Pióro

Martha has already written about the free foozball (piłkarzyki in Polish) at our local bar. That feature alone makes it an awesome place. But there are many other reasons why the bar is the best ever and one of the things that makes saying good-bye to Poland so hard.

For months we didn’t know what the bar was called. We’d describe it to locals and they’d say something like, “I think it’s called ‘Seventh.’” One time someone suggested “Horizon,” which is fitting because its patio offers a stunning view of our town. But the name that most people use is “Tits.”

The bar has no real décor except for some pictures provided by the local beer company. The beer is less than a dollar Canadian or less than half the price you’d pay in the main square of Kraków or Poznań.

One light-haired woman, who is in her forties, usually runs the show. (It’s actually really hard to guess people’s ages around here. Everyone looks older than they really are.) An older woman with dark hair helps out, usually by serving drinks, cleaning the bathrooms and turning on the light in the room with the foozball table when we come in the door. The light-haired woman’s husband usually shows up around closing and is responsible for ushering people out.

Despite all the practice we’ve had playing foozball, at least one a month, we would run into the local “Beckham’s” of the piłkarzyki table. The experience was always humbling.

I’ve had more practice speaking Polish at this bar than anywhere else in the country. Amazingly enough, two or three beers is all I need to attain total fluency. I’ve had a few great conversations with the lady in charge and a cool regular with Coke-bottle bottom glasses and a crutch. They listen patiently to my broken Polish. Yesterday we got on to talking about how Martha and I were leaving on Friday. They were hurt and I found myself in a familiar but uncomfortable position: explaining that we are leaving Poland permanently. Most people assume that we’re leaving because we’ve had it with the place. They almost take it personally. I then have to explain that we do love the place, but there are other things taking us back home. Before I left yesterday, they made me promise to come by today and not to eat anything before I did.

As much as this place seems like a care-free local boozer, we have run into some difficult people there. One night, back in October, Patrick and I were having a drink and the nearby table heard our funny foreign-speak. Most bumpkins assume that if it’s a language they don’t understand, it must be German. One of the bumpkins turned to our table and said “Volkswagen, ja, ja!” which got their table howling. As ridiculous as it was, there was definitely some menace behind the joking. Before things had a chance to get nasty, a large shadow fell across our table and two beers appeared in front of Patrick and I. It was our piłkarzyki buddy, Ryszard (Richy).This guy is really big, like turn-sideways-to-fit-through-a-conventional-doorway kind of big. His grin shows some gaps where there are teeth missing. The day before, he picked me up in a bear-hug when we won a foozball game. He spun me around, my arms pinned to my sides and my legs rising in the air. It was very nice to see him again. Ryszard didn’t sit with us and I don’t blame him for that. Linguistic barriers would have been too much for all of us at the time. He did check in with us though, every once in a while, by yelling “Hey Maffew!” from the bar. (Poles have a very difficult time with the /th/ sound.) For some odd reason, the “Volkswagen, ja, ja!” guys didn’t say anything else to us for the rest of the night.

So tonight, when Martha and I went to the bar for one last round of piłkarzyki, I got a going away present—boiled pig’s leg (golonko) and cooked cabbage. It was delicious. The good-bye to the fair-haired lady was sad and awkward as my Polish failed me. I am going to miss that place.