Waiting, Watching, Praying

I will confess something.

When I arrived at my new host's house this week, I was anxious. Baudelaire-children-meeting-their-new-guardians anxious. (That comparison is so ridiculously accurate for this experience, except the Unfortunate Events have been swapped with miracles and pierogi.) For one, I loved my stay with the last host and did not want to leave. Two, my confidence was shot from the rough experience in the last camp, and this new woman is director of the English school who organizes these camps. I was terrified I would not be up to snuff. Three, she gave me an uneasy feeling upon meeting.

Everything this week seemed, initially, a trade off. I cast off my terrible campers for a brilliant group of bright eyed bushy haired kidlets who really wanted to have fun; but I also was passed from an unbelievably wonderful host family to something... something. Where as I was with the family all the time the week before, this last week I had my own floor, and rarely saw the family downstairs. I traded comfortable home life for privacy. Everything on the surface was more or less  the same. Husband, wife, son, daughter. Drive every day to camp, come back every evening. Prepare in the morning, discuss in the evening. But my last host's son showed me his shell collection first thing; this boy didn't want to make eye contact. My last host's husband took shots with me and sang Metallica as he made breakfast; this guy didn't want to say hello.

And then, my host herself. I will confess I was intimidated beyond all reason, and historically I have never done well with superiors who intimidate me. The feeling was not right. Admittedly, the first thing I did was write to a few people asking them to pray for me because I was mortified that we wouldn't get on and this week would bring its own horrors.

Every week has brought its own horrors; each week came with its own call to be brave.

After I asked my friends (and mother, of course) to pray, I remembered that the first week I came to Poland, my first host openly prayed during the family Rosary that I receive the graces necessary for this experience. I was, at the time, humiliated. I couldn't believe she could already tell how unprepared I was. But each morning I have prayed for the same things, and each night I have prayed that I didn't screw up badly. And in between... I tried.

I tried to make conversation.

I tried to make light. I tried to make jokes.

I tried to find things in common.

It felt so awkward I wanted to scream.

But little by little, it changed. When I brought up reading, and how I had finished the books I brought with me, my new host gave me a stack of beach reads in English, to have something to keep me occupied when I retreated, each evening, to the balcony. 

Sometimes she would ask about my last host, because they are good friends, and I think that despite my best effort to hide it it was clear whose home I found more comfortable. It was terrible. I stalled and stammared, trying to find something genuine to say that wouldn't sound ingrateful or hurtful to this hostess. In the end, I mentioned the Crazy Dog story. She conjured a bottle of wisniowka; we had a drink.

If I tried, she tried, too.

I must confess that I take my cues on how to be from where I am, which is appropriate sometimes and not so great other times. Throughout this week, I realized part of the reason why I was so nervous, so awkward, so intimidated is... So was my host.

Last night my two hosts and my coworker in this week's camp took me out to celebrate. My coworker gave me a bottle of wisniowka, to recover from two weeks with crazy Polish kids. This host gave me another bottle of wisniowka, which she said is the key to learning Polish. And my last host gave me her old copy of James Joyce's Chamber Music, his only remaining work that I don't have, with the English in green print and the Polish translation on the opposite page.

My next host will pick me up from camp today, and drive me to my next camp. This morning, this last host sent me off with a pack of sandwiches, a small carton of cherry tomatoes, an apple pie she baked herself, and a literal pound of chocolate. As we made our camp commute for the last time, she asked why my first host had given me Joyce. When I explained that my two favorite things are Joyce and Poland, she paused for a second, then laughed for a solid two minutes, and cried, "You're crazy."

I think she saw me then for the first time.

We said good bye, thanked each other, and both agreed we hoped I would be back. And we meant it.

Never write any experience off.