So I have Windows XP on my laptop, which has this bundled backgammon game. You play with real people around the world, and all you know about them is their primary language. I like it for two reasons: the mechanics and display of the game make sense, and you can't chat with your opponent except through preprogammed sentences. I do play occasionally on Gamesgrid, and I used to play poker on AOL, but among the reasons I stopped is that people are assholes. The gratuitous insults, the sheer nastiness of people who have an anonymous name is astounding, disturbing and seriously offputting. And I know that most of these people would never say these things face-to-face.
If you've played any online games with a chat option, you know what I'm talking about. I was raised to be polite, to be courteous, and since games were important in my family, I learned sportsmanship and graciousness at an early age. For me, that doesn't change just because I can't see and don't know my opponent. So why are so many other people just enormous assholes online? Didn't their mothers teach them any better?
There are only about 20 things you can say on the backgammon game I play, and they are all innocuous in and of themselves. Yet I am amazed at how inventive assholes are at communicating their assholeness with them. First and foremost, they leave the game as soon as it starts to not go their way. Whatever happened to determination, perseverance, leaving it all on the floor? Do these people leave their dates in the middle of the evening as soon as they think they won't get laid? Try harder!
Then there's the smiley face. ":)" It's astounding how irritating that is, and how nuanced in gloating in can be. So you won a game. Big deal. Play the whole match before you break that out. Or they say, "Good luck!" followed by "No". Why? Why go to the effort to trash talk this way? What can you get from it? I know, with my friends, I'm as guilty as the next guy for trash talk, over poker or whatever, but it's still friendly, casual, and I get as good as I give. Then, it's bonding. But this is so pointless.
I write this, however, because of the comment "It was luck". This is the canned chat line that just drives me nuts. Yes, backgammon is a game of luck, but also of skill. Most especially, it measures your skill in managing your luck. This is why you play to three match points, why you have the doubling cube, why you have gammons and backgammons (if you don't know the rules, look them up). And maybe this says more about me than the other guys, but I hate it when I beat someone game after game, match after match, and they keep sending, "It was luck", "It was luck", "It was luck". Especially when they keep making bonehead plays. Take some responsibility, for crying out loud. But more to the point, why be an asshole? Whatever happened to just saying, "Good game"? Win or lose, well-played or no, good luck or bad, it's courteous. And my fear is that while the Internet is a great connector, the anonymity of the connection is eroding a general sense of courtesy that was endangered before it came around. I see this same thing on comments on blogs or YouTube vids, and I find it disturbing and callow. I know anonymity is emboldening and I just wish that people would be emboldened in a different direction. PostSecret style. Honesty, inner feelings and opinions, sharing the strange, dark places in your soul and discovering that you're not alone. Instead, it seems that many people use it to let their inner asshole loose. To them I say, I hope it helps you, because you sure need it. If you can't find some bolstering influence online, you're not trying, and being shitty to strangers is unlikely to help you find happiness. And please, go back to the Intermediate level of backgammon: you're not cut out for Expert play.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Things I've learned about winter and snow
-I've learned how to check the snow on the street-side of the sidewalk to see how far the spray from cars and buses reaches.
-that stairs are always treacherous, up or down, and don't mix well with beer.
-that bus windows frost in delicate, paisley-like etchings of ice, caught in their last swirl.
-that you can squeegee slush from the pavement and that they make special squeegees just for this.
-that leafless birches, otherwise stark and naked, need the snow to be beautiful again.
-that dog shit is at least easier to spot, and thus avoid.
-that Polish drivers care even less where the sidewalk is when they can't see it.
-that sleds are still popular.
-that a warm hat is more important than warm pants.
-that it's actually easier for women to walk in high heels in the snow.
-that sand and snow mixed and churned throughout the day end up bearing a striking resemblance to pastry dough, when you mash in the butter.
-that the tracks of a perfectly-executed three-point turn are strangely compelling and pleasing to the eye.
-that hot cocoa was invented for a reason.
-that stairs are always treacherous, up or down, and don't mix well with beer.
-that bus windows frost in delicate, paisley-like etchings of ice, caught in their last swirl.
-that you can squeegee slush from the pavement and that they make special squeegees just for this.
-that leafless birches, otherwise stark and naked, need the snow to be beautiful again.
-that dog shit is at least easier to spot, and thus avoid.
-that Polish drivers care even less where the sidewalk is when they can't see it.
-that sleds are still popular.
-that a warm hat is more important than warm pants.
-that it's actually easier for women to walk in high heels in the snow.
-that sand and snow mixed and churned throughout the day end up bearing a striking resemblance to pastry dough, when you mash in the butter.
-that the tracks of a perfectly-executed three-point turn are strangely compelling and pleasing to the eye.
-that hot cocoa was invented for a reason.
Monday, January 22, 2007
One year anniversary
Today marks my first year in Poland. Hard to believe on the one hand, that it's been a whole year (and 14 months since I left the US, 18 since Katrina, and yes, those are the markers of my life now. Everything now is pre- or post-Katrina, pre- or post-Poland). On the other hand, when I think about what I knew when I arrived, and what I know now, I'm fairly impressed with myself. Hello (dzien dobry), please (prosze), and thank you (dziekuje, although I can't make the actual Polish letters), were all I had managed to learn from my little phrase book, purchased en route at London Stansted. The temp was 30 below Celsius, I had only a hastily bought hat and gloves, and no clue where I was or what to expect. Now I can order pizza over the phone (my finest accomplishment in Polish, and believe me, it's a big one), I have friends and business contacts, I'm certainly a better teacher, I have a regular poker game (always important wherever I live), clerks in the shops know me by sight and I have long underwear (not that I've needed to use it yet, there's still no snow that stays, though I'm told it's coming in a week or two).
I'm a legal resident, I'll have my own business in a couple weeks (looooooong story about Polish laws concerning American teachers), I have private students, contracts with two schools, and a great kebab shop that just opened up down the street from me, where they're very patient with me. And really good kebabs, bardzo pikantny (very spicy). So it's all good.
People here ask me all the time why I left, why I stay. This is what I tell them: I love my country, and certainly plan to return eventually (I promise, Mom), but I love how I can live my life here, that is, without a car. It's a 15 minute walk into the center of Sosnowiec, where my school is. I have within a block of my apartment a good market, several kiosks and convenience stores, my Internet provider, the post office, if need be though I haven't yet, a florist, a hairdresser (yeah, that'll be the day, but it's there), a library (only Polish, oh well), a bus stop that can get me most places I need to go, at least during the week, as well as the aforementioned kebab shop. Yes, I'm told that there's a lot of violence, muggings and so on here, but I haven't seen it and there aren't anywhere near as many guns in Poland as in the US. I feel much safer here than driving down almost any stretch of American highway. Ok, I think it's I70 through Kansas, and that's pretty safe, no road rage-filled traffic, or anything really, but anywhere else is a bit dodgy, as the Brits say.
I love Polish bread (not as good as the French, but damn tasty), Polish beer, Zywiec and Tyskie especially, kielbasa, Polish bacon, pierogi, still waiting for someone to make me bigos because I'm told stores and restaurants don't do it well, ciastka, etc.
I like the politeness, the hospitality of Poles, though taken to the extreme it becomes passive-aggressive and irritating. But certainly more pleasant to foreigners than the French, more interested than the Spanish and Italians, far less arrogant than the British (or Americans).
I like the traditions here: while eating donuts the Thursday before Lent is a sad contrast to the two weeks of parties and parades in my beloved New Orleans, spraying random strangers with water the day after Easter is fun, the solemnity of caring for your ancestors' graves on Day of the Dead is moving, the ritualism of eating twelve different dishes at Christmas for luck in each month of the new year is fascinating, there's a party 100 days before the Matura exams, Women's Day, men kissing women's hands when they meet them, fireworks at New Year's, and so on.
I could do without the interminable paperwork and the Polish fetish for ink stamps for everything. Some heat on the buses would be nice. Would like whisky to be more popular so I could get a bottle of decent bourbon at less than extortionate prices. We definitely need more Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Mexican and Indian restaurants. Coin-op pool tables and challenging for the table. A few more cafes in the French or Spanish tradition. And cheddar cheese.
But it's a been a good year, and I like it here. I don't drive and I don't need to. I don't have 50,000 choices of chips at the store and I don't miss them. There's no manic consumerist riot the day after Thanksgiving. Voting rates aren't any higher, but the Polish government isn't trying to impose its world-view on anybody else (though they have become the highest recipient of US military aid, edging out even Israel, due to their support for the Iraq war. Of course, we still refuse to grant even tourist visas to Poles, fearful as always that they'll steal good American jobs. Oh, horror!) I have unruly students, but no cause to fear them. Polish swear words are pleasing to the tongue. Oh yes, and Polish women are beautiful, let's never forget that.
One year I've been here; came by accident and necessity, stayed by choice. It's a good place, trying to be better. I'd like to see what happens.
I'm a legal resident, I'll have my own business in a couple weeks (looooooong story about Polish laws concerning American teachers), I have private students, contracts with two schools, and a great kebab shop that just opened up down the street from me, where they're very patient with me. And really good kebabs, bardzo pikantny (very spicy). So it's all good.
People here ask me all the time why I left, why I stay. This is what I tell them: I love my country, and certainly plan to return eventually (I promise, Mom), but I love how I can live my life here, that is, without a car. It's a 15 minute walk into the center of Sosnowiec, where my school is. I have within a block of my apartment a good market, several kiosks and convenience stores, my Internet provider, the post office, if need be though I haven't yet, a florist, a hairdresser (yeah, that'll be the day, but it's there), a library (only Polish, oh well), a bus stop that can get me most places I need to go, at least during the week, as well as the aforementioned kebab shop. Yes, I'm told that there's a lot of violence, muggings and so on here, but I haven't seen it and there aren't anywhere near as many guns in Poland as in the US. I feel much safer here than driving down almost any stretch of American highway. Ok, I think it's I70 through Kansas, and that's pretty safe, no road rage-filled traffic, or anything really, but anywhere else is a bit dodgy, as the Brits say.
I love Polish bread (not as good as the French, but damn tasty), Polish beer, Zywiec and Tyskie especially, kielbasa, Polish bacon, pierogi, still waiting for someone to make me bigos because I'm told stores and restaurants don't do it well, ciastka, etc.
I like the politeness, the hospitality of Poles, though taken to the extreme it becomes passive-aggressive and irritating. But certainly more pleasant to foreigners than the French, more interested than the Spanish and Italians, far less arrogant than the British (or Americans).
I like the traditions here: while eating donuts the Thursday before Lent is a sad contrast to the two weeks of parties and parades in my beloved New Orleans, spraying random strangers with water the day after Easter is fun, the solemnity of caring for your ancestors' graves on Day of the Dead is moving, the ritualism of eating twelve different dishes at Christmas for luck in each month of the new year is fascinating, there's a party 100 days before the Matura exams, Women's Day, men kissing women's hands when they meet them, fireworks at New Year's, and so on.
I could do without the interminable paperwork and the Polish fetish for ink stamps for everything. Some heat on the buses would be nice. Would like whisky to be more popular so I could get a bottle of decent bourbon at less than extortionate prices. We definitely need more Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Mexican and Indian restaurants. Coin-op pool tables and challenging for the table. A few more cafes in the French or Spanish tradition. And cheddar cheese.
But it's a been a good year, and I like it here. I don't drive and I don't need to. I don't have 50,000 choices of chips at the store and I don't miss them. There's no manic consumerist riot the day after Thanksgiving. Voting rates aren't any higher, but the Polish government isn't trying to impose its world-view on anybody else (though they have become the highest recipient of US military aid, edging out even Israel, due to their support for the Iraq war. Of course, we still refuse to grant even tourist visas to Poles, fearful as always that they'll steal good American jobs. Oh, horror!) I have unruly students, but no cause to fear them. Polish swear words are pleasing to the tongue. Oh yes, and Polish women are beautiful, let's never forget that.
One year I've been here; came by accident and necessity, stayed by choice. It's a good place, trying to be better. I'd like to see what happens.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
What is teaching?
So, every other Saturday I have classes in Katowice, a neighboring city. I love these Saturdays, despite the fact that it means getting up early (which I'm no longer used to), walking into the center of Sosnowiec to catch a bus, which gets me to Katowice ridiculously early and so on. But the classes I have there are fantastic. The students are interested, talkative, engaged. I never have to tell them to focus on the lesson, most of them need little encouragement to speak, they're smart, they ask questions, it's sheer joy. And because of all these things, it's easy to have fun. Because I don't have to spend my time quieting people, or repeating myself because they weren't listening, we can get through the exercises and really use English. Which leads me to wonder about some of my other classes and my responsibility as a teacher. What is teaching, what makes a good teacher, and how much is the teacher responsible for any given classroom environment? I would really appreciate comments on this post, any stories or thoughts people have about teaching, teachers they've had, good and bad, etc.
I can't help but contrast these wonderful classes to some others I have, where it's a struggle to get a response of any kind. I ask a question, dead silence. I ask a direct question to a specific student, I hear "I don't know." What I wonder in these moments, is how much responsibility I bear for this reticence. Some classes, the students are clamoring for airtime, in others, I'm talking to myself for 80 minutes. What can I do to, how much is it possible for me to do, to bring these quieter classes out? Or is it just that people are different, so classes are all different, and it has little to do with me at all?
Lord knows, I've had some bad teachers in my time. I give first prize to my high school math teacher, Mr. Ames. He'd tell us stories about bow-hunting deer in between doing examples on the board with little explanation. Based on limited empirical evidence, math and science teachers seem generally unable to comprehend why their subjects aren't self-evident to their students. Most of the ones I've had tend to quick explanations followed by a certain childlike disbelief and petulance that their students didn't get it all in one go. Mr. Ames was the worst of this breed I'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. He had his own proof in his head that he just couldn't shake: math is logical, I understand math, therefore humans understand math, thus and so my students, being humans, must also understand. And I didn't. Ok, I also didn't care, but nothing in his presentation of the material encouraged me to care either. I suspect he also believed that the relevance of the material was also self-evident, and thus didn't require explanation.
Contrast this with, say, one of the greatest teachers I've ever had, Ruben Van Kempen, known familiarly as VK, who every year teaches with infinite patience and enthusiasm hundreds of teenagers the basics and more of drama and the theater, from costuming to stage management, acting and directing, set design and building, dramaturgy, tap, singing, etc., winning awards as well as hearts and minds. I date the onset of my adult personality to my first year acting course with him, as I learned, by being someone else, to express myself and be comfortable in my own skin. In my high school, the football team sucked, and the drama department was cool. Roosevelt High School in Seattle, and the Washington State Theater competition changed the musical part from competition to showcase because we won every year, due to the efforts and inspiration of VK. Certainly it was he who brought such infectious passion to those who would otherwise never have cared about theater, though some of us caught the fever earlier (myself, I must credit my mother here, summers with Shakespeare in Ashland, and numerous local performances that she always made time and money for, and thank you for that mom).
The point being that good teachers can reach and inspire many students, and bad teachers can turn off and discourage many, but some students are unreachable or would persevere regardless, so how does one decide if you're any good or not? I hate to measure my performance by tests, I teach English, a language, a means of communication. I honestly don't care if my students can use the future perfect continuous properly; I want them to be able to speak, to transmit ideas, and some of the best at that have terrible grammar. But they can express complex ideas that are comprehensible and that's great. What do I do though, with the ones who express nothing? If I measure my success as a teacher in that fashion, have I failed with these students? Or do these students honestly have nothing to say?
So, any questions, any comments, responses or stories are welcome. I believe teaching, education, learning and studying are the foundations of civilization, so please contribute any thoughts you have.
I can't help but contrast these wonderful classes to some others I have, where it's a struggle to get a response of any kind. I ask a question, dead silence. I ask a direct question to a specific student, I hear "I don't know." What I wonder in these moments, is how much responsibility I bear for this reticence. Some classes, the students are clamoring for airtime, in others, I'm talking to myself for 80 minutes. What can I do to, how much is it possible for me to do, to bring these quieter classes out? Or is it just that people are different, so classes are all different, and it has little to do with me at all?
Lord knows, I've had some bad teachers in my time. I give first prize to my high school math teacher, Mr. Ames. He'd tell us stories about bow-hunting deer in between doing examples on the board with little explanation. Based on limited empirical evidence, math and science teachers seem generally unable to comprehend why their subjects aren't self-evident to their students. Most of the ones I've had tend to quick explanations followed by a certain childlike disbelief and petulance that their students didn't get it all in one go. Mr. Ames was the worst of this breed I'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. He had his own proof in his head that he just couldn't shake: math is logical, I understand math, therefore humans understand math, thus and so my students, being humans, must also understand. And I didn't. Ok, I also didn't care, but nothing in his presentation of the material encouraged me to care either. I suspect he also believed that the relevance of the material was also self-evident, and thus didn't require explanation.
Contrast this with, say, one of the greatest teachers I've ever had, Ruben Van Kempen, known familiarly as VK, who every year teaches with infinite patience and enthusiasm hundreds of teenagers the basics and more of drama and the theater, from costuming to stage management, acting and directing, set design and building, dramaturgy, tap, singing, etc., winning awards as well as hearts and minds. I date the onset of my adult personality to my first year acting course with him, as I learned, by being someone else, to express myself and be comfortable in my own skin. In my high school, the football team sucked, and the drama department was cool. Roosevelt High School in Seattle, and the Washington State Theater competition changed the musical part from competition to showcase because we won every year, due to the efforts and inspiration of VK. Certainly it was he who brought such infectious passion to those who would otherwise never have cared about theater, though some of us caught the fever earlier (myself, I must credit my mother here, summers with Shakespeare in Ashland, and numerous local performances that she always made time and money for, and thank you for that mom).
The point being that good teachers can reach and inspire many students, and bad teachers can turn off and discourage many, but some students are unreachable or would persevere regardless, so how does one decide if you're any good or not? I hate to measure my performance by tests, I teach English, a language, a means of communication. I honestly don't care if my students can use the future perfect continuous properly; I want them to be able to speak, to transmit ideas, and some of the best at that have terrible grammar. But they can express complex ideas that are comprehensible and that's great. What do I do though, with the ones who express nothing? If I measure my success as a teacher in that fashion, have I failed with these students? Or do these students honestly have nothing to say?
So, any questions, any comments, responses or stories are welcome. I believe teaching, education, learning and studying are the foundations of civilization, so please contribute any thoughts you have.
Friday, January 19, 2007
This is pretty cool
No one has ever accused me of being among the technological avant-garde, so it's no real surprise that this whole blogging thing is something I am just now experiencing. I've been browsing blogs, figuring that I should know and participate in this new community I've joined, and I'm overwhelmed after only an hour. Many, of course, are tailored to specific interests that aren't mine (soccer, scrapbooks, computer games, fashion, etc.), some are excellent and interesting, rambling explorations of this and that (look at "good sites" below), many are in other languages and thus unintelligible to me, but what I like most of all, is that millions of people the world over are writing. All the time. By choice. Granted, some of the blogs I've seen are damn near incomprehensible, from bad grammar, poor spelling, too many abbreviations and those used strangely (is "lol" a noun? can you have "lols"?), but they are writing. And that's just wonderful.
Have this many people ever, at any time in history, been producing written material? No. And then commenting on what others have written, it's this vast, enormous discourse, completely unprecedented. Mind-boggling.
I know, I must sound naive and unoriginal to those of you who have known this and been a part of it for years, but I hope not to become blase about it. This is the great unknown, it's exciting, a new force that is changing social interactions, in unforeseeable ways. And doing it through writing, through language; I love it. What a wonderful time to be alive, to witness and participate in these events. I'm going to go click that "Next Blog" button again and see what the future looks like.
Have this many people ever, at any time in history, been producing written material? No. And then commenting on what others have written, it's this vast, enormous discourse, completely unprecedented. Mind-boggling.
I know, I must sound naive and unoriginal to those of you who have known this and been a part of it for years, but I hope not to become blase about it. This is the great unknown, it's exciting, a new force that is changing social interactions, in unforeseeable ways. And doing it through writing, through language; I love it. What a wonderful time to be alive, to witness and participate in these events. I'm going to go click that "Next Blog" button again and see what the future looks like.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
More bus thoughts
Some mysteries are best left unsolved. It's the mystery itself that makes it compelling, the speculation, the wild theories. A case in point is Deep Throat, if for no other reason than that Mark Felt doesn't have the same ring to it. But prior to the revelation, I heard some intriguing guesses, among them that Deep Throat was Bush Sr, which would've been truly astonishing if it had been true. Now, that theory has to die, cut down by fact, and it's a little sad. The old saying in writing, thanks Papa H., is to write what you know, but I've always preferred Richard Hugo, who told his students the opposite. If you know too much, he said, you feel a cumbersome obligation to the truth that weighs on your imagination. The sweet-looking elderly lady at the church bake sale can't have been the secret mistress of a European prince in her youth if you know she'd lived in the same town for 80 years and is the widow of the last minister. Not that there might not be a good story or poem there too, but you get my point.
In the same way, I've recently solved a small mystery and I'm a little sad. My bus stop on ul. Jagiellonska sits on the inside of a curve in the street. Imagine a J, with the straight part being ul. Ostrogorska, the intersecting road, the curve is Jagiellonska, and my stop at the tip of that curve. Surrounding the stop on all sides are 10-14 story apartment buildings, in true, blocky communist style. Now, my bus, the 835, comes down Ostrogorska and makes a right turn onto Jagiellonska. From the stop, Ostrogorska is completely hidden by the curve of the street and the encompassing buildings. One other note: while when actually on the bus or tram, Polish people are well-content to jostle and bump and get uncomfortably close even when not really necessary, at the stop, everybody stands in their own space. People spread themselves out over half a block while waiting, and collapse upon the stop only when the bus arrives. So. The mystery was this. Time after time, standing in my own space, which was close to and a little behind the stop so that I might observe without being observed (I hate having my back exposed) I noticed this perplexing phenomenon: about ten to fifteen seconds before I could see or hear the bus, people at the edges of the waiting area would begin to move to the stop, preparatory to boarding. I didn't think much of it at first, as some people pace at stops, especially in the cold, and it seemed coincidental. But no. It happened again and again. People standing all over the place, who somehow knew well before I did that the bus was about to arrive. How were they doing it?
My first thought was of reflections in the windows of the building opposite, where the curve of the street might be enough to give advance warning. True enough, you could see the bus reflected before it came into direct view, but only a second or two before, by which point it was also audible. These people, who I came to call the Harbingers, moved, as I said, ten to fifteen seconds before. Here I should also note that people tend to stand in the same places at the stop: if you take a certain bus regularly, you recognize the others who do the same, so the Harbingers were almost always the same individuals, in roughly the same positions. This led me to speculate on some sort of special bus pass option, maybe a cell phone alert feature for an extra fee, the bus's proximity sending a signal to make your phone vibrate. But if you could see Polish buses, you'd understand why I dismissed that quickly: they don't even have heat, so a high-tech wireless alert seemed unreasonable.
I went on theorizing and thinking. Some extra signal at the crosswalk close to the stop? Couldn't see any additional lights or correlation to their changes. Unusually acute hearing as a result of secret Communist genetic engineering programs? Some sort of innate flocking sense, similar to the way birds and schools of fish move as one? A bored housebound person waving a flag from an upper story of one of the buildings? Also puzzling was the fact that about five different buses come to this stop, but the Harbingers always knew when it was the 835. Not a twitch for the 150 or S bus, which come at about the same time. I didn't know. I asked friends. Definitely no cell phone alerts, no evidence of genetic alterations, wisely didn't suggest the flocking sense, couldn't see any flags or other warning from the windows. But it occupied me. It was entertaining, a conundrum, a mental chew toy.
And sadly, one day a week or so ago, I went to the stop, which was unusually crowded. My spaces (I had a second, the other being also close, and underneath a tree) were taken, so I stopped to wait much farther away from the stop than normal. I turned around, back the way I had come (I live on the other side of the street, where Ostrogorska meets Jagiellonska) and solved the mystery. For about 8-10 feet of sidewalk space, you can see through all the buildings to a point on Ostrogorska about half a block before the intersection. And I checked later, the other buses come from the opposite direction on Ostrogorska, so if you see a bus from this point, it must be the 835. I had about 5 minutes of elation and pleasure before I realized how sad this was. So very simple and boring was this answer, especially compared to my theories. A quirk of architechture and city planning, nothing more. No psychic senses, no supernatural powers, just people who know where to stand. And the other Harbingers who stood closer to me were just watching the ones who they knew would see the bus first. I was the only one who didn't know about that spot on the sidewalk, merely because you can't see it from where I usually stand, or approaching the stop from the direction I do. And because now I know, I can't indulge in wonderment anymore. It was my adult version of Santa Claus I suppose, and I guess I'll just have to find something new to think about at the bus stop. Maybe why people continue to think camouflage is stylish. Or how, even after sweeping and mopping repeatedly, there's always one small piece of glass from the bottle you broke last month that embeds itself in your foot unexpectedly. Or why my neighbor, even though he knows I don't speak Polish, and knows that this is Poland where services can be unreliable, just has to come over whenever his Internet is out to see if mine is also out. Or why Leonardo DiCaprio is still considered a good actor. Or why . . .
In the same way, I've recently solved a small mystery and I'm a little sad. My bus stop on ul. Jagiellonska sits on the inside of a curve in the street. Imagine a J, with the straight part being ul. Ostrogorska, the intersecting road, the curve is Jagiellonska, and my stop at the tip of that curve. Surrounding the stop on all sides are 10-14 story apartment buildings, in true, blocky communist style. Now, my bus, the 835, comes down Ostrogorska and makes a right turn onto Jagiellonska. From the stop, Ostrogorska is completely hidden by the curve of the street and the encompassing buildings. One other note: while when actually on the bus or tram, Polish people are well-content to jostle and bump and get uncomfortably close even when not really necessary, at the stop, everybody stands in their own space. People spread themselves out over half a block while waiting, and collapse upon the stop only when the bus arrives. So. The mystery was this. Time after time, standing in my own space, which was close to and a little behind the stop so that I might observe without being observed (I hate having my back exposed) I noticed this perplexing phenomenon: about ten to fifteen seconds before I could see or hear the bus, people at the edges of the waiting area would begin to move to the stop, preparatory to boarding. I didn't think much of it at first, as some people pace at stops, especially in the cold, and it seemed coincidental. But no. It happened again and again. People standing all over the place, who somehow knew well before I did that the bus was about to arrive. How were they doing it?
My first thought was of reflections in the windows of the building opposite, where the curve of the street might be enough to give advance warning. True enough, you could see the bus reflected before it came into direct view, but only a second or two before, by which point it was also audible. These people, who I came to call the Harbingers, moved, as I said, ten to fifteen seconds before. Here I should also note that people tend to stand in the same places at the stop: if you take a certain bus regularly, you recognize the others who do the same, so the Harbingers were almost always the same individuals, in roughly the same positions. This led me to speculate on some sort of special bus pass option, maybe a cell phone alert feature for an extra fee, the bus's proximity sending a signal to make your phone vibrate. But if you could see Polish buses, you'd understand why I dismissed that quickly: they don't even have heat, so a high-tech wireless alert seemed unreasonable.
I went on theorizing and thinking. Some extra signal at the crosswalk close to the stop? Couldn't see any additional lights or correlation to their changes. Unusually acute hearing as a result of secret Communist genetic engineering programs? Some sort of innate flocking sense, similar to the way birds and schools of fish move as one? A bored housebound person waving a flag from an upper story of one of the buildings? Also puzzling was the fact that about five different buses come to this stop, but the Harbingers always knew when it was the 835. Not a twitch for the 150 or S bus, which come at about the same time. I didn't know. I asked friends. Definitely no cell phone alerts, no evidence of genetic alterations, wisely didn't suggest the flocking sense, couldn't see any flags or other warning from the windows. But it occupied me. It was entertaining, a conundrum, a mental chew toy.
And sadly, one day a week or so ago, I went to the stop, which was unusually crowded. My spaces (I had a second, the other being also close, and underneath a tree) were taken, so I stopped to wait much farther away from the stop than normal. I turned around, back the way I had come (I live on the other side of the street, where Ostrogorska meets Jagiellonska) and solved the mystery. For about 8-10 feet of sidewalk space, you can see through all the buildings to a point on Ostrogorska about half a block before the intersection. And I checked later, the other buses come from the opposite direction on Ostrogorska, so if you see a bus from this point, it must be the 835. I had about 5 minutes of elation and pleasure before I realized how sad this was. So very simple and boring was this answer, especially compared to my theories. A quirk of architechture and city planning, nothing more. No psychic senses, no supernatural powers, just people who know where to stand. And the other Harbingers who stood closer to me were just watching the ones who they knew would see the bus first. I was the only one who didn't know about that spot on the sidewalk, merely because you can't see it from where I usually stand, or approaching the stop from the direction I do. And because now I know, I can't indulge in wonderment anymore. It was my adult version of Santa Claus I suppose, and I guess I'll just have to find something new to think about at the bus stop. Maybe why people continue to think camouflage is stylish. Or how, even after sweeping and mopping repeatedly, there's always one small piece of glass from the bottle you broke last month that embeds itself in your foot unexpectedly. Or why my neighbor, even though he knows I don't speak Polish, and knows that this is Poland where services can be unreliable, just has to come over whenever his Internet is out to see if mine is also out. Or why Leonardo DiCaprio is still considered a good actor. Or why . . .
Monday, January 15, 2007
Monday Mormons
So, walking home after work tonight, I caught up to and was passing two young men. As I drew near, I noticed their identical black pants, shoes, and coats. Their short, conservatively neat haircuts. The white collars just visible at the neck. And sure enough, as I came even with them, one turned to me and said "Przepraszam bardzo" (Excuse me very much, I know we don't say that in English, but "bardzo" is like an all-purpose intensifier). He'd obviously learned some highly specific Polish that I didn't understand, but I've encountered many a Mormon here, and without exception, they're American. So I just asked him, in English, "Are you Mormon?" (Because of the coats, I couldn't see the nametags, so I had to be sure. But people don't just start speaking to you in Poland, unless it's for some very specific and understandable purpose, like, "Has the 835 bus come yet?" or "What time is it?" or "Is this Jagiellonska?") Anyway, of course they were, from Utah itself, making one last try on their way home. They didn't try very hard, I think they just wanted to speak some English, but they walked me home.
Back in the States, Mormon missionaries are just a nuisance, a knock at the door when you're in your underwear and have to find clothes and really just want to drink your coffee or your beer and be left alone, but there they are, earnest and paired. Here, it's just cute. They're so out of place, so conspicuous, and most Polish people are either devout or disillusioned Catholics, but above all, devoted to their beer and vodka. I really wanted to ask these boys at what point they told interested Poles that they'd have to stop drinking. I don't think alcoholism is any higher here than anywhere else, but celebrations always and must include vodka, and being Catholic, there's many a celebration. The point is, whatever I feel/think about Mormons in general, I have a great deal of sympathy for these kids, walking the streets all day, trying to convert people in awkward Polish (though almost all of the ones I met are more fluent than I am, at least they know more complete sentences). Though it is hard not to laugh when an 18 year old introduces himself to me as "Elder".
What's also interesting about this encounter for me, is that I had just been thinking about how, in a foreign country, the most jarring things are not the strange, but the familiar. You expect the strange and unknown, but what makes you pause are the things you know, in an unfamiliar context. It's not the old buildings, not the intricate architechture or ornate moldings, but the McDonald's on the ground floor. It's never the language you don't know, but the stray English word, "Ok", "Hello", "Sorry". And of course, I expect Polish people everywhere I go, but it's a little bizarre to walk down my street chatting with two Mormon Americans.
Among the most interesting are t-shirts. T-shirts with English sayings or slogans are very popular, but you always have to wonder if the wearer knows what it says. My friend and colleague, Patrick, who's from Texas, collects these (as in sightings, not the shirts themselves). One that really gave me pause was a teenage girl whose shirt read "HOMEWRECKER". Another was a student of mine who had a shirt from a bar in San Francisco. The name of the bar was "Sailor's Love". She wore it all the time. And of course, the sports wear. The Yankees and Bulls I'm sure they know, but someone wearing a Georgia Bulldogs cap or Cardinals jersey, I'm not as certain of.
Although, sometimes the familiar is just familiar and pleasant. Hence my trip to the Krakow McDonald's on New Year's Day, craving grease and that special sauce (I swear, my first time since leaving the US), and the Hawaiian pizza I'm about to reheat (so proud I'm able to order pizza by phone on my own now, though I dearly miss the late-night variety of delivery in New Orleans; here, it's only pizza that comes to your door. There's no help for a 2am jones for ribs or baba ghanoush, nobody to call for nachos or szechuan chicken. Hell, if you could just get pierogi or bigos delivered, that would be nice, but it's pizza only, and better call before 10pm.) And I'll probably discuss another time whether it's a good or bad thing, the insinuation of American culture into another, but for tonight, I'm oddly reassured by its presence. So thank you, TelePizza, for bringing that strangely delicious combination of pineapple and ham to Poland, and goodnight Elder Lyon and Elder Smith: may you sleep well and deeply, since you can't have coffee in the morning, but it was nice talking to you anyway.
Back in the States, Mormon missionaries are just a nuisance, a knock at the door when you're in your underwear and have to find clothes and really just want to drink your coffee or your beer and be left alone, but there they are, earnest and paired. Here, it's just cute. They're so out of place, so conspicuous, and most Polish people are either devout or disillusioned Catholics, but above all, devoted to their beer and vodka. I really wanted to ask these boys at what point they told interested Poles that they'd have to stop drinking. I don't think alcoholism is any higher here than anywhere else, but celebrations always and must include vodka, and being Catholic, there's many a celebration. The point is, whatever I feel/think about Mormons in general, I have a great deal of sympathy for these kids, walking the streets all day, trying to convert people in awkward Polish (though almost all of the ones I met are more fluent than I am, at least they know more complete sentences). Though it is hard not to laugh when an 18 year old introduces himself to me as "Elder".
What's also interesting about this encounter for me, is that I had just been thinking about how, in a foreign country, the most jarring things are not the strange, but the familiar. You expect the strange and unknown, but what makes you pause are the things you know, in an unfamiliar context. It's not the old buildings, not the intricate architechture or ornate moldings, but the McDonald's on the ground floor. It's never the language you don't know, but the stray English word, "Ok", "Hello", "Sorry". And of course, I expect Polish people everywhere I go, but it's a little bizarre to walk down my street chatting with two Mormon Americans.
Among the most interesting are t-shirts. T-shirts with English sayings or slogans are very popular, but you always have to wonder if the wearer knows what it says. My friend and colleague, Patrick, who's from Texas, collects these (as in sightings, not the shirts themselves). One that really gave me pause was a teenage girl whose shirt read "HOMEWRECKER". Another was a student of mine who had a shirt from a bar in San Francisco. The name of the bar was "Sailor's Love". She wore it all the time. And of course, the sports wear. The Yankees and Bulls I'm sure they know, but someone wearing a Georgia Bulldogs cap or Cardinals jersey, I'm not as certain of.
Although, sometimes the familiar is just familiar and pleasant. Hence my trip to the Krakow McDonald's on New Year's Day, craving grease and that special sauce (I swear, my first time since leaving the US), and the Hawaiian pizza I'm about to reheat (so proud I'm able to order pizza by phone on my own now, though I dearly miss the late-night variety of delivery in New Orleans; here, it's only pizza that comes to your door. There's no help for a 2am jones for ribs or baba ghanoush, nobody to call for nachos or szechuan chicken. Hell, if you could just get pierogi or bigos delivered, that would be nice, but it's pizza only, and better call before 10pm.) And I'll probably discuss another time whether it's a good or bad thing, the insinuation of American culture into another, but for tonight, I'm oddly reassured by its presence. So thank you, TelePizza, for bringing that strangely delicious combination of pineapple and ham to Poland, and goodnight Elder Lyon and Elder Smith: may you sleep well and deeply, since you can't have coffee in the morning, but it was nice talking to you anyway.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Do you ever wonder, when it's cold and you're standing or walking outside, if people can see your farts? Yes, that's the kind of thing I think while waiting for the bus. Does it make a difference if it's a silent-but-deadly? If you really let one rip, does it shoot out your ass? Of course you can't look, because if it is visible, that would just draw attention to it. And I feel conspicuous enough as it is. Even bundled up against the cold, even when my ethnicity is not so obvious, I also feel like my lack of Polish is neon-bright. I stand at the stop away from the sign/timetable so that no one will come check their bus and then ask me a question about it. Which I may know the answer to, but not understand the question. Why this frightens me I can't say. Why my, totally understandable, ignorance of Polish is embarrassing, I don't know. No one has ever made fun of me in any way for not understanding, certainly nothing like the supermarket clerk in Sevilla who shouted "No habla Espanol? NO HABLA ESPANOL?!" at me once. Pehaps it is only that I have always tried to be inconspicuous, anonymous, and it is so much more difficult here, so I try to achieve it as much as possible. But then, people are always asking me questions in Polish anyway. I may look different, but no one assumes I don't know Polish, though there's no surprise either when they learn the truth. It's all on me, I know. So I stand away from the timetable at the busstop and think about my farts.
Not that it's been cold, by Polish standards. A couple of snow flurries that went away, shit, almost spring-like weather recently. I'm grateful, and can't help the solipsistic feeling that the universe is making up for my arrival last January, when it was 30 below (that's Celsius, not Fahrenheit, you do the math because I suck at it). It's actually a really terrible winter for Poland, there are so many ski resorts in the mountains with attendant businesses that are suffering because of the weather, and this isn't a country that can wait out a bad season, so I do have sympathy for them. But for myself? Every day without snow or debilitating cold is a blessing and I'm grateful for it.
So, you may ask, what is this blog all about? And those of you who know me personally may be asking, does Matt know what a blog is? I do have these random Luddite tendencies, and I'm never the first one to catch onto new technology. I read a stat maybe two years ago that a new blog is created once every second, and that's probably increased since then. Basically, it seems like a good idea. There's maybe some of that romanticism that I imagine pirate radio stations have, of broadcasting into an unknown audience. It's also, as the promo for blogspot says, a way to focus your thoughts. It's always different to write when you know someone might read it. And it's also for my mother, who asked me to write something for her for Christmas, and I drew a blank except for this, which I'd been thinking about since Kristen mentioned it before I left the US over a year ago, but never got around to doing until my mother asked for something. So this blog is for my mom, for me, for Kristen, and to let loose all the little things that fill my head. Oh yeah, and I also really want someone in this whole new Internet thing to spell correctly and use punctuation. For crying out loud, the English language, which I love dearly, is sinking ever faster into a quagmire of ignorance and convenience through this new medium. It pains me to think that the new generation will believe that "your" is really spelled "ur", when previous generations never figured out the difference between "your" and "you're" to begin with. Yes, I use it too in online chat and messengers. But I see the comments and posts on other sites, and I don't believe they know what they're doing. Having made this complaint, I know I've invited, and so welcome, anyone who reads this to correct my own spelling, punctuation, and grammar. Please. If nothing else, it ensures you'll read closely. Czescz.
Not that it's been cold, by Polish standards. A couple of snow flurries that went away, shit, almost spring-like weather recently. I'm grateful, and can't help the solipsistic feeling that the universe is making up for my arrival last January, when it was 30 below (that's Celsius, not Fahrenheit, you do the math because I suck at it). It's actually a really terrible winter for Poland, there are so many ski resorts in the mountains with attendant businesses that are suffering because of the weather, and this isn't a country that can wait out a bad season, so I do have sympathy for them. But for myself? Every day without snow or debilitating cold is a blessing and I'm grateful for it.
So, you may ask, what is this blog all about? And those of you who know me personally may be asking, does Matt know what a blog is? I do have these random Luddite tendencies, and I'm never the first one to catch onto new technology. I read a stat maybe two years ago that a new blog is created once every second, and that's probably increased since then. Basically, it seems like a good idea. There's maybe some of that romanticism that I imagine pirate radio stations have, of broadcasting into an unknown audience. It's also, as the promo for blogspot says, a way to focus your thoughts. It's always different to write when you know someone might read it. And it's also for my mother, who asked me to write something for her for Christmas, and I drew a blank except for this, which I'd been thinking about since Kristen mentioned it before I left the US over a year ago, but never got around to doing until my mother asked for something. So this blog is for my mom, for me, for Kristen, and to let loose all the little things that fill my head. Oh yeah, and I also really want someone in this whole new Internet thing to spell correctly and use punctuation. For crying out loud, the English language, which I love dearly, is sinking ever faster into a quagmire of ignorance and convenience through this new medium. It pains me to think that the new generation will believe that "your" is really spelled "ur", when previous generations never figured out the difference between "your" and "you're" to begin with. Yes, I use it too in online chat and messengers. But I see the comments and posts on other sites, and I don't believe they know what they're doing. Having made this complaint, I know I've invited, and so welcome, anyone who reads this to correct my own spelling, punctuation, and grammar. Please. If nothing else, it ensures you'll read closely. Czescz.
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