I try my hand at reviewing music: Metal Hammer Festival, Spodek, Aug. 12 (Chris, you should've been there)

Ah, rock-nothing quite like a good arena rock concert. I may listen to a lot of country, jazz, and blues these days, but I never forget my hard rock/metal roots. (Ok, my real roots are musicals, Linda Ronstadt, and Billy Joel, but my adult listening habits began with Guns N Roses and AC/DC.) Last night at the Spodek I went to the Metal Hammer Music Festival and despite Chris Cornell's cancellation due to "strained vocal cords" it was a great show. Both Polish and international bands played, and here's how it went.
First, Fair to Midland. An unfortunate name in my opinion, practically begging smartasses like me to revert to the original expression to describe them: fair to middlin'. And that's being generous. Typical of opening acts, they sucked. While all of them seemed to be competent musicians and the lead singer had an impressive range and a variety of vocal effects, their songs lacked structure and left the impression that each member had written his part in isolation, without consulting the others. They had no sound, just sound. In many ways, with their pointless flailing and random headbanging, they seemed a parody of a metal band, like a too-long, bad SNL sketch (wait, isn't that a triple redundancy?). You could see the bassist thinking, "Oh, yeah, now I bang my head, now I stomp around . . . When do I have to jump again?"
Next up was a Polish band, Delight. They were that too, competently fronted by one of those rarities in metal, a woman. I love female leads in metal bands, and they were such a relief after the histrionics of Fair to Midland. Actual melody and structure, though they'd probably do well to ditch their keyboardist. They were quite evidently having a good time up there, and while none of their songs was truly exceptional, neither were they bad or in any way pretentious. They rocked within their limits, delivered a solid performance, and just seemed happy to be there. Delight's best number was a pretty hard cover of George Michael's "Careless Whispers" which definitely benefited from distortion, power chords and driving bass riffs. Most endearing was the way the singer thanked the crowd after each song, with real sincerity, a change from the usual perfunctory thanks or the occasional hostility you sometimes get.
Best performance of the festival however, goes to the Polish band Coma (click the "download" link to listen. Doesn't actually download). These guys rocked heavy and hard. Well-crafted, layered songs, full of those thunderous beats and riffs that rip open your chest and rearrange your pulse. A truly great, charismatic frontman, the singer sweated and screamed, strutted and stepped around the stage with purpose and power. Each song was delivered with the intensity, urgency and desperation of the condemned, as if the noose was already around his neck and these last few seconds were all he had to say a lifetime's words.
Beyond the music and the singer's stage presence though, was the love. Poland is a pretty big place, but even though I don't think Coma is at all local to this area, the atmosphere was that of a hometown show. The crowd loved them and they loved the crowd. It was palpable, visceral love, reminding me of the early 90s Seattle shows I went to, especially Pearl Jam. A very special rapport, not just adoration and adulation, or even mere enjoyment, but that sense that the band is your voice, expressing your feelings, combined with the knowledge that you are all rooted in the same time and place, really sharing the same emotions and experiences. It's a powerful thing, this kind of audience feedback, and Coma responded to it with everything they had.
The next act I just couldn't take seriously. A Japanese metal band, whose primary market, judging by the high-pitched screams from the pit, is preteen girls, Dir En Grey were at first laughable, then tedious. As with Fair to Midland, I found myself wondering if this wasn't some kind of comedy act, as virtually nothing about them seemed genuine. Purely aping the stereotype of metal bands, in this case some variant of death/thrash, without irony or understanding. Musically their songs were multi-polar (I know, technically you can only have two poles, but this is the most apt way I can put it), swinging randomly, abruptly, and totally pointlessly from one state to another, the lead singer basically just alternating between the three screams in his arsenal of noise while careening around the stage like one of those little bouncy-balls. At one point, he put one leg up on a metal box, bent over screaming so far that I was instantly reminded of how Sabriel looked while licking her genitals. Now and then they'd happen on to a decent beat or riff, but inevitably they'd do their Jekyll/Hyde transition back into asinine noise within a few bars. Ultimately, we left to go get a hot dog.
Finally, after an eternity of Dir En Grey, and a longer break than usual (during which they played Medeski, Martin, and Wood and Ween's "Piss up a rope," making me and maybe three other people in the arena really happy), the headliners came on, Tool. They delivered a workmanlike performance: they came, played hard, professional, and tight, and punched out right on time. Musically, not a thing to complain about; visually, I feel they substituted lasers and video screens for actual performance. The lead singer wasn't even directly lighted for the entire hour-long set, which at first seemed like a cool effect, then just got boring and frustrating. All the band members had their part of the stage staked out, and never moved from it (ok, the drummer has no choice, but the others might have done something). Overall, nothing to complain about, but then, nothing to rave about either.
At the end, it was just great to be at a show. Got to hear some new music, feel that bass breaking down my cellular structure, ate overpriced food, and smell the sweat and smoke of thousands of strangers. Ah, good times. This one last thing did keep bothering me though: when I was younger, we held up lighters when the lights went down, especially for ballads or anthems. I gotta say, the greenish glow of cell phone displays is a poor substitute, and it's not even a tribute or salute, but trying to get yet another low-quality picture to post on MySpace, as if we needed that. Sigh.

"When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes." -Desiderius Erasmus

Ah, visits from friends. I had my first ever visit from home, Rico and Loran, who dropped by (after some persuasion on my part) on their European tour. (What's the matter with the rest of you? A year and a half I've been here.) I showed them the mean streets of Sosnowiec (ok, the pubs) and beautiful buildings of Krakow (ok, we went to some pubs there too). We also went to Auschwitz (Oswiecim), which is difficult and depressing and necessary. But that for another time.
Since they love bookstores as much as I do, we went to the only primarily English-language store in this part, if not the whole of, Poland, Massolit Books (ul. Felicjanek, Krakow). If I have anything approaching a religion, it is worship of the written word, and while it's a great bookstore in its own right and in any country, as an English-speaker abroad, the sheer volume literally brought on the agony and the ecstasy. Ecstasy at the sight of so many good books, agony at the knowledge that I could only take a few home with me.
I had heard of this place from my friend Patrick, and had deliberately avoided it on all my previous visits to Krakow. Money was tight for a long time, and I knew I would spend far more than I could afford. So this was my first time, and it was all I could have asked for, and more.
Firstly, they sell (and of course, buy) used books. I love the smell and feel of old books, the sense of history and travel and adventure that clings to their pages, coffee stains, sun-yellowed edges, odd underlinings and margin notes. It reassures me that reading is not a solitary experience--I always imagine the prior owner(s) and where they were, who they were, what they thought, etc. And while we will never meet, we share these words. Just beautiful.
Second, it's everything a bookstore should be. None of those sterile, upmarket shelves like a Barnes & Noble, Borders, or Empik (the Polish equivalent), all of them matching each other and the paint and the carpet and the professional signs; no piles of Dan Brown or Danielle Steele or whatever Washington insider's tell-all that lots of people will buy but just read the NYTimes Book Review article is current this week. No, Massolit is one of that vanishing breed: old, creaky, somewhat unstable shelves arranged in too small a space, hand-lettered signs thumb-tacked to the edges; a small cafe of three tables and five chairs, serviced by a two-group espresso machine, a small selection of bagels and a studious-looking cashier/server/doctoral candidate. All of it crammed into a warren of rooms connected by hallways narrowed by more shelves, flyers and posters for local events, apartments and zines. Backstock is stacked on the floor or on top of the shelves, adding to the undercurrent of tension whenever you pull a book out. Old, well-loved, saggy armchairs and sofas. You know the place. You feel at home here.
And thirdly, selection. They have good buyers at Massolit. Something on everything, and everybody can find something. Politics, sociology, history, a surprisingly large children's section (featuring an illustrated treasury of Roald Dahl that caused physical pain to leave behind), contemporary and classical fiction, science fiction and poetry, mysteries and literary criticism, all of it.
Finally, price. A mass-market paperback in English (usually of the Brown/Steele/Grisham variety) averages 50zl (about 20US) at Empik. Trade editions of good books are 20-24zl at Massolit. I really almost started crying.
Needless to say, I still spent too much, yet came away feeling I should have gotten more. This gets me to what I wanted to say here. Among my treasures was a collection of essays by Stanislaw Baranczak, a literary critic in exile during the 80s. I haven't been able to read many Polish writers, as most bookstores (strangely enough) only carry their works in Polish. These essays are from that turbulent, eventful, and very important period of change, not just in Poland, but across Eastern Europe. In one of them, titled "The New Alrightniks" he quotes a Russian emigre, Vassily Aksyonov. Written in 1987, I found this quote to be still accurate, for both cultures mentioned (expanding the Soviet viewpoint to include all of Eastern Europe, in the same manner that Baranczak used it). Here it is, without further comment from me, but I invite everyone else to offer their thoughts (make sure you click the "comments" link, not the email link).

In the Soviet Union we pictured Americans as "citizens of the world," cosmopolitans; here we find them to be detached, withdrawn, sequestered in their American planet . . . In a closed society like the Soviet Union, public interest . . . is directed outward, while in open, democratic America it is almost wholly inner directed. The outside world interests Americans much less . . . Despite the iron curtain the Soviet Union is in many ways closer to Europe than Europe's closest political and economic partner, America.

Vassily Aksyonov, In Search of Melancholy Baby, 1987

"--------," Tom said wordlessly.

People always ask me, "How do you get by? How do you communicate, how do you buy things, how do you live, if you can't speak Polish?" I usually tell them, somewhat defensively I admit, that by now I've mastered a great deal of vocabulary, foods, numbers, nouns, general phrases, etc., and even if I cannot precisely converse in Polish, neither am I totally ignorant of it. And this is indeed true. I also readily confess to relying on the kindness of strangers to be patient with the stupid American who doesn't understand things like, "You have to fill out this form," or "I'll bring it to your table," or "Has the 805 bus come yet?" Well, sometimes they help me, and sometimes I figure out what they said after they've given up trying to make me understand, but it all works out. However, what I've really been learning here is how little we actually need language for a lot of everyday encounters.
Don't get me wrong; I love language and have spent most of my life playing with it, poking at it, stretching and bending it in different ways. I believe it to be the single most important feature of humanity, the very essence of what makes us human, and precision in language, or lack thereof, one of the most consequential acts we can perform. There's many good reasons why peace treaties and trade negotiations break down over prepositions and commas, why some people perenially attempt to ban certain books and media, why Shakespeare continues to astonish and fascinate us hundreds of years after his death. Words have power, and well-chosen words can move us in any direction, to any purpose, which is why we must learn them and think carefully about what we say.
But not always, I'm learning. And not even most of the time. In fact, it seems, true comprehension of language is unnecessary surprisingly often.
An illustration: walking home from work the other day, I stopped at the crosswalk just before my block, where ul. Jagiellonska Ts into ul. Ostrogorska. It has a stoplight, and walk signals, since those cars turning from Ostrogorska onto Jagiellonska need to know when pedestrians will be in the crosswalk. These streets are only moderately busy: regular traffic, but high volume only during the evening rush hour when people are trying to get to Myslowice, the next town over. As I stood at the corner, waiting for the light, an older gentleman, shortish, slim, blue jeans jacket and tanned skin, arrived at the corner opposite. We stood there, not making eye contact, but looking at the other person as you are bound to do in these situations where you end up facing someone, as on the bus or train, waiting. The light changed, allowing the one car on Jagiellonska to move between us and turn onto Ostrogorska toward the center of Sosnowiec. Our walk light had not come on yet (actually, it wasn't going to; it has been broken for a week, but the beeping noise it makes for the blind or absentminded still worked), both of us looked both ways at the quiet streets, shrugged, and began to cross. As we passed, he looked me in the eye, grinned, spoke, and we both laughed.
Now, I have no idea what he said, precisely. Partly because of my Polish, partly because it was short and fast, and partly because he kind of mumbled. But it didn't matter. Not at all. What he said to me was quite clearly on the order of "What the hell, right?" Although likely a bit more polite than that. The point being that we both understood the situation, the ridiculousness of standing on a street corner in a residential neighborhood waiting for a light when the only car around had just disappeared heading away from us. It's a 50 zl fine for jaywalking, but were we really going to get busted here? No.
And this is what happens to me all the time, every day. I can't catch the actual words, but I find I don't need to. Someone asks the time and I tell them, not because I understood the words (though I can) but because it's obvious. Someone on the street asks me for money and I know what they want. Maybe I catch just one word in ten, but the other nine aren't truly needed, like when I'm ordering pizza, and they ask me if I want extra sauce. I only hear "sos" (sauce), and I know. And at work, in case any students read this, it's completely unnecessary to know Polish to be able to tell when you're talking about the lesson or gossiping about computer games or friends or whatnot. Believe me, I always know.
Of course there are many other situations that call for much more specific language skills, and then I go back to relying on friends and kind strangers. And dziekuje bardzo to all of them. But in answer to the question, "How do you live, how do you survive here, not knowing Polish?" I can honestly answer: "Quite well, thank you."

Movies, Manners, and McClane

So, yeah, I know, it's been a long time since I last posted, which may mean no one is reading anymore. I'd love to say that I've been doing wild, crazy and exciting things, having adventures and escapades throughout Poland, and that this post will be a compelling account of travels and travails this past month.
But I can't.
I have no better excuse than sheer laziness.
Ok, the first week or so it was the end of the year rush, turning in books, writing evaluations, riding the bus between two cities and three jobs, etc. But then most of that finished, leaving me with only my summer job and a vastly reduced work schedule. LOTS of time to be creative and post something. All I can say is that it's summer, long days and warm nights, better for reading fluff fiction and hanging out on the patelnia than for blogging.
I've seen some movies, which I haven't done for a very long time (ever since my first job at a movie theater lo those many years ago, I kinda resent having to pay, though I do eat popcorn again now). The last one I saw was Die Hard 4.0, which is translated into Polish as The Glass Trap. I don't know if you've seen any or all of them, but the first one was set in a high-rise office building taken over by terrorists. For that one, the title made sense. But to stick with it for all the others? What about Die Harder, which takes place all over New York? Anyway, the strangest thing for me was not the titles, but the seating. In Polish theaters, when you buy your tickets, you are assigned seats, as if it was a play or opera or whatever. This does make a certain amount of sense when it's busy, and any American who's ever come late with three other people and tried to find four seats together in a dark, crowded theater will appreciate the system, but I saw Die Hard 4.0 on a Sunday matinee. Apparently, this is not a popular time to go see movies here (totally unlike the U.S.). When we came in, mere minutes before the start, there were only two other people there, in a fairly large theater. About two-thirds up from the screen, dead-center, great seats. As we looked for our own seats, it quickly became clear that we had been assigned the ones directly in front of the couple.
This is the point where our cultures clashed. My Polish friends went straight to their seats without pause or thought; these were the ones they got, no problem. In the U.S. however, if you were in this same situation, you would choose seats at least a row or two away, and the hell with what it said on your ticket. To give each other some space, a little distance, if for no other reason than so the other people can't hear the snide comments you're going to make about the movie. But this was evidently not something my friends noticed or minded, nor a consideration of the girl in the box office who gave us these seats, so, since no one else came in, there we sat, just the five of us, bunched together in the middle of a 300 seat theater.
And in any case, after the first explosion, approximately 90 seconds into the movie, I stopped thinking about it. I do love it when they blow stuff up.

Balderdash

End of the year, exams and evaluations and such, but also more relaxed in some ways. We're here at the end, not a whole lot that can really be done in the time we have, and for a few of my groups, we've finished the books (read: I skipped the last few terminally boring reading and listening exercises. And I do mean terminal; you literally feel your pulse slowing down and your brain begins to enter a comatose state and they finish just when you notice a bright light that hadn't been there before), so we get to have some fun.
One of my favorite games is based on Balderdash, a variation of which is played on the most excellent radio program, Says You! I divide the class into teams of two or three, give each team a dictionary, tell them to choose five words they think nobody knows and write two definitions in their own words: one false and one true. When everyone is done, they take turns reading their words and definitions, and the other teams try to decide which one is true. There are several reasons why I like this game: one, they get to learn some interesting and random vocabulary that might not come up in a regular lesson (a sample of some of their choices: scampi, twit, vest, wiggle, niggle, plank, germ, amalgamate, arid); two, it's a creative exercise, thinking of plausible definitions and writing them convincingly in English; and three, they really have to think about the words, how they sound, how they are constructed, how they relate to their meanings. I love wordplay myself, and English is a great language for it.
Some of the definitions were just wonderful, and demonstrated real thought and consideration. Here's a few, as written by my students, unedited:
gulp: 1. drink without stop. 2. water dripping from the roof. (Going with the onomatopoeia)
backlog: 1. something you didn't do but you had to 2. escape from the program. (Just great, relating the word to the phrasal verb "log in")
creak: 1. the noise cosed (sic) by old furniture. 2. the narrow small river (I especially love this for its deviousness, using the definition of the homonym).
silt: 1. an animal covered with silver skin spending most of his life on the bottom of river. 2. sand or mud which remains after river flows slowly.
armpit: 1. the opening in a piece of clothing where your arm goes through. 2. the part of the body under the arm at the point where it joins the shoulder.
A few words garnered clean sweeps, fooling everybody. One was ascent, defined as "climb on the rock" and "confirmation which you get from the post office." Another was merry, which surprised me. After all, this was a fairly advanced group, who should all know "Merry Christmas." Yet, the definition that took them all in was, "it's a kind of drink made from beer and juice and whisky, and it's served in Italy." While you have to admire the creativity of the writers, it does maybe reflect poorly on me as a teacher that the rest of the class believed it. Nevertheless, we all had a good time, and that's the important part.

Past Party-ciple

Profi-Lingua has annual end-of-the-year parties, although not actually at the end of the year, but the week before our exams start, during the time high schools and universities have their exams, and generally during the week, so despite fairly high enrollment, the parties are relatively sparsely attended. Between the two schools I teach at, in Sosnowiec and Katowice, I have somewhere around 130 students. While about 30 or 40 of those are underage teenagers, that still leaves close to 100 who could attend, and of those, I saw maybe 15 this week between the two parties. Nevertheless, they are fun, and a nice event to have. I do try to meet some of the older groups outside of class during the year, but this is a good time to do so.
The Sosnowiec party (on Monday, for crying out loud) was pleasant, actually almost intimate, given the number of people there. I got to see some of my former students from last year, though none of them, current or former, would participate in the little competitions they had (translating a word and using it in a sentence, saying something nice about Profi, etc. Not really competitions, as everyone who participated got a prize.), but I had great conversations.
But I really had a good time at the Katowice party. A beautiful, late spring evening, and although a Wednesday, Thursday was a holiday (Corpus Christi) so people were out and about, gathered at the tables on the patelnia or bunched in noisy groups along the street. Walking to the bus stop I ran into three of my students, one of whom, Pawel, tipped me off that it was better to take a tram to the club than the bus, for which I will be eternally grateful. I go to Katowice several times a week, and always take a bus, as they are faster, and in the case of the private line "D" bus, significantly cheaper, but this club, Poziom3, was in a part of Katowice I hadn't been to before and my plan was to take a bus as close as I could get and figure the rest out after. However, for those in the know, tram no. 15 went almost right to the door, and left Sosnowiec from the same place as the bus. Who knew?
And it was that tram ride that was almost the best part of the night. The bus routes run on the freeway between the two cities, past strip malls, chain stores, gas stations, McDonald's, car dealerships, etc., typical urban detritus, washed up by tides of zoning, taxes, and convenience. Not the most picturesque trip I've ever taken. But the tram route winds through leafy residential streets as it leaves Sosnowiec, and three stops from the center passes a lovely little lake, over which the sunset was throwing soft, pale reds. I didn't even know the lake was there, and it was just so beautiful and unexpected, it made the successive industrial parks we passed through much more bearable.
Of course, I didn't know where I was going, or what my destination looked like, or exactly how long it would take, so I was a little nervous. I'd counted the stops on the schedule at the stop, 14, and Pawel had told me the name of the stop, Akademia Ekonomiczna (someone Polish correct my spelling, please), but it's actually rather difficult to count that many stops. Up to three or four is ok, but then you start second-guessing yourself: did I count that last one? was that 8 or 9? did I miss one, thinking it was a stoplight instead? But it was all good as the one and only stop that had a sign was, yes, Akademia Ekonomiczna. This is a rare event in Poland.
The club itself was fairly big, several floors, booths and tables, dance floor, but the best part was the back patio, which has its own little tiki bar, with sand piled up around the edges and possibly-fake potted palms embedded in it. This is where I spent the majority of the evening, talking mostly with my fellow teachers and my own students who had turned up, but trying my Polish on some of the German students, shying away from the Spanish native speaker (I'd picked up a lot in Spain, but not enough for actual conversation), regretfully refusing to dance (I'd reaggravated my lower back problem a few days before, which no one actually believed, but oh well.). Late in the night, or early in the morning, after having some sort of religious discussion with one teacher, and having another yelling wetly in my face about some basketball achievement (LeBron James in the NBA playoffs, a performance I'd heard about, but after a few minutes I could no longer tell if he was still (literally) gushing about him or M.J.), I slipped out, very happy, instantly caught the night bus, found an open take-out hamburger place in Sosnowiec, and crashed out contentedly around 4 a.m. But it was that unexpected lake and glorious sunset that I think about now, and I plan to spend some part of my summer taking random buses and trams to see where I end up. So, thanks again, Pawel. I appreciate the tip.

Impending summer

Ah, June. School is coming to a close, the air is warm and soft, teenagers get especially restless, and anticipation is mixed with dread as exams loom on the calendar. I remember this feeling so well from my time as a student, and it's a bit odd to be back inside it as a teacher. Exams for me now are not something to worry about, but something to administer (though there is a touch of dread, as I do the speaking exams, and it can be somewhat tedious to sit and listen for hours every day and maintain interest. Nevertheless, if any of my students do read this, I am paying attention, I swear.), my hormone levels settled down a while ago, and summer is not the unrestrained freedom it used to be.
But there is that sense of ending, mingled relief and regret, bittersweet and delicious. I will have more time to myself this summer, to do some traveling, but I will miss many of my students, and while I may see some next year, there's no guarantee. The pubs and cafes have put tables outside again, so I can sit in the sun with a coffee or beer, one of the things I most enjoy about Europe, but my friend and conversational companion, Patrick, is returning to the US in a few weeks, so who will I sit with? Back home, my family is celebrating a wedding and saying goodbye to my grandfather. Politically the primaries are moving into high gear and Bush is making farewell gestures already.
Nonetheless, I will think about the good stuff. Like wearing my Hawaiian shirts in appropriate weather again. (I wear them all through the winter, but I get more looks then.) Sandals, instead of boots or shoes. Open windows and late sunsets. Summer thunderstorms and hot, lazy Sunday afternoons. The near-weightless feeling of my bag without textbooks and photocopied exercises. Adventures to be had, history to be discovered, new friends to make. It's a good month, June.

Proud to be an American?

So, this will be a bit like talking about someone behind his back, but nothing I wouldn't say in person if I thought it would do any good. At the Katowice branch of Profi, where I teach every other Saturday, is another American, J. Former Air Force Intelligence, if you believe him, but there's something off about the way he says it, can't pin it down. He is just everything I find embarrassing about the American character. Brash, loud, blithely arrogant and insensitive. He likes to tell just the worst racist and sexist jokes, not because he's racist (though a tad sexist), but just because that's the level of his humor. He actually plays American football (quarterback, of course) in Poland. One of those people who joins a conversation by introducing complete non sequiturs, usually about himself, usually about football, drinking and/or sex. For me, he is the living embodiment of rubbing a balloon, or nails on a chalkboard.
But what really got me last Saturday was his attitude toward his classes. It's end of the year, finals time, and the tests will cover all the material in the books. Polish students take exams very seriously, and even the ones who are learning English for personal benefit want to do well on them. Now, I'm not a big fan of tests myself; I tend to believe they mostly measure how well you take tests, rather than actual knowledge, but I don't expect everyone to share this view. But J. exhibited such a lack of concern, even pride, in being four full units behind, I didn't even know what to say. He seems to suffer from the delusion that just talking with him is enough, and while that may develop fluency, it is actually important to go over conditionals and passive verbs and reported speech, especially for those in test-prep classes (e.g., First Certificate in English, Advanced English, or Proficiency. These groups will take an exam for an internationally recognized certificate that will open up job opportunities and/or get them higher pay at current jobs. It's really important. And native speakers mostly teach these higher levels, so the majority of his students have these exams as their ultimate goals.). In his words, "Fuck the tests, man." This, on the same day that he expressed disappointment in discovering that Polish girls aren't as easy as he'd thought, ("I'm not taking [them] out for [their] personality and broken English.") and offered with pride the details of his current hangover and inability to teach in such a state.
Sigh.
There's so much that's good about the U.S. So much that I love. Literature, press freedom (even when they don't use it, at least it's there), road trips, spicy chicken at Popeye's, coffee refills, hashbrowns, purple mountains' majesty, etc. Why is it that we only export the worst? McDonald's, Burger King, strip malls, Britney Spears and Paris Hilton, Hollywood schlock, military invasions and useless missile defense systems, ludicrous justifications for civil rights abuses, and guys like this. It pains me to think that he is our representative here, even if it's just to a relatively few people. Because he reinforces (to my mind) so many of the negative stereotypes of Americans. And, as at home, I just feel no kinship with him. No fellow feeling, no sense of community. The only Polish word I've ever heard him say is "gowno," which means "shit," except Polish people don't use it the same way we do, so it's always wrong. Ah, well. He'll leave soon, and I can hope his replacement is better.

More standards and measures

Let's start this one with toilets. A great place to think and ponder life's mysteries, engaged as you are in one of the most primal and basic of activities. I also keep my Polish/English dictionary in the bathroom: I figure I can learn a few words a day this way, since I'm there already and my hands are free. And here's what I've noticed in there: toilet paper holders. The American standard is that nifty spring-loaded telescoping rod wedged into recessed holes in the sides of the holder, at least household ones are. Here, the standard is for a small diameter rod, kind of bracket-shaped, or maybe more like a digital watch's zero with one side missing and sideways. Anyway, it's open at the side, you slide the roll onto the rod, and often there's a sort of lid thingy attached that covers the top half of the roll. The problem I have is that my lid thingy is broken and I can't put it on the holder, so when I go to tear off a few squares, sometimes the entire roll comes off the rod, especially as it gets closer to the end, and thus is very light. Which is a very irritating thing to have happen when you're in such a vulnerable position and there's little you can do but tear off what you need while the rest of the roll dissolves in the one spot of water from your shower. And so I wonder, who designed these open-ended holders and why did everyone else think it was a good idea? Am I the only one who has this problem? Am I just deficient in a style of toilet-paper-ripping that Polish people learn in childhood? I don't know.
But then I went to Ukraine and this whole issue got a new dimension for me. Because, you see, in Poland, the rolls themselves are the same as what I'm used to, but in Lwow, they were missing the interior cardboard tube. They just roll up the paper into one solid, center-hole-less cylinder. Which of course means you have to have entirely different holders. What I found were little shelves, slightly curved and low-sided, and infinitely easier to accidentally drop the roll from. And this also made me remember a few bathrooms in the U.K. where they didn't have rolls at all, but instead folded sheets tucked into what seemed like napkin dispensers screwed upside down into the wall. Is it any wonder that we can't settle international issues and disputes when the world can't even agree on the way to wipe our asses? Ok, I'm reaching there, but still.
Toilets also tend to have flush buttons on top of the tank. Haven't seen a single front-of-the-tank lever-flusher. Sometimes it's a pull-knobby-thing, but always in the center of the top. I know they sell lawnmowers, but the only machine I've seen used to cut grass is a weed-whacker. Big ones, but when you see a guy in a big park or along a highway cutting grass with one of those, you get the idea that this is almost deliberately Sisyphean.
Locks always need the key to be turned twice. Ice-cube trays were really hard to find: didn't know that most people use these plastic bag things. Sofa-beds are common, but that's a space issue, and entirely reasonable. However, I know that many people have vacuum cleaners, and yet carpet-beating is still popular. One of my first mornings in Poland I was woken at 7 a.m. by a rhythmic thwunking noise, almost like gunshots, but a little duller and flatter. Disoriented and confused, especially since it was 15 below zero Celsius and I couldn't imagine what or who could possibly be making such a sound so early in the morning outside in such weather, I stumbled to the window, where I saw a very old woman vigorously beating the bejeezus out of a carpet. They have carpet beating poles all over for this purpose, though I have since learned it's traditionally the man's job. My feeling is, if the dirt is so ground in that a vacuum won't get it, then it ain't a problem. Fortunately, I don't have any carpets in my current place.
The last thing is, this is not a handicapped-accessible country. Didn't think too much about it for awhile, having two good legs and all, but as I was walking to work a few days ago, a man stopped me on Malachowskiego. I took him for a nurse, but he may have been a relative of the very old man in a wheelchair who was with him. It was outside an apartment building, and he wanted me to help lift the chair and the man up some steps. Six steps. Low steps. Of course I did it, but I couldn't help but wonder how long they had been there, and how often they had to rely on the kindness of strangers to get in and out of the building. A simple ramp, common enough on public stairs, would do so much for their quality of life, not to mention dignity. And here I am ranting about toilet paper rolls.

Mazury, Days 5 and 6, the Wolf's Lair, Boyen Fortress and home

Trouble arose when we reached Ketrzyn on May 3rd, Constitution Day. And it had been such a lovely morning, too. We had descended for breakfast about 8:30, to an empty restaurant. One table was laid for 3 people. As soon as we sat down, we were brought platters of cold cuts and cheese, bread, tomato slices, butter, and wonder of wonders, an entire carafe of coffee, which was actuallyy left on the table for refills. If you're not already aware of this, the American custom of free coffee refills is unheard of in Europe. You pay for each and every cup, ordered individually, extra charge for milk, so this was an astonishing event, and we drank pretty much the whole thing, on principle. We also were offered, and accepted, fresh omelets, plain, but very good. I might also mention that things like butter and jam are also usually extra, so this breakfast was just downright extragavant by Polish standards.
Cheerful despite an overcast day, we walked the few blocks to the bus station, and there was one lone bus idling, which just happened to be going through Ketrzyn, which is the closest town to the Wolf's Lair, Hitler's headquarters for the last 3 years of the war. We hopped on, and 34 kilometers and half an hour later, we were in Ketrzyn. Where the problems began.
The Wolf's Lair is actually in Gierloz, 8 km outside of Ketrzyn. It was about 11 when we arrived at the tourist office, where the nice lady informed us that today, being a holiday, there was only one bus to Gierloz, at 2 p.m., and one bus returning, at 6 p.m. Just about any other day, they ran every hour or so. Our bus from Ketrzyn back to Gizycko was at 2:30, although there were trains as well.
So we splurged and took a taxi. Expensive, but better than hanging out all day waiting for buses. The driver was crazy, passing other cars and tour buses on narrow country roads by driving on the left shoulder into oncoming traffic, but we arrived safely. The Lair is out in the woods, a compound of heavily fortified bunkers that the Germans tried to destroy completely after Hitler's suicide, but had built too well. None of them are usable anymore, but 9 meter-thick steel-reinforced concrete apparently doesn't just fall apart when you blow up 60 tons of explosive inside it. It's all open: you pay at the entrance and then just wander around, though there are well-marked trails, color-coded depending on whether you want the full tour or shorter ones. If you care to disregard the signs that warn of danger, you can enter the ruins of the bunkers and walk the same corridors as Hitler, Eva Braun, Goring, Bormann, SS officers, stenographers, typists, Wehrmacht and Air Force and Naval High Commands all did. Nothing has been maintained or restored, and the forest is reclaiming what it can. I was sorely tempted to pocket a bit of rubble from Hitler's bunker, but restrained myself. It was a fascinating couple of hours, and as the sky cleared and the sun shone and the birds sang, it was difficult to imagine this truly being the center of so much horror and destruction.
Another nail-biting taxi ride, a pleasant nap on the bus, and we were back in Gizycko shortly after 3. The pub across from the hotel had nice tables in the sun, and we had coffee and watched families and couples strolling the boulevard, teens and children shouting and chasing each other and eating ice cream from the shop next to us. Finally, we motivated again, and headed across the canal to the Boyen fortress, a big, vaguely star-shaped brick thing on a hill, built in the early 1800s, used as an outer defensive post for the Wolf's Lair before it fell to the Russians without a shot at the end of the war. Here, too, much of it has been left to trees and bushes: the outer walls are now entirely overgrown, and only the too-regular manner in which it encircles the inner fortress hints at what it once was.
We arrived too late to enter the central part, but had a pleasant stroll around the outer walls, after which we went looking for another sunny table, if there still was one, as it was getting on in the evening. At the canal though, the bridge was open, forcing us to detour slightly to the pedestrian bridge, but interesting enough that we stopped at the pub on the other side. It opens by swinging its entire length on a swivel mounted on one side, so that it rests along the bank, sort of like a pinball flipper at rest. The amazing thing about it, though, is it's operated manually. That is, the 100-ton structure is moved by one man (on this day, the operator seemed to be in his 70s) cranking a series of winches and things by hand. No motors whatsoever. It takes about 5 minutes to complete the operation, but when the time came, sure enough, we could see him cranking away, first by walking around a big, vertical, turnstile-type device, then inside the bridge house, spinning this wheel and that, vaguely reminiscent of Tim Curry in Rocky Horror. Without the fishnets and corsets, of course.
We met up with Philippe for dinner, and called it a night after that. The next day's journey home was long and tedious, though it began well enough with a reprise of that most excellent and unexpected breakfast, and did include a pleasant hour and a half in Olsztyn's rynek again, but since it also had misread schedules, wrong trains, extra hours and legs, pleadings for compassion with conductors (which actually worked-it's very complicated, but about 10 minutes before we were to finally get off the train, a conductor wanted to charge us for an entirely new ticket, but relented, even at risk from his supervisor. Thank you, good sir.), and another taxi ride before I finally walked through my door, almost 16 hours after leaving Gizycko, just over 8 before I had class in the morning, and 12 or so hours since I last ate anything more substantial than peanuts or chips. It was all worth it, nevertheless.

Mazury, Day 4, Mikolajki to Gizycko

A cold, clear day dawned in Mikolajki, blue sky, blue water, gusty wind in green trees. A wonderful day to take the 3 hour boat trip to Gizycko, through Lake Talty and several canals to Lake Niegocin, in the northern part of Mazury. A round-trip tour left at 10:30, but we were certain we could get one-way tickets, so we headed down to the docks. At the Kasa Biletowe we were informed that there was no boat to Gizycko; that is, they didn't have one. We looked behind us at the 3 tour boats tied up next to us, then back at the man. "You don't have a boat?" "Nie ma. Not today." He shrugged. What can you do?
So it was back to the tourist office to see what other options were available to get to Gizycko. Buses? Well, yes, but today there was only one, which left at 7 a.m., 3 hours ago. We could catch a bus to Ketrzyn, and try to get a connection there. Trains? Not direct. Again, we might take one to another town and hope for something heading north. Didn't we want to stay in Mikolajki?
After some disappointed discussion, we agreed on a plan. Go back to the docks, and if there was a boat tomorrow, we'd stay in Mikolajki for another day, otherwise, we'd try the bus/train thing. The major reason for visiting Mazury is the lakes, and we really wanted to take this trip. Much to our surprise, in the 45 minutes we'd been gone, the situation had changed. Now the man told us the 3 p.m. boat was available, though he made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, as if minutes earlier he hadn't told us exactly the opposite. Ah, Poland.
Rejuvenated, optimistic once more, the sun a bit brighter, the wind less chilling, we returned to the tourist office to get help finding a room in Gizycko, as we'd now be getting in much later, and that went smoothly as well. Two phone calls, which I made, in Polish, thank you very much, and we were booked in a small hotel on one of the main streets, just a few blocks from the waterfront. While we were discussing what to do for the next few hours, we met Philippe. He was also headed to Gizycko, and wanted to know how to get there. We told him about the boat and invited him to join us. A Frenchman, it turned out he was studying law in Katowice, the city next to ours. We were practically neighbors.
After some idle wandering, a couple bowls of zurek, and reprovisioning, it was time to go. We got a good table on the top deck, not that it mattered; on a boat that could easily take a hundred passengers, we were 3 of about 15. A group of German cyclists, some elderly couples who stayed downstairs, a few Polish tourists.
The journey was lovely. We had good sun for the first two hours, as we passed through Talty, sailboats weaving around us. Tree-lined canals, storks flapping slowly overhead, occasional towns on the shore, once, an older man patiently waiting at a put-in point with two cans of gas, whether hoping to sell it or a pre-arranged meeting was unclear. We didn't speak much; Philippe was suffering from a head cold and Patrick and I were just enjoying the lake sounds. I sent a snarky text message to all our friends that hadn't joined us: I'm on Lake Jagodne. Where are you?
It was overcast by the time we reached Gizycko, but reasonably mild when the wind wasn't blowing. Philippe came with us to Hotel Jantar to see if they had another room, which they did, and his presence proved unexpectedly helpful as the woman who ran the place spoke no English, but very good French. So in three languages we learned that we could have petit dejeuner anytime we wanted, in the hotel restaurant; that there was some sort of commemorative festival that evening for tomorrow's Constitution Day (her exact words were "Boom, boom."); and that if we returned after the restaurant was closed (since it was also the entrance and reception), we could get in by pressing the buzzer on the back door.
The room was the best yet, and a sharp contrast to the one we'd came from, not least because it had an indoor toilet. On the first floor (second for you Americans) overlooking the street, clean, basic but nice Ikea-like furnishings, a working TV (only 3 channels, but each of them twice), soft, fluffy towels (at the Wysoka Brama they were like drying off with sandpaper), and a shower with just the best pressure I've felt in a long time.
Somewhat worn out from the day's travels and travails, and Philippe from his cold, we ventured out to forage, found pizza and beer to bring back, watched Manchester United get severely beaten by AC Milan, and turned in.

Mazury, Day 3, Mikolajki

Mikolajki. Hub of Mazury, ground zero of weekend sailors and tourists for the region, situated as it is almost in the center of Mazury, on a narrow inlet of Poland's largest lake, Jezioro Sniardwy, where it meets Jezioro Talty, a long, twisty, almost riverish body of water. The waterfront is lined with docks, behind them pubs and restaurants of exactly the type you would expect to find in a place that depends on tourism, behind them a smallish town full of cafes, hotels, restaurants, outdoor gear shops and signs for rooms to rent. It's a pretty place, and worth visiting, but it's easy to understand why many people I talked to told me to avoid it. Overly boisterous young men drunk at 10 in the morning, small children wired on sugar from whipped cream covered waffles shrieking underfoot, tour groups parting and swarming like schools of fish, over-priced food, etc. I was glad I went, and somewhat relieved to leave it.
We arrived mid-morning, at the tiny station just outside the center of town, and made our way to the tourist office to find lodging. They were well-prepared with a many-times-photocopied list of accomodation which the lady quickly marked with prices in our range. While there are plenty of hotels, the cheapest option is a room in a private house, something almost every resident offers it seems. Eventually, we ended up across the pedestrian bridge from the center at a house whose owner spoke no English, but Patrick negotiated for us. We would get a room, bathroom access, and that's it for only 70 zloty for both. A good deal. She showed us the bathroom, which to preserve family privacy we would have to get to by going out the back door, crossing only a few feet of backyard, and reentering through the laundry room. Why she showed us this, I'm still not sure, maybe for the shower. As it turned out, the toilet we were supposed to use was actually in a shack at the end of the yard, with a sink on the outside, and pretty frigging cold. Patrick I think was a braver man than I, but come morning I got seriously constipated just thinking about that icy toilet seat, and didn't unclench until we reached Gizycko.
But that first day in Mikolajki, blissfully ignorant of toilet troubles to come, we merely divested ourselves of extra weight and headed back to town.
Our first stop was on the waterfront. We'd agreed that kayaking and canoeing were out, due to the cold, and sailing wasn't an option as neither of us had a license, so we wanted to check out the lakes by tour boat. We got tickets for what appeared to be a tour of Lake Sniardwy-that is, the sign said: Mikolajki-Sniardwy-Mikolajki. That left us a couple hours to get something to eat, and after perusing the available options along the water, we settled on the guy barbecueing sausage in a little cul-de-sac of restaurants and pubs. There was good sun when a cloud wasn't overhead, the enclosing buildings cut the wind, and he also had nalesniki, a filled pancake thing I'd yet to try. They are indeed good, but I ran into a little trouble with them. I asked for two, the guy asked me something, and, as I usually do when I don't understand but think I know what the question is, I said "Tak, tak." He must have asked if I wanted two for each of us, as Patrick had waited with bags while I ordered; in any case, I ended up with four of them, which is an awful lot, as they're very filling, full of whipped cream and fruit. One is enough to make you diabetic. This kind of thing happens all the time.
Anyhoo, after strolling around a bit, it was time for the tour. A big boat, two decks, lots of tables and chairs, a bar on the lower deck, and only half full. All seemed well. We set out down the aforementioned inlet to the main body of Sniardwy, a light breeze blowing, sailboats moving with varying degrees of success around us, a very pleasant afternoon jaunt. At last, half an hour after setting out, we reached the lake. And promptly turned around. Evidently, the sign was absolutely literal. The tour went from Mikolajki to Sniardwy and back and that was it. Our reasonable assumption that we would actually see the lake was only that, an assumption. A bit disappointed, but overall content to have spent time on the water, we shifted position to stay in the sun and got another beer for the return trip.
The rest of the day was spent in somewhat aimlessly drifting from establishment to establishment, the longest time spent in the jazz bar of Hotel Prohibicja, a 1920s themed place, with framed photos and movie posters on the walls, Norah Jones on the stereo, trading word puzzles, mostly revolving around heteronyms and homonyms. A decent but unexceptional dinner at a waterfront place, then back to the room and 15 minutes of trying to turn on the TV before the owner heard us and informed us it didn't work. That was all the encouragement I needed to decide that sleep was the only thing for me. Especially as this was also when we realized which toilet we had to use, and staying awake would only mean I'd have to go out there more often.

Mazury, Days 1 and 2

Well, it was a long week, or long weekend, as everyone called it here. May 1st is the Polish Labor Day, and the 3rd is Constitution Day, which means that most people also get the 2nd off as well. Given that this year the holidays fell on a Tuesday and Thursday, many schools and businesses also closed on Monday and Friday (which is Steelworkers' Day), so I followed suit, canceled my Monday classes, and went to Mazury with Patrick.
Mazury is in the north of Poland, and justly called Land of a Thousand Lakes. Popular for sailing, kayaking, water-skiing, and associated water activities. And beautiful. Rolling hills, shady forests, quaint villages, pleasant resort towns, the whole bit. We had a good time, albeit a little cold.
We left Sosnowiec early Sunday morning, as it's a 9 hour train ride to Olsztyn, which is technically in Warmia, not Mazury, but on a good-sized lake anyway. At the station, Patrick, who's going back to the States after 5 years here, got an attack of the "Last Times." You know, when you leave a place you've lived in for awhile, you keep looking at things and thinking: It's the last time I'll see this/eat here/walk down this street/talk to this person. This trip was in a way his farewell tour, as we have no other holidays before the end of the semester, and he's leaving shortly after that. I mention it because this fact colored the week; you could almost sense memories being deliberately stored and tucked away against a future time.
Anyway, 9 hours, a few sandwiches, 6 drunk soldiers, several games of cribbage, a thermos of coffee, and 1.5 liter bottle of water later, we arrived in Olsztyn. I'd found an online deal for a 3-star hotel that was really cheap for the first night, and which claimed to be "near" the station. However, since I was unable to locate a map that showed the station, I was sceptical. Descriptions like that are notoriously unreliable, but I figured it couldn't be more than a ten or fifteen minute walk. But for once, reality was even better than advertised: Hotel Gromada was across the street from the station, something that I would've emphasized had I written the web page copy. It proved to be bland but clean, as expected; we dumped our stuff and headed out in the last of sunlight.
We'd both been told by both guidebooks and people that Olsztyn wasn't much, and we both took exception to this. It was a lovely rynek (market square) centered around what used to be the Town Hall, and is now the main library, complete with coffee cart in the lobby. Nice pubs and restaurants around the edges, with flower sellers and cotton candy vendors in front. By the winding river, which is nicely lined with trees and a grassy path, is a castle where Copernicus lived for a few years, though it was closed on Monday. Many buildings have interesting mosaics on their facades, or relief carvings, blocky and strong, either well-preserved medieval art or intended to evoke such, depicting the essentials of life, fish and animals, fruit and farming. The second night we stayed in the Hotel Wysoka Brama, which is in the old town gate: hostel rooms in the three story-gate itself, additional rooms in a more modern building attached to one side. At the lakefront, we drank beer on the deck of a nice and mostly empty restaurant, watching some kids weave around the docks in little 6-foot sailboats, and criticized the rowing efforts of what looked to be a Viking longboat of very poor sailors. There's a good Irish pub a block from the rynek and just an enormously friendly and helpful tourist office. I like Olsztyn, even if it did snow on us as we left for Mikolajki on Tuesday morning.

Open Letter to Barack, Hilary, John, and Rudy (because, let's face it, no one named Mitt has a chance, and John Edwards just lost all credibility)

I'm tired of being an apologist for the United States. I've done a lot of traveling, I've met people from all over the world, I've lived outside the US for a year and a half, and everywhere I go, to everyone I meet, I have to explain that Americans are not all violent, racist, gas-guzzling religious fanatics. Our standing in world opinion has fallen very low, and I'm tired of trying to deny that this is the entirety of our culture. Oh, certainly, our movies and TV shows, our music and fashion, our junk and fast foods are all eagerly consumed around the globe, but I find that not at all reassuring. When McDonald's and Green Day are held in higher esteem than our government, I believe that to be a clear sign of serious problems. When Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hanks are more trusted than our president, and considered more sincere, it's time for revolution.
Virginia Tech, Wolfowitz at the World Bank, the Iraq war, obesity, divorce rates, energy consumption, education, cultural sensitivity, gang violence, global warming, drug use, general extravagance and waste, the list is seemingly endless of topics I have to explain and add nuance to. Often, people just want confirmation that what they've heard is true; for example, on the subject of American education, is it true that most high school students can't find Poland on a map? I'm forced to admit, that, yes, that's probably accurate. I then feel compelled to put it in context, which means admitting that most of them can't find their own state on a map either, so don't take it personally. Which makes me think of all the times I asked someone during screening at the blood center, Have you been outside the US or Canada in the last three years? and gotten an answer like, "Well, I went to Hawaii in May."
But I love my country. For all it's problems, I still believe in its promise and potential, and I want desperately for a leader who will realize it. I want us to stop spreading democracy at gunpoint, I want press freedom not to be dependent on ad revenue, I want our major exports to be the best instead of the worst of our culture, I want to stop having to say things like, "The American judicial system guarantees due process for everyone, unless you're black, Hispanic, Middle-Eastern, mentally-ill, developmentally disabled, have any kind of an accent, just kind of funny-looking, an illegal immigrant or have been classified as an enemy combatant by an untouchable, secret military tribunal or the CIA, in which case, you're shit out of luck."
So, to whoever comes out on top in November '08: Do something to make me a proud American again. Please.

We're still number one

Ok, time for my knee-jerk liberal reaction to the Virginia Tech shootings. It's made big news here in Poland; pretty much everybody knows about it. I've had several discussions with students and friends, who, understandably, wonder what kind of country has such tragedies. I've been following the reports as well, and one statement has leapt out at me from most of them: "This is the deadliest campus massacre in US history." What bothers me about that is not the number of dead, though I am certainly saddened by that, and I feel deep sympathy for their friends and families. No, what I find most disturbing about that statement is that we've had so many campus massacres to compare this one to. This is the sort of thing that just doesn't happen in a lot of countries, at least not in Poland. They've certainly had their share of violence and repression, hardship and tragedy, more than seems possible at times, but campus shootings are truly unthinkable here.
How nice that is.
No metal detectors in schools. No full-time roving grief counselors. No media frenzies. No cliches like, "He always seemed so quiet." I tried explaining the expression "going postal" the other day, and that met with the same bewilderment. Because let's not forget our numerous workplace shootings as well. Don't know where Virginia Tech ranks if you include those, but I bet some statistician will be doing that soon; after all, schools and universities are also workplaces.
Why doesn't this happen here? Is it because people are more stable, less violent, less depressed, the culture values life more, Polish people are just better human beings? I don't think so. It's very simple in my opinion: THEY DON'T HAVE GUNS.
It's not that people are better in any significant measure, but if someone snaps in Poland, they just don't have the means to wreak widespread havoc. I once took an informal survey of several classes, asked the students if they owned OR knew anyone who owned a gun. Out of about 60, none owned one personally, and only two knew someone who did, in both cases someone outside their family. I can think of seven or eight people I know who are gun owners, and probably more if I tried.
I also think it's telling that this latest shooter was a first-generation American, a legal resident, but not from the US. That takes something away from any cultural arguments that we always make in our search for the reason "Why?" Virtually all of the 14-year-old boys among my students are devotees of various violent computer games, but even if they got that urge to try it in real-life, it would be nearly impossible for them to obtain a gun, and even then, it would likely be a single-shot hunting rifle, certainly not the kind of weapon one could use for a massacre.
I know, guns don't kill people, people kill people. But people without guns just can't kill that many at once without being stopped. When will we accept this truth and disarm ourselves? We don't appear able to stop individuals from having these impulses, but we can remove the means with which they act upon them. I, for one, would be willing to see America lose its preeminence in this category.

Standards and Measures

I spend a lot of time wondering about little things, always have. Where they come from, who made them, why they are the way they are. I've been trying for years to envision a zipper factory, or the machine that makes twist-ties, or how long the original roll of toilet paper was before they cut it down to a usable size and how they perforate the sheets and prevent them from tearing. Have you ever seen a roll of toilet paper that had a perforation that was already torn, even a little? Some serious technology went into that. Everything we use, from plastic bottle caps to buttons to staples and the little tin pour spout on a container of salt, somebody made, somebody designed, somebody said, this is how it will be. Who are these people and how do I become one?
So here in Poland, I've been noticing some differences in the way things are, the little stuff that is so standard you don't really think about it until it changes or you're like me and hit your head a lot as a child. Beyond the obvious gap of standard vs. metric measurements (which let me here note that, while I'm personally a big fan of pints and tablespoons, gallons and quarts, miles, feet, inches and all our other absurd measures, not least for the fun and intriguing idioms and expressions we get from them--"Give him a centimeter and he'll take a kilometer" just doesn't have the same ring to it, the same for "The .45 kilograms of flesh which I demand of him/ Is dearly bought as mine, and I shall have it," -- but I hereby publicly cast my vote for the switch anyway. Other than our English friends, the rest of the world uses metric and it's just silly that we don't.) there are many other differences that are common and ordinary and pondering fodder for me.
Take pillows. I grew up, as most Americans did, with a decidedly rectangular pillow. Roughly twice as long as it was wide. When a pillow case was needed, we went to the store and chose from among assorted thread counts, colors, materials and patterns. But almost all the cases conformed to this basic size and shape. Of course there are other sizes and shapes, but generally speaking, we have rectangular pillows. Now, I haven't been all over Poland, nor have I conducted a survey, but the pillows I've slept on here have been almost square. Just the teensiest bit rectangular. And when I moved into my current apartment, I needed to buy a pillowcase, and discovered that the stores carried almost exclusively this size and shape, thus leading me to deduce that this was the standard. How did this come about? I realize how trivial a question this is in the grand scheme of things, but I can't help imagining the millions of pillows and pillow cases in this country, and thinking of how this general agreement was reached. Because pre-Industrial Revolution, most people must have made their own, so when cloth began to be manufactured, and sewing became industrialized, did the factories impose this standard upon the populace, or did they produce what they knew to be an existing preference? If the latter is true, then how, in a pre-industrial era, did everyone come to agree on this size and shape, and why is it different in the US?
Another example is paper. Our standard is the good old 8.5 x 11". Even has a nice rhythm when you say it. Eight-and-a-half-by-eleven. Almost all our forms and documents, all our schoolwork, copies, computer paper, flyers for garage bands, eviction notices and phone bills, everything is on 8.5 x 11" paper. Not here. Not sure what the precise measurement is but it's slightly larger. Not much, not especially noticeable at first, but then I tried to put some printouts I got into a folder I'd brought from home. A tight squeeze widthwise, and the tops sticking out. Paper brings us to holes: no sensible, evenly spaced three holes, often just a very flimsy-seeming two, close to the center, but sometimes an overwhelming and unnecessary five, and of course, you need binders to match. That is when you can find one, as many people use these folders with elastic bands that seem nifty at first, but are really kind of irritating. Who decided all this?
Eggs come in tens, not dozens. There isn't a door knob to be seen, as there is a definite predilection for L-shaped handles. The windows are cool: the standard is for these convenient hinges that allow you to let it swing in just a few inches from the top, or open fully from the side (not that my landlord sprung for those, but just about everyone else has them). Beer comes in half liters, no puny 12 ounce bottles here. Light switches tend to be those flat kind, no actual switch-switches. I won't go into sockets and power supply. I have to do a bit of searching to find notebooks (always small, no composition sizes) with lines instead of graphs, and it's impossible to get college-ruled. Books largely favor trade-editions; not much of a market, it seems, for mass-market.
None of this is truly in the nature of complaint; it's just these are the things I think about, especially at certain times--like when I forget and trudge up stairs to the third floor, following directions given to me by a native, and realize I'm only on the second and should've just taken the elevator. Who agrees with me on this one? The first floor you come to should be called the first floor and if I ever find a descendant of the guy who decided to start numbering European floors from zero, I'm going to smack him a good one.

Easter Blues

It's Holy Week here in Poland; well, ok, I guess it's Holy Week everywhere for Christians. An especially important holiday in a majority Catholic country. I say majority, because I'm here, and official and non-official counts of non- and other-believers run anywhere from 1 to 10% of the population. Nevertheless, starting tomorrow, just about everything will be closed. Most stores will remain open at least through Friday, some on Saturday, as will pubs and clubs, but all schools, museums, offices, etc., will shut down. What is an agnostic to do?
I try to refrain from ranting about pagan symbolism during the holidays here; it seems rude to do so as a foreigner, but as I get engulfed in eggs and rabbits a few comments do escape me. But it's very important for most Polish people, and I was raised to be polite.
Even largely non-observant Catholics here will attend Mass, take little baskets of food to the church on Saturday to be blessed, and spend the next four days with their families. It's a big eating holiday, rest, relaxation. But just remarkably little to do if you're thousands of miles from family and completely areligious.
Last year I went to Wroclaw (VRROHTSwav) for Easter, which is a beautiful city, and apparently has many great museums, art, sights, etc. I say apparently because I couldn't see any of it that wasn't visible from the street. Some things, such as the Panorama, a huge 360 degree mural, was closed almost a week before I even got there. This experience makes me leery of venturing out this time: I spent three days just kinda wandering aimlessly, always returning to the (admittedly very impressive, but quiet) Rynek (market square) and ending up in the Irish pub because it was open, where a very drunk Englishman tried to get me to go to a casino with him, which I wouldn't do since I know I have problems in casinos.
So, my choices are three: there's a "contemporary musical theater performance" of "The Mystery of the Passion of the Christ" in Krakow on Saturday, but it's in the Rynek and the weather has gone cold and gray here, expected to remain so through Monday; go with my friend Patrick to some little town where something is happening that he tried to see but missed last year, with the attendant problems of traveling on a holiday in a place where literally nothing but your hotel is open; or hanging out at home, reading, watching movies, and waiting for the end. The third actually sounds the most appealing, as I can read for days without appreciably noticing the outside world, but I feel compelled to do something with this time.
I'll decide tomorrow. In the meantime, those of you in more religiously diverse/secular/non-Catholic places, enjoy your coffee shops, movie theaters, pool halls, bowling alleys, grocery stores, malls, theaters, restaurants, convenience stores, video rental stores, and all the other stuff that will vanish for me soon.

Trivia Time

So you've got a BA. Maybe even a postgraduate degree. Years of schooling, in many subjects, most of which you don't use in daily life. What do you do with all this knowledge floating around your brain?
Well, if you're at all like me, you do crossword puzzles, you listen to the Puzzle Master Presents with Will Shortz every Sunday on Weekend Edition and the Car Talk puzzler on Saturdays, and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me if you're also a news junkie, or Says You! when you want to realize how little you actually know. I think one of the ultimate signs of irredeemable geekdom is not only Carl Kassel's voice on your answering machine, but being excited about it. (And if it wasn't a hugely expensive long-distance call for me, and I actually knew how to access my voice mail, I would try every week. I mean, Carl Kassel.)
You probably also love Trivial Pursuit. And not the stupid versions they've been coming out with for the past few years, that are almost entirely about TV shows and pop stars and Brangelina. No, you love the original editions, Genus I, the great general knowledge games. But thank god for the Internet. I've found plenty of sites with trivia games and assorted quizzes, and I love them. Many are poorly designed, or don't have enough questions to warrant return visits, but I just found a great one for those who really want to test themselves. It's called Quick Quiz, and it's a tough one. Five questions, on any topic, and you have to get them all right to post a message on the Glory Wall. Why do you want to post a message on the Glory Wall? Well, you probably don't, but it's frustrating when you can't because you didn't know who wrote an 19th century French absurdist play. And when you do, finally, get all five correct, it justifes all that random liberal arts knowledge floating around your brain. I actually was able to figure out a geometry question about parallelograms, and I really never thought I'd use that info again. So check it out if you have some spare time, though you should be careful: each quiz only takes a minute, but you may find that posting a Glory Wall message becomes much more important than doing actual work.

Under Investigation

Ok, I'm a good liberal, certainly no supporter of Bush and his cronies, but I must confess to a certain sympathy for him and his buddies during the various scandals that have been going on. Scooter Libby, Alberto Gonzales, Harriet Myers, et al, are currently or recently under investigation/on trial for assorted misdeeds. I won't rehash it all, either you know about it or not, the important thing here is the investigation itself. How it makes you feel, the effect it has on your life.
I'm a good teacher. I know this, I feel this viscerally and I can measure it in the rapport and relationship I have with my students. Teaching English as a foreign language is a bit different from teaching math, say, or history: many aspects are the same, but the goal is different. My primary job is to get people to speak, to help them gain confidence, and learn how to communicate in their own way. The tests don't really matter, and honestly, it's almost entirely irrelevant whether they can identify the past perfect continuous in a non-defining relative clause. So I don't worry about that. Can they communicate, can they use whatever English they have to express themselves, and how confident are they when they do it? Those are the questions I ask, and by that measure, I know I've made progress.
But and so. Someone complained. I don't know who, though I've got a pretty good idea, I don't know the specific nature of the complaint, though the general sense I've been told was "boring", and I don't know if it was me specifically or my co-teacher or the course in general, which I refuse to take responsibility for since I don't choose the books, nor am I the one pressuring the teachers to adhere to the material, finish the material, and make terminally boring lessons entertaining. But the complaint was made and we are under investigation.
In typically underhanded fashion, Profi and my manager have yet to contact me about this. I learned about it first when the secretary said I had to give a questionnaire to my students. It's in Polish, so I asked what it was about. They told me it was about Profi's service in general. Having learned long ago not to trust them, I had it translated. 11 questions, all about me specifically.
Now, responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Not a single one has come back with more than one negative response of any kind, and 14 out of 15 are entirely positive. But for several days I felt really shitty. I questioned everything I'd done in the last year or so, wondering what had happened, doubting my own judgment and abilities, trying to think of what I could've/should've done differently. And ultimately, I realized, nothing. This whole thing is an overreaction on my manager's part, especially considering that Profi apparently has been hemorrhaging students for the last couple years, largely due to mismanagement. Yet, having done nothing wrong, I felt guilty and insecure. It's a distressing feeling and I'm sure it's magnified a great deal when you have to go before a hostile congressional committee, that, regardless of the truth, wants to shed some blood. So, Al, Harriet, Scooter, I'm sorry about all this, I do sympathize, can't do much from here for you, but, wait a minute, there's some fellas in Guantanamo who might understand, why don't you give them a call?

BookCrossing

I don't know how many of you read PostSecret every week, but I wait anxiously every Sunday for the new posts. If you do visit regularly, you're probably familiar with the White Hat People, inspired by a secret 5 or 6 months ago. People who, for one reason or another, go to the movies alone, and wear white hats (or headbands, bandanas, scarves, etc.) as a way to recognize and perhaps meet each other. So far, it doesn't seem that many people have actually connected this way, but it's a great idea and I've been following the spread of it around the world. Fascinating example of the Internet bringing us together, instead of isolating us, as so many pundits keep saying.
But this week on PostSecret was a link to this site, BookCrossing, and I love this even more than the White Hat People. It's very simple: take a book from your shelves (and I know you have lots) that you'd like to share and/or don't need or want. Register it on the site, write an ID number inside the cover, and leave it in a public place for someone else to find. Their stated goal is to make the whole world a library, which is just a beautiful idea/image. I don't know how well it could work for me here in Poland, but I've spent enough time in hostels poking through their book exchanges to know about the magic of finding a new author or book by accident, or leaving a great book for someone else and imagining where it ends up, how it's received. And with this site, you can check. It's so simple, so easy, I hope everyone tries it.

Stuff

The textbooks I use in my classes have all kinds of odd articles in them, adapted and used as a focus for different language skills. My class of kids (12-14) uses a text called Energy 4, and it's largely a desperate and woefully unsuccessful attempt at hipness. I want to write and tell them how futile that is: by the time the book is published and enters the classroom, all the songs and celebrities that they use have become old and passe, a process that happens within months, and their appearance in the book only incites disdain and boredom. A JLo song that was popular two years ago was greeted with groans and eye-rolling by my students, so why even try?
Anyway, we had a unit on everyday objects. Things in your home, etc. Language focus on describing things, shapes, sizes, colors, textures, and so on. And they had an article about a performance artist in London who destroyed everything he owned, books, clothes, furniture, appliances, everything. His purpose was to make people think about their possessions and the value they place upon them, the materialistic nature of our culture, and other arty questions.
I've been thinking about possessions and their value quite a bit since Katrina. I didn't lose everything, as many others did, and I didn't have much to begin with, largely by choice. I lost a lot of clothes that I didn't wear often, furniture that was either cheap or handed down/along, books, few of which had more than sentimental value. And of what I salvaged, most of it is stored in scattered places far from me (Mom, Kristin, I haven't forgotten, I just don't know what to do about it yet.)
I like it now. I like having a suitcase of clothes and my laptop be all I have to worry about. I've had to buy some things since I arrived, since my current apartment was only sparsely furnished, without dishes or bedding, but nothing I couldn't walk away from easily. I enjoy that feeling, light, unburdened. I miss my books, and occasionally I get tired of wearing the same clothes for the last year and a half, but those are momentary feelings and I don't dwell on them. Now, I'm not suggesting that Katrina was actually a blessing for a million Americans, relieving them of the weight of their possessions. Beyond TVs and stereos, many families lost their history, in the form of pictures and heirlooms, homes that had been theirs for generations, their place and identity in the world, networks of friends and relatives that can never be reconstructed. I listen to the NPR stories and read NOLA.com and I still cry for what was lost. But it's also true that such an event forces an evaluation of what is important, what you actually need. And it isn't the TV or stereo, or a couch or bed, or even books (though it's a poor life without them). I know this is where a grand revelation should be, the meaning of life and whatnot, "What I Learned", blah, blah, blah. I don't have one. Just that I know for sure now, it's not the stuff. The stuff is clutter, extra baggage, dead weight. It's very similar to the time when I first shaved my head. I had all this hair, and it was nice, and other people liked it, and it said something about me and I liked what it said. It had taken so long to grow, so much time and effort in its care and upkeep, I was nervous about losing that. But I did it and the only feelings I had afterward were those of freedom and relief. The old writing axiom of "Less is more" seems appropriate here, too.
None of this did I attempt to tell my kids. Too much eye-rolling. They're good kids though, smart, energetic, not too troublesome. We usually have a good time together. Some of them call me "Master Matt" and I get a kick out of that; it's sarcastic, but good-natured. And teaching them is something I can keep, as memory, that can't be blown or washed away, or stolen or broken, that's light and portable, and leaves plenty of room in my suitcase for a Hawaiian shirt or two.

Don't say it, don't even think it

On the way home from Lwow, after taking two Ukrainian mini-buses, passing through two border posts, a Polish mini-bus, and then a train, for a combined total of nearly 10 hours of travel without food or water since we hadn't stocked up before leaving and were then in a constant rush to make the next connection, Patrick and I were 15 minutes from Katowice and our last leg to Sosnowiec by yet a fourth bus, when he turned to me and said, "Well, we finally made it."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Why?" I asked. "Why would you say such a thing?" Desperately, I looked around the metal and glass train compartment for some wood to knock on, but had to resort to my head. "We're 15 minutes from Katowice, which isn't even home. On a Polish train. Why would you tempt fate like that?"
Turns out that Patrick doesn't share my superstitions and he just laughed the whole thing off. He felt justified, I'm sure, when we arrived without incident, although he's too nice of a guy to rub it in. Nevertheless, a few days ago I wrote about the beautiful spring weather we had had, and I've been putting an optimistic spin on the successive days of cold, drizzly rain we've had since then: "But it's a spring rain!" Basically irritating the heck out of my friends, coworkers, and students, I'm sure. And lo, I woke this morning to find an inch of wet, miserable, slushy snow cooling my spring fever.
Now, I know that many people will argue that there can't possibly be a causal connection between my blog and conversations, and the weather. That thinking that implies delusion, solipsism, and egotism. And these people can rightfully point out the universe probably has much more important things to concern itself with than mocking me. That part of me that is logical and reasonable agrees with these people. But another, baser part of me knows this snow is personal; though likely it fell for a multitude of reasons, most of them meteorological in nature, at least in small part it's a big, wet, white laugh in my face.

Spring

We had a couple days this week of glorious sunshine and warm temperatures. The scrawny tree in the courtyard behind Profi put out some buds, tipped with that new green peculiar to spring growth. I saw the year's first pair of shorts being worn. Strolls of mothers were out with their children (I decided we needed a collective noun for groups of parents pushing baby carriages, hence "strolls". I encourage everyone to begin using it), gossiping and laughing. I took the lining out of my coat, stripping it down for a new season. The air held that wonderful smell of optimism and possibility you get in the spring, almost (but not quite, what can you do?) overpowering the coal smoke. It seemed everyone with a dog was out prowling the streets and parks, and high, happy tails waved everywhere you looked.
It didn't last; the temp dropped on Thursday, got some overcast again, but the corner has been turned. I for one, am imbued with a new sense of purpose and potential, and refuse to let the clouds dampen that. Winter isn't my season, and I'm glad to see it's backside.
Now, if I could only watch the NCAA tournament . . .

Kiosks

One thing that is an endless source of amazement is the kiosk. They're everywhere, at least one to a block, sometimes two or three. A major street could have a row of kiosks 5 or 6 long, on each side, often centered at a bus stop. An average size is approximately 6' wide x 5' deep x 7' high. Not very big. Little shacks, really. But you can buy almost anything there. What follows is a partial list of what I've seen in kiosks.
Cigarettes (up to 50 brands/styles); magazines and newspapers (some kiosks seem to specialize in this, having perhaps hundreds of titles on racks outside, but most have at least 20-30 titles); candy bars, breath mints, gum, assorted flavors; bottled water (gazowany and niegazowany, often 5 or 6 brands in 2-3 sizes); sodas (a similar selection as the water); juice; nuts; chips (not as many choices as your average 7-11, but who needs that anyway?); condoms; playing cards; phone cards (lots of providers here, the outside of a kiosk is often festooned with their various signs, stickers, and symbols); lip balm; lipstick; compacts; eye shadow; nail polish; nail clippers; emery boards; cotton pads; curlers; hairbrushes and combs; feminine hygiene products (haven't checked that selection); suntan lotion; hand lotion; toothbrushes and toothpaste; laundry detergent; fabric softener; dish soap; hand soap; shampoo; conditioner; household cleaners; sponges; hairbrushes; hair clips and hair bands; q-tips; tape; pens; pencils; erasers; white-out (liquid and that on-a-tape-like-roll kind, don't know what you call that); perfume and cologne; shaving cream and razors; matches; lighters; bus tickets; tram tickets; batteries (assorted sizes); makeup mirrors; lightbulbs; toilet paper (by the roll, usually); soup packets (very big here); garbage bags; dvds; toys (cars, trucks, squirt guns, sometimes a doll or two); cough drops; painkillers; cold medicines; antacids; band-aids; postcards (mostly in the big cities, not many tourists come through Sosnowiec).
This is by no means an exhaustive list. There are variations in stock from kiosk to kiosk; what they all have in common is this astonishing array of goods available virtually anywhere. At whatever point in your day that you remember you need whatever, there will be a kiosk close by, and chances are just astoundingly good that this tiny little hut will have it. Whether you can ask for it or not is an entirely different question, but it's an enormously comforting thought. Such a contrast from home, where you have miles and miles of residential neighborhoods, and if you just need a rubber band or paperclip or whatever you have to get in the car and drive to a superstore where you have to buy 20,000 of them. You want to know why I like it here? That's a big reason. In five minutes, without a car, I can get almost anything I need. How many people do you know who can say that?

Poczta Polska

Today I went to the post office. It's very convenient, ground floor of my building. This is also where I go to pay my gas and electric bills and if I needed to, purchase some fashion magazines, devotional cards and candles and assorted sundries. I had to send my Deklaracja for ZUS (health insurance, one of the many things I now have to deal with myself now that I am my own company; I keep asking how this makes things easier and have yet to get a good answer), and it had to be sent by registered mail. What that means is filling out a (blessedly) small form with my address and the address of the recipient, handing that over with the envelope, and receiving my inevitable stamp on the form for my records. But I had been led astray by the secretary at Profi: through a miscommunication, I had switched the addresses, put mine in the recipient box and vice versa. Not a big deal, but it entailed a discussion in Polish with the kindly gray-haired woman behind the counter, and that was painful on both sides. I was also acutely aware of the 6 people lined up behind me waiting while she explained to me how to fill out a form that's about as simple and straightforward as you'll ever get, especially in Poland. There wasn't any particular animosity, more of a generalized atmosphere of impatience. Flustered, I finally managed to fill it out correctly, and although numbers are what I understand best, I was completely unable to understand how much she said it was. Slowly, and still kindly (we've done this before, she and I) she repeated it several times until I succeeded in counting out the correct amount.
The important realization I came to here, was a better understanding of the immigrant experience, anywhere I guess, but especially in America. I've heard so many times people make derogatory remarks about recent immigrants, and much of it revolves around their language skills. Native speakers of English, they express frustration, impatience and condescension to and about those who are learning it. And I understand that too, having worked in customer service in places with a lot of tourist traffic: ordering a coffee becomes an ordeal that you'd rather not have to go through, you're just trying to make it to the end of your shift as painlessly as possible and trying to explain what a frappuccino is to someone who doesn't know the word for "ice" is a real pain in the ass.
What I understand now though, is how it feels on the other side. I've traveled a lot, and my ignorance of whatever the local language was in whatever country I was in never really bothered me. I was just passing through and usually in places frequented by other tourists, so English was often spoken and transactions were largely about food and lodging and travel. But living here, I have to do so many more things, things I need help with, or when help is unavailable, on my own. Like going to the post office. And I'm 32, college-educated, a teacher, and when, as today, I have trouble performing basic, simple tasks, I feel like a 5 year-old kid who's been dropped on his head too many times. Ignorant and stupid. A check-out clerk at a store wanted to double-bag my groceries and asked me to lift them so she could get the second one around the first: "Can you lift that, please?" had to be mimed to me. A guy from the electric company showed up at my door the other day, and ended up yelling at me; all I understood was "new contract", but nothing else. Did I have a new contract? Did I need a new contract? Did someone else have a new contract? Who knew? I sure didn't.
My point is this: America is a nation of immigrants, always has been, hopefully always will be. I believe that to be a good thing, a large part of our strength, the source of our innovation and drive. But there are so many people who look down on those who arrived after them, who don't understand, within a generation or two, why the recent ones can't get it together. Why they can't fit in, why they can't do simple things the rest of us take for granted. Conveniently forgetting that their parents or their grandparents were just like that when they came, confused by systems no one explains to them, where going to the store or the post office is a major challenge, where everyone else seems in possession of a secret power that you just don't have.
The daily embarrassment you deal with just to accomplish the basic errands and chores of living, the self-consciousness every time you speak, knowing it sounds as loud and jarring as a trumpet blast at a violin recital.
It's not easy. Which is why I think more Americans should go live somewhere else for a year, to get that experience, that we don't forget our immigrant roots, and to gain some compassion and patience for those newly arrived. We're trying, we're learning, and that's all anyone should ask.

Why do my q-tips have an expiration date?

I've been wondering about this for awhile. I have this box of q-tips, Touch of Charm is the brand, made in Poland but must be an international company since everything on the label is in English. It sits on my little shelf, under the bathroom mirror, above the sink. There isn't much on the shelf, so this box is what I look at while shaving or brushing my teeth and a couple weeks ago I noticed that it had an expiration date on the side. Apparently, these cotton swabs will no longer be good after September 2009. I'm not worried, mind you, I love cleaning my ears and this box will be empty soon. But I can't help wondering, what happens after 9/09? It's not like these are sterile swabs, there are no active ingredients that could lose potency, I doubt that they become poisonous or dangerous in any way. Yet, somebody, somewhere, felt it was important to print this date on the side.
There's a reason behind it and I'm curious. It's the same curiousity I had upon finding the warranty for a new stainless steel pump at Starbucks once. It said, "Use of this product with sauerkraut invalidates this warranty." Why? What could possibly prompt the inclusion of this statement? Or the warning signs on those cloth towels in restrooms, the kind that you pull down and it rolls back up into the case. Most of them have this picture of someone choking with the towel loop around their neck. Companies don't put warnings on for fun, something, some event inspired it. People just don't use common sense.
These things seem silly. You just can't imagine why they are necessary. But then I think, what if someone had put a label like that on Iraq? "Warning: Invasion may cause death; suffering; sectarian violence; civil war; loss of infrastructure, faith in government; erosion of civil liberties. May also increase jingoistic rhetoric, international tensions and religious fanaticism, regardless of belief." It's like the bit on a coffee cup: everyone knows its hot and you shouldn't spill it on yourself, but there's always one asshole who needs it spelled out.
But I am going to save a q-tip for a couple years, just to see what happens.

Hope

Michael Franti and Spearhead are great for restoring optimism. There's some fucked up shit in this world and when it all starts to get you down, it's important to have something that can pull you back up. Hope. Belief that things will get better, that there's still something to fight for, that humanity may not be perfect, but possibly perfectable. That it's something worth trying for.
I'm thinking about this tonight, not for myself, but about a friend here in a difficult, untenable situation. I can't reveal details, I've made promises, but there are misunderstandings involved, questions of responsibility and duty, to self and others, complicated and convoluted. And in microcosm, it seems somehow representative of many other problems in the world. Trust broken, boundary issues, who blinks first, lost in translation, inability to empathize or see another's perspective. A desire for blame.
I've also been paying attention to the Democratic primary race, early and vicious as it looks to be. And I know I won't hear it from the Republicans, but I'd sort of hoped at least one Dem might speak out, but no. The issue, the perspective I want to hear from someone in my country, someone trying to change things, change thinking, is why we were attacked on 9/11, and why there are legitimate, non-fanatic reasons that so much of the world resents the US. I just believe that it's our self-righteousness as a nation that won't allow us to discuss in any but the most simplistic and ludicrous terms the reasons for this war (They hate our way of life; They are opposed to freedom, etc.) and it stifles any real discussion of root causes that might actually change things. Like the offensiveness of our bases in their countries, our unflinching support of Israeli atrocities, our endless thirst for energy and oil to fuel our ridiculous SUVs and trucks, or any of thousands small and large slights we've inflicted in our arrogance over the years. These same blindnesses play out in individual relationships all the time, and it can be cause for despair: if two people can't work it out, can't understand each other well enough to reach peace and love, then what hope do nations and conglomerates of nations and corporations have of doing that?
Which is when I double-click Michael Franti. Sometimes Cake, sometimes Tom Waits. But it's Franti who sings about these issues, and sings without despair. Anger, yes; passion, absolutely. But also hope. That there's a way out. With a belief that people are at bottom the same: that the deaths of 500,000 Iraqis are as important as the deaths of 3,000 Americans. That we can understand that one day. Hope. Someone once called it the most exquisite torture ever devised. But it's all we've got some days.
So, to my friend: hold on to hope. Events may not turn out the way we want, and rarely in the manner we expect. The important thing is trying to understand, working for the best outcome, and hoping for the same in return. Because if you don't believe in understanding, if the situation is reduced to simplistic terms, us vs. them, my way or the highway, you're with us or you're against us, then hope is killed. And that's the greatest tragedy.