I do not know whether this is some kind of plot against my will power or just product of my ever over-analytic brain that collects coincidences recycles them and spits back to the world brand new eco conspirations with a hint of egocentrism... but I have been exposed to unhealthy measures of memory radiation these days. This time it has nothing to do with dust and spiders, on the contrary, I was attacked out in the hills, heading to the north, crossing the border...
The story I am about to tell does not have a beginning although my grandma’s need for dress to wear for a wedding of some distant family member (of which I am supposed to have much more information but with me being the way I am I can hardly keep track of my own life and people I see every day) could be considered a trigger that set us on a short journey to Poland.
It might be slightly difficult to grasp how my grandma’s sudden urge for shopping can possibly be a cause of my spiritual illumination therefore it would not be off the point to clarify some basic facts. In core of my present memory outbreak are Polish Outdoor Markets scattered in towns by the Slovak and Czech borders.
These markets enjoyed prosperity and stayed in the spotlight of public interest before revolution as well as throughout the 90’s. You could find there anything from clothes through food or furniture to flowers. People would get up early in the morning and travel long distances to get there before the rush hour of the rush hour. During the week following pay day, trains heading in direction of the markets were so overcrowded you could barely walk down the aisle. In those days the markets presented extremely large selection at extremely low prices. So, ultimately, it was worth the struggle.
However, to me all that is only a frame of a master piece, Pinocchio without a nose... cappuccino with no chocolate on the top! My fascination with the place was born long before I had an opportunity to set my foot on its grounds. For that little version of me that existed approximately fourteen years ago, the markets represented an enigma... a place with feebly defined outlines. Couple times a year, I would wake up into a quiet house with my mom gone only to be told she left to Poland with her sisters. That always made me so angry I even swore I will never speak to my mom again for not taking me with her... for a while, I would tragically indulge in sadness and self-pity before I became, once and again, a slave of my own imagination... by the time my mom returned I was so overexcited I forgot all about her unforgivable betrayal against her (at the time) youngest daughter. The whole afternoon I would not go out just set by the window quietly as not to miss a sound of a car pulling into our driveway. And then they came... with all those things without names...and so many stories that made no sense to me... but, most importantly, with all that candy! Not just any candy... the best caramels in the whole wide world called Krowky!
I remember my first visit only very vaguely... mixture of smells... people... flowers...the stands... vendors... how tightly was I holding on my mom’s hand in the midst of the crowd. So bewildered and fascinated. I guess I have it my blood.
Since then I have been there countless number of times but when we were driving up there today through hills I thought.... god I was so weird! :D
There were no crowds; only few people scattered among the lined up stands. The place seemed so small... and surprisingly, after all those years, exactly the same. The stall with tulips, roses and fraises right by the entrance to the food market was still there, exactly where my mind left it.
In a sense it felt like walking among ruins. Do not get me wrong! Not the kind of ruins that swell with unease every step you take, the kind that ties you down to crumbled reminiscence of former destruction. These ruins were like remnants of medieval castle, still living the stories one after another. And you know, it felt nice... to walk through that market, breathe in the smells... listen to random conversations... despite the fact that the enigma was gone for good.
It’s strange how much of the things that formed us we cease to remember...
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