(Props to Linde for inspiring me to post, however short.)
In class the other day, I was describing the uber-American concept of 'Keeping up with the Joneses'. After giving my whole spiel on conspicuous consumption, I asked my students if this concept applied at all in Poland. One response I received provides more insight to American-Polish differences than any anthropology dissertation ever could.
"Lets say Mr. Jones is a farmer," began the student.
"In America, if Mr. Jones buys a cow, you're going to go out and buy two cows, correct?"
"Correct," I replied.
"Well in Poland," the student continued, "if Mr. Jones buys a cow, you're just going to go next door and shoot his cow in the head."
My students nodded their heads simultaneously as laughter erupted from the room.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Holiday (Part 2)
Please read Part 1 first (see below). Thanks.
From there we headed off to Krakow, and quite possibly the most famous cemetery in all ofPoland
But the most salient aspect of this cemetery (aside from its size) was the hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers’ graves scattered around the cemetery. And not just graves for Polish soldiers: British, Australian, South African, New Zealander, and Russian graves memorialized the names of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.. I was told that there were some American graves as well, but we didn’t chance upon any of these. At the center of the soldiers’ area was a large monument, depicting soldiers in battle. It was especially poignant.
In need of a break from the day’s activities, we ventured intoKrakow proper for an amazing dinner at a French/Polish restaurant housed in the cellar of some seemingly-ancient building. I will never forget my meal, because I will likely never have anything like it again: Cutlets of venison, wild boar and veal (sorry Laura) stuffed with cranberry, apple, and raspberry, respectively. Given my meal choice (and the fact my friend’s dad was paying) I was going to play it fiscally conservative on the wine, but recollections of their backyard tennis court (coupled with my friend’s less-than-modest order) convinced me that the authentic French Bordeaux was the best bet. Impoliteness never tasted so good.
Krakow itself is an amazing city- and one that I will most certainly check out more thoroughly. It is one of the few cities in Poland Europe . There is a large wall protecting the rynek and the rest of the Stare Miasto (Old City Poland America
We returned toKatowice Poland Paris
The rest of the weekend was filled with some great runs, visits with my friend’s extended family, and some unbelievable conversations with her parents. We talked a lot about life in Poland under communism (a mere 20 years ago): about waiting for hours in line for butter, cheese or milk; about blowing a tire and having to wait 3 months (while walking 5 miles to work each day) for a new one; about old folks who wish communism would come back so they can sit on their ass and get paid. Perhaps most emphatically, I was told a story about the family's last name. Apparently, under German occupation the family's name was changed to make it compatible with the German language. Even after the war, the communist government did not allow the family to change their name back. Only in the waning years of the communist regime, were they allowed to reclaim their family name. As a result, my friend (born in 1985) has a slightly different last name than her brother, born several years prior. The story struck me as the epitome of government control: when you can’t even have your own name.
On All Saints Day, we woke up early and headed to church for mass. The primary church in the area was being renovated, so a smaller, temporary chapel had been erected just in front of the old one. I was told we had to leave early or we wouldn’t get a seat. I had never heard of a church being filled to capacity, so naturally I lallygagged (is my family the only one who uses this word?) and we left for the chapel about 15 minutes before the mass was scheduled to start.
Apparently my friend had informed her family about my inability to get anywhere on time, as they had built in a time buffer to accommodate my tardiness. It took about 2 minutes to drive to the chapel. Still, when we arrived, not only did we not get a seat, WE WEREN’T EVEN IN THE BUILDING. And its not like we were alone out there: about 60 others joined us in the 30 degree weather as speakers piped the priests words to those with similarly inconsiderate friends and/or family members. I couldn’t even believe it. Maybe my experience was not normal…but has anyone else ever- EVER- had to wait for a seat at an American church? I mean, back in my day the priests were practically paying people on the street to come in. I think they gave out jelly beans and stuff. Hell, my church even had a special room encased with sound-proof glass for families with small children so all the “normal” churchgoers could glare in (silent) horror as those of us in the “cage” dealt with my brother Ben ripping 1st Corinthians out of the bible to throw at Adam who proceeded to bite Ben, leading to Ben’s decision to push Adam’s snot-ridden little face onto the aforementioned sound-proof glass. Oh yea, people we’re breaking down the doors to get into that church.
But thanks to my fine catholic rearing, I had no problem recollecting the catholic mass tradition, despite the fact that the entire thing was conducted in Polish. I kneeled in what I assumed was the general direction of the altar before we got to our grass ‘pew’. I ‘amen-ed’ when I was supposed to ‘amen’. I was ‘peace be with you’-ing with the best of ‘em. All in polish of course (luckily amen is the same). Though when it came time to take communion I was somewhat worried because a couple years ago I had decided to no longer take it. My friends and her parents are fairly devout and I didn’t want them to look down at me as some godless heathen (not that they would, but you never know). But when it came time, not one of the individuals in my party moved. In fact, only about 1/5th of those present took communion. I asked my friend later why so few people took communion. She said that it is a sin to take communion before you had gone to confession. Apparently I had missed that part in Sunday School. And apparently so had just about everyone else who went to my church, who took communion almost every Sunday. But this is how it is inAmerica
While church was certainly an experience, my personal highlight of the weekend came that evening when we went to the local cemetery for yet another round of grave cleaning. But this time was special. And it was not about the size of the graveyard, or the architecture, or even who was buried there. It was about the light….
We went at night, but you could see the graveyard glowing in the distance as we approached. It lit up the whole block. Hundreds, thousands of candles. Ten, twenty, thirty to every gravestone. All flickering silently as families moved quietly down the rows; some praying others chatting with neighbors, friends. Even some light laughter in some cases. But the most shocking thing was that there were no tears. Over the course of the entire weekend I didn’t see a single tear. Not one.
In fact, as we walked to each grave, my friend’s father would tell me a bit about the person beneath the stone we were looking at. He’d say some things about his or her life, and he would also say some things about their death. And as uncomfortable as this sounds, it was not uncomfortable at all. It was…dare I say...somewhat reassuring.
Let me explain: there is no way we could do this holiday in theUS
But inPoland
I suppose you can look at a country likePoland Poland Poland
But I don’t think it’s a numbness to pain that allowed my friend’s dad to calmly walk me through the life and death of his family. No, I think it’s an ingrained resilience; a well-developed ability to take some lumps, admit some defeats, yet emerge better despite the wound. There’s a lot of pride in this.Poland could have been wiped off the map, yet here it stands today as the most prosperous nation in Eastern Europe .
The symbolism of the light dancing around the cemetery was not lost on me as I considered this thought. We walked slowly and quietly out of the cemetery and back to their home.
From there we headed off to Krakow, and quite possibly the most famous cemetery in all of
But the most salient aspect of this cemetery (aside from its size) was the hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers’ graves scattered around the cemetery. And not just graves for Polish soldiers: British, Australian, South African, New Zealander, and Russian graves memorialized the names of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.. I was told that there were some American graves as well, but we didn’t chance upon any of these. At the center of the soldiers’ area was a large monument, depicting soldiers in battle. It was especially poignant.
In need of a break from the day’s activities, we ventured into
We returned to
The rest of the weekend was filled with some great runs, visits with my friend’s extended family, and some unbelievable conversations with her parents. We talked a lot about life in Poland under communism (a mere 20 years ago): about waiting for hours in line for butter, cheese or milk; about blowing a tire and having to wait 3 months (while walking 5 miles to work each day) for a new one; about old folks who wish communism would come back so they can sit on their ass and get paid. Perhaps most emphatically, I was told a story about the family's last name. Apparently, under German occupation the family's name was changed to make it compatible with the German language. Even after the war, the communist government did not allow the family to change their name back. Only in the waning years of the communist regime, were they allowed to reclaim their family name. As a result, my friend (born in 1985) has a slightly different last name than her brother, born several years prior. The story struck me as the epitome of government control: when you can’t even have your own name.
On All Saints Day, we woke up early and headed to church for mass. The primary church in the area was being renovated, so a smaller, temporary chapel had been erected just in front of the old one. I was told we had to leave early or we wouldn’t get a seat. I had never heard of a church being filled to capacity, so naturally I lallygagged (is my family the only one who uses this word?) and we left for the chapel about 15 minutes before the mass was scheduled to start.
Apparently my friend had informed her family about my inability to get anywhere on time, as they had built in a time buffer to accommodate my tardiness. It took about 2 minutes to drive to the chapel. Still, when we arrived, not only did we not get a seat, WE WEREN’T EVEN IN THE BUILDING. And its not like we were alone out there: about 60 others joined us in the 30 degree weather as speakers piped the priests words to those with similarly inconsiderate friends and/or family members. I couldn’t even believe it. Maybe my experience was not normal…but has anyone else ever- EVER- had to wait for a seat at an American church? I mean, back in my day the priests were practically paying people on the street to come in. I think they gave out jelly beans and stuff. Hell, my church even had a special room encased with sound-proof glass for families with small children so all the “normal” churchgoers could glare in (silent) horror as those of us in the “cage” dealt with my brother Ben ripping 1st Corinthians out of the bible to throw at Adam who proceeded to bite Ben, leading to Ben’s decision to push Adam’s snot-ridden little face onto the aforementioned sound-proof glass. Oh yea, people we’re breaking down the doors to get into that church.
But thanks to my fine catholic rearing, I had no problem recollecting the catholic mass tradition, despite the fact that the entire thing was conducted in Polish. I kneeled in what I assumed was the general direction of the altar before we got to our grass ‘pew’. I ‘amen-ed’ when I was supposed to ‘amen’. I was ‘peace be with you’-ing with the best of ‘em. All in polish of course (luckily amen is the same). Though when it came time to take communion I was somewhat worried because a couple years ago I had decided to no longer take it. My friends and her parents are fairly devout and I didn’t want them to look down at me as some godless heathen (not that they would, but you never know). But when it came time, not one of the individuals in my party moved. In fact, only about 1/5th of those present took communion. I asked my friend later why so few people took communion. She said that it is a sin to take communion before you had gone to confession. Apparently I had missed that part in Sunday School. And apparently so had just about everyone else who went to my church, who took communion almost every Sunday. But this is how it is in
While church was certainly an experience, my personal highlight of the weekend came that evening when we went to the local cemetery for yet another round of grave cleaning. But this time was special. And it was not about the size of the graveyard, or the architecture, or even who was buried there. It was about the light….
We went at night, but you could see the graveyard glowing in the distance as we approached. It lit up the whole block. Hundreds, thousands of candles. Ten, twenty, thirty to every gravestone. All flickering silently as families moved quietly down the rows; some praying others chatting with neighbors, friends. Even some light laughter in some cases. But the most shocking thing was that there were no tears. Over the course of the entire weekend I didn’t see a single tear. Not one.
In fact, as we walked to each grave, my friend’s father would tell me a bit about the person beneath the stone we were looking at. He’d say some things about his or her life, and he would also say some things about their death. And as uncomfortable as this sounds, it was not uncomfortable at all. It was…dare I say...somewhat reassuring.
Let me explain: there is no way we could do this holiday in the
But in
I suppose you can look at a country like
But I don’t think it’s a numbness to pain that allowed my friend’s dad to calmly walk me through the life and death of his family. No, I think it’s an ingrained resilience; a well-developed ability to take some lumps, admit some defeats, yet emerge better despite the wound. There’s a lot of pride in this.
The symbolism of the light dancing around the cemetery was not lost on me as I considered this thought. We walked slowly and quietly out of the cemetery and back to their home.
The Holiday (Part 1)
Authors Note: Hello. For those who didn't see me during my holiday trip to the US, please take this return to the blog-sphere as evidence that I am still among the breathing. For those who did see me during my visit, read the following as proof that I did safely and successfully reenter Poland, despite the fact that I may have illegally transported excessive amounts of alcohol out of their country. For those Polish law enforcement officials who may be reading this blog please ignore the last sentence (and the part below in which I trash on Katowice). Props on your English, by the way.
Finally, please note that the passage below details a trip I took in late October/ early November. Much of the post below was written directly after the trip, but not finished until this moment. Due to length, I have split the post up into two parts for easier reading. Please enjoy.
A couple weeks ago a Polish friend asked if I'd be interested in traveling to her house for the upcoming holiday.
"What holiday?" I asked.
"All Saints Day." she replied.
Like a good (former) Catholic (sorry Memere) I was quickly able to recall how we celebrated All Saints Day. We went to Church. I think the homily was longer than usual. I wanted no part of this.
"How do you celebrate all Saints Day?" I asked with some hesitation.
"Traditionally, families go to the cemeteries where their loved ones are buried, and spend the weekend cleaning their graves, and decorating them with flowers and candles. There is mass on the Holiday, and in the evening we visit the graves again to pay our respects."
And then you spend the next week taking anti-depressant medication, I thought. I politely told her I'd consider her offer and began searching for more uplifting alternatives.
As it turns out, 90% of Poles are members of the Catholic Church, so there wasn't much in the form of alternative entertainment options that weekend. So I sucked it up and decided that I'd chalk the weekend up to "cultural immersion" and hopped into a car bound for Katowice (Kat-to-veet-sa). And to be honest, as we got closer to our destination, I was actually a little excited about what I was about to experience. This would be my first trip to your standard Polish household, and I would also get the opportunity to visit nearby Krakow (Krack-ov), well-regarded as one of Europe's hidden gems. Regardless of the death I was soon to be surrounded by, I was going to make the most out of this holiday.
But this optimism was quickly thwarted as we pulled into suburban Katowice, which isn't exactly a tourist hot spot. I'd probably compare it to Newark, but then again I'm been lucky enough to avoid Newark so its only a hunch. Katowice is the seat of the Upper Silesia region, most recently known as Poland's industrial base. It has all the qualities I love to hate about suburban America: sprawl, traffic and pollution. But this being Poland, they have their own take on the picket-fenced acrylic-sided mcmansions sprouting up on cul-de-sacs across America: wrought-ironed-enclosed post-communist cement boxes positioned around a labyrinth of dead-end streets. Add to this the oppressive air pollution brought on by coal power plants sitting in a valley quickly approaching the dead of winter and you can come to see why vodka is so popular in this country.
But the picture I'm painting is too bleak: My friend's house was actually quite nice. Both of her parents are building engineers and it showed. Vertical spiral staircases leading to wonderfully grained hardwood floor. A well-arranged kitchen complete with refrigerator and oven disguised as cupboards. And my personal favorite, a transparent glass door leading to the wrap-around bathroom complete with that most European of essentials: a bidet (I had actually never seen one before). The backyard was large and featured flower and vegetables gardens, a pear tree, and a workshop, tennis court and pond (all currently under construction). Later, when we hopped in the car, I was pleasantly surprised to find a built-in GPS, with capabilities in several languages. (If this paragraph doesn't break some of your stereotypes of Poland, I don't know what will.)
My friend's parents were absolutely fantastic. In a country where the majority of over-40's speak little to no English, her parents were virtually fluent. They were among the first adults (who knows when I'll start considering my peers and myself members of this special group) I had met whom I could speak with. And with a long weekend ahead of us, there was a lot of speaking to be done.
On the first full day of the trip, we made a series of visits to the cemeteries. We had to do the cemetery visits over several days, because my friend’s relatives are buried all over theSilesia and Lesser Poland provinces (not a typo, the English translation is Lesser Poland
When we arrived to the first cemetery, I realized that Polish people do not screw around with this holiday. The first cemetery we went to was quite small (by Polish standards), and the place was packed. Not only by the cars and people working their way through the parking lot, but especially by the commercial establishments that had set up shop outside the cemetery to sell any and every type of flower and candle that you could ever want on your great-grandmother’s tombstone. This was big (and colorful) business, and was the first of many rich cultural experiences to follow.
But once you stepped foot in the actual cemetery, the hubbub of the parking lot quickly dissipated and gave way to a striking solemnity. InPoland
We visited several graves and spent some time sweeping and scrubbing each one. Once they were up to snuff, we placed several lanterns on the tombs and lit them. The candles were large and would most certainly burn for several days. After the lighting, my friend and her parents took a few moments to pray and reflect before moving on the next grave. This task was repeated at every grave we stopped at.
Without doubt, the most humbling moment of my entire experience inPoland
“Co to jest?” (What is this?) I asked my friend’s dad.
“Bullet holes.” He replied. “From the war.”
He need not elaborate. You just don’t have to face that sort of thing inAmerica
Finally, please note that the passage below details a trip I took in late October/ early November. Much of the post below was written directly after the trip, but not finished until this moment. Due to length, I have split the post up into two parts for easier reading. Please enjoy.
A couple weeks ago a Polish friend asked if I'd be interested in traveling to her house for the upcoming holiday.
"What holiday?" I asked.
"All Saints Day." she replied.
Like a good (former) Catholic (sorry Memere) I was quickly able to recall how we celebrated All Saints Day. We went to Church. I think the homily was longer than usual. I wanted no part of this.
"How do you celebrate all Saints Day?" I asked with some hesitation.
"Traditionally, families go to the cemeteries where their loved ones are buried, and spend the weekend cleaning their graves, and decorating them with flowers and candles. There is mass on the Holiday, and in the evening we visit the graves again to pay our respects."
And then you spend the next week taking anti-depressant medication, I thought. I politely told her I'd consider her offer and began searching for more uplifting alternatives.
As it turns out, 90% of Poles are members of the Catholic Church, so there wasn't much in the form of alternative entertainment options that weekend. So I sucked it up and decided that I'd chalk the weekend up to "cultural immersion" and hopped into a car bound for Katowice (Kat-to-veet-sa). And to be honest, as we got closer to our destination, I was actually a little excited about what I was about to experience. This would be my first trip to your standard Polish household, and I would also get the opportunity to visit nearby Krakow (Krack-ov), well-regarded as one of Europe's hidden gems. Regardless of the death I was soon to be surrounded by, I was going to make the most out of this holiday.
But this optimism was quickly thwarted as we pulled into suburban Katowice, which isn't exactly a tourist hot spot. I'd probably compare it to Newark, but then again I'm been lucky enough to avoid Newark so its only a hunch. Katowice is the seat of the Upper Silesia region, most recently known as Poland's industrial base. It has all the qualities I love to hate about suburban America: sprawl, traffic and pollution. But this being Poland, they have their own take on the picket-fenced acrylic-sided mcmansions sprouting up on cul-de-sacs across America: wrought-ironed-enclosed post-communist cement boxes positioned around a labyrinth of dead-end streets. Add to this the oppressive air pollution brought on by coal power plants sitting in a valley quickly approaching the dead of winter and you can come to see why vodka is so popular in this country.
But the picture I'm painting is too bleak: My friend's house was actually quite nice. Both of her parents are building engineers and it showed. Vertical spiral staircases leading to wonderfully grained hardwood floor. A well-arranged kitchen complete with refrigerator and oven disguised as cupboards. And my personal favorite, a transparent glass door leading to the wrap-around bathroom complete with that most European of essentials: a bidet (I had actually never seen one before). The backyard was large and featured flower and vegetables gardens, a pear tree, and a workshop, tennis court and pond (all currently under construction). Later, when we hopped in the car, I was pleasantly surprised to find a built-in GPS, with capabilities in several languages. (If this paragraph doesn't break some of your stereotypes of Poland, I don't know what will.)
My friend's parents were absolutely fantastic. In a country where the majority of over-40's speak little to no English, her parents were virtually fluent. They were among the first adults (who knows when I'll start considering my peers and myself members of this special group) I had met whom I could speak with. And with a long weekend ahead of us, there was a lot of speaking to be done.
On the first full day of the trip, we made a series of visits to the cemeteries. We had to do the cemetery visits over several days, because my friend’s relatives are buried all over the
When we arrived to the first cemetery, I realized that Polish people do not screw around with this holiday. The first cemetery we went to was quite small (by Polish standards), and the place was packed. Not only by the cars and people working their way through the parking lot, but especially by the commercial establishments that had set up shop outside the cemetery to sell any and every type of flower and candle that you could ever want on your great-grandmother’s tombstone. This was big (and colorful) business, and was the first of many rich cultural experiences to follow.
But once you stepped foot in the actual cemetery, the hubbub of the parking lot quickly dissipated and gave way to a striking solemnity. In
We visited several graves and spent some time sweeping and scrubbing each one. Once they were up to snuff, we placed several lanterns on the tombs and lit them. The candles were large and would most certainly burn for several days. After the lighting, my friend and her parents took a few moments to pray and reflect before moving on the next grave. This task was repeated at every grave we stopped at.
Without doubt, the most humbling moment of my entire experience in
“Co to jest?” (What is this?) I asked my friend’s dad.
“Bullet holes.” He replied. “From the war.”
He need not elaborate. You just don’t have to face that sort of thing in
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Retreat
I'm currently reading Lost on Planet China by J. Maarten Troost (a big thank you to the Rupprechts and Deborah McCoy in particular for the gift), an extremely well-written and hysterical account of a westerner's journey through the seething, quasi-post-apocalyptic juggernaut that is modern day China (to paraphrase the author). I've found the book to be especially relevant as I try to make my way through my own international adventure, and would certainly recommend it to anyone currently living abroad or planning to do so.
Anywho...at one point Troost describes a train ride from Beijing to Qingdao. As is Chinese custom, when the train arrived hundreds of Chinese surged into the cars, leaving a startled Troost without a seat. Not only did he not get a seat, but he ended up stuck on an airless indoor platform, wedged between 12 stinky, chain-smoking Chinese men. And that is where he stayed for the full duration of his 6 hour trip. "Damn," I thought to myself. "That would be THE WORST thing ever. Thank God I'm not in China."
So I had this story in mind as I stood in the Wroclaw Glowny (main) Train Station with 20 other Polish Students, waiting for our train to come. We were bound for Duszniki-Zdroj (Douche-Nee-Kee-Zedroige), a small mountain town near the Czech border, where we would spend the weekend "integrating" the new members of IKSS- the University's student organization for culture and sport (Juniatians think JAB).
A train pulled up and I assumed we would get on, but the students assured me that this was the incorrect train. "Are you sure?", I asked with a fair amount of skepticism. "Positive," was the reply, with some intermixed Polish that I'm sure was something to the effect of "stupid American." So it was with some level of indignation that I found myself in a full sprint several seconds later, trying to bite, scratch, and claw my way into the crowded train car that was really built for half as many people as were trying to board. And as the third to last guy on (no apologies from the "positive" students) I inherited that wonderful space on an airless indoor platform, in a standing wedge between 6 other Polish guys with a 5 hour journey ahead of me. "This is the WORST THING ever," I thought to myself.
And it was... for a while at least. The only thing that saved me was the prohibition of smoking on the train (which is quite surprising considering the Polish commitment to smoker's rights...if I had to guess i'd say it was no lower than the 3rd or 4th on their version of the Bill of Rights, after freedom to consume vodka but well before due process or eminent domain). So as train clank-clunked down the rail at a brisk 50 km/hr (about 30 mph), making the 1 and a half hour trip (by car) into a 5 hour trip, I settled myself into that comfortable space between my compatriots back and elbow, and tried to enjoy the Polish countryside (which seemingly goes from the antiseptic burbs of New Jersey, to the fields of Nebraska, to the Sierra Nevadas in a matter of kilometers.)
But our arrival in Duszniki made the whole ordeal worth it. If you had to draw up a picture of your perfect little European mountain town, this would be it, babbling brook and all. On Saturday morning I had the chance to go for a run around town, and found an ATV trail (except I'm sure it was a horse and wagon trail, judging by the remains on my shoes) that switch-backed up a mountain into the forest and through the quaintest little village I've ever seen (farm animals in the only road and all) only to dead end at the top where it opened to a astonishing panorama of Duszniki, the snow-capped mountains surrounding it, and the Czech Republic off in the distance. To Eileen: if you wonder why anyone would ever want to be here, it is for this place and several others like it.
The rest of the weekend, however, was spent mostly indoors going through the "integration" routine that I've now internalized after a college career heavily-grounded in student organizations like this one. There were ice-breakers, discussions on effective communication, and goal-making sessions. The only difference was that it was all in Polish. And that most everyone had a beer in their hand the whole time (for some reason I don't see JAB holding a retreat with "Drinking Games" on the agenda).
It would have been a perfect weekend if it wasn't for the aforementioned Polish. From the beggining, I told the organizers that I didn't want them to cater their discussions to the one Amerykanin in the room. And they didn't, which meant that I spent most of the time trying to use visual cues and the 50 or so Polish words I know to make sense of what was going on around me. So After spending Friday and Saturday morning focusing every neuron in my brain on the various "tsch's" and "ski's" in the Polish dialect, I finally gave in to the white noise around me (becuase that's what it sounds like) and spent the afternoon and evening in oblivious repose with by best friend, pivo (beer).
This was the first time since arriving that the weight of my language ignorance truly hit me. Language is important for many reasons, but few have experienced the emotional and self-esteem related consequences that come from spending 48 hours mostly misunderstood by those around you. Its debilitating and isolating, and makes me long for that anonymous American bar where "everybody knows your name" (and how to prounounce it) but also the meaning of "first down", "face-planted", and "sonovabitch" (which, as it became clear to me that weekend, are vital language keys if you are ever going to explain american football to a foreigner).
So as I gazed out at the confused students listening to me lecture on the importance of student activism, I realized that my one responsibility for the weekend, the reason I was in Duszniki, was (mostly) all for naught. And that is why when it came time to write down my goals for the year, I unhesitatingly scribbled the following words onto the top line: "Learn Polish- Powodzenia!" (good luck)
Anywho...at one point Troost describes a train ride from Beijing to Qingdao. As is Chinese custom, when the train arrived hundreds of Chinese surged into the cars, leaving a startled Troost without a seat. Not only did he not get a seat, but he ended up stuck on an airless indoor platform, wedged between 12 stinky, chain-smoking Chinese men. And that is where he stayed for the full duration of his 6 hour trip. "Damn," I thought to myself. "That would be THE WORST thing ever. Thank God I'm not in China."
So I had this story in mind as I stood in the Wroclaw Glowny (main) Train Station with 20 other Polish Students, waiting for our train to come. We were bound for Duszniki-Zdroj (Douche-Nee-Kee-Zedroige), a small mountain town near the Czech border, where we would spend the weekend "integrating" the new members of IKSS- the University's student organization for culture and sport (Juniatians think JAB).
A train pulled up and I assumed we would get on, but the students assured me that this was the incorrect train. "Are you sure?", I asked with a fair amount of skepticism. "Positive," was the reply, with some intermixed Polish that I'm sure was something to the effect of "stupid American." So it was with some level of indignation that I found myself in a full sprint several seconds later, trying to bite, scratch, and claw my way into the crowded train car that was really built for half as many people as were trying to board. And as the third to last guy on (no apologies from the "positive" students) I inherited that wonderful space on an airless indoor platform, in a standing wedge between 6 other Polish guys with a 5 hour journey ahead of me. "This is the WORST THING ever," I thought to myself.
And it was... for a while at least. The only thing that saved me was the prohibition of smoking on the train (which is quite surprising considering the Polish commitment to smoker's rights...if I had to guess i'd say it was no lower than the 3rd or 4th on their version of the Bill of Rights, after freedom to consume vodka but well before due process or eminent domain). So as train clank-clunked down the rail at a brisk 50 km/hr (about 30 mph), making the 1 and a half hour trip (by car) into a 5 hour trip, I settled myself into that comfortable space between my compatriots back and elbow, and tried to enjoy the Polish countryside (which seemingly goes from the antiseptic burbs of New Jersey, to the fields of Nebraska, to the Sierra Nevadas in a matter of kilometers.)
But our arrival in Duszniki made the whole ordeal worth it. If you had to draw up a picture of your perfect little European mountain town, this would be it, babbling brook and all. On Saturday morning I had the chance to go for a run around town, and found an ATV trail (except I'm sure it was a horse and wagon trail, judging by the remains on my shoes) that switch-backed up a mountain into the forest and through the quaintest little village I've ever seen (farm animals in the only road and all) only to dead end at the top where it opened to a astonishing panorama of Duszniki, the snow-capped mountains surrounding it, and the Czech Republic off in the distance. To Eileen: if you wonder why anyone would ever want to be here, it is for this place and several others like it.
The rest of the weekend, however, was spent mostly indoors going through the "integration" routine that I've now internalized after a college career heavily-grounded in student organizations like this one. There were ice-breakers, discussions on effective communication, and goal-making sessions. The only difference was that it was all in Polish. And that most everyone had a beer in their hand the whole time (for some reason I don't see JAB holding a retreat with "Drinking Games" on the agenda).
It would have been a perfect weekend if it wasn't for the aforementioned Polish. From the beggining, I told the organizers that I didn't want them to cater their discussions to the one Amerykanin in the room. And they didn't, which meant that I spent most of the time trying to use visual cues and the 50 or so Polish words I know to make sense of what was going on around me. So After spending Friday and Saturday morning focusing every neuron in my brain on the various "tsch's" and "ski's" in the Polish dialect, I finally gave in to the white noise around me (becuase that's what it sounds like) and spent the afternoon and evening in oblivious repose with by best friend, pivo (beer).
This was the first time since arriving that the weight of my language ignorance truly hit me. Language is important for many reasons, but few have experienced the emotional and self-esteem related consequences that come from spending 48 hours mostly misunderstood by those around you. Its debilitating and isolating, and makes me long for that anonymous American bar where "everybody knows your name" (and how to prounounce it) but also the meaning of "first down", "face-planted", and "sonovabitch" (which, as it became clear to me that weekend, are vital language keys if you are ever going to explain american football to a foreigner).
So as I gazed out at the confused students listening to me lecture on the importance of student activism, I realized that my one responsibility for the weekend, the reason I was in Duszniki, was (mostly) all for naught. And that is why when it came time to write down my goals for the year, I unhesitatingly scribbled the following words onto the top line: "Learn Polish- Powodzenia!" (good luck)
The Procrastination
I knew this would happen.
I had all of these glorious visions of a daily blog with active commentary and an exponentially growing number of readers. A blog that would not only serve to send word of my travails back home, but would also serve as a place to discuss the issues of the day. This blog would take right off...friends would tell family, family would tell coworkers, coworkers would tell their neighbors, and the neighbors would realize that they just happen to be an editor at the New York Times and that this guy Shawn is brilliant. And then I would get paid.
But instead of cashing in on my dream job, I sit here with 4 posts (3 legit posts...scratch that, 2 legit posts [syllabus doesn't count]) to show for one month of cultural immersion. And I could spend the next 500 words making every excuse under the sun as to why this is the case (and they'd be damn good ones), but we all know the real reason. And I think it can be found somewhere in The Book of Shawn, Chapter 13: How to Write your Senior Thesis in 3 days.
So instead I'll take the high road and do what I always do when I screw up. I'll pull every b-s tactic in the book (of Shawn) to make the mess I've created look way better than it really is. In this instance that involves throwing this post up there to artificially inflate the post count without ever really saying anything substantive. In other instances it has involved cleaning the house so spotlessly after a parents-less rager that Doreen (the mother) knew something was up. Sorry Doreen.
But before I move on to something more pertinent, let me thank Ehoov, Linde, and Dr. Andrew, for living up to the readers end of the bargain and basically telling me to get my act together with this blog. Without your efforts I probably would not be sitting here right now filling space. A special thanks to Dr. Andrew- now that we have a real adult perusing this thing I may have to up the quality a bit. But then again...
I had all of these glorious visions of a daily blog with active commentary and an exponentially growing number of readers. A blog that would not only serve to send word of my travails back home, but would also serve as a place to discuss the issues of the day. This blog would take right off...friends would tell family, family would tell coworkers, coworkers would tell their neighbors, and the neighbors would realize that they just happen to be an editor at the New York Times and that this guy Shawn is brilliant. And then I would get paid.
But instead of cashing in on my dream job, I sit here with 4 posts (3 legit posts...scratch that, 2 legit posts [syllabus doesn't count]) to show for one month of cultural immersion. And I could spend the next 500 words making every excuse under the sun as to why this is the case (and they'd be damn good ones), but we all know the real reason. And I think it can be found somewhere in The Book of Shawn, Chapter 13: How to Write your Senior Thesis in 3 days.
So instead I'll take the high road and do what I always do when I screw up. I'll pull every b-s tactic in the book (of Shawn) to make the mess I've created look way better than it really is. In this instance that involves throwing this post up there to artificially inflate the post count without ever really saying anything substantive. In other instances it has involved cleaning the house so spotlessly after a parents-less rager that Doreen (the mother) knew something was up. Sorry Doreen.
But before I move on to something more pertinent, let me thank Ehoov, Linde, and Dr. Andrew, for living up to the readers end of the bargain and basically telling me to get my act together with this blog. Without your efforts I probably would not be sitting here right now filling space. A special thanks to Dr. Andrew- now that we have a real adult perusing this thing I may have to up the quality a bit. But then again...
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