Zelazowa

​Last week I was driving in my old Pontiac SSEi along the coast to the VA Hospital in Long Beach the rain started. In the parking lot, rain drops collected on the windshield and when large enough drops streaked down like giant tears, a single lightning bolt struck somewhere close enough that the thunder followed instantly. Now it was raining hard.
 
Classical music played on the radio and I decided it was a moment to sit still, watch and listen.
 
I am not much of a musician—cannot hit any note and have had no musical instruction, but I knew the music was Polish. It was sweet and fun, not the heavy, serious music of Russia, dramatic  Czech, serious German or frosty cake from Austria.  I was listening to Chopin’s Concerto #1 in E.  
 
I stayed in my car to listen and watch the tears streak down as the music and rain took me back to the many times I drove my Audi from Vienna through Poland. At the point where I would cross over the Bzura I could no longer receive radio from Vienna and that of Warsaw took its place. I spent 70 percent of the 1970’s in Vienna, Budapest, Prague and Warsaw. During all the travel time I listened to a lot of radio. But that point of inflection--crossing the Bzura-- remains vivid because I once stopped near there in Zelazowa Wola; Chopin’s birthplace and childhood home. During the Cold War few from the West and no Americans roamed around in central Poland and Chopin’s childhood home was not visited by many tourists. Although it was a historical site, the door was open. No attendants were guarding the piano standing in the corner behind a rope barrier, which I easily crossed over, sat in his chair and plinked a few notes on Chopin’s piano.
 
The music ended, the rain stopped and I got out of my car somewhat surprised to be in California.