Tick ​​2005

My intuition can be very wrong sometimes, but this time I feel it's not lying. It tells me I'll remember this vacation for the rest of my life, and I—perhaps for the first time—trust it and feel it's telling the truth.

It all started on a rather quiet July evening. My intuition was hiding in the distant recesses of my subconscious, so I had a moment of peace. I was sitting on Gadu-Gadu, talking to my friend Martyna. In the next room, my dad was watching TV, and my mom was having a long and incredibly exhausting phone conversation. I even wondered who I was talking to (it couldn't have been Mrs. Małgosia, probably not Mrs. Jasia, Grandma Basia is out of the question—strange!).

So I sat on Gadu-Gadu, having what I call a conversation about nothing. From the room came the typical voices of people saying goodbye—"yes, yes, okay, bye, bye, well, kisses, kisses, see you later." And finally, the sound of the phone being hung up. A moment later, my mother appeared in my room and announced,

"Well, Monisia, on Friday we're going to the countryside. To Kleszczówka. What do you think?

What do I think?! Guess what! What do I think?!

***

Dozens of hours later, I was there. Me, Ganca, my mother, and Aunt Miecia (she was the one my mother was talking to) were traveling in a strange, ridiculously small bus. Martyna found a "Stars Say..." magazine on the luggage rack, and since it seemed unrelated at first glance, we appropriated it and, to liven up the otherwise boring journey, devoted ourselves to studying the secrets of magic and sorcery.

Finally, the bus-like thing stopped in front of a rather pretty, two-story stone house. We got off the bus and headed toward the house. But we passed it and, along a green path adorned with numerous spruces, came to a small, wooden, and somewhat inconspicuous-looking cottage.

I admit, I had mixed feelings. I'd secretly hoped to spend the next week in a large, brick cottage, not a wooden one. And the cottage I'd been assigned wasn't exactly a sizeable one. Inside, there might have been three small rooms at most. The garden was more inviting. Green and surrounded by spruce trees, like the path that led up to it. A few meters from the side wall of the cottage, a table and bench, then a pear tree, proudly representing its species among so many spruces. There was also a stately walnut tree, whose branches stealthily slipped through the wire mesh that separated Aunt Miecia's estate from the neighbors' modest apartment.

And my fingers were tapping out a lesson for me, one I urge you to remember: appearances can be deceiving, and you mustn't be fooled. Yes. Remember.

Who knows, maybe the evenings (oh! those beautiful, stormy evenings, quiet, warm, and peaceful!) in such a stone residence wouldn't have been any different?

Anyway, those evenings were... Hmm... I don't know what word to use to let you know what those evenings were really like. No, I don't want to risk it. The tiled stove and the crackling wood, the bright lightning streaking across the sky every few moments, the flypaper (and the swatter! oh yes, the swatter, and Martyna, flying around the cottage with the swatter!), my grandmother repeating over and over, "Go away!", her friend Wandzia, patting herself in the bathroom, fearing cellulite, my mother, engrossed in her book—and my aunt, or rather, my mother's aunt—Aunt Miecia, and her enchanting stories about my ancestors, which we listened to with bated breath—it's impossible to sum up in a single word (right...?).

Then to bed, from which we rose in the morning fresh, cheerful, and rested. A typical country breakfast: fresh rolls, milk straight from the cow (which didn't make Martyna sneeze, despite its protein starch), cottage cheese with chives, or challah (which, given Martyna's preferences, had to be bought in bulk—that was obviously a metaphor, please don't take it literally). Then it was time to get dressed. Wash and dress. Well, yes, I admit it took me, hmm, a little longer than others. Well, everyone has their own pace...

By noon, I was usually fully recovered. That's when real country life began. I'd like to describe this life, but I don't know, I simply don't know how! There are things you can't describe because you might disgrace them and diminish their beauty. How can I, for example, describe the smell of hay? The soft chirping of crickets? The crowing of a rooster? The mooing of a cow? The barking of dogs at dusk? A gentle breeze that gently and delicately cools your face as you sit on a pile of wood, watching the fiery ball of sunlight slowly disappear over the distant horizon, behind the emerald line of trees? How can I describe all this so that it's clear that these aren't mere, empty words, written out of necessity, but that they're true, the absolute truth? Do you think you know what hay smells like? How crickets chirp? Well, maybe you do. But it's worth it (it's worth it—I'm telling you!) to experience it again. Maybe someone knows but has forgotten? Well, let them remember.

I hope you've learned the moral by now? If not, I'll make it clear to you. If you're spending a very boring, endlessly drawn-out evening, and suddenly your mother bursts into your room, all larks, and announces joyfully,

"Well, honey, we're going to the country on Friday!"—you should throw your arms around her neck and start packing your backpack. Or... suitcase!