P.N.ZOYTLOW

[The interview was conducted by the agent/editor at a place selected byP.N.Zoytlow, the Flying J Travel Center in Limon, Colorado.  The time was mid-afternoon and Zoytlow was seated in a booth with a view of the Interstate. He was drinking a small coffee out of a disposable cup. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt purchased at the place of his last Field Report (FR), Why, Arizona. After a friendly greeting and a handshake, Zoytlow signaled that he was ready and the recording device was turned on.]

DB: You’ve no doubt noticed in the correspondence I’ve forwarded to you from your    readers that some of them see you in the tradition of the hidden writer, like B Traven. Some have wondered if you exist at all and I myself have been accused of using you at a front.

PNZ:  [Frowns]  And this surely bothers you?

DB: Why no, not at all. But I’m hoping that you can reveal enough of yourself here to put some of those questions to rest.

PNZ:   Have they read that bio section, what’s it called? On the  blog, I mean.

DB: About.

PNZ: About, OK., they know I was born on June 15, 1950. But not much more, as I recall. Well, here’s more. Galena, Illinois. Went to NIU  at DeKalb. Journalism. Then to Iowa, Rural Sociology and in 1983 had my first academic posting as a researcher for the Institute for….well, let’s leave it there. But you may surmise that my interest in field research begins in those years.

DB: Yes, you make no secret of wanting to make a notable contribution in some area that you vaguely refer to as the “social sciences,” but isn’t it really Anthropology where you hoped to make your mark?

PNZ:  “Hoped?”  What’s that supposed to mean? It’s pretty clear that in 24 FRs I nailed down one paper after another. What do my readers say?

DB:    Without denying that your work is, ah, unique, many seem to think that you reveal a deep loathing for yourself and for academia which, if I may be so blunt, marched to a different tune than you were hearing.  One of your readers said that she could not endure your obvious talent for taking a dynamite research idea and as she puts it “messing it up, big-time.” I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise to you?

PNZ: What does?

DB: That your work seems flawed, perhaps tragically so, and that you yourself…

PNZ:  [coughing] …I myself am some sort of paradigm for tragedy?  Well, now, that WOULD be something!  It rather pleases me, that turn of phrase, rather elegant!  Hah! Nice epitaph, I’ll call the obelisk makers in the morning. [Laughs.]

DB:  Let’s turn now to your oeuvre.

PNZ: My what? [Shakes head.]

DB: Your stuff.  How did you decide on the Field Reports?

PNZ: I was curious if I could extract a useful amount of information, an impression really, of a place or situation in seventy-five minutes of observation time. Like going into a large art museum, tearing though the place in an hour, then lingering at some painting or drawing that sort of bulges out at you and says: this is what this is. In every 75 minute FR, I had to hope that something would “bulge” and show me what I had been doing there in the first place. Now some of these FRs were really terrifying for me. I had to contend with the possibility that nothing really happened and that I would be held up to derision by the world.

DB: We can talk about that later, but I have to tell you that your FRs on the bloghave not gone anything near “viral” as the expression goes. Go back to what terrified you. And by the way, what does the “N” stand for in your name?

PNZ: Nepumuceno. I got very scared with FR # 7

DB:   The Beethoven House in Bonn?

PNZ: Un-huh. Nothing seemed to be happening and then everything seemed to be happening. But that’s how human culture operates, everything at once and from there I learned that stuff is happening all at once all the time, like some sort of molecular movement, only this is cultural. Look over there [points to a family looking upwards at the food service menu] there is an amazing report over there, or maybe we should just call it a story. If I sat here for 75 minutes, a hell of a lot would be happening but would I be smart enough to have a feel for it? And would I be able to convince you that you were part of it to?

DB: You’ve been unhappy with some of your FRs? Were there some you could not squeeze the essence out of?

PNZ:  The one on wine tasting haunts me. Something eluded me. I still don’t know what it was. But that was pretty effortless, too. I was already there and it fell, too easily right into my head. Take the one on the Iceman Oetzi–there was one I drove especially to see the thing, Bolzano. I was very keyed up because it just had to be a good topic. Poor devil and more so the poor devils who were there to see him. [Sighs deeply.]

DB: Do you include yourself in that category?

PNZ:  What do you think? Sure, doing FRs leads to a conceit. You’re always in thedriver’s seat and then the road narrows and becomes a grass track and thenyou’re in the sand. Wheels spinning and all that dust…

DB: OK, OK, I follow that. What were the FRs you might have done had you not, ah, retired from this work?  You did think of it as work, yes?

PNZ: The “work” was deciding if my instincts had been correct in choosing a FR. Butonce I chose a topic, I would stick with it to the end for reasons that I think I have explained, meaning everything has a hook.

DB:  A hook.

PNZ: Yes, it gives you a flash, a brief insight which says “follow the Yellow Brick Road” or something like that. It tells you it is worthwhile and that if you play your hunch carefully enough,there will be be a  payoff, a fully-evolved revelation which I called “Field Report.” Now, as to those “hooks” that it would have been a fine thing to be presented with, let me think on that.[Pauses] Remember, I did not chose the FR so much as I always thought it chose me. Recall the FR on the motel culture, or whatever that was. A bland, ordinary thing which suddenly just asked me to think on it. I always sensed an attraction to, let’s see….churches, those quick oil change places, poetry readings, and the kitchens of restaurants or hotels. But I never got to those places or if I did I wasn’t bitten. People would suggest FRs to me, but that never worked. I could not love their muse. Easier to be motivated by a half-dead sea cucumber and by the way, that one was so wonderful. This small thread of idea and then…..Jesus!

DB:  Some of your readers are indifferent to the news that the FRs have reached an end. Others seemed disappointed, at least mildly so. A few wanted to know why.

PNZ:  I gave it up because I wanted to, that’s it. Time to do something else. Anyway, as I must have made clear, none of the FRs ever quite reached the point where I thought some social science journal would get excited over it. I knew all along that I could not discipline myself to keep the subjective stuff out, keep it at bay. So, no surprise that each FR, in its own way, just reaffirmed that.

DB:     So what’s next, Phil?

PNZ: I don’t like it when people call me “Phil” and I thought you knew that. And this thingyou call an interview reminds me of the bad times I had trying to figure out thepoint of a FR.

DB: Just like your readers?

PNZ: So, that’s the way it’s going to be, is it?  Look, I’m out of coffee and I don’t want more. What’s holding me here? My joy in travesty?

DB: Your call, but if  you want to continue–what’s your thinking on the likelihood that readership of the blog has been, uh, light.

PNZ: Scant?

DB: Sparse.

PNZ: Too many blogs, too little time. I only read about six myself.

DB: So, what’s next Mr. Zoytlow?

PNZ: You’ll see. Don’t expect me to lay a curse over it by telling you “what’s next.” I hate that expression.

DB: Of course not. Whatever it is, good luck with it!

PNZ:  And if “what’s next” is nothing, just empty time and space?

DB:   Thank you. We’re done.

Note: I had made no plan regarding how the interview might end and this seemed to work for both of us. Zoytlow seemed indifferent. We shook hands. I stayed in the booth and watched the traffic for a few moments longer. Zoytlow wandered over to thepostcard rack and, moments later, was gone.

[Editors Note] I was surprised to see P.N.’s almost casual reference (contained herein) that this would be the last Field Report.  Subsequently, I called him and he refused any relevant details. However he did promise to sit for an Interview (something that has been in the works for some time, readers may recall) and perhaps as early as this June.   Most on his mind was his success at avoiding any use of the word  “why” except with reference to the subject, Why, Arizona. “If  you find one, don’t tell me about it!” said he with a laugh.

Followers of these Field Reports will note that once again, the Reporter/Observer has chosen an obscure place for an investigation. The reason is obvious: the place has a peculiar name, amusing to some, deeply serious to others.  For Zoytlow, it was a mix of both but the point was to go and verify that such a place (Why, Arizona) existed at all and was not merely a bit of cartographic whimsy.   Zoytlow, as is well-known, takes these types of investigations seriously and especially so if they touch on geographic locales. Proof simply must be found, backed by photographic evidence as required to support either the existence or the nonexistence of Why.

To begin, documentary sources suggested that Why would appear just east of the boundary of the Tohono O’Odham Reservation, ten miles south of the town of Ajo, and thirty miles north of the Lukeville border crossing with the Mexican Republic. What may lie to the West is open space, many miles of parched, trackless desert until one might reach Yuma.  Zoytlow, rising that morning with the task of driving to Why, felt the vague unease that desolate highways bring.

Zoytlow saw the first road sign with “Why” on it about 30 miles out. He was on the narrow highway that bisects the Reservation, a place with names like GuVo and Hickiwan which were somewhere out there, unseen, left or right at rare intersections. Such inhospitable, hot country.  As if to confirm his apprehensions, Zoytlow noticed many descansos as the roadside memorials to those slain along the road are called. Most are simple affairs, a grotto with flowers or icons, but others may include hubcaps, flags, sorrowing madonnas and photographs of the deceased Zoytlow was glad he was not on this road at night. Ten miles from Why another sign appeared and shortly thereafter and indication that the seniors of the town had “adopted” a stretch of road. This was reassuring: all over the country groups had for years been volunteering to pick up the trash that seemed to fly out of passing vehicles. That there should be such a group in Why reassured Zoytlow. Why existed. It was probably as benign as old folks who gleaned the junk.

When Zoytlow arrived at Why he saw that it was not much of a place, really. A ten minute drive along the main street confirmed this. Not far south of Why was a Border Patrol checkpoint with cheerful looking Labradors eager to please and sniff cars. In recent weeks they had apprehended significant cargos of marijuana coming up one of the numerous drug pipelines from Mexico.  On he north side of Why stood a complex of buildings, a regional Border Patrol HQ with many of the familiar green and white trucks  unfailingly encountered on and sometimes off-road in these parts.

This cursory survey through Why told Zoytlow that the ganglion of the place was at the Texaco station, the Why-Not Travel Shop. The place was surprisingly large and cool inside. Under a low ceiling and along rows of shelving, lay a remarkable range of groceries, camping equipment, and souvenirs. The place appeared empty except for a short man at the counter. He had a serious beard which covered the first word of a message on his tee shirt so that all that could be read was “can count to 10.” Zoytlow put aside an impulse ask the Bearded One to lift that hairy sheaf so that the first word or words of the message could be read. It would have to be something like “my horse” or ‘“even idiots,” but supposing it simply said “Why.”  Instead Zoytow began with an apology: he had come to Why to ask about the name, probably a near-predictable request?  The Bearded One smiled (a relief to PNZ) and motioned him to a glass counter beneath which was taped a yellowed news article on peculiar Arizona place names. Prominent among them was Why.  Zoytlow read the relevant paragraph.

While he was doing so, the Bearded One loudly announced that there was a rat running about outside near the gas pumps. Laughter followed and Zoytlow abruptly realized that there were four others in the store. The “rat” in question was a patron’s miniature dog, a Chihuahua with a grey muzzle and a limp. Now woman appeared from the back room of the store. Her badge said “Manager” and she joined in the laughter. “Oh,” said she, “that rat!”  Zoytlow said, to no one in particular, that Why seemed to have a good humor to it.  All four patrons and the two employees agreed. “Why not?” said one. More chuckling. The patron at the gas pump entered the store carrying the dog/rodent. It growled and the laughter began anew. Why has a year-round population of less than 100 persons, perhaps more like 42. Winter saw some increase due to refugees from the Cold Zone elsewhere.  Zoytlow learned that the best method of taking the census here was t to count the number of active water meters. Anyway, with six humans and one dog before him, it was likely that more than ten percent of Why was enjoying a few moments of presumable rapport in the Why-Not.

This laughter was genuine and innocent and refreshing. There was nothing to suggest simple-mindedess and none of the obvious or cynical ironic twists so necessary to get a laugh in other venues.  The ice being broken (ice in the hot desert!) Zoytlow felt at ease to ask more questions including whether the town had a festival of any sort such as a “crazy days” or a “homecoming” or a “pioneer weekend.”  Nope, was the answer, and then, unselfconsciously, the woman with the dog said, “Why make a fuss?”  Then everyone laughed, and Zoytlow, forgetting the seriousness of Field Reporting, laughed loudest of all. Seconds later, another laugh: the Why water supply came from deep wells that some years ago had tested positive for arsenic. “Tasted great but it will kill you, so we dug a new well.”  Kind of like tequila? Zoytlow volunteered, and they rewarded him with another honest cackle (for such it was). Zoytlow felt good about Why.

Back to work: regarding Why, it hung on, yes because it lay at the junction of two highways, but also because it was only minutes from the northern end of a national park, Organ Pipe Cactus National Park. You are standing, said the owner of the still-growling Chihuahua, in the Wal-Mart of Why!  Now, here was the missing irony. Alas, business was down: the recession, the drug trouble in nearby Mexico, the ominous presence of the Border Patrol, and so on. People used to drive this way to go to Puerto Penasco a.k.a Rocky Point, a tourist destination at the top of the Sea of Cortez.  Now they were afraid, though the media was roundly condemned for making matters worse.

The lack of a customary flow of tourists to the Park or into Mexico meant that keeping the store stocked was constant guesswork. The Bearded One told Zoytlow that they only stocked “thrice requested” items.  Zoytlow pointed an overflowing box of candy suckers with real scorpions trapped inside, amber style. “Bet you have a hard time selling these,” PNZ commented. “Not so–very popular” said the manager who was dusting some cans of SPAM in the next aisle. “Lots of folks like them,” she said, “the kids say they taste like salted nuts.”  Zoytlow thought that Why, lacking a community festival day, might still have managed a to agree on a favored snack?  However, the Bearded One averred that he would never eat one, he’d stomped on too many of them and knew the color of their guts. (Laughter)

Readers of these Field Reports may assume that with a place like Why as a topic, the usual 75 minute of research time, so crucial to the methodology, would, in this case suffice. That is also what Zoytlow thought. He left the store with ten minutes of research time left and spent it slowly driving the scant and dusty streets. Down Why Road, up Mesquite, along Higgins, and back using Sonoita.   He noted the Howling Coyote Campground, the small Casino on the edge of the Tohono O’Odham Reservation (small compared to others elsewhere and with very few vehicles in the lot), the absence of churches, the discovery of a second gas station and, most curious, a restaurant which closed on Saturdays and only Saturdays. Any reason for that? Zoytlow noticed on a nearby house a weather-worn Star of David with small lights, the sort of thing you might use as yard decor during Chanukah. Could it be that the diaspora of the Israelites had reached Why?  Too many new questions, so little time.

Leaving Why, Zoytlow stopped briefly to give a final scan to the topography, the setting of this, his last research effort. There, in the distance mountains, southwest of Why and so obvious that no feat of imagination was needed, sat The Buddha.

The Great Buddha of Why

Editor’s Note: I received this Field Report from Zoytlow just the other day. It was sent by ordinary surface mail, postmarked San Felipe which I took to be something of a joke coming from a man named Phillip. But the more I read the handwritten pages torn from a wide-ruled notebook, the more I suspected that he was unaware of the connection between his name and the name of the place. It had taken three weeks for the letter to reach me, not unusual when one posts in a more remote part of the  Americas. In addition to the manuscript, he attached a small note written on a note pad supplied by a place where he had apparently stayed. From that I gathered that Zoytlow was in Central America, but he had scratched out the name of the hotel and directed me not to refer to it.  As for the Field Report he left only a brief comment: “ See what you can do with this. It’s not a true piece of legit (sic) social science of the sort I aspire to, but see what you can do with it. Please title it as I have done. Thanx. PNZ.”  And that was that.  I rather liked it, but fail to see why he took such pains to disguise the location. Presumably it is a different place than the one referred to in the report which follows.

[ Eds. note: The Reader may skip this paragraph.]  Looking back on it now, I should not have gotten so close to “social studies” in grade school which then led to that fateful course “Social Science Panorama” in high school, and then the me’lange of courses in college that put me into bondage to the the likes of psychology, sociology, and, worst of all, anthropology.  I say worst of all since it was here that I was nearly forced to nail my left foot to the floor so as to keep the right foot from wandering off into the full-blown and seductive humanities. But never mind that. During my stay in Termino Real, no thought of disciplining my feet came to mind. I fear I have betrayed the social sciences once again. There is some irony here since Termino Real seemed perfect for writing a masterwork in cultural anthropology.  But it turned out differently.

How did I come to the small village of Termino Real?  I had wanted to pay a winter visit to one or another of the small and warm Central American nations.  Termino Real just happened along, appearing at the end of the road at the tip of a peninsula deep in a howling tropical forest. How to render even a small village into a credible Field Report oppressed me. It was likely that Termino Real had never been described or even noted. This thought electrified me; imagine a scoop in terra incognita.

Such a strange name.  I learned, from a sign affixed to the iron gate of the small stuccoed chapel that the full name of the village was San Felipe de Los Remedios Terminados . The sizable expat community had little patience with all this and referred to their adopted neighborhood as Termino Real or just “TR” and many had forgotten (for they were much given to oblivion) what the name of the town actually was.

I met my first expat, a Welshman, the moment I exited the dusty taxi that brought me the sixty or so miles from a grass airstrip to the north. Paved roads gave out after just eighteen miles, so the journey had been lapidary, in the true sense of a pebble (me, P.N. Zoytlow) being ground about in the back of the cab.  The Welshman, who did not offer his hand but called himself Arthur, greeted me with a hearty “Welcome to TR!” and asked where I intended to lodge, the shadows having become long in the meantime.  “Sun sets early and quite suddenly in the tropics.  No street lights here. Got a torch?”  I felt a growing unease.  No torch. Where might I stay?  “My place.  Hotel Batz, down the street 200 meters.”

I slept like a dog under the ceiling fan and to the accompaniment  of forest squawks, barks, and the occasional scream from things with feathers.  Inside, hidden geckos chirped. I was in the tropics. But in the morning, after a breakfast of black beans, rice, and scrambled eggs, I also knew I was in trouble. How to render an entire village, not just an event (as most Field Reports tended to be) into a meaningful lump of information? Arthur sat at a nearby table (there were only three in the dining room of the Hotel Batz) watching a fuzzy soccer game on a small TV situated on the bar.  I decided I had no choice but to reveal my intent to do a brief study of Termino Real for a journal of the social sciences.  Arthur  betrayed no particular reaction to this, as if I had already been the fifth person to appear that week for that purpose.

“Do this.  Walk west on the road here,” he said, raising his arm slightly, “and each time you get to a corner, turn right. Turn four rights and you’ll end up back here. This should cover about a mile and take you, I would think, forty-five minutes.  You’ll see what you need to in that time.  Think of it as ten blocks on the…I mean in… Termino Real. Then, with the time left–you said you had one hour, fifteen minutes, yes?”  (I nodded.)  “Then go down to Mauricio’s and have some lunch. The village will come to you in that place especially the expats.”  Arthur’s plan was better than no plan.  “One thing,”  he added, “never extend your hand to a gibbon.”

I took this last advice as a jest. I knew that gibbons were Old World monkeys.  I returned to my room and stared at the ceiling fan. The remark about gibbons gnawed at me: the man must think me a fool.  I decided to scrap his suggestions and just establish myself at Maurice’s for a strict 75 minutes of observation time.  Never mind the village walk. Never mind the village!  My head was clear: the subject was now the expatriates of El Termino!

At 11:00 AM I walked to the restaurant.  More than once I was overcome by the dust of traffic: a taxi, five fat-tired all-terrain vehicles driven by bare-chested young men whose mouths were covered, bandit style, with kerchiefs.  These were norteamericanos. Some wore rakish googles that recalled the look of Japanese pilots in their Zeros.  The foliage along the road had turned a powdered grey and would stay that way until the seasonal rains washed them and turned the road to mud.

Maurico’s was a small block building with an large yellow awning over the the gravel dining area.  Two small picnic tables and benches and one folding table made up the seating.  Just beyond the dining area, facing the road, was a dirt parking area for cars, ATVs, motorbikes, and oxen.  A large tree with wide-spreading canopy branches, a remnant of the forest that had been here twenty years earlier, provided the shade.  High up, parrots shrieked and grackles made their irritating sounds, the same ones they brought far to the north some months later when it was time to nest. I saw in them something of the hedonism of the local kids on light motorbikes blatting up and down the street trailing the adobe brown dust.  I remembered that Termino Real was a cul-de-sac.  The road ended here: there was nothing more to see beyond Mauricio’s.  End of the world would have been a better name for the place.

I sat in a plastic garden chair near the end of a picnic table and ordered a bottle of tamarind drink.  Impossible to describe that flavor.  I’d wait until the lunch crowd came and observe what they ordered. The menu itself revealed nothing so much as a triad of fish, rice, beans  with some tomatoes or squash fritters on the side.  Behind me, the small older man I took to be Mauricio and his family were chopping, frying, boiling, rattling, clanking and talking.  The radio played an old Mexican tune. Then, by ones, twos, and threes the customers arrived for their lunch.  An old couple took seats at the other table which, it soon became apparent, was the table preferred by the Spanish-speakers, natives to this locale, citizens of the realm.  The table I sat at now filled up, according to tradition with a collection of expats whose lingua franca was English. In truth, they were North Americans, Belgians, Swiss, Dutch, and a couple from Argentina who preferred the company of English speakers This must have been why Arthur of the Batz steered me here, to experience in concentrated form the expats of Termino Real. Arthur did not appear, nor had I expected him, but I could not explain why this was so.

Most of them greeted me with a disappointing lack of curiosity. Stray tourist, they likely concluded. Were they wrong?  A few asked where I was from and one asked if I knew someone named Jack Something. Besides the eight or so ex-pats who sat at the table there were five others just standing around sipping chilled coconut water through straws after Mauricio had lopped the top off with his machete. Most of the talk centered on building materials, the search for reliable and cheap labor, and cheap ways  to leave the country for the three days required to renew quarterly non-resident visas.  The Americans all seemed to have been in the building construction back home; Long Island was mentioned repeatedly.  A Swede seated next to me whispered that all Americans will tell you the same thing: a builder from Long Island. What was the real story?  And why when it came time to renew visas, did they never combine that with a trip “home”? Later, one of these “builders” told me that the Swede was “so far Left  that  even the Swedes threw him out.”  A Luxemburger told me he was homesick for real cheese, but little else. A woman in the darkest sunglasses I had ever seen warned me that the Hotel Batz got rowdy on the weekends.  Overall, the expats exercised a wary civility towards each other.  On average, they had been in TR  eight years. They professed to have tired of the places they had left and seldom followed the news. Local news, more interesting to them, was by word of mouth, and they kept an eye on any and all things in “TR” e.g. who was getting a well drilled and how much of a bribe was needed to speed up the necessary paperwork.  But land was cheap, labor was cheap, and building supplies were available in a town three hours to the north.

Mauricio’s  food was excellent: grilled fish, rice, stewed plantains, black beans, a salad. As my table-mates dug in, I took a furtive look at my wristwatch, now clouded with humidity.  Only a  few minutes left.  I felt a familiar anxiousness: where was this Field Report going?  Another opportunity dribbling away?  I decided to gamble on one one last question:  did they assume that the local folks appreciated their living so much better than they did? Had I spoken too softly?  No one responded or even looked my way. I felt  foolish, my face reddened; I sweated beyond the expected sweat of these hot latitudes. Later in the afternoon, waiting for my cab in the bar of the Hotel Batz,  I revealed to Arthur my moment of discomfort at Mauricio’s.  “Ouch, that was the wrong question, mate,” said he in a voice slurred by drink.  “Know what I think? How’s it go?  Something about being guinea pigs in some huge laboratory.  Meet any gibbons at Mauricio’s?  Remember not to extend your hand?”  With this he began to giggle, resting his head on the bar, and then throwing it back in guffaws which left him wheezing and gasping “Oh, Sweet Jesus!”  The cab arrived.  I left Termino Real.

[Eds. Note: I could never get Zoytlow to elaborate on any of the details of this Field Report which, he admitted, had “gone off the rails.”  I thought I could make him feel better by doing an internet search on the one person in the account who had both a first and a surname: Arthur Batz. I learned that Batz had worked briefly in a small college in Wales and was known locally as a fierce promoter of Tennessee Williams.  I also learned, quite by accident, that “batz” is an indigenous Central American name for the howler monkey, a creature sometimes mistaken for the gibbon, an ape of the Old World.]

Three Polish Beers

Attending yet another folk festival did not call strongly to Zoytlow, yet this is precisely where he found himself in mid-October. Each year, depending on where he travels, Zoytlow has opportunities to wallow in the Ethnic Soup. Over the years, without losing an appreciation for the efforts of ethnic groups to share their culture with others, he concluded that a certain formulaic approach hangs like musty drapery over most folk festivals. Music, food and drink, dance, and a display of dated cultural artifacts: that’s the stuff of folk festivals. Here and there enterprising merchants attempt to peddle something suggestive of the Old Country to the visitors. Supporting it all are the volunteers who move things around, cook the food, take the tickets and dress up looking ethnic and friendly. Really, there is nothing wrong with the concept, just don’t attend too many.

So it was that P.N. Zoytlow attended the Fifteenth Polish Festival on the grounds of the Polish Roman Catholic Mission Church of St. Maximillian Kolbe. He was persuaded to attend and observe for the best of all possible reasons: curiosity. For years (whilst in town) he had often passed this small and simple church in San Diego and wondered about its unexpected appearance so far from the better-known regions of Polish settlement in the United States e.g. Michigan, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin and Illinois. No, St. Maximillian Kolbe had put down its roots in a part of San Diego better known for its surfer subculture and just a few streets over from a modest Hare Krishna Temple. San Diego is only about 2% Polish, probably half of them immigrating since 1980. Compare this to Posen, Michigan with its 61% Polish population.

The church (specifically a “mission” serving the particular cultural and linguistic needs of Polish Catholics) is named in honor of St. Maximillian Kolbe, canonized in 1982 by Pope John Paul II who called him a “patron saint of our difficult century.” He is considered the patron saint of prisoners, particularly political prisoners. Kolbe was killed at Auschwitz in 1941 after volunteering to die in place of a prisoner who had a wife and children. He had provided spiritual comfort to others and did so until the moment he was given a lethal injection by his Nazi captors. Besides Kolbe, the modest church features a few other of the venerated: the Black Madonna of Czestochowa, Patroness of Poland, and a cramped portrait of Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta. The church also gives testimony to the sufferings of the Poles under both fascism and communism and, in particular, the Katin Forest Massacre in 1940.

Leaving the somber little church, Zoytlow passed through a gate onto what is usually the parking lot. There stood a tall, slender man with an enormous cap of tawny-colored bear skin (presumably) a regular forest aristocrat from the land where European bison still wandered dense ur-forests. He wore a wooden pendant with the image of the Dark Virgin, the Madonna of Czestohowa. Another visitor had just inquired about this object and this Noble Pole, with glittering eye, was giving testimony to the miracles ascribed to this image: how the Hussites had put two slash marks onto her cheek and how her visage had become so dark, and how she had protected Poland against the Swedes and so on. These tales were well told, but told at some length against the competing allure of music and cooking smells and so PNZ was reminded of some distant poem, decades ago in high school English class in which some old fellow keeps a polite younger man from going to a party. Something like that.

As folk festivals go, this one attempted too much in too small a space. The church itself was smaller than most upscale California homes in this region. In the parking lot (with a cramped capacity of 17 vehicles-a small congregation) the event attempted to squeeze six food tents, a stage and dance platform, a section of folding chairs for an audience of perhaps 150-200, an inflated play area for children to flop and hurl themselves, several vendors, a few stand-up tables for eating, and a beer tent. Under these conditions one’s sense of personal space might edge into the range of elbow-to-elbow, but not yet cheek-by-jowl

The food was classic Polish fare: pierogi, kielbasa, golabki, bigos, and placki . Zoytlow (whose name may or may not suggest a Slavic connection) found these words intoxicating and began with the pancakes (that’s the placki) and was soon flabbergasted and possibly gobsmacked, realizing that they were, without doubt, the best he had ever eaten!! This was unexpected. The search for perfect or near-perfect potato pancakes had been a quest of many years. Had he found the pancake apotheosis? Wonderful to think of it that way, but Zoytlow also felt a lingering sadness that the search was now over. This kartoffel quest had taken him from his mother’s table to street vendors in Europe through countless American breakfast joints and now this—these plates of burnished amber: the Poles make the best potato pancakes!! Dutifully, he sampled the other fare (mostly permutations of pork, potato and cabbage), but looked in vain for a slice of dewy-moist poppyseed cake to finish the meal. Due to the small space and few tables available, most visitors ate leaning against fences or simply weaving on their feet, disposable plate in one hand, plastic fork in the other.

On stage, a father-daughter duo played accordion and sang tunes advertised in the program as “best-loved Polish songs.” A small audience filled the chairs and two couples had ventured on the stage to dance. The dancing appealed mostly to those who were middle-aged and portly, if not outright obese. The audience was delighted at how nimble these dancers were and one might say even elegant during a tango, one of those “best-loved” tunes along with “Besame mucho” sung in Polish. But there were others which came right from the Polish heartland, songs about beautiful places with chestnuts and fields and rivers. Because Zoytlow continues to be faithful to the 75 minute rapid-research concept which has produced these Field Reports since the beginning, he was not present to hear the more contemporary music of Zbigniew G. who, it was said by a man enjoying his bigos (a cabbage stew) to be the one to see tonight. (“You don’t want to miss him!”). But, Zoytlow would be gone by the time Zbig lit up the night.

Behind the church was the area designated as the “beer garden.” This, Zoytlow quickly concluded, was not a beer garden. He recalled the blunt statement found in the beloved Wikipedia:

The characteristics of a traditional beer garden include trees (no sun umbrellas), wooden benches(no plastic garden chairs), gravel bed (no street pavement), and solid meals (no fast food).

No problem with “fast food” here–everything was slow cooked; in all other respects this “garden” failed. Geography was destiny. This beer venue was forced to absorb a section of a public alley behind the church, obviously some municipal permission had been required. The result was a ten yard square section of concrete surrounded by a temporary six-foot steel cyclone fence. Capacity was set at 130 persons, inadequate for a Festival which had touted Polish beer a the beer garden thereby creating high interest in this corner of the scanty fesitval grounds. To enter in, one had to wait in line until enough patrons left. Once cleared by security officers you passed by a
counter where three brands of Polish beer were offered–in cans! No fresh brewski on tap! . And each can cost $5. But the line of expectant communicants for this Polska piva never lessened despite these hardships. Tatra, Warka, and Zwieck were the three brands available. Saying these words sounded (to Zoytlow) like anincantation to summon (Holy Parking Lot notwithstanding) a demon or to placate the stone-faced security men guarding the entrance and egress of the ever-restive beer zone.

The Poles had always had challenging geographical problems but had always survived and here, on this postage stamp of California real estate, they once again demonstrated that geography need not be destiny. Everywhere, from beer dispensary (not “garden!”) to the stage now awaiting the arrival of Zbigniew G. and his band, were men, women, and especially comely maidens of Polonia-in-America wearing t-shirts, usually red with white eagles, proclaiming “Polska.” And they were happy. The good humor of the Polskas moving through the throng was contagious. Zoytlow was half-giddy and also pleased with himself for remembering that someone has once quipped that Poland was a “geographical expression.” Emboldened by this small but seemingly clever idea, he asked one of the ubiquitous maidens if she perhaps knew of that signature polka “Kiss Me, I’m Polish.” To avoid any confusion regarding his own possibly goatish intent, Zoytlow smiled innocently and waved towards the musicians on stage. She smiled back a tad uncertainly, but no, she had not heard of it, and hurried on to the kitchen somewhere in the church basement. A man and his wife, overhearing him, tried to recall such a tune. It sounded familiar, but it also sounded, said she, “like a lotta things.” Cheerfully, her husband called to a man in a brown Polska shirt serving up pierogi in the food tent. “ Hey, Zarek, you know “Kiss Me?” Zarek looked up, shrugged, sure they just played it, you know, “Besame Mucho.”

Zoytlow looked at his watch. No more time left and if Zbigniew G. and his band were doing “Kiss Me, I’m Polish!” he would never know about it–but such are the pitfalls of a rigorous methodology in field research.

[Editor’s note: PNZ told me that he had found “Kiss Me, I’m Polish!” on U-Tube, mostly in Polish, performed by the Grammy winner Eddie Blazonczyk and the Versatones somewhere in the true Polish-American heartland back East. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QIQBVQ8P8FU&NR=1) California, he added sourly, was not a good place to look for the real thing.]