Poland today was not like it was when Julie was there. It seems redundant to say “places change”, but people forget so it bears repeating. Julie was in Poland as a Peace Corps volunteer between 1992 and 1994. Now, she was back in Laramie with her family.
Julie left for Poland shortly after college, as many PC volunteers do. She was idealistic, had an English degree, and was headed off to do what her Quaker faith wanted her to do, not proselytize, but simply make gentle this world. While at times Poland proved to be difficult and alienating and redundantly plain, she never once shit herself, and for a PC volunteer that was a significant accomplishment.
Now, back in Laramie, she was with her family and in transition. Looking at grad school, teaching jobs, and the State Department’s Foreign Service Exam, she still felt that the sky was the limit. The Peace Corps did not leave Julie cynical, which was another unique accomplishment.
This night, Julie’s mother was making vegetarian stir-fry for dinner when she realized she was out of oil. Even though Julie’s mom was not the most sophisticated cook, Julie was excited for the meal because it was a taste of home she could not recreate in Poland. Soy sauce, Julie was unprepared to learn, was not a priority import after the Iron Curtain fell.
Julie hopped into the family’s sun worn Taurus and shifted into reverse. After two years without a car, Julie loved the foreign feel of driving. It was her first solo trip since returning to the States, and she felt comfortable. Snow fell softly as she made her way to the Safeway off of Clark. Without incident, Julie put the car in park and unlocked the doors only to lock them again. . Since living abroad, Julie had become proud of herself, she now knew she was self-sufficient. She nearly skipped into the store.
The sliding doors to that temple of commerce and choice parted for Julie with inate intuition. She gasped, which startled her. The lights were unbearable, like a spot light at the beginning of an interrogation. Her pupils dilated, they hurt. Her heart began to beat faster. Her arm pits moistened. She staggered. She hoped no one saw her peculiar reaction, and no one did.
As a kid, Julie went to this store with her mother. She knew to make her way to aisle seventeen, in the middle, because that was were the cooking oil was. She focused her eyes down on the tile as she made her way there. The white tile with clustered black specks reminded her of the birch bark she saw so often in Poland. After her entrance to the store, she did not want to risk tripping and making, what she thought would be, a larger scene. She turned right on seventeen with pin point accuracy. In the middle of the aisle, she looked up and to the right. The aisle seventeen sign hung motionless above her: “Spices, Baking, Oil.”
She stared. For what felt like minutes, she just stared. Then her eyes bounced like a pinball from one label to another. Virgin. Cold Pressed. Italian. She began to sweat again. Extra-Virgin. Greek. Her thumb was rubbing against her forefinger trying to erase her own fingerprints. Canola. Vegetable. Sunflower. Her right hand jerked and clasped her left elbow as she took two steps back from the shelf. With shallow, hurried breath the choices were too much and Julie began to sob.
Now, back in Laramie, she was with her family and in transition. Looking at grad school, teaching jobs, and the State Department’s Foreign Service Exam, she still felt that the sky was the limit. The Peace Corps did not leave Julie cynical, which was another unique accomplishment.
This night, Julie’s mother was making vegetarian stir-fry for dinner when she realized she was out of oil. Even though Julie’s mom was not the most sophisticated cook, Julie was excited for the meal because it was a taste of home she could not recreate in Poland. Soy sauce, Julie was unprepared to learn, was not a priority import after the Iron Curtain fell.
Julie hopped into the family’s sun worn Taurus and shifted into reverse. After two years without a car, Julie loved the foreign feel of driving. It was her first solo trip since returning to the States, and she felt comfortable. Snow fell softly as she made her way to the Safeway off of Clark. Without incident, Julie put the car in park and unlocked the doors only to lock them again. . Since living abroad, Julie had become proud of herself, she now knew she was self-sufficient. She nearly skipped into the store.
The sliding doors to that temple of commerce and choice parted for Julie with inate intuition. She gasped, which startled her. The lights were unbearable, like a spot light at the beginning of an interrogation. Her pupils dilated, they hurt. Her heart began to beat faster. Her arm pits moistened. She staggered. She hoped no one saw her peculiar reaction, and no one did.
As a kid, Julie went to this store with her mother. She knew to make her way to aisle seventeen, in the middle, because that was were the cooking oil was. She focused her eyes down on the tile as she made her way there. The white tile with clustered black specks reminded her of the birch bark she saw so often in Poland. After her entrance to the store, she did not want to risk tripping and making, what she thought would be, a larger scene. She turned right on seventeen with pin point accuracy. In the middle of the aisle, she looked up and to the right. The aisle seventeen sign hung motionless above her: “Spices, Baking, Oil.”
She stared. For what felt like minutes, she just stared. Then her eyes bounced like a pinball from one label to another. Virgin. Cold Pressed. Italian. She began to sweat again. Extra-Virgin. Greek. Her thumb was rubbing against her forefinger trying to erase her own fingerprints. Canola. Vegetable. Sunflower. Her right hand jerked and clasped her left elbow as she took two steps back from the shelf. With shallow, hurried breath the choices were too much and Julie began to sob.
