I have probably driven past the Polish Museum of America in
Chicago a hundred times and said to myself at least fifty, “I should really try
to visit someday.” So I did, on Friday. My Jagiellonian University colleague
Doctor Hab. Monika Banaś, intent on some immigration and university research in
America this summer, flew into O’Hare on Thursday and requested that we spend a
few days in Chicago before she began her work in earnest. She had never been to
the Big Shoulders, and wanted to see her favorite American painting, Edward
Hopper’s Nighthawks, at the Chicago
Institute of Art. Dreading the
traffic and my complete lack of urban navigational skill, I nevertheless agreed
and drove down to embarrass myself on the mean streets of Chi town. May I say
that the Chicagoans could not have been kinder and more tolerant, but,
seriously, someone needs to redesign access to I-90 westbound, and consider
signage.
On
a less successful note, the Polish Museum is reportedly open 10-4 on Fridays,
and it was—the door anyway. We walked into the lobby 10:30ish—the bookstore and
museum store don’t open until eleven—and spied no one at the front desk. I
touched a virtual button, a primary color, red or blue, on a touch screen that
prompted a robotic verbal summons somewhere behind the lobby indicating that
service was being requested. We waited for five minutes, inspecting the closed
bookstore and the unopened museum store, and snapped a few pics of the lobby.
Nothing happened. No assistance arrived. A custodian walked through the lobby
and said that someone would be coming. We waited five more minutes. I pressed
the button again and reheard the verbal summons. We waited five more minutes.
Dr. Banaś, who had not passed the Polish Museum a hundred times nor said to
herself that she should visit someday, grew perturbed at the delay, and eager
to walk the city, prevailed upon me to leave. I asked her if this incident said
anything about Poles and/or Polishness. “Yes,” she snipped.
The Polish Museum Lobby |
A More Successful Viewing |