Day 9 and 10: lessons in hope for humanity in rural Lesser Poland

Near Sandomierz the area changes from farmland to orchards. The sweet cherries are relieved of their weight, but the sour cherries, mainly used for juice, still heave under their heavy branches. Anita explains that the prices are so low now that it is cheaper to let them hang than to pay a worker to pick them. The only thing selling well at the moment are the apricots, so those who have them planted pick focus their attention on the prize crop.

Anita shows me a small fruit: “normally we couldn't sell these, but since low temperatures spoilt the crop this year, we sell all grades. Nobody cares about size or spots right now”. When I ask her how old the different trees are, she says: “ten years”, then laughs and continues “that's what i say with every tree, haha, I'm not such a good farmer”. Then serious again: “but it is kind of true. You know, in the past people grew everything around here, tomatoes, barley, cabbage, but about ten years ago it became known that we had great soil for apples. Now look around,” she says, as she waves her arms in the air with behind her the sun rapidly setting over hill after hill lined with rows of apple trees: “No more fields left!”

This year the lack of Ukranian trucks is felt. "Can you recommend Polish fruit in your country?" Anita's mother asks. With a mouth full of apricot I mumble: "I will".

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I am sitting in a kitchen in a house near Slupia, a small village on the road skirting the Wistla between Sandomierz and Krakow. On the chair next to me sits Maciek, the father of Michal, whom I wrote on Couchsurfing. Michal works in England and sent me the coordinates to his house, where he invited me to stay. The only other two inhabitants are a blind german shepherd named Aza and grandma. Maciek isn't in the least turned off by my meagre Polish language skills and keeps the the conversation going, as we sit sipping our tea that is still too hot.

I'm amazed by how far we get through the required topics of family, marriage, details of the trip, and since last week Thursday, that terrible plane crash. I learn that his wife passed away four years ago, and that he retired from work three years before that. The kitchen is strewn with about twenty jars, varying in size and placed on all possible surfaces. They contain the fresh cucumbers, that are now getting preserved for winter. Maciek explains: Polish garlic, dill seed, oak leaves, water and salt. Maciek leads me to the back of the house, past the waving barley and to some apple trees, where a lonely children's swing rocks in the wind. He explains that the apples are good when they've turned from green to a whiter shade. He tells me to fill a bag for the road and explains he has some work tending the grounds.

When I return to the kitchen I find a message of Dorota, the wife of Maciek's brother Marcin, who lives nearby with her child, while her husband works on a greenhouse construction site in the north of Poland. Her message reads that she likes me to wait for her, and do so as I settle behind the kitchen table with my laptop. After a few minutes two women appear on bicycles, each carrying a child. As I go out to greet them, one of them makes her way to the house, pacifying the old barking dog with a few calming words. She introduces herself to me and from the basket she is holding I begin to understand the purpose of the visit. “You must be hungry!” she says, “sorry for my bad English, I take dictionairy!” On top of the groceries sits a Longman's.

In the kitchen she shows me the wares: chocolate, homemade spaghetti bolognaise, sweet pastry, a garlic bun and Paluszki sausages. I am astounded by the hospitality shown, and try to tell her. While I enjoy the spaghetti, we discuss my trip and her life. After a few minutes she says she has to go. Outside the other woman has been joined by Maciek, who seems to be doing some work on one of the bicycles. She explains that if I need anything, I should give her a call. I tell her that all is well and that a dry place to sleep is already a blessing. She waves my comments away, “if there is anything, call me!” And certainly I should come by for coffee in the morning. She draws me a map, we set a time, and she walks back to her child, who is looking at his grandfather from a distance.

Still at the dinner table, I look around. In front of me a pile of food (that I didn't even need, my own storage filled for at least 24h), in the next room a bed, in another a shower, and my bicycle locked safely in the shed. I feel an amazing gratitude that all of this is so casually provided to the stranger that I am to the people around me. If I would have been only a little more sensitive, this would be moment where I would shed a few tears. If one ever lost hope about humanity, it would certainly be regained at a random dining table, somewhere in the middle of Polish generosity.