“Enclave” is a word that seems to be thrown around a lot, and the meaning can be a bit nebulous depending on how it is used and who is using it. It’s a word with French origins, but enclave is one of those funny words that ends up sounding somewhat like what it actually means, regardless or etymology. “En” of course sounds very much line “in” and “clave” sounds a bit like “cave”…you get the idea. No matter what the use it always seems to imply some sort of separateness, insular and apart from the surroundings.

In that (also a bit nebulous) world of Urban Studies, the idea is that landscapes are sometimes dotted with communities which are roughly self-contained islands of uniqueness. There’s the elite, wealthy, and powerful enclave of Boston’s Beacon Hill which maintains it’s colonial feel, and exclusivity, through a number of political and social means. Many major cities are dotted with Little Italys and Chinatowns and other concentrations of ethnic, racial, and cultural groups. Gay enclaves can be found in The Castro in San Fransisco, Boystown in Chicago, Key West, and West Hollywood.

Buried deep within New Britain, CT, one of the many towns that make up the Hartford metro area is a Polish enclave, famous enough to have earned the town the nickname of “New Britski.” What I found on New Britain’s Broad Street was a textbook example of an urban ethnic enclave, and the expression of all things Polish was bountiful and accessible to all who were local, or just visitors like me.

As a visitor to Broad Street, I didn’t necessarily feel like an “outsider,” per se, which seems to imply some sort of uncomfortable barrier between those who belong and those who don’t. But like any person entering a world which is not their own, walking through the stores of Broad Street I was at least aware that my perception of the “place” of Broad Street, and how I reacted to it would be very different from those who lived within it. What I did not anticipate was how much my personal physical appearance could change my experience. My ancestry is in Ireland and Finland, but my blond hair, blue eyes, and pallid complexion made me look Polish enough that I was greeted in Polish at least three times by shopkeepers, which was not the case for my foodie companions who did not look the part at all. I always replied with an American Midwest-accented “Hello” which instantly betrayed my non-Polishness, and instantly branded me as not who they thought I was. Or at least someone who wasn’t going to reply in Polish.

What couldn’t be communicated across Polish and English could easily be communicated through food.

I have a deep and passionate love for most all food items pickled, brined, doused with vinegar, preserved. Most Polish markets on Broad Street had this setup somewhere in their produce section - big fat plastic buckets filled with cucumber pickles, fish, and of course, that miraculous product that happens when salt and shredded cabbage collide. All the way across the world, the Koreans called it kimchi, but in Eastern Europe it was sauerkraut. If you’ve never had the real thing, made by real people, it is nothing like opening an acrid can of the stuff from your grocery store. The flavors are more complex, more smooth, more sweet, and less like salty sour cabbage and more like a real FOOD. It’s a dish, and it’s so much more than something to dump on a hot dog.

Every shop has signs in the window for local Polish entertainment, shows, and dances. There are job postings in Polish. There things to rent and buy in Polish. There are Polish-owned banks and social institutions. This is another sign of a true enclave. The insitutions of the neighborhood serve those who live there, and the local residents support the institutions. The signs tell me Broad Street is not merely a gathering of those within a common nationality, but an expression of a way of life.

This store was a great example of that. They had an entire wall of cassettes (I can’t remember the last time I saw music cassettes in a store) of Polish music, and CDs, and DVDs with both Polish films and English films with Polish dubbing, and walls and walls of Polish tchotchkes. Tchotchke is a Yiddish word but it’s another one that kind of sounds like what it means. Come to think of it sauerkraut sounds the way it tastes.

This was out last stop before having our full sit-down lunch (coming up in Pt. 2) but I just had to take a picture because the building total looks like some sort of temple to food with the outside courtyard, the long entrance way up to the porch, and then the deck up top. Inside they had cabbages bigger than basketballs.

Beer gets drank and keilbasa gets noshed in Pt. 2.