On the scent of Ameryka

— I —

S and I are planning to drive from Vancouver to San Francisco when my Polish cousin calls to say that she will be visiting North America. She wants to join us and go shopping in San Francisco, at an outlet mall. We agree that she will fly down and that we will spend a few days in San Francisco, go to the outlet mall and then drive back to Vancouver together. My cousin and I have seen each other only three times in the last twenty years.

At the San Francisco Airport arrivals I ask my cousin how her flight was.

Masakra, she replies.

This translates as massacre, a popular term in Poland to express disappointment.

We leave the airport. S pulls the car onto the eight-lane highway that goes through the centre of San Francisco, connecting Silicon Valley with the suburbs. We edge along in gridlock for hours.

Masakra, my cousin says from the back seat.

Then, out of nowhere, clouds roll in and torrential rains pound down onto the car. The voice on the radio says that the Bay Area has been hit by an atmospheric river, a type of weather event during which the volume of moisture in the air and the horizontal movement of the rain, on account of strong winds, resemble the flow of a river.

Wind buffets the car, the wipers barely keep up with the amount of water streaming down the windshield.

Tragedia, my cousin says.

— II —

The following afternoon—sunny, warm—at the corner of Haight and Ashbury I tell my cousin in Polish that this was where the hippies gathered in the 196s: drugs, the flower children, Janis Joplin.

My cousin is in her forties and works for a clothing distributor, but I can never get her to tell me exactly what it is she does.

Of course, my cousin says, Janis Joplin. I like Janis Joplin.

A few hours later, at City Lights Bookstore, I tell her that this was where the famous Beat poets hung out and there, across the lane, was where they drank.

My cousin nods politely.

That’s fine, she says, but maybe after this we can go to the Apple store.

— III —

I order espressos at the Caffe Trieste in the North Beach neighbourhood. According to Google this was the first Italian espresso joint on the West Coast, and the Beats hung out here too, and later Francis Ford Coppola wrote most of the screenplay for The Godfather, on a typewriter at one of the tables.

Very strong, my cousin says as she sips her espresso.

— IV —

At the Apple store my cousin looks up the products in the Apple store on the Apple website on her iPhone. At least a dozen employees walk around the store. My cousin wants to purchase a watch strap for an Apple watch. An employee walks over, asks if we need help. I look at my cousin, but she continues to scroll through her phone.

My cousin leads the way to a table where the Apple watch straps are displayed.

Is this this? she says to me in Polish. In one hand she holds a watch strap and in the other she holds her phone, displaying an image of a watch strap.

They look similar, I say.

You think I don’t know that, she says.

Okay, okay, I say, it looks like the same thing. That looks like a photo of that.

I think you’re right, she says.

But then she puts the watch strap back.

Let’s go, she says in English now.

— V —

On the patio of a vegan taco shop in the Mission District—a traditionally Hispanic neighbourhood increasingly taken over by hipsters—my cousin asks me in Polish to ask the waiter how many millilitres of wine are in the happy hour wine portion. Her English is good, but she rarely speaks it.

When the waiter arrives I ask him how many milliletres of wine are in the happy hour wine. He looks at me. I’ll find out, he says. Then he walks off.

What’s that? my cousin asks in Polish, pointing to the word tempeh on the menu.

Something like tofu, I say in Polish. Fake meat?

What about that? she says, and points at the word heirloom.

Kind of like old, I say, like inherited.

She shrugs.

The waiter returns. Six ounces, he says to me.

Before I can translate, my cousin says to me in Polish, Okay, order one for me.

She will have one, I say.

Then my cousin says to me in Polish, Ask him if there is cilantro on the nachos.

I ask the waiter. He says there is cilantro in the pico de gallo and cilantro is also used for garnish, but they could withhold the garnish. I tell my cousin.

I tell the waiter to bring the nachos without the cilantro garnish.

Just beyond the patio, three men are bent over a suitcase on the sidewalk. One man’s pants keep sliding down, his white rump glowing in the afternoon sun. A group of about forty elementary school children marches by with signs that read, I’m Going to College.

After the happy hour wine and nachos, we walk around the neighbourhood looking for a bar where my cousin might wait tomorrow evening while S and I go to a concert.

A married woman alone in a bar, my cousin says, what would people back home think?

Finally, we see one that looks promising: crowded enough, but not packed; many big windows; friendly atmosphere. My cousin points to a table inside and says, There, I will sit there tomorrow and wait for you until you come to get me after the concert.

— VI —

In Dolores Park a guy in his twenties zooms over on his skateboard and says hi.

Hello, I say.

You people are friendly, he says, you must not be from around here. I say hello to people and the first thing they do is clutch their purses. The thing about San Francisco is that you can’t even talk to people anymore. I love my friends here, but people in this town are not friendly, you know? I’m a very social person. I used to love this town. I lived here for fifteen years. Then I moved to Santa Cruz, like I met a woman from Santa Cruz and then I moved there and then I got a dog. Then then she broke it off. I stayed anyway because the rent was cheaper and my dog loves the beach in Santa Cruz.

He turns around and points into a crowd of people and dogs. That’s my dog over there, he says.

Back in Poland, my cousin says in English, I run a dog rescue foundation.

That’s dope, the guy says.

We rescue many dogs, she says, from people who keep dogs chained in their yards or in cages. People are sick. How can you keep a dog in a cage? Last month I drove one thousand kilometres in one day to rescue two dogs.

Then my cousin turns to me and tells me in Polish that she would like a picture with this guy. She hands me her phone.

She would like a picture with you, I say to the guy.

After the picture taking, the guy invites us for a drink at a bar in the neighbourhood that evening.

We’ll see you there, I say.

— VII —

On the night of the concert my cousin says that she will stay behind in our hotel. She no longer wants to wait for us in the bar.

There’s a new documentary about molestation in the Catholic Church in Poland that I want to watch, she says. It’s very long, two and a half hours.

— VIII —

We take the 11 highway out of San Francisco.

This is the turnoff for the outlet mall, I tell my cousin an hour later.

She is asleep, and we keep driving along the 11.

— IX —

In Crescent City, population 6,3 (of whom 2,2 are inmates at the supermax prison on the outskirts of town), 35 miles north of San Francisco, we pull into the Taco Bell parking lot. It is evening, the town cast in the golden rays of the setting sun; few cars on the roads; the sidewalks empty, save for a barefooted man in his twenties swinging a black staff through the air in quick, short arcs.

Inside the Taco Bell seven staff in Taco Bell uniforms and visors hustle in the kitchen. There is one other customer inside.

Welcome to Taco Bell, says the man behind the counter. His torso is thick with muscles, his eyes bulge.

How can I help you? he says.

I smile. My cousin reads the menu, mounted high behind the counter.

She asks in Polish if I see taco salad on the menu.

I do not see taco salad on the menu but, I say, I could easily inquire.

Not to worry, she says. Can you tell me what that means? she says, pointing at the menu.

Locos tacos, I say to her, locos is Spanish for…

I search for the Polish word.

Psychologically ill, I say in Polish.

She looks at me.

There is another word floating around in my mind, one that I think means crazy, but in Polish is closer to deranged. Wzruszony, I say, but I can tell by my cousin’s reaction that this is not the right word. Then I realize that wzruszony means touched, affected.

I look at the man behind the counter. His face is frozen in a smile.

Crazy, I say in English to her.

Crazy, okay, my cousin says in English.

Okay, what about that? she says in Polish, pointing at another area of the menu.

I look at the other items: XXL Grilled Stuft Burrito, Burrito Supreme, Crunchwrap Supreme, Double Decker Taco Supreme.

I tell my cousin that the menu is untranslatable.

No concern, she says in Polish.

What about that, she says, in the picture, what are those?

She is referring to images of burritos, but none of them have captions.

I’m sorry, I say to her in Polish, I don’t know what those are.

That’s okay, she says in Polish, just order me the one on the left.

She will have one of those on the left, I say to the man behind the counter.

One Burrito Supreme, the man says.

He turns his eyes toward us.

That’s all, I tell him.

All right, he says, that’ll be $3.61.

My cousin digs out a wad of cash from her purse. She counts off four one-dollar bills and places them on the counter. Then she jams the rest back into her purse. The man behind the counter returns her change and hands her a receipt. He points to a string of digits. He says, this is your order number.

Then the man says, My name is Chadwick, Taco Bell is conducting customer service surveys on their website, and you could win $5 by going to tellthebell.com and filling in a survey about my awesome customer service. There’s a code on the receipt that you punch in.

He looks at us. I translate to my cousin what Chadwick said. She smiles at him. I smile too. My cousin says in Polish, Tell him we will fill out the survey. I tell him that we will fill out the survey.

One of the other staff, a pale young man with wispy facial hair, approaches the counter and calls out the order number. He places a paper bag on the counter.

— X —

My friend would kill to set foot on American soil, my cousin says.

We are walking through the Woodburn Premium Outlet mall, the largest tax-free shopping outlet in the Western United States, just south of Portland. My cousin is texting with the friend.

Why? I ask.

Because, it’s America, my cousin says.

But why? I ask.

It’s the feeling, she says, the scent.

The patrons of the Woodburn Premium Outlet mall all seem to be tourists. We encounter groups of teens speaking other Germanic languages and well-dressed Chinese families.

After three hours my cousin emerges with many bags of goods in each hand: Tommy Hilfiger, Coach, Nike, Under Armour, others.

Don’t look at me like that, she says, do you know how much money I saved here?

— XI —

In Portland we walk around downtown looking for the Apple store. The map on the iPhone says that the Apple store is just two blocks away. But when we round the corner where the store is supposed to be, there is only siding, covering the entire multi-storey building. The writing on the siding says that the store is closed for renovations, but that everything is available at apple.com.

Masakra, my cousin says.

How about the Nike store? I say to my cousin.

Fine, she says.

The Nike store has two floors, many displays of shoes and racks of athletic wear. Attractive staff people in tights and sneakers mill about.

My cousin wanders over to the shoe display. She picks a white running shoe off the shelf and then looks down at her phone, then back up at the shoe. She places the shoe back onto the shelf and then picks up another similar looking shoe and holds it up. She carries on this way, looking at her phone and at the shoes.

Finally she says, Tragedia.

She leads the way out into the street.

A few blocks over, hundreds of people are gathered in a public square. Many of them hold up signs that read, My Vagina My Rights. Someone makes a speech over a loudspeaker; the crowd cheers.