the world is my oyster, but no pearls

I am Polish, 50% by birth. I identify myself with the Polish race because my last name, "Krolewicz" is visibly Polish, my father and his 6 siblings are all 100% Polish, their parents immigrated from Poland and met in Michigan. Beyond this, I know nothing about my heritage. Yet it is because of this that led me to Poland for spring break this past Spring.


When I first arrived at our hostel, the Orange Hostel, it was the day after a sleepover in the Dublin airport. I had been toting around a backpack stuffed to the brim with clothing and necessities for my 3 week trip that weighed what felt like a ton. We had gotten lost in a part of town that seemed deserted with street signs that all seemed to read the same to eyes that were unfamiliar with the language. To get lost, I might add, you must have some idea of where you are to begin with or where you're headed, of which I had neither. Leave the train station, go up, turn left then right then left then walk walk walk and do not get discouraged. An apartment building was the apparent home to our hostel, so we cautiously dragged ourselves up four flights of stairs in hopes that this truly was our destination. I had no idea what I was doing, where I was going, or how we had actually managed to find the hostel. In fact, what originally brought me to Poland was a rumor that cigarettes there were cheap. Go figure.

Go back a month or two when the plan became real because plane tickets were booked, then did I e-mail my Babushka to inquire where in Poland my family was from. Her response was short and vague. Somewhere near the Russian border. Maybe. Something with an "O". Possibly. She couldn't remember. My disappointment.

So when I arrived finally at the Orange Hostel in Krakow, all I could think was food, sit, lay, pee. Primal. We were greeted by a friendly girl speaking Polish.
Polish? I'm sorry, I don't speak Polish.
And honestly, I really was sorry. I was in a foreign country relying on the expectation, the hope, that everyone spoke English. I was one of those Americans, I was a tourist, and I was sorry. After glimpsing over my passport,
Kro-lev-ich, you are Polish?
Yes, yes I am, but feeling a weird mixture of guilt and ashamed because I don't speak Polish, don't know anything about the culture, don't feel Polish beyond my last name. I'm here for cigarettes and because I'm Polish. But am I really? Genetically, hereditarily speaking, yes.


My grandfather, my father's father, was a great man. He did a lot of wrong, but I knew him for the woods around his house and the giant tire swing and his eclectic collection of junk and the words he would speak that always seemed to have meaning to him but were just babbling to me. I heard him, but I didn't hear him. I didn't understand. He died during Christmas of my freshman year of college. If only I had listened, maybe now I would understand what it is to be Polish. It is more than love of perogies and big noses and kelbasa and "skis". It's more than "somewhere near the Russian border" but it's a part of me that will never be known to me.

I will continue to feel connected to Poland because I am still connected to my grandfather, even if it is only by name. But if it is only by name, then it is my own fault. I will not let my lack of language skills hinder me from exploring the world, because I feel it is mine to explore. At least I wasn't alone, I had Stephanie and Stephanie alone to talk to for our 5 day stay. I will not rely on others to make up for what I do not know, but I will not let that stop me. The world is my oyster.