"Tram Stop"

"Palace of Culture"

Same Old Story...Different Versions

2009-08-24T16:56:00.003+02:00

So….where to start. I haven’t been able to blog as much lately because I’ve been so busy trying to finish the edits for “Knit Vintage.” Also, my research has left me absolutely exhausted each evening, able to do little more than eat, make a few phone calls, and then sleep.

But, here I am again. And I guess I’ll start with Thursday.

Liz and I woke up quite early so we could meet with Jerzy and Hala. Jerzy had promised to take us to the Warsaw Rising Museum. It’s interesting to me that it’s called the “Warsaw Rising” Museum rather than the “Warsaw Uprising” Museum. “Rising” makes me think of the myth of the Phoenix rising from its own ashes, while “Uprising” has such a viscerally warlike feel. It’s funny how little changes in language can give a moment such a different texture.

We arrived at Jerzy and Hala’s around 9 a.m. Hala was very, very pleased to see that I had finally cut my hair. The last time I saw her, she was telling my mother that she was so worried about me – that I was so nervous, that I smoked too much, that I was too skinny, that I wasn’t eating enough. She said I needed to be optimistic. Find a good man. Cut my hair and show Patrick what he was missing. I tried to explain that it was just part of the process of a broken heart, but the concept seemed so alien to her. After all, she’s been with the man she has loved for over 50 years. Her first and only love. How could she possibly understand? I tried not to take it personally. Instead, I found it wonderful and miraculous that someone had figured out how to make it work.

She kissed Liz all over and, in German, commented how much happier I looked. She told Liz how sad I’d been and that this was the first time she’d seen me glow. Then we sat down for some cake and coffee and Jerzy and I discussed my grandmother’s book, “The Wall Between Us.” A bit of background…

Since I was about twelve years old – maybe even younger – my grandmother has been working on a book about her life story – a story that I’ve been absolutely obsessed with but unable to fully grasp. The war was something she seldom talked about. And when she did, it was always in a very cryptic way. She never let any of us – meaning my mom or I or any of her family – read her book until a year ago, after her stroke, when she was worried that it would never see the light of day.

My mother started working on the first bit of fact checking and edits. That is how she came to discover our true identity as Jews and my grandmother’s real name. I then began skimming through the book to clean up the prose and adjust the chronology, which was a complete mess. Through doing our edits, we culled even more information out of my grandmother – information that startled us, intrigued us, and gave us even more respect for all that she had endured.

When I got to Poland, I arrived with a printed manuscript of the book as my sort of travel guide. My grandmother had asked me not to share it with Jerzy. And I didn’t. But, as Jerzy and I toured the city and he realized how much I knew, he kept commenting that I should help her write it all down. Not being a very great keeper of secrets, I said, “She has written it all down.”

I told him about the book and said he could see it if he got her permission. He called her immediately and she said yes, he could look at the book, and make any comments he wanted.

From the time I first met with Jerzy, I knew that there were already slight differences in his and my grandmother’s story that would make this a difficult process of real fact finding. Often their stories would jive, but here and there, the dates or details would change, and that gave me pause. My mother and I approached my grandmother about these differences and she would only say “well, that is my version, and I prefer it that way.” We did not argue. Instead, I chocked it up to the nature of human memory. I looked at the differences in their stories as ways in which they have both decided to cope with an unbearable experience. They have each found ways of understanding their past that make it possible for them to live with it. And that is just fine. In fact, the differences in their stories reveal the most about who they really are as people. Their fiction is the most truthful—or at least illuminating—part of their personalities, in many ways.

As we sat there, going over the details, this is what I realized. I simply shook my head as Jerzy corrected her story. We then finished our cake and coffee and left for the museum.

The Warsaw Rising Museum is huge, frenetic, hyper, and imposing. It is built to look like an old bunker – to overwhelm the visitor with a sense of what it would have been like to be in the Uprising. And it does a pretty decent job of that.

Inside, Jerzy dragged us quickly through a maze of videos, images, dates, documents, artifacts, and interactive displays, pointing out what he thought was the most important – mostly dates that he thought verified his story and negated my grandmother’s. After about 30 minutes, he dropped us off at the front of the museum and said “now, you can go through as you like. I will leave you.” He left and Liz and I attempted to make our way through all of the information, but it was impossible. It was so overwhelming and hectic that it was hard to concentrate on any one distinct narrative. There were so many perspectives, forms, etc. So, after about an hour, we left, and headed back to Mokotowska on the tram.

Before heading home, however, we decided to mark the Milk Bar off of our list of things to do. Milk Bars are quite an incredible cultural affair. They are the Polish/Communist equivalent to the American diner, in a way – full of cheap, comfort food and casual service. We went to “Bambino Bar,” just around the corner from me – one of the nicer versions of these places. It is super, super 60s inside – from the décor down to the women who prepare the food behind the pick-up window. We immediately got in the long line at the register, where you order off a huge menu hanging from the wall. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to bring my phrase book, so we had no idea what anything meant. As we got closer to the cashier, I noticed a set menu for only 11 zloty ($3.75 or so) and decided that would be the safest bet. But when we ordered, the cashier simply looked at us like we were crazy. “You can’t have it,” he said.

Then it hit me. “Oh!” I said. “That’s for old people!”

“Yes,” said the cashier stoically.

So Liz and I did our best, picking out various items from the menu without a real clue. All we knew was that there would be some form of pierogies, fish, salad, and potatoes. We quickly grabbed our trays and waited at the window for our special surprises.

Luckily, we didn’t end up with anything too terrifying. The pierogies were perfect. The “salad” I ordered made me realize that coleslaw is, in fact, an appropriation of Polish food, and Liz’s fish looked decent enough. We ate and then dragged our cement-lined stomachs back home for a long nap.

Later that evening, we had plans with Dorota and Pola. A girl’s night out. Dorota promised to take us to Praga – the eastern part of Warsaw, just across the Vistula River, once considered a bedlam of crime and small time mafia folk. The cool thing about Praga is that it was virtually untouched during the war. It’s prewar buildings managed to escape the burning of Warsaw and you can still see bullet holes in the edifices that line the main streets. In recent years, many artists have migrated to this area, rehabbing old factories with art galleries and clubs. It is now much safer, but it still remains largely ungentrified, packed to the hilt with old communist block-style apartment buildings and Polish thugs. In fact, it reminded me a lot of east Akron or Youngstown. There was even a club we visited that reminded me so much of Speak In Tongues – one of my favorite former venues in Cleveland.

Unfortunately, it was Thursday, so almost everything was closed, except for a few café-bars that sat within a sort of compound of old factories covered in amazing graffiti. People lounged at tables in a makeshift courtyard, but it was bit too chilly for us, so we ducked inside a quite, old bar, grabbed a table, some drinks and grilled cheese sandwiches and talked for hours. I feel so fortunate to have met Dorota and Pola – it feels like they are long lost relatives or friends I haven’t seen in years. How perfectly it all worked out.

We left at around one and headed back to Dorota’s car. Then things got weird.

A thuggish Polish dude and his friend stood under a street lamp on a corner, looking incredibly sketchy. We all sort of moved away, clutching our bags, until we realized that the thuggish looking guy had a cat hidden beneath his coat. Suddenly he started shouting, “Attack! Attack! Attack!” and thrusting the cat towards us like a machine gun. We all burst into laughter as he smiled at us with self-satisfaction.

Then, back at the car, we sat for a moment to collect ourselves, when we noticed another man standing in the doorway of an apartment building. I adjusted my eyes to make sure that I was really seeing what I was seeing. And I was. “Oh my God!” I shouted. “That man is naked! That man is naked!”

Dorota, Pola, and Liz all turned to see an overweight man, standing on the street in little more than bikini briefs and the car exploded with shrieks. We grabbed our cameras and giggled and screamed in disbelief. The man just stood there – his hands casually folded behind his back, his potbelly hanging out, and his banana hammock his only protection from the elements. Finally, after about five minutes of convulsive laughter, he went inside and we headed home. And I decided that I absolutely love, love, love Praga.

Oh! Before I go, one last note. While we ate our grilled cheeses at the bar, we were also served some of the most amazing pickles I’ve ever had. Let me tell you – I love pickles. Absolutely love them, can’t live without them. My mother even says that when she was pregnant with me, all she craved were pickles and sauerkraut. She would eat jars and jars. And I still do. As I freaked out about how good the pickles were, Pola mentioned that most Polish people make their own pickles at home. And she promised to send me her mother’s recipe, which she did. Liz and I are going to try and make them this week. In the meantime, I leave you with the Dwurnik pickle recipe:

1 kg small cucumbers

3-4 cm of horseradish

several dills (the whole, with the seeds sitting in the plant)

5-6 parts of garlic

2-3 bay leaves

a few small spicy peppers (not necessary)

3-4 spoons of a sea salt (the one with minerals)

circa 1,5 boiling water

Put the salt into the boiling water (the water must be very salty, but not bitter, which would mean that it has too much salt).

Wash the cucumbers and then put them very tidily into the ceramic pot or several glass jars. Add the other ingredients.

Add the salted water and close the jars. If you do it in a ceramic pot, you put a plate on top and something heavy on it (like a clean, boiled stone).

The cucumbers will be ready after a few days if you do them in a ceramic pot. If you do them in jars, after closing them, you have to wait until the water is dull (not transparent) and the jars are hermetically closed (it happens by itself during a few days - it is a chemical process). After that you can put the jars into the fridge or any cool place. You can also keep them in a cupboard. You can eat them after a few months.

Important: You don't add vinegar or lemon to the cucumbers.

I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

2009-08-19T22:33:00.004+02:00

Before I forget…not everything is so heavy and dark over here in Warsaw.

Thanks to Liz, life is a bit lighter at the moment. Like my mother, she gets me out of the house. Makes me laugh. Encourages me to be good to myself. And thanks to my, ehem, Viennese episode, I’ve realized that my penchant for self-destruction just isn’t worth it. So, I’m trying to be really aware of keeping the bad out and letting the good in.

So, we’ll start with the massage! I honestly never thought I’d have a fascinating anecdote about getting a massage…but this—well this was quite an adventure.

Liz and I found a spa just down the street from where we live. It seemed very familiar, reasonably priced. The receptionist spoke English. And so we ordered two 60-minute massages for the following day. Then we proceeded to walk to a nearby butcher, where we bought an inappropriate looking piece of kielbasa and made a Polish-Viennese feast. Yes, the appetite is back.

The next day, we arrived back at the spa at noon and the English-speaking receptionist quickly shuffled us into our dressing room. She quickly pointed out our robes, some hospital-ish slippers, and what I thought she said were “underpants.” I pulled down the “underpants” – which looked like tissue paper wrapped in plastic and looked at Liz.

“Did she say those were pants?” Liz asked.

I unwrapped the package to find a disposable, gauzey g-string. I held it between my fingers in shock. “There’s no fucking way I’m putting these on,” I said.

Liz shook her head in agreement. “Yeah, no way.”

Weird "Pants"

So, we undressed, dismissed our band-aid fabric g-strings, and put our robes on. When we were done, the receptionist then led us to a big room with two masseuses – a man and a woman. Liz got the guy, I got the girl.

“Please, take off your clothes,” the woman said to me.

I stood there, looking around, thinking, Aren’t you gonna leave first. But as she stared at me, it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere. Liz and I looked at each other and silently counted to three before untying our robes. And then we stood there naked, back to back, for what seemed like an eternity.

You are in Europe, I kept telling myself. This is what they do in Europe. This is Europe…

We got on our tables and were finally relieved once the blankets were placed over our exposed, puritanically American bodies. And then the massages began. And they were normal for a while. Until the blankets were pulled down to our waists and the boob massages began.

Yes. Liz and I were fondled for up to 10 minutes by strange Polish people. Now, I wasn’t totally freaked out. In fact, I kinda liked it. My breasts have never received that sort of attention – not from a boyfriend, bedfellow, or husband. It was sorta…relaxing in an incredibly awkward way? But I just kept thinking about poor Liz – lying there, with her full breasts being fondled my some strange man and I wanted to start convulsing with laughter.

After our hour was up, the masseuses left us alone. We both peeled our faces off of our tables and began laughing hysterically.

“Oh – my – fucking – God!” Liz said. “That was totally insane!”

As we put our robes back on and headed out of the room, we saw Dorota sitting there, drinking a coffee waiting for us. Dorota is the woman I’m renting my apartment from and is one of the most charming, fascinating ladies I have ever met. She was in the area, and hoping to say hello before heading off. “So,” she said. “How was it?”

And we told her. And even Dorota, a woman who knows Warsaw and Polish culture well, couldn’t believe it. “Wow!” she said. And that’s all she really could say.

Then Dorota told us that just a week after I got my call from Patrick, she and her partner also broke up. He’d written her from New York. They’d been together for fifteen years, always on and off and on and off. And now, it was over. So we planned a very healthy, boy-bashing night out for Thursday with plans to gussy ourselves up and forget all about these terrible creatures.

Later that day, we ended up making plans to meet up and go out with Dorota’s neice, Pola. I am completely enchanted with Pola. She is a 30-year-old artist with the body of a ballerina and the voice of a dreamer. Everything she says sounds so soporific and kind. And honest.

I’d first met Pola on August 6. It was not a good day. I had gotten three hours of sleep. I hadn’t eaten anything in over 48 hours. And I was a shaky, crying mess. But I had to keep my meeting with Pola, who I’d be renting from for September. She met me at my building at 10 a.m. and we walked to her apartment, where we sat and talked about her work, my work, shared the names of our favorite books and artists. I tried to avoid any discussion about my divorce, when Pola said, “So! Dorota says you are married already! I’m so jealous!”

I looked at her like an injured puppy. “Don’t be so jealous,” I said. “He called two days ago and he wants a divorce. And there’s some girl he’s seeing. And it’s all…so…I don’t know.”

Then I laughed. “So funny, right? Here I am, thinking – look at this amazing, beautiful woman. Single. Dedicated to her work. And I’m thinking why hadn’t I done that with my life. And then you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Oh! She’s so lucky!’ The grass is always greener, right?”

And then we laughed together. And we kept in touch.

So, on Tuesday, Pola agreed to take Liz and I to her favorite hangout – Chlodna 25, a sort of café-bar where they host after parties for art shows, small indie rock concerts, and plenty of good conversation and people watching.

We got there at around 9 p.m. and it immediately felt right – as though we’d been coming to this creaky, low-lit haunt for years. And I could even smoke inside! Yes! I’d found heaven. Of course, Pola, being the amazing artist and personality she is, knew the owner, who in turn, had reserved us a table and told us that everything was on the house. “But you don’t drink alcohol?” one of his friends asked. “Never? For health care?”

“No. Never,” I said. “For mental health care.”

And he laughed.

We then proceeded to order our coffee and tea and sandwiches and we talked for four hours. About bad hip hop. Good hip hop. Polish hip hop. Love. Hate. Alcoholism. Friends. Life. Coping. Falling apart. Dreams. Men. How we loved them. How we hated them. Art. Writing. The male ego and how we all needed to stop trying to date such ego-driven men. It was time to find...carpenters? Lawyers? Or nothing at all. Just ourselves.

And then it was 1 a.m. and it was time to leave. So Pola drove us back, and suddenly, my stomach ache crept back in. And I started to feel sad. And I started wondering where Pat was. What he was doing. How he was feeling. And how it was all over. And how mad I was at him for doing this. This way. Ever. For what? And how I hoped to never talk to him again...sort of.

And then I got back to the apartment and made a mix of bad 90s hip hop, pathetic indie pop, weepy country songs, and hateful punk. And I put on Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” and Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” and The Magnetic Fields “All The Desperate Things You Made Me Do,” and I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. So I slept.

Jewtinatastic

2009-08-19T22:22:00.005+02:00

“It’s not the world’s fault you want to be an artist…now get back to work.” – Werner Herzog

____________________________________

So…after being a bit sidetracked by my “Et tu Patrick?” moment, I think I’m getting back on the horse, so to speak. Sure, half of me feels like it’s dying, but the other half is somehow enjoying herself. Really enjoying herself. Grateful for all of this. Even the bad stuff. I can’t wait until my dying part is, well, um, dead.

Believe it or not, but there was a very real purpose to this trip. As I’ve said before, I am writing a book. And not about my pending divorce…though it all surreally seems to fit so perfectly into this concept of “The Value of Ruins.” It’s almost as if this were supposed to happen.

So, yes. My book is called “The Value of Ruins.” It is a story that unfolds in three parts. Part one is very much about my Grandmother – my fascination with her. The stories I’ve told myself about her. Her mystery. And then, at the end of this section, we see the real Cristina Brunak as we’ve never seen her.

See, my grandmother, who grew up in Warsaw until she left after the war, always insisted that while her father was Jewish, neither she nor her mother were. Which meant that I wasn’t. But somehow, in my bones, that never felt right. The Jew thing seemed to fit. But the more I forced it, the more she denied it. Until 2008. That was the year that my mother – yes my mother, my grandmother’s daughter – finally discovered what my grandmother’s REAL name was. And that she was, too, in fact, a Jew. Which makes my mother Jewish. And me Jewish, too.

This revelation was huge for me. A validation. A realization. An epiphany. It felt right. And I became fascinated, trying to learn as much as I could, at least, about our family’s history. I quickly dubbed myself a “Jewtina.” Even thought about adopting the name “Rossenwasser” – my family’s REAL name – for myself. But aside from that, I didn’t have any real intention of investigating the religious/spiritual/cultural matter of it further.

Then, in March 2009, my agent sent me an email with a link to a Cleveland Plain Dealer article about a group of 90-year-old women who were having their Bat Mitzvah. “This story is perfect for you.” He envisioned a sort of Tuesdays with Morrie tale where we learn about these ten nonagenarians, their lives, their preparations, and, ultimately, their rite of passage – one usually reserved for 12-year-olds. I was immediately attracted to this story and ran up to Cleveland to start interviewing these women.

However, when I sat down to write a book proposal, the right words just didn’t come. It felt so forced, so Akron Beacon Journal Sunday feature to make the old lady readers feel good about themselves. I hated it. Then a friend pointed out to me that what she really thought was fascinating about this story was how it had fallen into my lap just as I’d discovered that I am, in fact, a Jew, too.

To be honest, what really riveted me about these women was what they could show me about who I really am, who my grandmother really was, and how I could embrace this part of my identity. So, these women essentially became my introduction to Judaism, and the second part of my book.

The third part of my book is, well, all of this. The trip to Poland. The search for the truth. For my grandma. For myself. For the real value of ruins.

The value of ruins. It’s a strange idea, right? Well, during the Third Reich, Hitler’s architects would often do multiple drafts of buildings and monuments. And at least one draft would attempt to depict what the building would look like after hundreds of years of decay. How its presence would one day leave an impression on future generations to come, just as the Acropolis or the Mayan pyramids have done.

However, I feel like Hitler’s real ruins are people. It’s in the people we see the effect of the world. In a sense, we are G-d’s ruins, too. And it’s through our ruination that we have a specific value. One that can’t be touched or quantified. But one that makes people like my grandmother so very beautiful, special, and complicated.

So…here I am. A new Jew, trying to find out what it all means. And a ruin myself, in many ways.

Amidst lots of sight seeing and coming to understand where my Grandma came from, I am also focusing on my own connection with Judaism. So that is why I met with Michael Schudrich, the Head Rabbi of Poland, the other day. Tuesday to be exact.

Liz and I got very, very lost. Unfortunately, Warsaw is not a grid city. And no amount of Communist structure has changed the web-like network of roads and roundabouts and alleyways. So after going in circles, we finally gave up and hailed a cab. I showed him the address for the city’s synagogue on a map. He looked at the paper then looked at me, then the paper again. “Synagoga? You?” he said in awe, like it was his first time meeting a REAL Jew. I mean, the black hair, sloped nose, and neurotic presence were just too much for him to handle, I guess.

When we arrived, Rabbi Schudrich was immediately warm and welcoming and full of jokes. “So where are you from?” he asked.

“Akron, Ohio.” I said.

“Sounds boring,” he replied.

I was immediately smitten, especially when he started teasing Liz about her Mexican beauty. “You can take the New Yorker out of New York, but,” he said. “I can still make women uncomfortable!”

Rabbi Schudrich first came to Poland in the 1970s. He was told there were no Jews left. And he didn’t believe it. He continued to return to Poland in search of people who were keeping their identities hidden, thanks to trauma from WWII, Communist persecution, and anti-Semitism that persists until today. “Now, there are thousands and thousands,” he said. “Just like you.”

Just like me! I wondered. I was so excited to meet these other new Jews with complicated stories and conflicts of identity.

“You can meet them on Friday,” he said. “Come for services and then we’ll have dinner.”

Then the Rabbi asked for my phone number so he could also set up a day for me to talk to a group of new Jews about my family’s story. He looked at my new Polish cell phone number and smiled. “You know,” he said. “These three numbers of your phone are 613. And that’s how many commandments we have. Fate, maybe?”

As Liz and I left the synagogue and walked through the busy streets, I thought about how fateful all of this trip has been. How meeting Dorota was so perfect. Living around the corner from Jerzy was just too much. How familiar everything felt. Then how Patrick destroyed my heart. And how my mother came to help me, and how we found the tombstone together. And how, maybe, it had something to do with all of this – all of this revelation and rebirth.

And then I started thinking about the night after Patrick had called me and said he wanted a divorce. I was desperate for a sign to show me that it would fine. That this was really going to be a good thing in the end. So I reached for my Tarot cards. As I shuffled them, I breathed my pain and confusion and despair down through my fingertips and into the deck. I did not ask for any specific guidance. I just put myself in the cards, hoping they’d see what I couldn’t. Then I laid them out in a work spread. And then I called Juice.

Juice is one of my dearest, dearest friends. She is also one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. Her spirit is contagious. Everyone who meets her wants to put her in their pockets for safekeeping – like a good luck charm, or a favorite action figure. She is cute and vivacious and wacky and independent and hilarious. And she is a healer. And a hell of a Tarot Card reader.

I read my spread to Juice over the phone. She picked the cards out of her own deck and then went to work. “Start over,” they say. “Start over, start over, start over.”

And then she gasped. “Oh my G-d, Denise,” she said. “Do you see this? The cards start with the Torah and end with the Torah. That’s fucking weird.”

I looked down at the reading. And there, on my first card, The Wheel of Fortune, was the word “Torah.” And then, my eyes moved to my last card, The High Priestess. And in her lap lay a scroll with the word “Torah” upon it. It was a sign, I was sure. And this was all meant to be.

And all of these little coincidences – these little signs – I put a lot of weight in them. Because I want to and I have to. They give me peace. They give me a sense that this is project must go one. And so it will.

Discovering the Grave

2009-08-19T22:22:00.001+02:00

The Jewish Cemetery

2009-08-19T18:14:00.000+02:00

So, here is the incredible footage from the Jewish Cemetery, when my mother turned to find our family's symbolic gravesite. It was truly one of the most amazing moments in my life. Very, very special. The actual finding of the stone isn't in this video, but one that I will upload later today. In this clip, you can get a sense of exactly how huge the cemetery is and exactly how miraculous our discovery was.

Warsaw Ghetto Part 4

2009-08-18T01:52:00.000+02:00

The Ghetto Part 3

2009-08-18T01:20:00.001+02:00

The Ghetto Part 2

2009-08-17T13:00:00.001+02:00

Note To Self

2009-08-17T00:25:00.002+02:00

I just got this from my good friend, Curt. It made me feel better, some how:

Many of us have worked too hard to make relationships work; sometimes those relationships didn't have a chance because the other person was unavailable or refused to participate.

To compensate for the other persons unavailability, we worked too hard. We may have done all or most of the work. This may mask the situation for a while, but we usually get tired. Then, when we stop doing all the work, we notice there is no relationship, or we're so tired we don't care.

Doing all the work in a relationship is not loving, giving, or caring. It is self-defeating and relationship-defeating. It creates the illusion of a relationship when in fact there may be no relationship. It enables the other person to be irresponsible for his or her share. Because that does not meet our needs, we ultimately feel victimized.

In our best relationships, we all have temporary periods where one person participates more than the other. This is normal. But as a permanent way of participating in relationships, it leaves us feeling tired, worn out, needy, and angry.

We can learn to participate a reasonable amount, then let the relationship find it's own life. Are we doing all the calling? Are we doing all the initiating?. Are we doing all the giving?. Are we the one talking about feelings and striving for intimacy?

Are we doing all the waiting the hoping, the work?

We can let go. If the relationship is meant to be, it win be, and it will become what it is meant to be. We do not help that process by hying to control it. We do not help ourselves, the other person, or the relationship by trying to force it or by doing all the work.

Let it be. Wait and see. Stop worrying about making it happen. See what happens and strive to understand if that is what you want.

Making Lists...Checking them twice

2009-08-16T23:51:00.002+02:00

So, when I got back to Warsaw from Vienna today, I had the most perfect present waiting for me. Liz! She will be my partner in crime/life coach/spine/crutches until September 9. And I need it! Already, she has done so much for me just by being in my presence. The hardest part of all of this is that I feel so far away from my life -- a life that I feel like other people are busy dismantling, while I am here, unable to do anything. Sometimes I really do feel like I'm caught in a bad dream and it's hard to get a grasp on who I am, where I am, and what is really happening to me. But seeing her, I feel secure and safe again, and I realize that it's all OK. We napped. I wrote. We walked. Ate Thai food. And then Liz gave me a haircut -- the perfect cure, somehow. And now, I'm really ready to put myself entirely back into this project. At least, to the best of my ability. I need that more than anything, right now.

Work is also saving me at the moment. I just got the edits back for the book I'm writing with Steven Tatar for the Ohio Knitting Mills, which will be coming out sometime next year on Artisan Books. The 96-page manuscript is due back by August 31! This should be interesting as I'll be collaborating over Skype. Oh, you modern times! I'm also meeting with the Head Rabbi of Poland, Michael Schudrich tomorrow to talk about all things Jewish! More research...and more writing. Never done. Which is good. It's very odd because, though I've never felt worse in my life, somehow, I'm being the most productive and efficient. I'm going to bed at a reasonable hour (for me) and waking up before 10. I'm eating regularly. Drinking lots of herbal teas. Walking. And writing everyday, which is such a chore for me at home, for some reason. Maybe it's that my body knows it has to be extra good to itself right now. I must say, it does feel like my heart was ripped out of my body -- through my back, to be specific. Massages!

Which brings me to my list. I love writing lists. An excellent day for me starts with a list and then ends with all of my tasks complete. It's my personal OCD behavior...and it always makes me feel better. Shopping lists. Research lists. Gratitude lists. Yesterday, a good friend really gave it to me. "Denise," she said. "You really need to sit down and do a gratitude list, because you're lucky. You've got a lot. You do."

And she was right.

So, Liz and I have written yet another list! It is our sort of bucket list a la broken hearted in Europe kind of deal, with a Jewish, research-y, edge. And a nice lack of self destruction, for once. Nice, right? So, our job is to knock all of the following off our list before she leaves on September 9:

- Visit Krakow for 2 days (when Erin comes in September!)

- Day trip to Lodz (home of the Film School that produced Roman Polanski!)

- Treblinka (where Great-Grandpa died)

- Trawniki (the concentration camp where great-grandma was for a year, before escaping. According to Yad Vashem, she was only one of two women to survive Trawniki)

- Auschwitz

- Get my Polish Citizenship!!! (Thanks Mom!)

- Get our nails did, Eastern Block style

- Massage!

- Get rubbings of the family's gravestone

- Visit the archives for birth/death/marriage certificates for the Rossenwasser/Mesz/Sterenstreit clans

- Visit Old Town and Chlodna 25

- Go to Hoza Street for gallery row

- Visit the old flea market and art spaces in Praga

- Feed old Kaiser rolls to the birds

- Go back to Vienna with Liz!

- Make dresses for Vienna with the awesome African fabrics Liz brought from NYC

- Attend at least one concert in the park -- preferably Frascatti

- Take a bike tour of Warsaw

- Visit the Primeval forest

- Milk Bar X 10! (Milk Bars are sort of the Polish equivalent to American's diners. They are an old Soviet thang, serving up cheap Polish comfort food!)

- Swimming in the city!

- Running in the park

- Picnic in the park

- Find grandma's children's book, Powrot Krasnoludkow, published in 1948, at an antique bookstore (there are so many!)

- The Warsaw Festival of Jewish Culture!!!

- Rosh Hashanah (a time for new beginnings)

- Buy a classic Polish tea set (you know -- the kind with glasses in metal holders? Vintage, preferably!)

- The botanical garden!

- The Warsaw Zoo

I will let you know how we do!

Warszawa Haircuts

2009-08-16T23:47:00.002+02:00

Why is a haircut so cathartic?

Warsaw Ghetto Part 1

2009-08-16T21:51:00.000+02:00

Toward The Ghetto, Part 2

2009-08-16T16:10:00.001+02:00

Toward The Ghetto, Part 1

2009-08-16T15:48:00.001+02:00

Vienna, you're right

2009-08-16T15:15:00.003+02:00

I slipped.

OK. That’s not really true. The truth is that I threw myself down the stairs.

It was Friday and my mother left. It was actually a very, very nice morning. I cleaned the apartment until it sparkled, did all my laundry, got dressed, packed, and then jumped into a cab to head to Vienna, Austria. I thought, Hey, I’m single, in Europe, the world is now open and inviting. No one is breathing down my neck with criticisms anymore. Why not try to have some fun. And Vienna seemed the perfect place to do that.

Nine years ago, I lived in Vienna as a nanny. It was an incredibly important and transformative time in my life. I had been in college for one year, but I felt completely tied down and unimpressed by everything around me. I was stuck in a high school relationship. I felt torn about the direction I was headed in. I felt like I wasn’t growing and I didn’t know why. I’d picked The Classics – as in Greek and Latin – for my major, but it didn’t seem to fit. Then, one day, during the summer of 1999, my father said he knew someone through work who was looking for a live-in au pair in Vienna. And they were interested in hiring me. I said sure. And two weeks later, I filed for a leave of absence from school and headed toward a country I’d never seen.

I remember I felt like I was dreaming once I’d arrived. Everything in Vienna is so regal and palatial. And so, just, European. Everything is elegant and proper and sophisticated. Turning on lights felt new and amazing, even. I was immediately in love. I stayed there for a year. And I had the time of my life. I did all the things a good American girl should do when eighteen, single, and in Europe for the first time. I got my haircut. I started smoking. I flirted with men. And, I learned how to drink.

It was in Vienna where I first learned exactly what kind of a tolerance I had for alcohol. And it impressed me. So I did it as often as possible with as many people as possible. I drank people under the table – tequila shots, red bulls with vodka, beer, cider, schnapps. You name it, I drank it. And more. And then I got up on bars and danced. And I threw beers in peoples faces. And I didn’t care.

Now, a decade later, drinking doesn’t work for me anymore. It turned into something else. I’d say the party stopped eight years ago. Booze became my medicine – the only way I knew how to cope with the world. If I was stressed out, I drank. If I was sad, I drank. If I was happy, I drank. If I was giddy, I drank. I drank over everything and anything. And I drank long and hard until the panic attacks and dread and depression settled in. And I kept drinking despite the fact that it brought me no pleasure, because I was really hoping it would change and become wonderful again. But it never did. And then I kept drinking because I really didn’t know what else to do. But finally, in April 2008, I stopped. And it was the best thing I ever did. I learned how to cope with the world, finally. I grew up a lot. I stopped blaming everything on everyone else and began owning up to my mistakes. And I found life to be wonderful again.

I also thought it would save my marriage. Patrick and I were very heavy drinkers together. In fact, it was almost the only thing we did together by a certain point. We drank in bars, at home, on airplanes, in hotels. That’s what we did. And I was very scared that if I gave it up, he would not love me. But as I drank more and more, I noticed that that was happening anyway. So, I thought, I’ll stop, and maybe he’ll stop hating me. And I figured that if I stopped, at least, there would be a chance. Now I see how crazy that thinking was. Sort of.

When Vera heard the news that my husband had told me he wanted a divorce over the phone, while I was overseas alone, she immediately emailed me and invited me to stay with her in Vienna for a weekend. I had met Vera during my time as a nanny. The woman I worked for had arranged the meeting. I remember that Vera came to pick me up. When I opened the door my mouth dropped. She was stunning. Like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but prettier and oh-so Viennese. She took me for a drink and we hit it off immediately. She was often my partner in crime, amused by the insanity I’d create wherever I went.

I hadn’t seen Vera for nine years – not since I left Vienna. I often wanted to come back, but it was always impossible. So when I got her sudden invite, I thought, why not. I’d love to see Vera. I’d love to go to Vienna again, especially right now. And I was also terrified of being alone. Alone, my thoughts get dark and scary and I fear that I will lose my mind. I also thought that Vienna proved to be my medicine once, so maybe it would work again.

As soon as I arrived in Vienna, it was all so surreally familiar. And then I saw her – Vera. Standing there, superbly dressed in a sort of denim mini dress and leggings with rhinestone-studded sandals, elegant and tall and thin, leaning against her 1988 white Ferrari. And I knew I had made the right decision.

We jumped in her car and drove into the city. She told me all about her heart break over the past nine years. And I thought – if this girl can get so hurt by someone, then we all can. Vera is not only one of the most beautiful women I have ever met, but one of the strongest, smartest, and most independent, too. “This weekend, only girls,” she promised. “And lots of them. And lots of stories, too.”

Immediately, we arrived at the Naschtmarkt. Nashtmarkt is one of the greatest places on earth. Nine years ago, it was Vera who brought me to this spot – a sort of flea market and farmer’s market with outdoor cafes and kebab stands for blocks and blocks and blocks. I could not believe that I was back. It had changed so much – it was sort of a more yuppie affair than it was almost a decade ago, when Turks dominated the scene and the scent of fish and spices wafted through the air. Now, it was the cool set all around, lounging with their mélanges (Viennese cappuccinos) in their designer sunglasses.

We grabbed a table and immediately ordered two coffees. I was giddy and feeling really good. In fact, I wasn’t in any pain at all, which sort of freaked me out, but I went with it. A few minutes later, two of Vera’s friends arrived. One of them had also experienced a very rough split three months ago and was still hurting. Her boyfriend of three years, a photographer, had left on a two-week job assignment. Everything seemed fine when he left. But four days after he was gone, he called to say that he’d fallen in love with someone else and it was over. She was devastated. She couldn’t sleep or eat. “It was like in the beginning,” she said. “Like when you first fall in love. And I had so much energy, because I was pouring all of my energy into him, you know?”

I knew exactly what she meant. For nine years, I poured myself into my relationship with Patrick a million different ways, trying to get it right, but always getting it wrong. It was never really about what I wanted, but what I might want that would suit Pat and keep him in my life. And it was always exhausting. I was like the elastic in his waistband, and I was now stretched so thin, I thought I might snap.

We continued talking, when a round of wine spritzers found our table. One landed in front of me. I stared at it for a minute. Then I stared at the sky and took a sip.

Now, I need to rewind for a moment. This was not a split second decision I was making. It wasn’t like I was suddenly hypnotized or there was some crazy magnetic pull drawing me to the glass. For months, I’d been tormented. Patrick and I had been having really bad fights every few months because of his drinking. It wasn’t that I ever wanted him to stop drinking. I just wanted him to stop coming home at five in the morning or getting drunk by himself on our coach, in our TV room, or on our vacations together. And he wanted to show me what it was like, I guess. He didn’t want to let go of his anger towards me for “all that I had put him through” over the years. Even when our therapist said that he couldn’t separate my behavior from my disease, he didn’t want to listen. Instead, he wanted to get even. And he did, which I guess was his right.

And while I would continue to stand my ground – remain firm that I was only willing to live in the present and that if he wanted to live in the past, he could do it alone – inside I was terrified of losing him. I knew it was ridiculous for me to start drinking again just to save our relationship, because I didn’t want that for myself. But, this little voice inside of me started saying, “hey, Denise, maybe you aren’t an alcoholic. Maybe you were just going through a rough time. You will be able to party with Pat again. Promise. Just hold tight for now.” And Pat sorta helped me feed that voice, not because he is bad or uncaring, but because he didn’t understand how my disease really worked. He didn’t want to. He wanted to be mad at me. And that was his right.

But this is how it works: I am allergic to alcohol. When I put it in my body, I break out into a rash of insanity and say and do horrible things that I have no control over. I lose complete control. The alcohol takes over. Once I take that first sip, Denise can no longer decide how much she is going to drink. If she is going to go home, or sleep on the street. Get into a fight. Go to work. Pay her bills. Die. Get pregnant. Whatever. I am erased from the equation in a sense. And part of my disease is also that I am in great denial about having this disease at all. It is insanity. That is all I can say. And I hate it.

However, for the last year and four months, I have replaced alcohol with meetings and steps and it has been wonderful. I’ve met wonderful people and have learned how to live life without booze. And it is so, so, so much better. Still, I silently fed this little voice telling me that there was nothing wrong with me, because I really didn’t want there to be anything wrong with me. Because I felt left out. I felt like I made people uncomfortable. And I felt like I was damaged.

And then, when Pat called on Tuesday, August 4, the voice started getting louder. The denial got worse. I called people to tell on myself. I said, “I really want to drink” or “It’s like I’m planning on drinking.” And they said, “Don’t drink.” “Go to a meeting” “He’s not worth it.” But I didn’t listen.

Instead, on Friday, while sitting under the sun in Naschtmarkt, I drank. And I hoped that I could prove to myself that I was normal. But I discovered the opposite.

It was very strange, because there were no fireworks. There was no relief or excitement or fear. Or even hesitation, really. It was like I had picked up from where I had left off on April 6, 2008. It tasted like it tasted. It felt like it felt – which was empty and addictive and sweaty.

I had two spritzers at Naschtmarkt when it was time to go. I was very disappointed. Because I really wanted to keep drinking. Because that is how the disease works. So I was thrilled when Vera said we’d stop for one more with her boyfriend. There, I had some wine and a beer. Then we left for Vera’s, where I encouraged her to open a bottle of wine, just as I used to do with Julie or Jen. Or anyone who would open up their wine bottles for me. It was all so predictable and sad. I was up to my old deceitful tricks.

She agreed. She had one glass and we chatted before she went to bed. Then, I really went to work. I finished her bottle of wine, as I always did. Then I got on the phone and drunk dialed. I sobbed into the phone. I said things I don’t remember. And then I felt pathetic and so I went to sleep.

In the morning I woke up to that familiar dread. What did I do?!? Who did I call!!!! Oh shit. I looked at my phone and scanned the numbers. I now owed amends to Pete, Joe, Erin, Grandma, Liz, Patrick, Dad, and possibly others (there were some really weird looking numbers in my phone!?!).

In fact, it was the most predictable drunk ever. So unrewarding. So not worth it. But such a great reminder of why I don’t do that anymore. It is pathetic. And disgusting. And I hate who I become. I hate the self-pity and victimization bullshit. I hate the hopelessness and despair. I hate the attention seeking behavior. I even hate the way it tastes, to be honest. And I refuse to ever become that again. And now I know. It is definite. Denise is an alcoholic. And that’s just the way it is. And it’s ok. Alcohol is not my thing. Now, cigarettes and coffee are my thing. Writing is my thing. Flea markets and used vinyl and thrift stores and books and tarot cards and parks with peacocks and good friends and laughter and vampire films and Beat Happening and Judaism and art and people and family and Europe and Warsaw and Jerzy and Hala and my mom and my Grandma and Erin and Liz and Vera and pumpkin seed oil and dark chocolate and 90s hip hop and old ratty t-shirts and myself – these are my things. And they are so much better.

And so, in a way, I am sort of glad that I did what I did. I don’t care that I am now on Day 2 of my “new” sobriety. In a way, my “slip” or my “relapse” reminded me of who I really am and that I can’t run from it. That no amount of booze will ever make this better or make me better. That I’m fucking fine just as I am. And sure, I’m a crazy fucking alcoholic, but everyone’s got something right? And if that’s as bad as it gets for me, I’m totally fine with that. Because, in many ways, it is my disease that has taught me how to live and love life. And for that, I am grateful.

On Saturday, Vera and I and one of her friends jumped into her totally awesome ‘88 Ferrari (the "white shark" she calls it) and headed to a swimming pool tucked within the hills of Vienna. I ate a huge salami sandwich and drank coffee and swam and napped in the sun. Then we went to a wonderful concert in an old factory once inhabited by squatters, where we watched Nouvelles Vagues, a French band, do covers of “Too Drunk to Fuck” And “Love Will Tear Us Apart” and I sat in the grass, talking with Vera’s sister, Lara, and I started to feel better again. We laughed and told jokes and I figured, “fuck all this noise. I’m just gonna do what I want.” And we went and sat by the Danube and watched the stars sparkle in the water. And I watched Vera and her friends have a few drinks, because they can. And I sipped on my soda water, because that’s now my thing. And it all felt amazing and new and good and confident.

Now, I am back in Warsaw with my new life lesson and Liz, who has blessed me by coming to keep me company while I am in Warsaw, so that I will stay here and finish my book and do what I came to do in spite of all this bullshit. I, in many ways, feel stronger than ever. I’m excited to go to my meeting tonight to seek out other alcoholics who are happy in sobriety. And I’m excited to untangle myself from Patrick. And to be over this pain. Because I am tired of beating myself up. Because – just in case you didn’t know – I’m pretty fucking awesome, in a crazy, spastic, jodhpur-wearing, geeky kind of way. So, there.

PS. I’m trying to upload videos as fast as I can, but it takes forever! My trip to the Ghetto, the Cemetery, the parks, and Vienna will all be up soon! Love, Denise

The Place of The Three Crosses

2009-08-12T23:14:00.002+02:00

A rollercoaster. A tornado. Whatever terms people use to describe this feeling, this situation, this moment – it’s all just right. Cliché or not. And I’ve found chamomile tea is helping ease the ride the best.

The last few days have been a series of major ups and downs. One minute, I can accept that this is happening. I know it’s for the best. I am glad that Patrick is being honest with me. And then the next second, I’m freaking out – terrified of the future. Terrified of Patrick. Terrified of everything.

In some ways, I wish I were a man. Now, I hate saying that. It sounds so silly. I really don’t believe in the bad BET stand-up ideology that “Women be this way, and Men be that.” I’ve long been convinced that most men and women were simply willing to give in to their gender roles. Men were tough and hard and mean. Women were soft and fragile and emotional. And I chose to hang out with people who refused to go those contrived routes. People like Patrick, who refused to be what people expected. But now, through this, I’m seeing things quite differently.

The story really starts in 2002, when my parents divorced. My father appeared to transform into a robot. It was all business. There was no feeling. No emotions at all. Even with his children. He had the other woman. The new apartment. He was carefully protecting his assets. Filing the papers. And my mother – she lay in bed, falling apart, worrying that she would never be able to go on. It was shocking. Incredible. I could not believe my dad was doing things this way.

Then, in 2008, it came in three neat reality checks. First, it was Erin. She called, crying. Jay and her had broken up. It was a shock. They’d been together for six years. They were making up elaborate plans for moving to Portland. And then, just like that, he said it was over. And she lay in pieces, calling him every so often, hoping he could give her an answer as to why he was doing this. Hoping he’d change and see his mistake. And he never could. And it almost seemed like he just didn’t care.

Then, two months later, it was another a friend. She’d gotten the call when we were in New York together visiting a friend. She had just moved to Philly for a new job. She was expecting her boyfriend of nine years to arrive later that week from Chicago with all of their furniture. He never came. Instead, he called her and said it was over. And for months, she reached out to him, begging him to tell her that he still loved her and that there was still a chance. And he never did.

And then again, as winter approached, I got yet another call. Yet another relationship almost as long as mine was over. He told her right before they were supposed to move from NYC to LA together. He wasn’t going to come, he said. She was heartbroken. She also waited for him to come around. And he never did.

Now, I find myself in the same place. And it’s weird, because I see how predictably men and women handle these situations. “Denise, he’s not going to do this the way you want him to,” one friend said to me.

And he’s not. He’s not calling to hold my hand through this pain. He’s not calming me down and being my best friend, telling me it’s all going to get better and that he will always love me. He’s doing it just like his biology has programmed him to do this. Right now, he is keeping his distance. I text him things like “it feels like you don’t even care. I’m scared.” And he writes back “I’m doing really well right now. Just give my space.” He will only talk shop – the lawyer said this, the law said that. Maybe a “I’m sorry you are hurting” here and there.

Yesterday, this had me balled up in fear. Today, I see it for what it is. He has to do it this way, so that he can do it at all. This is what Erin said. And she was right. And I can see that now, as I look back on all of the other break-ups I have witnessed. Men must emotionally detach themselves from the situation. They need that other woman for comfort and distraction. They have to make it all business in order to protect their assets, their own scary futures, or they just can’t go through with it. And so, I understand. And I am not against men. Not at all. In fact, I am amazed by them. Puzzled by their way. Slightly jealous. Unable to truly grasp their system. It is intriguing and sort of wonderful, in the way that I am also fascinated by UFOs or Ghosts or Supermodels.

And what do we do? We call our friends and swear we will never talk to these horrible creatures again. And then we text these horrible creatures, begging for their attention. And then we cry and scream. And then we take a walk and hope that other men are checking us out. And then we tell ourselves that we will never give our hearts away like that again. And we just keep going through the motions, until we get better. And I know that not because I am better just yet, but because YOU have told me so.

Today, I woke up and I was miserable. Then I opened my email. And there you all were. A series of beautiful, poignant emails from women who’ve gone through just the same thing. And you told me that you knew exactly how I felt. And that it would get better. In fact, it would be right. And I know that some of you are even very close with your ex-husbands again. And you all made me feel much, much better.

So, I left the house with a little bit of hope. My mother and I went to Jerzy and Hala’s apartment. I watched them as Hala straightened his jacket. As he kissed her hand. They have been married for more than 50 years. She takes extremely good care of him. And I really wished I could have done the same for Patrick, but it was so, so hard for me.

Jerzy drove us to the Jewish Cemetery. It is the only one of its kind left in Poland. Most of them were destroyed by the Nazis. We were on a very specific mission. Right before I came on this trip, my grandmother told me that she had purchased a symbolic grave for her father and the rest of her family just before she left the country for good. No one in my family had ever heard about this before. She asked that I take care of it. Make sure it was still there. That it was cleaned off and tended to again. I was so excited to uncover this secret and make it real again. Bring it back to life. Treat it like it should be treated – with love and honor and pride.

As soon as we walked through the tall brick walls, our hopes seemed dashed. It was gigantic and chaotic. It was like a forest dotted by stones, big and small. Some shiny and clean, and many broken and scattered. The tall trees blocked out the sun. The vines covered up the Hebrew script.

We walked over to the attendant and asked if she could tell us where to find our family’s gravesite. She said that she could not help us. The Cemetery’s director was away and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. He’d have to check his records. It would take some time. My heart sank.

Jerzy immediately dragged us to where his father’s family was buried and we roamed around the wild trails, full of fat, long slugs and ivy and stone, and marveled at the place. My mother kept asking, “what were the names again?”

“Rosenwasser and Mesz, but, Mom, we’re not going to find it,” I said. “Are you serious? Look at this place. I’ll come back later. After we email the director.”

We walked for over an hour, circling through the gravesites and Holocaust memorials without hope. Then, my mother shouted. “Denise!” she said. “Mesz right? Right here!”

There lay a small tombstone in the ground, covered with dirt and twigs, hidden beneath a bush. I took a look. “No, there’s no way, this says Meszow.”

But as I said this, I pulled the branch away and there it was: “Rosenwasser and Mesz.”

We screamed with delight for Jerzy to come and see. We all hugged and took pictures. I transcribed the tombstone. It was placed there in 1948, “in memory of our loving husband and father and the rest of our family who was killed in the Hitler State.” And there were my grandma and my great-grandma’s names in the corner of the dedication, “Halinka and Krishia.”

“I can’t believe you found it, Mom!” I said. “How did you do it?”

“I prayed,” she said.

We stayed a moment longer. A groundskeeper cut away the bush. Hala brushed away the dirt with a stick. Jerzy took pictures. And then we left.

Later on, my mother and I decided to walk to the Place of the Three Crosses. It’s a sort of roundabout in the City Center. In the middle is a church – the church where my grandmother converted to Catholicism in 1938, just before the war. To this day, my grandmother truly believes that it was her new faith that kept her alive. And this is the church where she was baptized.

It is a beautiful chapel – full of gorgeously carved wood and ornate paintings and sculptures. My mother and I snuck into a pew and kneeled as people came running in and out, saying their own little prayers. I kept wondering what each of them was praying for. Amazed at how they could put their trust in something so wildly unimaginable. And then I kneeled, just as I’d been taught to do in Catholic school.

And I figured, why the hell not, so I prayed, too.

Big City Living

2009-08-11T18:33:00.001+02:00

I've been promising my grandma and friends that I'd take some pictures of my little apartment here in Warsaw. However, I some how forgot to pack a camera with me. Crazy, right? So my mom helped me video tape a little apartment infomercial for you all. Billy Mays, eat your heart out! And RIP.

Yad Vashem and Jerzy

2009-08-11T18:31:00.000+02:00

Poland is Fighting!

2009-08-11T17:48:00.003+02:00

Yesterday was a rough one. From the moment I woke up, it felt like a ghost was punching me in the stomach every few seconds. I'm sure I was running a fever. I would vomit any second. My spine would suddenly splinter through my skin. Love sickness. They aren't lying.

I had to race out of the house to go to a counseling appointment. Two years ago, I would have ran to the bottle. I would have gotten very drunk and done outrageous things that would involve broken windows and broken people. Today, I do step work, call my sponsor, look for the good not the bad, and call therapists against my own will. I found an English-speaking shrink in Warsaw, just a ten minute walk from my house. I was desperate for an answer. Should I fly back to Akron and fight? Ignore this? Move on? Ok. I knew I'd probably hear move on. But how? Tell me, how, I'd beg? Maybe the Poles would have a special secret for how to get over a heartache, I thought. I wanted it. Whatever it was. I needed it.

It was hot and humid as I raced down the street, my little ghost enemy punching me the whole way. As I walked, I saw people in line, counting out change for ice cream cones. It was 10:30. Nothing else was open, except for ice cream parlors. It made me happy.

I got to my appointment and a very tall gentleman with a shaved head and green eyes shook my hand. This was my therapist. As we sat down, my mouth went dry. He had the most intense eye contact ever. I watched the clock. He said very little and so I started to talk. Only later did I realize he wasn't being a "good listener" but that he didn't understand a word I was saying. He looked like he was shitting his pants as he strained to understand me. He picked up his notebook and wrote down my name. "I will take notes," he said. He didn't take one.

As I talked, he looked confused. "So, what is wrong with this chaos?" he asked.

He kept referring to the Beat Happening tattoo on my right forearm. "And this, what does this mean?" he asked. "I think it means something."

I got embarrassed. "Yeah, yeah, I know," I said. "It's terribly phallic. It's a PUSSY cat riding a giant ROCKET SHIP. But there's nothing Freudian going on here. This has nothing to do with what I'm saying."

I kept talking. I talked about how much we'd loved each other. How hard it was. How he did this. How I was scared of the future without him. How my love for him was so great, I was worried I'd never love anyone the same way again. How I was sure we were meant for each other and having to unravel that fact was the hardest of all. And then I confessed that, yes, Patrick and I had grown apart. I got sober and my lifestyle changed. His didn't. And I was hard on him, because I didn't think he was being supportive. Also, I was sensing that Patrick felt like I was holding him back. For a long time, I think he liked how I grounded him, yearned for him, even if I did it the wrong way sometimes. But now, it was obvious that I was becoming a liability. I was ruining his fun. His success. His life? And no amount of changing myself seemed to fix it. The meds, the steps, the sponsors, the work -- nothing seemed to make it click.

"But I don't understand?" my therapist said. "What answer do you want?"

Good question. What answer did I want? I guess I wanted to process this. I guess I wanted to pay him to take the pain away. I wanted him to tell me exactly how to save my marriage or exactly how to get over it as soon as possible. I didn't know. I paid him and left.

My mother and I went to Hala and Jerzy for lunch. My grandmother had delivered the news to them because I was so embarrassed and didn't quite know what to say. They were extremely kind. Hala kissed my face all over and said in Polish: "You must scream! And you must cry! But you will be fine."

Jerzy just laughed. "This is the American way, no?" he asked.

I sort of smiled. Why did I even bother with the shrink?

We started talking about great-grandma and grandma. About how Jerzy's mother was honored by Yad Vashem for saving them and how if Erika hadn't done what she did, my mother and i wouldn't be alive today. He began to cry a little. It was very, very sweet. And his tears made me feel good.

Then we set out on foot toward the old Warsaw Ghetto, where my great-grandmother and great-grandfather lived. My grandmother would sneak in and out and only stay on weekends. She would bring her family food and news. She would take English lessons from an old Jewish couple. And she'd go to a cafe where people tried to hold onto even a single moment of joy in such horrible, horrible times. It was surreal -- there was really nothing left. The Nazis had destroyed everything. All the buildings were entirely new -- I mean, NEW new.

As we circled around the monuments and Jerzy told us stories of how he first met my grandmother and how he saw ten French Jews being killed as they tried to escape, my mind began to wander.

How can he do this to me?!? How can he leave me like this? Does he love her?

I fingered my cell phone in my bag and thought better of it. No, no, Denise, don't get shitty. It's not worth it. Just leave it alone. The fight is over, remember?

But I couldn't resist. I had to reach out. Make sure that he was still alive. That he wasn't a ghost yet. I had to see if he cared. Did he still really love me like he said he did? Somewhere, I still want him to call and say he doesn't really want this. He does want to work it out. I texted him that I was still hurting. He said he was sorry. But that wasn't good enough for me and so I launched into him.

As we stood there at the grave of the soldiers who fought in the Ghetto Uprising, I texted my husband very mean things.

Let me repeat that. Yes, I actually stood at a Holocaust Memorial and was so self-consummed that instead of reflecting on the immediacy of the moment, of the incredible history, of the human suffering, I chose to take really nasty jabs at the man who was leaving me via text message. I am officially an asshole, or possibly Larry David's long lost daughter.

After Patrick made it clear that I should leave him alone (this took a few pained "please don't text me anymores"), we moved back onto the tram and headed home, where I talked on the phone with a close girlfriend who recently went through a very similar ordeal. I stood at the window of my apartment, chain smoking, knowing that she knew best. And then I cried. And I wrote. And I laid in bed next to my mom. And it started to feel better.

A Message for Grandma from Jerzy and Hala

2009-08-10T20:46:00.000+02:00

Meine Heart Schmerz

2009-08-10T20:00:00.002+02:00

Thank God for Moms. And Ice Cream.

My mom flew into Poland when I shared the bad news about Patrick and I. It's ironic, because only a month ago, she was planning on coming out, and I said no. "This time is for me," I said. "I need this. I need to get away. Get some work done. Get my head straight."

Weird how things work out, right?

So now, she is here. She dropped everything to make sure that I'm sleeping. Eating. Going out. And it's working. And it's really nice. It's nice to have this with her. We sort of needed this, too, in a way. I love her. And I'm glad she can be here to experience the goodness of all this with me. Plus, it has been really cool to hear her speak Polish. My mother grew up speaking Polish with her grandmother, who always lived with her. But when Babchu died in 1982, the Polish died, too. Or, at least, it appeared to. I've been super impressed with how fast it's coming back to her.

I probably shouldn't be blogging about my and Pat's split. I don't want this to upset him, but I feel torn, because it makes me feel better and it's part of this story that I am writing, at least, now it is. How could it not be? Plus, it's incredibly cathartic to get this all out. It's sort of like watching yourself cry in a mirror. For some reason, it allows me to step away from the pain and see this for what it is. Today he said he was feeling happy. Anxiety free. And I know that should probably have made me feel worse, but it didn't. Well, it did at first, and I said very mean things, because that is what I do, and then I realized that it actually made me happy. Because I really do want him to be happy. The way these things work is insane. I try to be rational, but my emotions just don't seem to fit.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with Saturday, when my mom got in, because it was a great day. We went to Nowy Swiat, the sort of main shopping district here. Like the Kartnerstrasse in Vienna or Rodeo Drive in LA. We got some coffee and sweets at a cafe. We people watched. And she told me I was going to be fine. Better, even. And I believed her.

Yesterday, we walked like crazy. For some reason, walking really helps right now. I feel like I won't go crazy if I walk. So we did. We walked to Rozbrat -- the street where my grandma lived with Jerzy and his mother during the war. And then we sat in the park, where I saw a girl crying and fighting with her boyfriend and then another couple sucking serious face. And it made me realize how fleeting all this can be. And really, I just want happiness for both Patrick and I. And since we couldn't get that right together, maybe now we'll get that right apart. He is a very good man, all said and done. Sure, he didn't do this the best way -- but how do you do this the best way? I will always love him and he will always be one of the most important people in my life. Even if I do feel like saying really mean things about some of the, ehem, details right now. Sorry, but being a shit sometimes helps.

Later that same day, my mother sat me down at a Spanish restaurant, where we ate gazpacho and salads with quails eggs al fresco and serrano ham on fresh bread. There was a Spanish family sitting at the next table and it felt familiar and comfortable. I felt at home. And I actually ate some food.

Here's some video from our time on Rozbrat:

Polska, it hurts.

2009-08-09T23:59:00.005+02:00

“I’m not coming to Poland.”

“What!?!” I said. “OK. Why not?”

“I just don’t want to.”

“Why not?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I just, I don’t want to come,” he said.

“All of sudden? What changed? Why not?” I asked again.

“I’m unhappy,” he said. “I think we’re growing apart. I’m confused.”

“Ok, so you don’t want to come to Poland, but what are you saying?” I asked again.

“This isn’t working.”

“What? This marriage? Us? Are you saying you want a divorce?”

And then there was silence.

Please say this isn’t happening right now.

It shouldn’t have been a total shock. We’d been struggling for months. For years. For nine, to be exact. Ours was never an “easy” relationship. We were both big feelers, big egos, big everything. It was, as they say, a shit storm. A shit storm of love? Crazy Love? It was always intense. The love. The hate. The silence. The noise. All of it.

But this? Now? I could actually feel my heart breaking. I don’t know that I’d ever really felt that before. It was a sharp pain, sort of like a stab wound. Then it was pressure. Lots of pressure. From blood loss?

You will be ok. This isn’t really happening. This isn’t really happening.

But it was. My husband, the man I’d loved for nine years, and still do, was now telling me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. He was divorcing me. Over the phone. It was done. His Facebook relationship status and phone records said it all.

“We fight all the time, Denise,” he begged.

But I wasn’t willing to listen. Fighting is what couples do. They fight. That is what I knew. They fight to stay together. They do anything to stay together. That is all I could think. And now he was surrendering. Putting our marriage to rest just like that. And I stood next to our grave, as he was ready with his shovel full of dirt, and I continued to yank on the lifeless body, begging for one last breath, like one of the mothers you see in news footage from Iraq – leaning over her baby's body, trying to rock them to sleep. And they are already asleep.

Patrick was supposed to come to Poland. Just before I left we were talking about all the fun cold cuts we’d eat together. All the weird pictures we’d take. All the strange, falling down places we’d run in and out of like madmen together. It would make us better again. We’d be whole again. Happy again. No more fighting. This was going to be the way it should. That would do it. That would fix it.

I’d been trying to fix our marriage since I’d gotten sober. I thought – I’ll get sober and it’ll get better. But though I got better, we didn’t. The fights continued. He was not going to budge. He was not going to change how I thought he should. But I still couldn’t accept it. I figured, I’ll just wait him out. And then I figured, we’ll go to Europe, and that will make it all better.

But this was just my dream, I now realize. This was the dream I’d been living off of for more than seven years of our relationship. The dream of the life we’d have together but simply would never come. When we were young, we did this together. Then, when he started touring and our lives changed and I was trying to figure myself out in all the wrong ways, it disappeared. But I was sure that we’d get it back. I got better. I found myself. I knew I still wanted it. And I was waiting for him to give it to me. But now, he was finally telling me that he couldn’t.

Now, he wanted a divorce. Over the phone. He, in Akron. Me, somewhere else.

I wanted to kill him. Then I wanted to fly back to Akron and put him in a cage until he changed his mind and then I could let him out, give him a biscuit, and pat him on the head, and wait until he did it again. Then I entered my sort of insanity. I checked our phone messages, emails, and social networking accounts, trying to figure out why he’d made such a sudden decision. I refused to believe that we’d been working toward this moment. Instead, I blamed it on a girl he met. Some girl in New York.

“It feels good when I talk to her,” he said.

And my heart broke a little more. Because I wanted to make him feel good. But I couldn’t. I had to finally admit that we no longer could make each other feel good. And that he could no longer really make me feel good either. I was always trying to let him, but it never quite worked.

So, now, here I am. I’ve been in Poland for a week exactly. And I’m finding myself at the beginning of a divorce that I don’t want but want to fight even less. I want to believe that if we just wait a little longer, it will get better. But he assures me it won’t. So I’ll try to give in. I’ll at least do this right. I’ll stop screaming at him to be more supportive. To change. To not drink so much. To be more honest with me. To get in shape. To get healthy. To forgive me for all the bad things I did over the years. To be someone he’s not. Because that’s not fair. And I can’t do that to either one of us anymore.

I know it will be ok. I see that every time I walk through this city – a city that has survived so much pain. A city where my grandma survived so much pain. And I know that I will survive. I will suck this city dry of its strength and I will feel whole again with each walk through a new park, each visit to the old Ghetto wall, each cup of coffee, and each day I trudge forward and force myself to sit down and make my book a reality.

And I won’t stop writing. And I won’t stop videotaping. I’ll keep going. Because I have to.

A Walk with Jerzy, Part II

2009-08-09T23:54:00.001+02:00

Here's the second part of my Walk with Jerzy. Enjoy!

Polish Zoo!

2009-08-09T22:48:00.003+02:00

While eating lunch with Jerzy and Hala the other day, I came across the most insane television show I've ever seen in my life. This beat Mr. Body, it beat Fraggle Rock...it even beats the Dark Crystal in the creepiness factor.

There, on the television screen was someone dressed up like Stalin talking with a group of puppets that were a cross between animals and old men. An owl old man. A turtle old man. A lion old man. And then the scene would end and two very 80s Eastern European looking men would be telling weird jokes with crazy eyes and then the whole thing would splice back to old man vultures in the forest. So so surreal. I have no idea what they were saying, but I got the jist of the concept: political satire via muppets. Amazing!

I went home and did some research only to discover that this show is called Polish Zoo. It was created in 1992, right after the fall of Communism, and it was the most popular show on television -- a mix of Polish cabaret and, well, yeah, puppets. You can read all about in this NYTimes article.

Or you can just see it for yourself here:

A Walk with Jerzy

2009-08-07T16:44:00.002+02:00

On Tuesday, I arrived at Jerzy and Hala's apartment at 9 am for breakfast. Again, the food was incredible -- a scramble of eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes, accompanied by fresh bread, cheese, ham, yogurt, coffee -- the works. Hala says she drinks up to 6 cups a day -- my kind of lady. After we ate, she applied some sunscreen to Jerzy's face, kissed him and then let us out. Jerzy took me on the "path" my grandmother took during the Warsaw Uprising. I should probably mention for those who don't know that I'm in Warsaw for two months to do research on my grandmother's story for a book that I'm writing called "The Value of Ruins." What goes in that book, well, you'll see. For now -- I filmed most of my walk with Jerzy before I ran out of batteries -- right before the peacocks in the park and a very important point in grandma's story. Here's what I have so far. Enjoy and I'll post more soon:

Warsaw, I love you

2009-08-05T02:17:00.000+02:00

So...just to make things easy, I've decided to post my Warsaw trip updates here at this blog for family and friends. Here's what's new so far:

I arrived on Sunday after a very surreal flight on LOT Airlines, which was obviously created under the Communists. There are still ashtrays in the arms of the seats. The "headphones" were more like Playskool stethoscopes and they showed classic Disney cartoons dubbed in Polish. Very awesome. The food was also very reminiscent of something I once ate on a Pan Am flight in, oh, 1986? It was a very odd sort of chicken paprikash kind of affair. Customs was easy -- no forms or anything. Just a swipe of the passport and I was in.

I took cab through town. I had spent most of the flight memorizing just enough Polish not to get ripped off by a cabby. It went pretty well...plus the guy could speak a bit of English, which assured me that I'd be getting around just find on my English-German-Polish mix.

It's obvious that this city was entirely destroyed during the Uprising in 1945. Everywhere were highrises -- new ones and blackened cement edifices likely erected during the 60s. Every so often, I could make out a classic old building, but it's hard to tell what actually survived since even some of the 19th century palaces were reconstructed right after the war. It's like Paris meets the USSR.

I couldn't believe my good luck when my driver finally pulled onto my street, Mokotowska. It's in the center of the city and it's one of the few streets that wasn't absolutely destroyed during the war -- plenty of prewar buildings, including my own, which was built in the 20s. It's amazing! An incredible courtyard, elaborate rod iron fencing and my own little view of a park from the third floor. It's a tiny little place with tons of great design, thanks to the owner, Dorota Wnuk.

Dorota met me at the apartment and instantly welcomed me. She's an amazing woman -- an artist who left in the 80s to live in New York and only recently returned to be close to her aging parents. Her svelt figure and dark pixie haircut totally betrayed her age. She immediately took me out onto the streets and gave me a tour. Though much of the city has changed since the end of Communism, Dorota assured me that many of the people have not.

She took me to a grocery store, where I bought a variety of dairy products solely based on their packaging -- a brightly drawn peasant girl on a box of whole milk, a pint or so of yogurt with a sort of pastel-ish sketch of a farmer, honey, water, ice cream...

Almost as soon as we got back to the apartment, Jerzy was waiting for me at the front gate of my building. Jerzy is my grandmother's dear friend. During the war, his mother, Erika, hid my grandmother and great-grandmother. My grandmother was, in turn, Jerzy's Latin tutor. He immediately embraced me like a long lost grandfather. He was dressed entirely in white -- like a classic Cubano and had some super cool 70s-ish shades on. He grabbed my hand and held it the entire way down the street, towards his home, on Marskalkowsa -- one of the main streets in Warsaw. He lives in a set of huge high rises -- a cute little apartment that he has shared with his wife Hala since the 1960s.

Hala greeted us at the door and ushered us into the living room, where dinner was waiting for us. I didn't expect such a welcome! There was veal, potatoes with dill, cucumbers in yogurt, tomatoes and cheese, cake, coffee, and a homemade fruit compote of Johannesberries and Cherries that was served like a summer soup. It was incredible.

Hala doesn't speak any English and Jerzy's is limited, so we communicate in this very odd mix of English-Polish-German -- Germanglishka I call it. Somehow, it works for us. After an incredible meal and some very trilingual conversation, we called my grandmother who was elated to know that I had finally made it to her hometown.

After our call, Hala changed from her bright floral dress into an all-white lace outfit that was sort of Spanish inspired. Her and Jerzy made quite a swanky pair. They are in their 80s, but you'd never know it. Hala is always in heels and I can hardly keep up with Jerzy when he walks. They both walked me home, pointing out all the different war monuments.

It just so happened that I arrived on the 65th anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising. The city was full of flowers, flags, and candles. It was really incredible.

When I got home, I immediately began to unpack. Despite getting only 4 hours of sleep on the plane, I was still so pumped with adrenalin I could hardly sleep. I really can't believe that I'm finally here.

I'll be posting videos of my excursions with Jerzy and Hala as well as photos of my place and odd things around town. Until then, Do widzenia!