Sometimes we practiced English by playing American tunes they love, like "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," but the youngest ones were only familiar with "Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut" - an old American camp favorite with virtually no English vocabulary.

 

I felt most comfortable, loved and at-home when my host mom used to tell me to get some sleep or not to drink too much, and my host brother would steal candy from the top cupboard in the kitchen as a "bribe" so that I'd play games with him after his bed-time!

 

The weather permitted, so we loaded ourselves into an army-issued inflatable raft that Marek happened to have, and drifted several kilometers downstream to see his parents, past grazing cows and unsuspecting Sunday picnickers.

 

The Polish forest looks like something out of a mystical story from the Brothers Grimm. The pine trees look normal at the bottom, with ash-gray tree trunks and peeling bark. But the tops of the trunks, capped off with a few sprucy bristles twenty miles up, glow like orange embers, no matter the light. Scout Camp was tucked into these enchanting woods by one of the beautiful Mazurian lakes in northeastern Poland. Hansel and Gretel (whom the Polish insist on calling "Jan i Malgorzata") was surely set in this very forest, and I got goosebumps on my walks to the outhouse.

Scout Camp is something like a mix of ROTC training, color guard practice, and a Halloween festival with seven year olds and 16 year olds running completely amuck together. In the mornings, children reported to their captain immediately for duty in their PJs, while I was usually still recovering from the mild panic after being awoken by whistles and Slavic barking to find myself on a military cot from 1956. Forty seconds later, the kids were in perfectly pressed button-down uniforms, complete with berets and knee-high woollen socks with stripes. The horseback team wore fantastic woollen britches with eighteenth-century riding boots, and it was all a little disconcerting, albeit extremely good looking.

I spent my week trying to fit in with this breed of fairy tale characters, trying to teach a little English, but mostly just trying to survive. Days were fun, filled with singing, sailing, riding and incomprehensible games involving screaming and running. All Polish younguns play the guitar, so we often gathered by the lake and sang cheerful songs about both Polish cartoon characters and Mary and Jesus. Sometimes we practiced English by playing American tunes they love, like "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," but the youngest ones were only familiar with "Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut" - an old American camp favorite with virtually no English vocabulary. A highlight of the week was climbing to the tippy top of a pine to tackle a haphazardly assembled ropes course, when I got to see the storybook glowing embers close up.

The meals, too, were Hans Christian Andersen reminiscent, with scarfed old women ladling warm milk from ceramic pails and spooning goulash from enormous cauldrons. (Real goulash, really!) Even the youngest children impressed me by never wasting a bite, and as there was no place to dispose of the inadmissible leftover grub, I found myself sometimes wandering into the woods to paper bag some grossly overbuttered bread nubbins or beets.

Polish people tend to have startling generosity. When the rains came down heavily this week (as they often did), we gathered in the canvas tents to share candy bars and pass out treats. The owner of the first candy bar, be him seven or seventeen, takes one bite and then passes it to a neighboring friend. After the next six people take a tiny bite, the candy bar is gone, and the last person to nibble pulls out his Cheetos to continue the process. It is quite heartwarming and is typical all over Poland.

A chilling day was when we scouts took a field trip to the Wolf's Lair (Wolfsschanze in German), which was creepily close by. You might remember this name from being Hitler's hideaway and headquarters in the Polish woods during all of World War II. Half-blown, moss-covered bunkers stand as the only reminder of the evil place, where I was mostly nauseated and shivering.

I was relieved to by warmly greeted home by my host family in Ostrołęka, and Friday I left to meet some teacher friends in beautiful Kraków for the weekend. Have had a marvelous time, but am looking forward to getting back to my eager overachieving high schoolers in class on Monday. After a week of "KFC and a Pizza Hut," I am particularly grateful for my class's zeal for learning English.

Living with a host family was simultaneously one of the most difficult yet rewarding aspects of my WorldTeach experience. Language and cultural differences made even communication difficult at first and all conversation were channeled through my host sister (one of my students). I remember feeling nervous as I tried to guess what they thought of me, tried hard to be the model house guest and maintain some privacy. I can only begin to imagine what it was like for them.

They had welcomed a total stranger, the first Hindu and Indian they had ever met or seen, into their home purely because they believed in WorldTeach's mission. However, this nervousness, distance and formality was short-lived, and by the end of the summer I felt (and still do) just like another member of the family. This transition was accelerated by my fast-improving Polish skills, but more importantly, by a change in mid-set on both the part of my family and me: I was NOT a guest, but a family member.

As soon as I began to help with simple household chores, play soccer with my host brother's friends, go shopping with my host-father etc. I was really able to bond with them as a family member/friend and not only as a "volunteer guest from Harvard." I felt most comfortable, loved and at-home when my host mom used to tell me to get some sleep or not to drink too much, and my host brother would steal candy from the top cupboard in the kitchen as a "bribe" so that I'd play games with him after his bed-time! The key to a successful and rewarding host family experience is just that, act like a family member and encourage them to treat you as one, not as a guest.

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On Poland, by Dahm Choi

Friends often ask: What is it like, in Poland?  (The answer, I now know, is far more than "tam strasznie zimno" -- "it's very cold there".)  There is a wealth of political and economic observation that I can offer them: the strength of the new consumer culture; the unbounded love for America, American opportunity, and American products; the zeal with which the country has recommitted itself to the democratic process; the residue of the Communist era in the Polish national conscience; the obvious progress that has been made since 1989; the humorous irreverence of Poles toward their leaders.

In living with Poles, however, what I truly learned about and brought back to the States were the cultural notions that embody Poland and its rich heritage.  Over the course of the summer, I lived with four different families, and experienced the polska gościnność (Polish hospitality) and polska kuchnia (Polish cuisine) of many more.  "Gość w dom, Bóg w dom" (Guest in the house, God in the house) they told me, and everyone was more than generous in proving it.

My daily routine was simple, and invigorating.  I would arise, enjoy a filling breakfast, and walk to work carrying a bag with more food than I could possibly eat.  My host families always made sure of it.  Every weekday morning, I taught two English classes at the local school in either Maków Mazowiecki or Różan, dependent on the day.  After school, I would head over to see my friend and host Marek at his shop, where he was selling windows to help his brother-in-law.  I came to treasure the time I spent standing outside his shop, eating ice cream and chatting with the neighborhood shopkeepers, or whoever else happened to stop by.

At first, Marek spoke no English and I, no Polish, but we managed much in those afternoon sessions, using index cards, pocket dictionaries and rudimentary expressions.  Marek's girlfriend Ania would frequently help with translation, and mutual learning came quickly.  It proved to be of substantial benefit to me that Marek happened to be a trained instructor (as was Adam, a paternal, boisterous high school history teacher with whom I would stay later in the summer).

On weekends, I often sat for hours with Marek and Ania on their back porch, talking about the habits of Polish politicians, and prospects for the Polish economy, and when best to pick the wild mushrooms from the forest just beyond their fence.  We always mused about the weather, and one day, hail fell.  We laughed - tylko w Polsce (only in Poland)!  One of my favorite memories is of a trip to Marek's parents' vegetable farm.  The weather permitted, so we loaded ourselves into an army-issued inflatable raft that Marek happened to have, and drifted several kilometers downstream to see his parents, past grazing cows and unsuspecting Sunday picnickers.

After a time, I added feeding cows and shoveling grain to my afternoon routine, as I began living with a family of farmers in the nearby village of Obiecanowo.  I moved in with them during the late summer harvest, and learned about the seasonal cycles of an agricultural livelihood.  The weathered Rysiek and his adult son Grzesiek taught me how to handle a pitchfork, stack hay, clean a cow pen, and bag potatoes for market.  The fields swelled in fullness, then disappeared beneath the turning blades of their combine, a massive red Bizon of Polish manufacture.

Urszula, the matriarch of the gospodarstwo (farm), attended to my diet with great zeal, even slaughtering a pig at one point to prepare fresh kotlety schabowe (pork cutlets).  She introduced me to a Poland different from, but still intimately linked to, that in which Marek and Ania lived.  While the young couple held standards of amenity and worldviews not far removed from American paradigms for their generation, Urszula stood for an older way of life - one centered on the family, the field and the Church.

One of the highest privileges I had extended to me while volunteering was an invitation to a traditional wesele (wedding reception) in Urszula's village, to bear witness to Polish customs and take part in the community.  It was quite an event.  The next marriage in Obiecanowo is to be that of Urszula's son Grzesiek, and I hope to be there in person.

I traveled vigorously while in Poland, visiting Warsaw, Gdańsk, Sopot, Malbork, Treblinka, Częstochowa and Mazury with either the WorldTeach program or my hosts.  Of all my trips in various Eastern European countries this summer, the one to Częstochowa stands out as truly unique.  It was not made by train or bus, like the others, but on foot - as one of the tens of thousands of young people in the annual pilgrimage procession which sings and chants its way to Jasna Góra, to become a part of the Polish cultural experience.

After completing my duties as a teacher, I said goodbye to my students and host families and backpacked solo through the South of Poland (crossing the border to visit Poland's regional neighbors for a time).  Along the way, I practiced my conversational skills and heard some remarkable stories from friendly Poles, young and old.  Before eventually returning to Warsaw, I had visited Zakopane, Tatrzański Park Narodowy, Karpacz, Karkonoski Park Narodowy, Oswięcim, Wieliczka, and of course, Kraków.

Toward the end of my stay, I thought often of the future, and whether the taste I had in my mouth - polski chleb (Polish bread), bigos (Polish stew), a new and melodious language - was one I wished to acquire, and preserve.  Wandering along the broad banks of the Wisła (Vistula River) as just another aimless student, a young person among many, I wondered: Can I return to this?  It was an admirable view - Wawel's old walls above me, the enormous Żywiec sign across the river, birds racing, summer lovers gliding by.

I carried the thought with me through the lush silence of the beautiful back trails of the Tatra Mountains.  Occasionally, another hiker would appear coming the other way, and after customary acknowledgments, I would inquire, "Jak daleko do schroniska (How far to the hostel)?"  Another conversation would begin.

By the time I was flying home, I had made my decision - to study a part of the world, and a people, that had inspired a genuine delight in my life.

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