Travel famously heightens our appreciation of home. (The means to travel usually comes with things worthy of appreciation.) But at the same time, it can also shed a harsh light on beloved traditions.
I didn’t need to live in Poland to see American Christmas as commercial, but Polish Easter made our celebration seem rather – how shall I say? – tacky.
It always started on Good Friday, when, in Warsaw, people made the rounds of Old Town churches. Each would display a model of Christ’s tomb, a tradition that began during World War II – when the resurrection story took on special meaning – and continued with alternately subtle and overt political symbolism during the Communist years.
On Saturday, Poles took their Easter baskets to their neighborhood church to be blessed by the priest. Each was different, though with similar contents: bread, kielbasa, painted eggs, salt on a little dish, sprigs of parsley and dill, all set down in elegant white linen. These pretty wicker baskets of simple peasant fare made me wince at the thought of synthetic green grass and yellow marshmallow chicks.
Poland has always looked with admiration to America (just as Americans have always made jokes about Poles), yet Easter made me wonder if the roles should be reversed. It was all in the baskets: one country embraced the real, the other the artificial. The priest would sprinkle holy water over the assembled baskets, concluding sometimes with a wish of “Wesolego Jajka!” (Merry Eggs!”)
So yesterday afternoon I drove to Krakus Deli to be surrounded by the real. I bought six sticks of kabanosy (a thin kielbasa), a jar of Polonaise horseradish, a packet of pyzy (potato dumplings), and two Prince Polo chocolate wafers. The woman behind the counter added up the total and, handing over my change, wished me a Happy Easter. I wished her Merry Eggs.
