Lwow, Ukraine in 3 days or less

Gross generalization of a very big country based on one city and a border town: Ukraine makes Poland seem modern, efficient, and organized, as well as wealthy and prosperous. Best as I could tell, there have been very few upgrades in infrastructure and public transportation since the Soviet era. The roads, trains, trams and buses are all old, molting parts, repeatedly patched, yet mysteriously functional. Like a soldier who's yet to receive a mortal wound, just stop the bleeding and send him back out, Ukraine is still standing, a little shaky on its feet, really just needing some time to recover. Oh yeah, and it was frigging cold.
Lwow (L'viv) is a beautiful city, 750 years old, and looks it. Gorgeous, elegant buildings, elaborately carved and ornamented, in desperate need of repair and love. A wonderful market square centered around City Hall with its clock tower (350 creaking wooden steps up to a none-sturdy steel platform on top - a breathtaking view, a sigh of relief when you make it back down safely), but hardly bustling. Peeked inside some of the cathedrals, and if you're into gilt (or guilt) and vaulted ceilings with religious murals and iconography, Lwow is the place to be. Some very impressive public monuments on wide boulevards and large parks that are probably lovely to stroll down and through in spring and summer; late February, however, is a really shitty time to visit.
I would guess, given the low prices and many sights, that Lwow will become the new Prague for backpackers in the next 5-10 years, and the city could sure use it. There isn't much in the way of tourist infrastructure yet, few signs in English, virtually no souvenir shops, only two hostels and those both small, and while we may deplore that kind of thing as unsightly and whatnot, the fact is it brings money and a reason to preserve valuable history and since there's so much worth preserving in Lwow, I hope it takes its rightful place on the tourist track soon. I could've stayed another couple days, but the cold and my friend Patrick's needing to be back by today is why I returned with him.
The hostel was clean, modern and empty. The first night we had it to ourselves, and one other guest showed up the next day. It was also the warmest place we were in the whole time: whether because heating is expensive or inefficient or both, everywhere else, museums, pubs, restaurants, etc, all were just barely tolerable temperature-wise. I'd never wanted to claim my Jewish heritage more than in the cathedrals, which had no heat, as an excuse to keep my hat on.
Language was an experience as well: Ukrainian is similar to Polish, but written in Cyrilic. Patrick's Polish is better than mine, but my one year of Russian lo those many years ago helped me with the alphabet, so between us we did fairly well. I'd sound out the words, and he'd figure out the Polish equivalents and we managed to navigate and communicate our way around. At one restaurant, on the Rynok, where the old Venetian embassy used to be, we attempted to order some food. The woman who worked there got very excited, all we could understand was "chicken", and then she rushed off to the kitchen. After much clattering and chattering with her coworker (or employee, it was difficult to tell) out came soup, hearty and salty with meat we refused to speculate about, olives, lemon wedges, and Patrick had a mushroom in his bowl, though I did not. This was followed by a salad of hard-boiled eggs, canned white mushrooms, bacon and lots of mayo. The main course was a grilled chicken breast topped with dollops of ketchup and pickle slices, shoestring french fries and sides of pickled, grated carrots and cabbage. Uncertain as to whether this was something traditional, or something whipped up for the Americans. Including two beers, altogether it cost 82 gryvna, about 50zl, or about $16. This was the most expensive thing we bought while there, excluding the hostel. Average price for one beer in a pub: 3.50 UAH (2zl, or 75 cents).
But it was the border crossing that was in many ways the most enlightening experience. On the way in, we took a train from Przemysl in Poland direct to Lwow. Our fellow passengers were carting huge bags and parcels of various goods, mostly clothing it looked like. When I say huge, i mean people-sized and when I say carting, I mean they used carts loaded with these bags. Lots of stuff. The train itself was scary, cold and confusing, right out of a Bond movie. We were definitely heading east. On the way back we took a minibus, or actually two. You really haven't lived until you've crammed yourself onto a bus with seats for 17, but so small you're lucky to have one cheek on it, with about 30 people, then go careening away on ill-kept roads and all you can see are foggy windows and the crotch of the guy standing next to you.
This route means walking over the border, and while it's definitely cheaper, entails a lot more standing in the cold, and this is important when it's 15C below. First and fastest was the Ukrainian border, only about 5 minutes outside, 15 total, with some extra time because the officer couldn't figure out which was my first name and which my last. However, like most Polish people and unlike most Americans, he could pronounce it properly, with the minor exception of substituting a "v" sound for the "w". Then it was off to the Polish border, and 30 minutes outside, a stiff wind blowing from the north. Ultimately, of course, we made it through and home again, but I'm a bit surprised I still have all my toes and fingers.
I've wandered. The point is, at this crossing, there's a vibrant economy at work. Mostly in cigarettes and vodka. On the Ukrainian side, cigarettes are at least half as much as in Poland, probably due to EU taxes and so on. So many Poles cross the border to do some shopping, and on the Ukrainian side are all these little shops that sell cigarettes and booze. However, one person can only bring one carton across. Thus, you have all these people who spend their day going back and forth buying cartons in Ukraine and selling them in Poland. Of course, they don't waste a trip on only one. They break open one or two more cartons and put the individual packs in various places of their clothing. But there must be hundreds, if not thousands that do this. So on the Ukrainian side, you see people stuffing their clothes with smokes and on the Polish side you see them taking them out, and usually giving them to somebody, who presumably pays them to be a mule. And on that side, you then have the vendors, waiting for Poles who don't want the hassle of the crossing to drive up and buy cheap smokes. And this happens every day, all day. People trying to survive, trying to find a way.
Enough for now. I'm home, I have my stamp on my passport, I've seen some churches, it's all good.

Happy Mardi Gras

Yes, I know it was yesterday. Forgot myself, until I heard an NPR story on it. Makes me sad to think it could just pass by like that. There's no Carnival of any sort in Poland, despite it's heavily Catholic composition. The only thing that happens is, last Thursday, people ate donuts. I did notice in the store that day that there was an unusually large display of donuts, but it didn't ring a bell for me. Now, I'll grant you that these are jelly-filled, glazed donuts, definitely sinful and unhealthy. Of course, I don't like jelly donuts. And it's a pale comparison to the joyful noise and abandon of New Orleans parades, strange children demanding to be picked up so they can catch beads, the proud, brassy strides of a marching band, the lights and glitter and costumes . . . sigh. None of that here. No painted coconuts, no 7 am bloody marys to make sure you can use the bathroom at Lucky's, no neutral-ground bbqs, no roaming vendors with shopping carts full of plastic junk that looks strangely compelling and clouds of balloons gradually eroding throughout the day. No hot dog carts or plasticized nachos, no folding chairs or goodie bags, no 15 foot pink high heeled shoes trundling down the street, no King Kong, no breast-flashing, no random frisbees or spears hitting you in the face, no midnight chaingang clearing the trash, no king cakes or painted faces, no dancing or shouting or singing. It's just a day. Nice enough as it went, dry and clear if cold. Pleasant. That's the most that can be said for my Mardi Gras this year.

Wednesday Morning Coffee

Wednesdays I teach a couple of one-on-ones at a school in Katowice, ESCS. The first one is very early, 0730. Despite the fact that my student, Kasia, is always late (the office manager and I are thinking of starting a pool for each day and settling up at the end of my contract in June), I cannot be late. One of those things, either genetic or so deeply ingrained from birth it might as well be. So instead of taking the bus that, if it was on time, would get me there exactly at 0730, I take an earlier one, that lets me off in Katowice 45 minutes early. This is fine with me really, it's just enough time for coffee and a pastry and a chance to prepare my lessons, review materials and so on.
I wish I could say that I spend this time in a charming Old World cafe, perhaps run by a cheerful, matronly woman who fusses over her weekly American customer. The coffee would be hot and strong, the pastries fresh and home-baked, the regulars (consisting of older men in sharp, wool caps) would gather by the woodstove in the corner, arguing casually about politics or the disrespectfulness of the younger generation. The cafe would be solid stone walls and exposed timbers, dark with age and memories, but cozy and well-kept. I'd have a table by the window where I could watch the city awake, ordinary folks hurrying to offices, shops stretching their awnings into the street, their keepers setting out displays of fruit and vegetables . . . everything that Americans come to Europe for, the romance and pace of an older, more mature culture, whose history lies like snow all around.
Oh, I wish I could say that.
However, all the good cafes (none quite like my description, but very nice and comfortable) are either not open at 0645 or too far away for me to walk to and be back in time. So, I spend my Wednesday mornings in Delikatesy Skarbek, an upscale specialty-foods store on the market square, determinedly and anonymously modern, complete with shiny-tiled floors, too-bright lighting, mirrored walls and strategically placed shelving. My table is in a back corner, one of three tucked away as an afterthought next to the bakery counter, which is staffed by generally surly young women. Though the coffee is good and my ciastko polfrancuskie z jablkiem is probably baked on site, the diffidence with which it is served and the general ambience steal some of the flavor. The shop is in the point of a triangle-shaped building, and windowed heavily all around; however, my table is at the base of the triangle, and the shelves block all views. But it's reasonably quiet, the price is right (about 6pln for coffee and two pastries-apple turnovers-which is less than $2), and I even got a smile from the girl behind the counter today. Ok, it was very brief and might possibly have been a grimace of some sort, but you take what you can get.

Winter. Really?

A few nighttime snow flurries, that disappear quickly with the sun. Sidewalks and roads are clear and dry. This is completely different from last year with its subzero temperatures and hardened ice mountains of shoveled snow. I didn't even know what the pavement looked like in Sosnowiec until April. Not that I'm complaining. Today I stood in the sun in a t-shirt and was comfortable. Not warm, no, but comfortable for a few minutes. Nothing like the soul-stealing cold of last winter. I feel a great deal of sympathy for the local industries that depend on snow: the resorts, the ski and snowboard rentals, the bars, pubs and clubs of mountain towns, etc. This winter sucks for them, and it's not like this is the most prosperous place to begin with. But it's sure nice for me.
I have to go to Ukraine. My application for another year of residency won't be approved in time (long story), so I have to leave Poland and return with a new tourist stamp on my passport to buy an extra 90 days. Except that it's not just Poland I have to leave; no, I have to exit the EU and Ukraine is the closest non-EU country. At least it's cheap there, and I have the time, it being winter break now. So this weekend, off to Lwow I go. I know nothing about it, but since I must go, I'll do some sightseeing and wandering and so on. Oh, the strange paths life takes us on.
This post has no real theme, just bits and pieces of things. I know I've mentioned the Polish fetish for ink stamps before, and it's just one of those ludicrous hoops everyone has to jump through. For reasons still unexplained, it became necessary for me to have my own company. This meant opening a business bank account, a lot of paperwork, my lying to the government about where I live (officially I reside in the Katowice branch of Profi, for reasons that again were never satisfactorily explained to me; many people, I'd even venture to say, most, live in one place and work in another. Even if it was truly necessary for me to commit this fraud, why couldn't I at least live in the Sosnowiec branch? But my questions are met with garbled English cut short by the insistence that "You just have to"), various trips to government offices, and of course, getting a company stamp. Now, this fetish for the ink stamp (and every document of any kind must be stamped by somebody, somewhere, often more than once) means that there are shops all over that make them. "Pieczatki" (stamps) is written almost as often on signs as "papierosy" (cigarettes) or "alkohole" (you can guess that one). What puzzles me is why they are so important. I will have to stamp one or two things a month, and the information on my stamp could easily be written. And since these stamps are so readily available, anyone could make one in hours, so what precisely is the importance, what guarantee of authenticity does the stamp actually provide? For 40 pln (about $13) I could duplicate most any stamp I've seen so far. It's just one of the absurdities of Polish bureaucracy that I can't find a reason for.
And this brings me to the name of my company. I was told it could be anything I wanted, but it had to include my name. For the sake of convenience and because I like it, I chose the beginning of my email address, hideoijj. I didn't understand what they meant. The name, very official (as I can prove by my new company stamp), is "Hideoijj Yamagiwa Matthew Yamagiwa". I swear I'm not kidding. The last layer of sheer pointlessness came up when I was ordering the stamp. The guy who was helping me, one of the secretaries, and who is always very helpful, told me that not only did my company name have to be on the stamp, but also my name. Also my name. That's right, he thought it would be best if my stamp read "Hideoijj Yamagiwa Matthew Yamagiwa Matthew Yamagiwa". This was more than I could bear and I'm pleased to say I won the argument. It is, however, entirely possible that I'll have to get a new stamp that says that, if the documents I stamp get rejected for not having my name on them, only my company name. Ah, Poland.

Say what?

Not at all certain what has just happened, but I think there will be no tearing out of walls. Whew. Two strange women rang the buzzer (can you ring a buzzer? or do you only buzz?) at 0815, seemed just as startled to see me as I was to see them, but one had a camera and clipboard, the other an official-looking leather folder, so I let them in. Pani Camera began taking photos of my wall, at various distances, from assorted positions, while Pani Folder was looking around and shouting directions. Shortly thereafter, my landlord showed up with the blue plumbers, who immediately began peeling away the cheap vinyl baseboard. There was probing with fingers, and oddly, sniffing of fingers. For mold? Mildew? Then much discussion, disagreement, with Blue Number One and Two apparently all in favor of doing some wall-busting, and my landlord and Pani Folder I think in opposition. I guess my landlord won, as Blue One and Two left after a few minutes. Pani Camera and Folder followed soon. My landlord brought out a new lease for me to sign, which I did, and I asked as best I could if the Blue Men were returning. I think he said no. He then proceeded to go through my place asking me if everything was ok. That is, piece by piece. Taps ok? Gas ok? Oven hood ok? Fridge ok? Toilet ok? Bed/sofa ok? And so on.
Eventually, after a few photos of his own, he too left, after saying something about the keys. I committed a faux pas as we parted, and I'd just learned about this: it's either very bad manners or very unlucky to shake hands through a doorway, but I had forgotten. It took a couple tries before I realized I had to step into the hallway with him to shake. But he too is gone now, and no one has returned, so I think I may be in the clear. Helluva way to begin the day though.

Water, water everywhere . . . I wish

So, much of the information that follows has been translated and relayed through so many people, I really can't be certain of its accuracy. The facts as I know them are these: I came home last night, and discovered that there was no water. I called my co-teacher, Marcin, to see if he would speak to my landlord, who speaks only very fast Polish. Marcin, however, assured me that these things happen, not to worry, relax. This morning my landlord called me, during a lesson, which was fortunate, as I could then have the manager of the school translate. Somebody in the building had a leak, so they'd shut the water off in the whole building and they needed to get into my flat (shit, damn Brits), apartment to see if the problem was there. Ok, and the men came promptly at 11 as promised. Much banging, mysterious bits of plaster, Polish cursing and discussion, an assortment of tools, and about half an hour later, the two men swept up the dust, said something serious and unintelligible and left. 20 minutes later, I had water. Thank god, I thought, washed my dishes and myself, and went to my evening classes. Came a call during my last class, so threw an exercise at my students, ran downstairs saying "chwileczke, chwileczke" into my phone, handed it to the secretary, Beata (let me note here, that her job is more like office manager; "secretary" is a direct translation from the Polish "sekretariat" and has a fairly literal meaning, none of the associations that are in English and that have led us to more or less abandon the word). But whatever my landlord was saying was apparently a bit beyond Beata's confidence, so she spoke in Polish to another teacher who happened to be there, who then translated it for me. And I now put it here, and who knows if this game of bilingual "Telephone" has managed to get decent information to me. In any case, tomorrow the two blue-suited plumbers will return and rip out some portion of the wall(s) in my flat, perform some manner of operation therein, for an indeterminate period of time, which may or may not necessitate my needing a place to stay for the night, or a couple days, to fix a problem that perhaps originates in my place, and prior to all this my landlord will arrive very early to drop off a pre-filled-in form for me to sign after I have evaluated the quality of this work (upon which the entire building's water supply apparently depends) and will no doubt say many other things to me far faster than I have any hope of comprehending. My only hope is that sometime tomorrow, I will turn on my taps and water will come forth. Send me good thoughts.

Winter break

This is the last week before our winter break. Three weeks off. It's not just my school; this is standard across Poland. I know, I know, we just had 10 days off around Christmas, and we'll have more around Easter. So why this break? No clue. As an American, this is one of the more difficult things to adjust to: these incessant holidays. Some are religious, some are national, some are just traditional. But they're virtually constant. And as a long-time worker in the service industry, I'm just not used to having so much time off (and the pain it causes in my bank account). I'm kinda lazy, so ok, it's nice not to have to go to work, but this is ridiculous. Part of the money that supported me until I found this job was the 80 hours or so I'd accumulated in unused vacation time. Where I come from, you work. Lots. All the time. And the jobs I had, I worked when most people had time off. It's been six weeks since we got back from Christmas break, and we're doing it again? That's silly. Six months, that I understand. Or even just a day or two, a week at the most. But three weeks? Part of me thinks this is a more civilized way to live, less stress, less pressure, etc. But another part thinks, no wonder the American economy kicks European ass: we're just working harder, plain and simple. Oh, that's a terrible, jingoistic thing to say, and I have no facts to back it up. It's just that my co-teacher has been counting down the days to this break since we got back January 2, and while he does work hard, not only at our school, but company classes and private lessons, it's still only been six weeks. I had friends that at the Blood Center for whom Katrina was probably their first extended time off in years. And we're talking 50-60 hour weeks in those years.
I don't know. It's just one of those cultural differences that can be puzzling. I guess I know now why it's called the Protestant work ethic.

That's just the way it is

I love English. It's a strange, enormously flexible, beautiful and accomodating language. But explaining it is difficult. I hate it when it happens, I try to avoid it whenever possible, but all too often all I can tell my students is "That's the way it is". The more advanced students are used to this, but the confusion on their faces at the lower levels can be heartwrenching. Why do we say "under the law"? How come "can" doesn't have an infinitive, perfect or future form, but we can use it to talk about the future anyway? Why can't you say "very furious" only "really/absolutely furious"? Why do we use the past to talk about hypothetical situations in second conditional sentences (If I won the lottery, I'd buy a big house)? Why aren't there any consistent rules for negative prefixes? Irrelevant, but unreliable or disrespectful. Immature and immoral, but unmanageable. Why do we use the present simple for routine actions (I go to work every day) and not the continuous (I am going to work every day)? I have no answer. That's just the way it is. There's a metaphor here somewhere, but I can't quite reach it.

So it goes

It's been a week. The snow is all gone, except for a few blackened islands of ice. I've been doing question formation, English history, modals of deduction, and second conditionals. And Grandpa passed on. Since modals of deduction for Upper-Intermediate was about the past, and these things tend to bleed together, all I can think is "He might have died peacefully" "He must have been tired" "He can't have been conscious". They don't ask, but sometimes I see the look on the faces of my students: do we need to learn this? Does anyone ever use this grammar? Yes, we do. Fortunately, some of it is only used rarely, but yes, the time will come. And when it does, it's nice to be able to say it properly. Must/might/can't + have + a past participle. I wasn't there, so yes, this is a time for modals of deduction. Rest in peace. It must have been quiet.