On vacation at home in Pennsylvania, where I Polonize only a little, on the couch, watching the EuroCup, which Poland and Ukraine are hosting. In their second match (mecz), the Poles played to a dramatic 1-1 draw with the bracket favorite, Russia; according to news reports, though, the Muscovite hooliganry scrapped with the native hooligans on the streets of Warszawa and got the better of them. History would seem to repeat itself. On Saturday, the Czechs defeated their hosts, slavic brothers, and sometime allies 1-nic, eliminating Poland from the tournament. Still, one can follow the game sites--Gdansk, Wroclaw, Warszawa, Poznan--and decline them yet in the genitive and locative cases, for practice.
And, of a Sunday morning, driving back from a golf mecz, I listened to polkas on WKST New Castle, 1200 AM, which dialed me back forty years, to a bit of what little Polish cultural exposure I enjoyed growing up. That nostalgia, mix of squeaky clarinet, accordion, and static. Home, even unPolish home in Pennsylvania, can evoke past and future Polish homes through music and the philosopher's stone of poetry.
"There is but one place in this planet whole
Where happiness may be for every Pole:
The land of childhood! that shall aye endure
As holy as a first love and as pure,
Unshattered by the memory of mistake,
That no deceitful hopes can ever shake,
And that the changing tide of life cannot unmake."
Adam Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, (MacKenzie, p. 582)
