ASSIMILATION (OR NOT) BY WAY OF FOOD

I am standing in the middle of the street, crying. “I hate this coffee. Why does everything taste so weird? Why is surówka served with everything?” To this day I don’t get what’s to love about a type of coleslaw. Why did we come here? What was I thinking? My poor husband stands helpless, watching my meltdown. He later tells me he was concerned by my extreme reaction, and worried that I was going to unravel. He felt bad, he said. He had no idea how to help me. We haven’t found our support system. For now it is just the two of us trying to navigate our daily existence.

The honeymoon period in a new place lasts about a month. That’s when everything feels new and shiny—before your new reality takes you by surprise. I have to wonder: is this how my parents felt when they first lived in Baghdad or Paris, in Sweden or Toronto? No wonder they didn’t hang on to the foods they knew. Or to the traditions. How could they? They learned it was easier to adapt than to blindly cling to old conventions. My father grew up in postwar Poland when food was heavily rationed. For years my parents had to be financially creative to put healthy meals on our table. Food was the bridge to our life in Canada and all the places my parents called home.

Adjusting to our new life in Poland is demanding. Having breakfast at Vincent’s, a Parisian café in the heart of the city, helps, and in a couple of days we fall into a routine that leads us daily to this tiny piece of Paris, complete with flags, those iconic wicker chairs, and the best baguettes outside of France. Each morning we leave our flat for a small park with sweeping views of Powiśle, an indie neighborhood bordering the Vistula River and the escarpment where we live. There are always lots of people, all walking dogs off leash, so we pick our way through dog poop and garbage left by partygoers, local drunks, and students. Pristine the park is not, but we have a prime view of the church grounds—one of the many, many churches in Warsaw—and a view of the river and the rooftops. Walking down a steep hill where kids toboggan in the winter, we come to the Chopin University of Music, where we’re serenaded by students practicing the piano or violin or occasionally a flute, creating that alluring cacophony heard at the start of a classical concert, then make our way up to Nowy Świat, a part of the Royal Route.

This daily walk to Vincent’s makes us happy. The general societal mood is electric, despite a certain heaviness that lingers. Warsaw is a city that displays its memories, especially those that contrast starkly with the modern world. Memorials and statues stand out on prominent streets. Buildings show off shell holes from World War II assaults. Every few steps there is a plaque commemorating a death or a war event, like the beautiful old library around the corner from our home that saw its books burned during the Nazi regime. Even with history at every turn, the pink, blue, and yellow buildings perk up the gray wintry feel of Warsaw.

Pixie, with her laid-back West Coast disposition, putters along at our side as we pass restaurants and cafés that will soon be bustling. Pixie loves Vincent’s as much as we do. Why wouldn’t she? The owner hand-feeds her fresh croissants, sometimes with jam. Those croissants are the best part of our mornings. Breaking apart the buttery flakes, each bite a melting morsel, and washing them down with rich cappuccinos is the only sane way to start the day. Actually, there are three Parisian cafés to choose from on this street, each with its own flavor. Petit Appetit has vintage French music, and each baguette is named after a different city. A few meters away is Croque Madame, with whitewashed walls and bunches of lavender strategically displayed. Vincent’s is my favorite because it reminds me the most of Paris, but each café is filled with the aroma of fresh bread. From flaky pastries to cream-filled macarons to warm, melt-in-your-mouth pain au chocolat to delicate madeleines, every day brings some new indulgence. In the weeks to come, when we finally rejoin society, we will drop by Vincent’s on Saturday mornings to pick up a freshly baked baguette that is still warm to the touch, to pair with runny cheeses, fragrant meats, juicy red tomatoes, and crisp pickles. This is the meal that grounds us, that makes us feel we are home.

For now, walking to faux Paris every morning is our escape from the obvious. At some point, we will have to find work. At some point, we will have to eat healthier food. That means I will have to cope with grocery shopping.

When I finally try, some items really stump me. The tomato sauce tastes sweet, and the only milk I find is boxed up, on a shelf. Eggs aren’t in the fridge either, which makes for a confusing run around the market. It takes days of dipping into different stores before finally working up the nerve to ask a clerk about this strange new-to-me milk. Actually, I have no idea what to ask, which is why the conversation goes as follows. “Przepraszam? Prosze pana, jakie to mleko, czy można je pić normalnie?” This roughly translates as, “Excuse me, sir? What kind of milk is this? Can I just drink it normally?” Or at least that’s what I want to say. Whether it comes out like that, I can’t be sure. “O co pani chodzi?” he scoffs. This term I will come to know intimately over the next four years. It translates roughly as, “What are you talking about?” said harshly. Dismissively. To be fair, I probably sounded odd asking about milk I can drink “normally.” I went to Poland thinking I spoke Polish. Which I do. I speak Polish fluently, but I was used to speaking Polish with my family over dinner and throwing in the occasional English word or modifying a Polish word when I didn’t know how to conjugate. Conversation went like this, “Jak dzisiaj było w szkole?” (How was your day at school?) “Okay. Miałam, science test i myślę że, that I passed.” Do I even need to translate? But in Poland, it will take a year before I figure out that I should smile my biggest smile and say, “I’m sorry I haven’t learned that word yet,” so people will laugh and possibly go out of their way to help me.

***Your Roots Cast a Shadow: One Family’s Search Across Histoy for Belonging*** by Caroline Topperman. Published by HCI.

About Your Roots Cast a Shadow: One Family’s Search Across Histoy for Belonging :

A narrative of cultural translation, identity, and belonging.

The thrill of a new place fades quickly for Caroline Topperman when she moves from Vancouver to Poland in 2013. As she delves into her family’s history, tracing their migration through pre-WWII Poland, Afghanistan, Soviet Russia and beyond, she discovers the layers of their complex experiences mirror some of what she felt as she adapted to life in a new country. How does one balance honoring both one’s origins and new surroundings?

Your Roots Cast a Shadow explores where personal history intersects with global events to shape a family’s identity. From the bustling markets of Baghdad to the quiet streets of Stockholm, Topperman navigates the murky waters of history as she toggles between present and past, investigating the relationship between migration, politics, identity, and home. Her family stories bring history into the present as her paternal grandmother becomes the first woman allowed to buy groceries at her local Afghan market while her husband is tasked with building the road from Kabul to Jalalabad. Topperman’s Jewish grandfather, a rising star in the Communist Party, flees Poland at the start of WWII one step ahead of the Nazis, returning later only to be rejected by the Party for his Jewish faith. Topperman herself struggles with new cultural expectations and reconciling with estranged relatives.

A study in social acceptance, Topperman contends with what one can learn about an adopted culture while trying to retain the familiar, the challenges of learning new languages and traditions even as she examines the responsibilities of migrants to their new culture, as well as that society’s responsibility to them.

More about Caroline Topperman:

Born in Sweden and raised in Canada, in 2013 Caroline Topperman returned to her ancestral roots in Poland to live, and to explore her love of traveling and experiencing different cultures. From sampling authentic Neapolitan Pizzas in Naples, to photographing a piano, frozen in a river in Užupis, an independent artist’s republic in Lithuania, to pitching Poutine as a great comfort food to a local French baker in Poland. She speaks fluent English, Polish, and French. Caroline holds a BFA in screenwriting from York University (Toronto). Her book credits include Tell Me What You See: visual writing prompts for the wandering writer (One Idea Press) and a complementary guide to her blog, FitWise: straight talk about being fit & healthy. Caroline has written a column for Huffington Post Canada and was the Beauty Editor for British MODE.