Somewhere between the glass jars of Jacobs and Nescafe instant coffees , the tetra packs of barszcz and the ubiquitous display of Kinder eggs, I felt the frustration simmer up to my ears. Bored from shifting my weight between my right and left leg, my arms long ago having given up on carrying the obligatory shopping basket (now situated between my two feet for efficient shuffling, should we ever move forward in the line), I revealed myself as a foreigner with an exasperated sigh. In the past half an hour, we had moved approximately three customers closer to the register, and four couples remained in front of us.

Every payment had to be made in exact change, to the grosz, and in the precise denominations preferred by the clerk. The customer at the register, having given up on digging for three 10-grosz pieces and one 5, emptied out her coin purse into her palm and extended it to the clerk to speed up the process. Not finding the satisfactory coins, she turned in desperation to the next customer in line and bartered change. If you ever wanted to have your turn at the check-out counter, you’d cooperate with the poor customer in front of you.

Finally, only three customers to go, and it would be our turn to pay for our muesli and juice. Compared to the grueling class schedule earlier that day, my life that hour had become nauseatingly slow. Still wrapped in my scarf and hat, my jacket bringing me to a boil, I searched for a logical explanation through the rapidly growing mental fog.

“I just don’t get it,” I moaned to my husband as inconspicuously as possible, “How can this possibly take so long?”

“It’s Poland,” he sighed.

Ahead of us, another familiar scenario played out: one person stood in line with an empty basket, while his companions shopped for items one at a time and placed them into the basket, departing again for more. The process seemed to continue up until the very moment that the waiting customer had arrived at the cash register. Apparently, they base their grocery list on how much they can buy in the time allotted by the line, I thought, wishing we’d done the same. It had to be faster, I thought with a scowl.

“But Carrefour is a French supermarket!” I insisted to my husband, reviving my gripe. The shelves of one of the world’s largest retailers were stocked with everything from soy milk to salsa, the freezers stuffed with drinkable yogurt and delicious bagged berry medleys, the housewares section complete enough to rival any Wal-Mart. On the surface, it was like any other industrialized nation.

“Doesn’t matter- the culture is Polish,” he grumbled, his head tilted back in agitation. Smiling wryly, he quoted the region’s motto, “Haste leads to degradation.”

There’s the rub, I thought bitterly. In spite of nearly twenty years after the end of Soviet domination, Poland was still cloaked in its own mental iron curtain. Long lines. Poor customer service. A widespread acceptance of mediocrity. A largely cash-based economy. Political ineptitude and a lack of real economic opportunities for young people, aside from immigration. Grey buildings and even bleaker skies, broken sidewalk cobbles and menacing Skoda drivers barreling down on pedestrians. Clinging to a noble past of suffering and victimization, wavering in the face of an uncertain future.

Exiting the large double doors with our bags in tow, the cool night air shocked my cheeks and jolted my spirit out of its irritation. Walking past the train station with the seasonal skating rink in front, we made our way through the pedestrian underpass back into the Old Town. Vendors hawking sour sheep’s cheese imprinted with fancy patterns, striking autumnal floral arrangements, miniature bagels on strings, and colorful mittens vied for our attention in vain. My mind was occupied with the trials and tribulations of life in a transitioning country.

Carefully dodging the icy potholes, the elderly gentleman playing the harmonica, and arm-linked couples enjoying a romantic stroll, my eyes turned to the glow of the main market square ahead. Seduced again by the glistening Słowackiego theater on my left, the haunting remains of the ancient city wall on my right, and the anticipation of the magical Sukiennice cloth hall through the alleyways, I felt my heart sink with guilt.

Life was frustrating here, but that certainly wasn’t the full story. My experiences that evening, the surreal and incomprehensible swing from stagnation and irritation in the hypermarche to bliss and exhilaration ten minutes later on the streets reflected the complicated reality of life in Poland.

It is full of inconsistencies, bureaucratic mazes, masked faces, false hopes, and intense pride, but also an enchanting aura wafting through the crevices, a sorrowful but angelic aria permeating the nation’s soul. In order to completely understand its mystery, one would need to spend a lifetime peeling back the layers, painstakingly deciphering its clues. Poland, I was discovering, was an enigma.

I was in good company as I tried to resolve its riddles. My first months in Krakow were a tumultuous period in Polish domestic as well as foreign relations- a time when European Union leaders and Poland’s own citizens would become increasingly confounded with the status quo.

Particularly within the EU, a swelling “Poland fatigue” came to dominate all diplomacy like an omnipresent and obstinate cloud. Having expanded to include Poland in 2004, the former member states complained increasingly vocally that Poland seemed to mistakenly believe that the EU had joined it, rather than the other way around.

Resenting the march of European history that had nearly obliterated and then forgotten it, and realizing its geopolitical leverage for the first time, Poland overplayed its hand in round after round, alienating nearly every ally. The ruling Law and Justice party (PiS) retaliated over the most minor infractions with Germany, at one point cancelling a high level visit due to an unfavorable newspaper editorial. As the EU attempted to wrap up the Lisbon Treaty negotiations, an increasingly mercurial and sanctimonious Polish posture towards Germany threatened to unravel years of international effort. Warsaw also impeded Brussels’ efforts to thaw relations with Moscow, raising concerns over Russian energy shipments to the subcontinent as winter rapidly approached.

An overwhelming and self-defeating paranoia and victimization in combination with an intense messianic mission drove Warsaw’s self perception and policy. Acidly hostile towards Germany due to unresolved disputes from the Second World War and distrusting Russia following the Cold War; still bitter at the opulent “West” for its perceived abandonment of Poland twice to its enemies; convinced of its fraternal and moral mission to lead the nations of Eastern Europe to freedom; and finally, certain only of the military backing of the distant United States, Poland lashed out at its past and nearly lost its foothold on the future.

The situation was at least as bad on the home front. Besieging its opponents with allegations of corruption, mafia ties, sex crimes and communism, PiS found itself caught in its own avalanche and lost control of the political implosion it had set in motion. Championing the interests of its primarily elderly, agrarian, impoverished and staunchly Catholic supporters, the President and Prime Minister (coincidentally, twin brothers) failed to inspire the hope of young, educated workers with upward aspirations and experience abroad. Clinging to a sense of moral superiority and confident in a victory, the majority party voted to dissolve itself in September.

Weary of PiS’s overzealous political machinations, the EU held its breath for one month. When the results of the snap elections were tallied, it, and much of Poland, was able to finally breathe a sigh of relief. Donald Tusk, of the pro-business Civic Platform, had persuaded voters that the time for a new course in domestic and foreign policy had arrived. Young, attractive and athletic, well educated and articulate, hopeful and charismatic, he appeared the John F. Kennedy to the Nikita Krushchev. Immediately shaking hands with EU leaders, he promised to revive Poland’s relationship with the supranational body, and promptly set to work on ironing out old problems. Particularly with Russia, cracks appeared in the ice if not a thaw, as Tusk sent high level delegations to discuss bilateral issues. And with the US, Tusk has held a firmer line, delicately attempting to balance the wishes of its former champion with its geopolitical reality.

In spite of the greatest turnout PiS had ever seen by its supporters, Tusk carried the election due to tidal wave of support, primarily by younger citizens, many of whom cast their votes from abroad. Whether Tusk will be the answer to Poland’s heartfelt prayers remains to be seen; what is clear at this point is the desire of the nation’s younger generation to make peace with the past and take its proper place on the pedestals of Europe.

Arriving at my apartment, squeezing past waiting tram passengers and customers scurrying into the apteka, I paused for a moment with my key in hand. Turning around back towards the Planty, a green ring created when the Austrian invasion obliterated the old city walls, I felt for a moment a flickering of understanding, as if the enigma had brushed past my skin and whispered in my ear. Perhaps it cannot be cracked, and perhaps the legacies of past suffering will linger past their expiration date. Long lines may remain, but so does the indefatigable Polish spirit. Just as the acid-rain washed buildings on the Rynek sparkle again under the sun and new paint, and just as the city created a park out of the destruction of its ancient history, so too will the nation rise again. Just how it will transpire remains to be seen.