To a Communist

I was going through my journal and found something I had written while I was on a train in Poland this past November. Poland was a very strange place and while Cairo was more foreign, Poland was the stranger. It lurks between the two world of past and present, trying to move forward and yet the past surrounds it. It is not just in a the intangible details of history, but in the streets where most of the buildings are remnants of the Communist era. Only a few places have hidden historical gems, like the old city center of Gdansk (or Danzig, as it is known in German). We were discussing James Joyce's 'The Dead' in my Irish literature class and our professor brought up a poem, 'To a Communist' written by Louis MacNeice, which compares communism to snow. It would have been a perfect read for my trip to Poland.

In order to give a little more context to what I wrote on the train, my host Michael is Polish and his family is quite wealthy. We were their guests at their family home in Sopot and then at the hotel they run in the tiny village of Wiejce (pronounced Vee-et-sah). The hotel was once the estate of a German baron and used as a hunting lodge. Michael is also an ardent believer in true 'libertarianism' and he quickly deemed me a 'socialist'. Unfortunately, he also loves to argue politics (at once point, I accused him of arguing for the sake of hearing his own voice and that in a true political discourse, he would actually listen to what I was saying) and on the train rides which totaled about 12 hours, we were constantly subject to it. Here's what I wrote on the train:

We sit, some beings of ourselves, in our myopic journey of politics. Words flail round, some pretty sound to the harsh consequence of meaning and measure. The landscape calms our dictation in its frost covered world, trees fragile without leaves and the once long rays of the sun mellowing at an early hour.

Our journey had begun in the gilded age of Gdansk, the harbor glittering, reminding of some other time when merchants were hallowed on these streets and ships were a common sight. The snow softens the harbor and the murkier history of an unforgotten past. But on this night, the light is soft and the air quiet as we stroll along the harbor. We dart into a building, the remains of what belonged to some merchant family. Behind the wooden doors hangs a curtain. We step past its folds to what is a small bar. It is tucked away like some forgotten relic, the lighting becoming more blurred and intricate the longer we stand there.

We climb the rickety stairs to a tiny room full of tables and chairs - the decor recalling some past world. We order 'warm beer', beer warmed like cider and laced with cinnamon and cloves. We settle into what feels like our own private world. But after an hour, Michael tells us we must leave and we all rush outside to catch a taxi. We run down the crooked stairs, past the curtain, and into the street where we find that the snow has covered everything. The street is empty - it is 10pm on a Tuesday - the cellar doors that during the day become stalls selling amber are shut, the heavy wooden panels a most intriguing sight. There is a golden haze over everything, as streetlights blend into the fog, and standing in the snow, watching the flakes catch our coats, we forget that there is anything else besides this.

After minutes or hours, we remember that we are cold and that Mrs. Danucia is waiting with our Polish supper at home. Michael is quite insistent, not because we are keeping her waiting, but because food is something a Pole would never miss.