Somewhere between Lodz and Warsaw I pass a farmer standing at his gate. Standing at a gate waiting for something to happen seems to be the national pastime of Polish people over the age of fifty five. I park a ways down the road and get out to ask him for his picture. He understands this as me telling him that my car has broken down and disappears into the house. A while later he returns with his daughter, who speaks a little English.
‘My car’s not broken,’ I say, ‘But thank you.’
‘Thank God, thank God’.
They show me their horses, their pond, and their foals, all the same shade of brown. Then they invite me inside for coffee and eggs. As I wait at the table, the farmer disappears and returns with a baby in his arms, his little granddaughter. He holds her out to me like a trophy. The moment she sees me, she begins to cry.
‘My father thinks you shouldn’t go to Warsaw, because it’s too dangerous,’ his daughter says, taking the baby. ‘Don’t listen to him. It’s not so bad. He’s just never left here.’
He speaks again in his soft, measured Polish.
‘My father likes your car,’ she translates. ‘He wants to know if you would trade it for his horse.’
