And then there are the mostly flattering words by Frank Bascombe, the main character of Ford’s 1995 novel Independence Day:

The Canadians are now bustling into the lobby, elbowing each other and yucking it up like hockey fans—men and women alike. They are big, healthy, happy, well-adjusted white people who aren’t about to miss any meals or get dressed up for no good reason. They break off into pairs and threes, guys and gals, and go yodeling off through the metal double doors to the rest rooms. (The best all-around Americans, in my view, are Canadians. I, in fact, should think of moving there, since it has all the good qualities of the states and almost none of the bad, plus cradle-to-grave health care and a faction of the murders we generate. An attractive retirement waits just beyond the forty-ninth parallel.)

So, even before I read Ford’s explanation for naming his most recent novel Canada, I wasn’t surprised by the title. But I was keen on another bit of silly geographical serendipity involving me and the novel. Before the main character, Dell Parsons, is taken to Saskatchewan, he calls Great Falls, Montana his home. On a canoe trip in 2009, I named a campsite Montana.

My reasons for naming a plot you can only get to by canoe after a northern U.S. state are similar, but slightly less high-minded, than Ford’s use of our country’s name. Like Ford, the sound of the word resonates with me. (“‘Canada’ was such an attractive word to me,” Ford writes. “It had always possessed its own pleasing sonority.”) “Montana’s” sonority came to me via Frank Zappa. His eponymous song is a freaky idyll of dental hygiene and agriculture. Within the Zappa zaniness is a chorus with a languid “Movin’ to Montana soon.” “Montana” is a word you can draw out to evoke wide vistas and total chill. No big-city franticness in Montana. No sir.

The Montana campsite is on a point on Archer Bay, in Ragged Lake, Algonquin Park. Martha and I stayed there on the last night of our canoe trip at the end of that June. It was a trip with nice weather, no mishaps, but serious bugs. We didn’t linger on any of the portages and, once the sun went down in the evenings, we found respite in our tent from mosquitoes, which seemed particularly bad that year. The Ragged Lake site was high on that point of land, so it was breezy and the spaced-out pines didn’t offer the bugs any shelter from the wind. Martha put up her hammock. The site was just so chill and it reminded me of the only other connection I have with Montana: a picture I saw in some outdoor magazine, something such as explore or Outside.

The photo showed a state or national park. There were mountains in the background, which, yes, Ontario doesn’t have. But the forest was made up of evergreens that weren’t too dense. The forest looked easy to walk around in. Now, don’t get me wrong: Algonquin Park’s forests, Canadian Shield forests, are my forests. They are the ones I’d pick first out of nostalgia and loyalty. But Canadian Shield forests are hard to move around in. They are thick and dense and tend to scratch you. You can only move easily within them in winter on a pair of skis or snowshoes. But those Montana forests look easy: just the right amount of vegetation on the forest floor; trees never too close to one another. And while insects, like bad breath, tend not so show up very well in panoramic shots, you could just tell from that picture that there were no mosquitoes in Montana.

As I mentioned, my campsite christening isn’t as lofty as Ford’s novel naming. “Canada” is a point for the novelist from which he hoped to “find apt language for those complex, important feelings for which I otherwise didn’t have more than a conventional, simplistic, largely inherited vocabulary.” For me, “Montana” is a quirky way to buzz around my inherited vocabulary. Nothing I can hang a novel on, just a blog post.

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.

Then I met the French teacher at my school. She lives in the same town as I do, so every Wednesday night, we rode the bus back together. French was the main language that we had in common. Polish and English would help when I got stuck, as she is more the true polyglot and my French is now rustier than a Maluch.

The first time we road the bus together, I think I made quite an impression. The bus ride was fine. I dusted off the old French and we had a nice chat. It was a foggy night and we were into the conversation so I missed my bus stop. No problem. I’d get off at the station and walk home. It would only be an extra ten minutes. But no. The French teacher, Dorota, said that her father, who was picking her up at the station, could also give me a ride home. Great. I met her father, who was very nice. I would try and speak Polish to him and then switch to French when speaking with Dorota. Tough, but not a problem at first.

“Where do you live?” came the question in Polish.

“Where do you live?” came the question in French.

“Bożka 25,” came my answer in Polish.

We chatted as much as we could as Dorota’s dad drove through the fog. Before we came to my neighbourhood of communist style flats, Dorota’s dad invited me and Martha over for bigos and wódka sometime. You can imagine how happy I was at the offer of home-made bigos. Then things got a little weird.

This car ride happened early on in my residency in Cieszyn. I knew how to get to my home, but I wasn’t familiar with the route Dorota’s dad took. Essentially, it was the back way. This new route, combined with the fog and the driver’s and my own partial knowledge of the neighbourhood, lead to some confusion. Also, my language skills were giving out fast. (It was the end of a long day of work.) After some aimless driving, Dorota’s dad stopped the car.

“Does he really know where he lives?” he asked his daughter in Polish.

“Where do you live?” I was asked in French.

I repeated my address and then I said, “I think it’s over there.” in a stew of Polish and French. Driver Dad was convinced that there was nothing down that road. His friendly mood switched to “I gotta get rid of the guy babbling nonsense from the back of my car.” (For the record, I was right. I did live “just over there.”)

He said something to Dorota in Polish which I couldn’t follow. She asked me if it was all right if they dropped me off on the main road that bordered the neighbourhood. I meant to say that it would be no problem, but I’m not sure what languages I was blending at this point. They looked at me as if I was high.

When they dropped me off, Dorota asked if I was sure that I would be able to get home. I totally knew where I was now. I tried to reassure her of this but I don’t think I was too successful as I got something like a very polite “Okaaaaaaaaay, buddy.”

Since that initial encounter, I have had the chance to ride the bus with Dorota many times. I managed to speak coherently and I think she realised that my babbling on that foggy night was not the norm. Still, I never saw her dad again and that invitation of bigos and booze never resurfaced.

It must have been something I said.

Before I leave the topic of Ukraine, I have to talk about a reaction I’ve heard from some Poles at the mention of our plans to visit their eastern neighbour. Some people have said in disbelief, “Why would you want to go to the Ukraine?! That place is practically Russia. It’s run by the mafia and they specialise in stealing our cars.” Ironically enough, I’ve heard Germans say the same thing about Poland.

We have been trying to make the most of our last weeks in Central Europe. Two weekends ago we headed across the border to see Kavita and Mark in Český Krumlov. As at Christmas, they hosted us warmly. This particular weekend hit a nine on the Bender Scale for a few reasons. To Martha’s and my surprise, Bep was in Krumlov to round out the Toronto Massive. Also, the town was celebrating Slavností pĕtilisté růže, the Festival of the Five-petalled Rose. It’s a big medieval-fest complete with costumes, jousting and lots and lots of weak, but very tasty, Czech beer. After Krumlov, we crashed at Kate and Christopher’s very boho pad in Prague, and I mean Bohemian in every sense of the word.

Back to Cieszyn for a bit and then off to the west of Poland. We spent a few days exploring Poznań, which is so German it’s not funny. The German influence goes way back to the days of Prussian occupation and today the Germans seem to fuel most of the foreign tourism to this city. But it wasn’t history or economy that struck us at first; it was the benches at the train station. They are built with a sensible rack on each side for resting your luggage. There’s no need to have your bags lie on the dirty platform. This is so German. Also, (most) people tended to wait at pedestrian crossings for the little man to change colour. There was extensive wheelchair access and bike paths. Hello! Berlin? I think I’ve been living in the country too long. To use Christopher’s phrase, I’m turning into a “village box.”

Next it was off to the Sudeten mountains. Here, we met up with Dorota. The theme for this region was scary, narrow, dark places. In Kłodzko, we explored the tunnels of the old fortress, some of which were only 90 cm high. The next day it was off to the ominous Kaplica Czaszek, a chapel whose interior is completely lined with skulls and bones. Then, we spent the day hiking in the Table Mountains with their bizarre labyrinthine rock formations.

Now we’re back in Cieszyn. We have one more jaunt planned: a day in Kraków. But sadly, our travels are coming to the end. That long plane-ride to Toronto doesn’t really count.

Yesterday, I walked out of the school, in the centre of Skoczów, at twenty after eight. I ran right into one of my old students. Her group finished their class a month ago so they could all take their matura exam: a big, stressful multi-day exam that all Polish high-school students must pass. I was preparing her group for the English language part of the exam. She did okay. Her brother, who was also in my class, didn’t do very well on the writing part. I can get all teacherly about that and say “That’s what you get when do don’t hand in any of your writing assignments.” Let that be a lesson for all you kids out there. Happily, the brother did do well on his speaking component.

After saying good-bye to my student, I went to check out the town square. This weekend features Skoczów Days, a celebration of the town, whose charter is around six times older than Canada’s constitution. In some ways the fair was a typical a small town do. It had an inflatable play-pen that the little ones could bounce around in. There were small sketchy rides, greasy foods and beer tents. Last night the main stage featured high school singing and dancing acts and a cake eating contest. On Sunday night, it would see a rock group who’s heyday was sometime in the late seventies and early eighties. Kind of like Trooper playing Festival Days in Port Perry.

I ran into one of my adult students, his wife—who is also the secretary at my school—and their five year-old son. They bought me a beer to go with my kiełbasa and fries. That student is getting an ‘A.’ (Let that also be a lesson to you kiddies.) The band played an old Silesian folk classic. Everybody in the audience new the words and the actions. My student translated the chorus, “Where is this street? Where is this house? Where is this girl that I love?” My student is a proud Silesian. Not quite a separatist, but he definitely thinks of himself as Silesian and not Polish.

With my kiełbasa and beer taken care of, I had to run for the bus to Cieszyn. Usually, I flirt with eye-strain on the bus by reading, but last night I ran into a old teacher from my school. She switched to another private school so I haven’t seen her in months. As we were chatting we found out that we both knew this one Brit living in Cieszyn. She said his accent was hard to understand and I simply added that the British do speak funny.

I didn’t run into anyone I knew on the walk home from the bus stop.

You can’t always be the man.

In the spirit of seemingly random (because they seem random to me) Polish holidays and occasions, here’s a little thing I’d like to note. Today is the second anniversary of Martha’s and my first trip to Europe. This occasion is observed by hopping on one foot three times while on the way to work.

First, I must explain a connection between Polish and English. I promise this linguist eggheadishness is going somewhere: bear with me. This connection revolves around Latinate words like ‘valorisation,’ ‘consternation’ and ‘fermentation.’ Their Polish equivalents look and sound almost the same: ‘waloryzacja’ (remember, ‘w’ is ‘v’ in Polish ), ‘konsternacja’ and ‘fermentacja.’ The big change is the between the two languages is the “ation” to “acja” (pronounced “ah-tsya”). I tell the following story whenever a student tries to work this connection a little too hard.

A the end of last October, I went to buy my first monthly bus pass. Everyday, I ride the bus from Cieszyn to Skoczów, a small town to the north west. A bus pass not only makes financial sense, but it allows me to avoid interacting with the surly bus drivers who man this route.

I went to the bus station in Skoczów armed with all the phrases I would need.

(When I tell the following part to my students, I usually ham it up a bit, leaning completely to the side as if I’m speaking through that low gap at the teller window, the one that’s for passing cash. I say the lines in Polish, which I’m sure still sounds a bit funny.)

“How much is a monthly ticket?”

“I need one from Cieszyn to Skoczów.”

“I’ll take one.”

“Thank you.”

So I tried the first two lines out on the lady behind the glass. She seemed to be getting it, but then she asked me a question that wasn’t in my notes. Something about “legitymacja” (pronounced with a hard ‘g’). I said I didn’t understand. She tried again, said something about students. I thought, “Ah, my baby-face is causing problems again.” So I explained that I wasn’t a student. I was a teacher. I just wanted a normal monthly ticket. That would be fine. Thanks.

The students love that last bit because any interactions with people behind glass are anything but straight-forward around here.

In my frustration, I turned to see who was in line behind me. Youngish people. Perfect. Someone will know English.

“Look, can you help me? I want to buy a monthly bus ticket. But there seems to be a problem.”

“Sure. Okay.”

So the English speaker yammered with the behind-glass lady. At the end, bilingual girl turned to me and said, “Ah, you need your legitimation.”

To which I replied, “Oh. Right. Great. Yeah, I’ll just go home and get it. Thanks. Really. Thanks for your help.”

I got out of there as fast as I could.

My students are killing themselves at this point because there is, of course, no “legitimation,” at least not like my helpful friend at the bus station thought. She just took the Polish word and turned it into an English one, with a hard ‘g’ pronunciation and everything. In Polish, “legitymacja” is official student or senior ID. In English… well, if you can read this, you don’t need to be told.

I did get a bus pass the next day, but it was at the Cieszyn bus station. I did have to explain once again that I had no legitymacja but I had my passport and residency papers. That took care of everything.

What this means is that I’ll be sending some posts “back in time,” giving them dates that will keep everything more or less chronological. I will also update the main page, so everyone will be able to find the new “old” posts.

The first back-blog happened on our February trip to the east of Poland. Enjoy.

The happy new addition to the site is comments. The hard-working folks at Blogger have made comments a regular feature of their blogs. After a few blissful hours of code hashing, this site now has the capability to get feedback from all five of its loyal readers. Sarcasm aside, I’m really stoked about this feature because it gets to the essence of what separates print from the Web: dialogue. So let’s hear what you gotta say.

For people who don’t have an account with Blogger, you can only post anonymous comments. But, I encourage you to sign your anonymous comments nonetheless (e.g. start a new line at the end of your comment and write “–Name”). So far, only the posts on the main page can take comments and any new ones will have this feature. It would be incredibly time consuming to go back through one hundred plus entries and turn on the comments feature. I do have exams to create and then mark. On second thought…

Really, I’m by no means a bowling enthusiast. I can think of dozens of other things I’d rather do, but our new found mobility drew us to that triangular formation of ten pins. We also hoped to catch some hockey as that is one of those areas where the Czechs are more enlightened than the Poles. Vodka, or cooking, is not.

At the border that leads into Česky Těšín, we did some serious double-czeching (yes, those kinds of jokes still make us giggle) on the information we’d found on the Czech and Canadian web sites. Just because the rest of the world knows about the policy changes, it doesn’t mean that the Pole and the Czech looking at our passports would. Which they didn’t, but after a few calls the Pole said Martha’s mom would have no trouble getting back in and the Czech said we could all enter his country. We asked if the people at the other border-crossing, the one that you take into Polish Cieszyn, were up to speed with these changes. Yeah, yeah, it’ll be no problem. So we sauntered into the land of knedle.

Within minutes, we passed a bar with the US/Sweden game on the TV. I yelled, “Whoa, hockey!” and Patrick, who’s been abroad for so long he’s in serious withdrawal, bolted for the window like a ritalin kid to a Christmas display. This manoeuvre freaked out a pair of wiener-dogs and greatly annoyed their owner. Five minutes into Czech and we were well on our way to causing an international incident.

The bowling alley had the game plastered up on a big screen TV. My first priority was to find out who won the Canada/Slovakia game. The Czechs were amused with our glee, but did not share our happiness. It seems their second favourite team is the one from the country they used to be joined with.

My bowling games weren’t too hot. Of the three or four frames I bowled, I didn’t break 200. I had to be told whenever my turn was up as I was glued to the big-screen display of Sweden nicely trouncing the US. Jill, Martha and Dorota all did very well at the lanes.

When the game ended, I noticed the group playing in the lane next to ours. There was a guy whose consistent strikes were made more impressive by the fact that he was two sips away from alcohol poisoning. He would then pass out once his turn was over.

Most of us were back at the border before midnight. Dorota, with her Polish passport, had no trouble. The Polish border guard was up on his country’s new regulations. In fact, on May 1, his department was sent on official memo that said Canadians didn’t need visas. A little later they were sent another memo saying the first had been a mistake. Still later, they received a third memo saying the first one was, in fact, correct. The Czech, whose desk was attached to the Pole’s, still hadn’t received anything as helpful from his superiors.

The Czech wondered how the heck we got into his country. Martha and my visas had expired months ago. Where were the new ones? Jill only had an old Polish visa in her passport. How did she get in? Why did Canadians need visas anyway? How did we all get in without even a stamp? Who did he have to call? He eventually figured it out, or decided there was nothing he could really do but let us leave. Either way, we warned the two guards that later on that night a very drunk Canadian and American would be coming through. They were just as legitimate as us. Please let them pass too.