How is the wheat ear today?

Here at UMAR we have come at last to the end of the midterm exams. We started giving them last week, then of course, had to correct all of them, as well as give make-ups this week, then enter all the scores into what for me was a confusing Excel spreadsheet, that had the wrong formula, then do a lot of it over as teachers discussed the results and we decided to either ignore some sections or mark them differently. Tons of fun. However, there were a few moments of levity. As I corrected, I also kept track of some of the more amusing mistakes, and I include a short list here. The intention is not to make fun of the students, since I have my own share of pretty funny mistakes (I once asked for 200 chargers for my phone, instead of recharging my account for 200 pesos; the girl's eyes got so wide they actually bulged), but that sometimes, you have to laugh. And now and then, there's an unexpected truth.
A short sampling of the better (or worst) mistakes:
-John isn't a shower.
-Sometimes the local people was us.
-I am going to connect my mind with my heroes, with Chile's history, and original pollution.
-Puerto Vallarta is another place where you can have an excellent wheat ear.
-My favorite rock band is Argentinean: Soda Stereo . . . Now they are disintegrated.
-The course was challenged academically.
-I don't sometimes eat my tree lonchs.
-We bought thousandth of dollars because we lodge in the presidential suit.
-My vacation was very funny because I went to many places that like me.
-Here, people were typical clothes, as the food, and the traditional scream.
-Storm Man caused people to rain.
-The athlete was exhausting after the race.
-Where are you born?

Finca Monte Carlo

I have checked off one more item from my lifetime to-do list: to visit a coffee plantation, to taste the cherries, and see from whence my favorite beverage comes. Tucked into the mountains about two hours from Huatulco, Finca Monte Carlo is a lovely, family-owned operation, that I visited last weekend with Gary (the Englishman's Englishman), Caryl (my American boss), Celia (a French teacher) and Yulma (a Mexican linguistics professor).
We set off from Huatulco in a rattling camioneta, traveling by highway for the first 15 minutes or so, then turning onto a twisting dirt road that led higher into the mountains, which our driver casually navigated with one hand, the other clutching a faded red scarf kept pressed to his cheek. Since it seemed to serve no practical purpose, I was mildly concerned that it was some sort of good-luck charm, which I hoped would prove unnecessary. In any case, we went high and deep into the jungle for another 45 minutes and when the trees opened up enough to permit a view, we could see the browning of the dry season fading the previously lush hillsides. Having arrived at the end of the wet season, it had seemed difficult to imagine these rolling waves of greenery looking anything but impossibly verdant, but the branches were noticeably barer, patches of grey and dusty beige appearing on the slopes, large dried fronds and leaves crinkling and collapsing into powder beneath our wheels.
Eventually, after much swaying, bouncing and jarring, we arrived at a little puebla, dominated by a central church, half crumbling colonial stonework, half modern reconstruction. We uncoiled our cramped limbs from the seats and each other, paid the driver the startlingly small sum of 25 pesos each ($2.50US; not only that, a taxi ride within Huatulco is always and only 20 pesos, no matter where you go), and waited for our host to pick us up. Gary and I had to heed a call of nature, and a few minutes of walking and asking led us back to the church and the kiosko outside; sanitarios on the bottom, and the top half a bandstand, a somewhat odd arrangement, especially given the conditions below. The toilets, unlike the rest of the tidy, pleasant village, I fantasized as only being cleaned once a year in some ritual celebration involving the local priest and burning herbs, the rest of the time superstitiously left alone for fear of offending the local spirits. The stench was truly awful. In any case, by the time we'd escaped the noisome altar, after quickly pouring out our offerings, a battered but healthy white pick-up truck had arrived, driven by our host and owner of the finca, Efrain (spelling uncertain, forgot to check). Gary, Yulma and I hopped in the back, helped a dusty brown tree frog to hop out, Celia and Caryl got in up front, and we were off up a dirt road again. More twisty mountain bouncing, this time steeper and more gravelly. We forded two streams, and after perhaps half an hour of climbing, finally came to the gates of the plantation.
Just beyond the gates is the plantation house, a beautiful building that had obviously seen better days, but nevertheless maintained with love and care. Large, sprawling and open, the front half of its two stories are painted a peaceful brick red, flowers and palms and other nameless (to me) plants cluster around and over it, cobbled paths and patio embracing it. All its many windows and doors were open to the cooler air of the mountains, though it was still warm and sunny. Inside and out, the furnishings are clearly the collection of careful and tasteful generations; nothing is new, but all are of a time and character where quality and uniqueness were valued. On the walls are many pieces of art, from paintings to framed prints to a compelling woodcut in the stairwell, done by Ephrain's grandmother.
We were shown to our rooms on the top floor, each furnished with beautiful hardwood dressers, tables and beds, but the most stunning feature up there is the spacious gallery commanding a view of the compound and the mountains sloping away into green mistiness and clouds. Yes, the elevation is that high. After settling in (i.e. dropping our bags on our beds of choice), we got a short tour of the house, then came out onto the veranda, for, unsurprisingly, coffee. Our hosts, Efrain and his wife, Ana Berta, were animated and friendly, peppering us with questions and stories. I say "us," but as usual, I mostly sat and listened, as it was all in Spanish. I was pleased to be able to follow the general thread of the conversation, but by the time I gathered the words to say something, the moment was gone. It doesn't bother me though; I already know and understand more Spanish after not quite two months here than I ever learned of Polish in two and a half years, so I'm content with my progress.
Several cups and some oatmeal-like cookies later (biscuits to Gary, galletas here), we went to tour the grounds while lunch/dinner was being prepared. Efrain began by talking expansively about the big stump at the head of the short, cobbled drive, where he'd had to cut down an enormous tree. Not only had it been rotting, and thus a danger, but it also had been interfering with his satellite reception. Two birds with one saw. Then up the grassy track by an old stone aqueduct, fed from a large tank, in turn fed from the river we'd crossed. This provided all the water for the plantation, not only for plants, but for drinking, washing, and cleaning. Wonderfully clear and cool, it was a quiet rushing noise that threaded through our visit whenever we cared to stop and listen.
Back down the track, and through a wire gate, past a stand of three-story tall bamboo and we were walking among the coffee bushes. They really look more like small trees, with slender trunks from which branches begin sprouting about halfway up, heavy with dark, glossy, almost poisonous-looking leaves. At the base of the leaf stems is where the cherries grow; in a couple of weeks is harvest time, and then they will be a deep, translucent red, but for now they were still green and hard, like tiny Granny Smiths'. A few ripe ones were found for us to sample: a little disappointing. They were sweet, but without a terribly distinctive flavor and the two beans in each cherry leave little room for the whitish flesh anyway. I don't know what I'd expected, but something more, something that hinted at the flavors to come, and I didn't find it. The bushes themselves grow beneath a canopy of much larger trees, leaving it cool and shady where we walked and their gnarled branches were another cause for wonder and admiration. It wasn't quite clear to me as Efrain talked whether it was a completely organic operation, but they had lined the path and mingled with the bushes other plants, whose purpose was to discourage pests and protect the coffee, and from what I understood, it seemed to be working well.
Further back, we visited the children's cemetery, a family plot, maybe ten or twelve stone tombs, with a lime tree at one corner. Efrian and Ana Berta picked some fruit for us to take home with us, and there was nothing strange about it.
After the coffee bushes, we walked back to the compound, where we saw part of the processing facilities. Huge stone tanks like giants' bathtubs, one of which was currently home to large goldfish and tilapia, where the beans would be washed. Stretching out in front of them, several enormous tiers of flat, red-painted concrete where the beans would then be spread to dry over the course of four or five days. At opposite ends of the farthest one, were two basketball hoops, netless, their wooden backboards fading. This was also the largest open space we'd seen since leaving the puebla, and the view of the green mountains, the peaks rising behind us cloud-wreathed, the ones across the valley below us rolling away in mistier shades, was truly breathtaking.
We took a short turn around the back garden and through some other outbuildings, now clean and bare concrete, but soon to be full of people and coffee, roasting and grinding, and ended back on the veranda. Gary and Yulma and I had brought a bottle of mezcal, and when Efrian heard of this, nothing would do but that I bring it out and he his so that we might compare the two. I had been in charge of purchasing, and knowing no better, went with the pretty, tri-colored bottle, aptly named El Tri. Efrian's came in a large, clear, label-less bottle, produced in Puebla, north of us. He poured first, we toasted and drank; it was fiery and strong, with hints of smoke and unfamiliar aftertastes. Later, we poured the El Tri, and it was generally agreed that it was fine, smoother perhaps, but completely lacking in character.
All of that was made inconsequential by the meal that arrived on the table. Plate after platter after bowl came out, and we fell to with ravenous good will. First, a rich cream and asparagus soup, which held at bay the slight chill beginning to develop in the air. Next, large, thick handmade tortillas, each the size of a dinner plate, and shortly after rice tossed with oil and a little onion, thick cuts of beef tender and flavorful, a fresh lettuce and tomato salad (which sounds plain, but it's actually very difficult to find fresh lettuce here; I think there are infrequent shipments to Huatulco's markets, and if you don't buy it right away, the heads quickly wilt, so this was a pleasant surprise), mole and chicken tamales, bread, juice, the ever-present, always useful dish of limes, a dish of pickled jalapenos and sliced carrots, and of course, plenty of coffee. We gorged. There's really no other word for it. As we ate, it began to rain, a common occurence in the mountains, but it only served to make us feel cozier and snug, deep under the roof of the veranda, wrapped by well-tended gardens, the jungle beyond, filling ourselves with good food and company.
After, we sat and chatted, then drifted away one by one to nap and digest. I ended up in the hammock on the gallery outside my room, where I quickly dozed off without so much as cracking my book. When I woke, the sun was well behind the mountains, and I swung lazily, watching the flitter of bats across a clear, purplish sky, wishing them good hunting. At last, my bladder roused me, so I went downstairs and out to the toilet, and found Caryl on the veranda reading. She challenged me to a game of Scrabble, which I couldn't refuse. However, she had the Spanish edition, and even though she's my boss, I have to say I would have won if she hadn't insisted that the double l, the double r, and the n with the accent, all of which she played, keep their inflated point values, despite being used as regular, single English letters. But no matter.
The others arrived as we were finishing, then Efrian and Ana Berta brought out bowls of potato chips, cubes of queso fresco and green olives, Celia and Caryl broke out the wine they'd brought, and we fell to snacking and chatting once more. So passed our evening, and despite the naps we'd had, everyone went to bed early, all of us gone by eleven o'clock.
In the morning, after we'd all arisen, breakfast was served, just as overwhelming as the dinner the night before. In addition to the coffee, we had bread and tortillas, fresh fruit with yogurt, oats and honey, poached eggs topped with a mild sauce and bacon, black beans, and a fresh salsa. The sun was bright, the air already warm and inviting, bees and flies and ants and birds going about their business, the compound's dogs basking or barking or begging unobtrusively at the edge of the veranda. What better way to spend a Sunday morning?
After breakfast, after digestion and unhurried discussion, we decided to go swimming. This was a matter merely of walking five minute down the road to where the river crossed it. A small, swift stream cascading over pale boulders, cutting down the mountainside in a series of steep falls and small pools, a largish one of which spread out just before the road. Deep enough to swim, cold enough that Gary had to be dunked (he was really asking for it, I swear), surrounded by overhanging trees and bushes, and pure enough to drink. The force of the current was so strong that it was essentially a forever pool, the kind some people spend thousands of dollars on, but here nature had provided, and we spent a long time swimming against it, or trying to hang on to the rocks where it pounded down on the upstream edge. Eventually, the cold won out, which meant time to do some basking of our own on the boulders by the falls from the road, and so our afternoon passed, from sun-warmed rock to mountain-born water and back again.
When the sun was no longer high and direct (a period of three hours or so, I think) we made our way slowly back to the compound. It's possible that the thinner mountain air was affecting us, but we'd also exerted ourselves a great deal, so when, shortly after our return, lunch was served, we were ready and more than. This meal was a noodle and tomato soup, chicken and potatoes, more rice, more salsa, toast and tortillas, and then a green squash, almost like zucchini, cut lengthwise, topped with ham and cheese, baked and served on a bed of chopped lettuce. And of course, coffee.
And sadly, that was the end of our stay. Half an hour later, we were packed and climbing back into the pickup. Efrain and Ana Berta drove us down to the puebla, where we had to negotiate for a taxi in the fading light of sunset, small children giggling and creeping closer to stare at the gringos. We had no real choice but to pay almost three times as much for the return trip, so we did. The driver of this camioneta was younger than the first, but he negotiated the winding dirt road with the same one-handed nonchalance, though it was full dark by now. I closed my eyes and let the jungle night slip by me unremarked. When at last he dropped us off in La Crucecita, the finca and the weekend were already fading into memory, hurried along by the now-intrusive sounds of Huatulco. What had seemed a small, sleepy town on the coast when I first arrived, now felt all too urban and busy, loud and bustling even on a Sunday evening. But it was home, and pleasant for all that, even if no one will make me breakfast in the morning. Caryl, Celia and I made our goodbyes to Yulma and Gary, and headed up the street to our neighborhood. I left them at the Y-fork that separates our streets, walked the last few feet to my building, up the stairs, and into the stuffiness of an apartment unused for a couple days. Laid down on the sofa, tried not to count the hours before I had to return to work, reminded myself I love my job, and promised I would go back soon.

When in Huatulco, drive as the Huatulquenos do

What follows are my observations on driving in Huatulco only. Not to be construed as applying to Mexican drivers as a whole, since I have no road experience outside my little corner of the country. Just as East Coast drivers are different from West Coast drivers are different from Southern drivers, rural from urban or suburban, I assume it's likely a similar variety exists in Mexico. However, here in Huatulco, these are the prevailing rules of the road:
1. Obey the posted speed limit, except when: a) you want to go faster; b) you want to go slower; c) you didn't see it.
2. Stay in your own lane, except when: a) you are trying to avoid a pothole; b) you are passing somebody; c) it feels better in the center; d) you weren't paying attention; e) you see somebody you know and have to swerve to wave at them.
3. Come to a complete stop at all stop signs, except when: a) you are sure you can beat the traffic; b) nobody is around; c) pedestrians are crossing in front of you (in which case, slow way down, but keep moving so they don't know if they should go or not).
4. Use your horn: a) when the light turns green; b) just before the light turns green; c) to attract passengers (if you are a taxi driver); c) to say hello to friends; d) to say goodbye to friends; e) to let your friend know you are there to pick them up (if the first five or six blasts don't work, keep trying. Only losers quit); f) to let scooter riders know you are there, but only when you're right behind them or passing; g) your stereo has stopped working and you need to keep the beat to the song you're singing.
5. Do not go the wrong way down a one-way street, except when: a) you made a mistake; b) you're driving backwards; c) you only have to go three or four blocks; d) someone else is coming the correct way.
6. Use your blinkers: a) all the time; b)never.
7. Leave a courteous amount of distance between you and the car ahead, except when: a) you are at a stop light/sign; b) you are in motion.
8. When parking, make sure you do one or more of the following: a) park headfirst and leave the back sticking out in the street; b) pass the spot, drive a block or more, then back up till you reach it, at which point do a); c) double park in front of a scooter, so it can't get out; d) if you are in a lot, angle your car to cover at least two spots; e) stop wherever you are and get out, you'll just be a minute.

Dow who?

It's Friday evening here at UMAR, and you can practically smell it. All the teachers have had their last classes, and all pretense of working has been abandoned, here in our little corner of the campus. An impromptu game of office football (soccer) has sprung up, with a ball of paper held together with tape. A cluster of French teachers discusses their weekend camping trip to Cangrejos, a beach a couple hours from here. Not far in the distance, the students have gathered at one of the larger intersections of the pathways, and we can hear the lightness in their voices as they discuss which club, which party, which clothes.
We are all waiting for seven o'clock. That's when we can punch out, when the buses and taxis arrive to take the students away; outside the gate there's almost certainly three or four trucks and cars with amplifiers bolted to their roofs, ready to begin blasting advertisements for local clubs, their eternal promises of fun and frolic. One of them, Litros, is having a foam party tonight, where they will fill the dance floor with bubbles, and this seems to be the club of choice for most of the kids. Even so, they will be there at the gate, with their speakers and billboards, their pretty girls handing out flyers and somewhat disturbingly insisting you will have a good time.
But it's relatively quiet in the Centro de Idiomas; even the shrieks and shouts of the football game are muffled by the jungle. The sun still grazes the tops of the trees, but here, under the canopy, it is definitely twilight. Crickets have begun their nightly symphony, the iguanas and lizards seem to have disappeared to whatever safe nook they wait out the cool of night in, even the flowers seem still and peaceful and ready to rest. In less than an hour, we will give the jungle back to them for the weekend; only those few professors who live on campus will remain, and most of them will leave too, to visit family or go to a beach or whatever.
And I will leave, and happily enough. Home, slowly, (still have water in my carburetor), a gentle putt-putt down the hill to my home, which feels more so everyday. Later, many of us will meet again at the Dublin, where Richard may convince me to try my hand at darts again, and Alex the bartender will likely make those tiny margaritas with the rotgut tequila that only a few hardened regulars drink, which is why he gives it away to us, and Angela will probably watch whatever sports happen to be on the flatscreen, and Gary will flirt shamelessly but charmingly with whoever happens to be around, and later, perhaps, we'll all go to a new club, opening tonight, the owners a married couple, he's American, she's Mexican, who have treated us well at their little cafe, and are now embarking on bigger ventures.
Somewhere north of here, the global economy is melting down, and the impacts of it will surely reach deeply into Huatulco. But for now, it's only Friday evening, and it's time to go.

The beaches and bahias of Huatulco, San Agustin

All the beaches of Bahias de Huatulco are beautiful, and they all have their own particular characteristics and quirks. Yesterday morning, as often happens on the weekends, I got a message from Rob and Anita, two Americans from Albany, New York, who live here most of the year with their son, Robbie: “San Agustin, 12ish ne1?” They are great organizers, these two, the same ones who got us together to go rafting a couple of weeks back. So I called for directions, talked to Anita, was offered a ride in the back of their pickup, but I wanted to take mi moto; it was a glorious day, and while it knew it was relatively far out (about 25km), I’d also been wanting to go for a longer ride than to Super Che and back. Anita told me to go past the airport and then left at the next intersection (directions in Huatulco tend to be just that simple) onto a dirt road. “Is it passable by scooter?” I asked. “Well, it’s a bit bumpy, but sure,” she said.
Round about noon I met up with Gary, my very English English teacher colleague and friend, who happens to be bike buddies with me as well. He has the same model Zanetti, purchased the same day from Super Che, only blue. It was a lovely, early Sunday afternoon ride through mountains, surrounded by jungle, even less traffic than usual, the highway much better maintained than the streets of Crucecita where we live. Passed the airport after about 25, 30 minutes, found the turnoff to San Agustin. Dirt, yes. Road is a more generous term for what we found. More like a collection of potholes, bumps, rocks, and deep, straggling runnels strung out in a twisting line through hilly jungle. Gary, showing an unexpected lust for adventure (having got lost [through no fault of his own] in the jungle for two hours just the day before), said, “Let’s just start and see how far we get.”
Which we did. If the picture of my scooter isn’t clear, let me tell you that what we have are street bikes. Our suspensions basically consist of one big spring between the seat and the rear wheel, which, like the front, is very small, hardly big enough to go over a golf hole let alone the divots and cracks on this road. So after about 10-15 minutes, we’d barely covered a kilometer, with 6 or 7 more to go, when Rob, Anita, and their truck packed full of people, bags, equipment and Chester the dog come rattling up behind us. The group is understandably amused, although Anita does apologize, claiming the road was much better during the dry season, which it probably was. Then they tell us about the river. Apparently, to get to San Agustin, you must also ford a small river, which at the end of the rainy season, we are told, is a couple of feet deep. Our engines are about 5 inches off the ground.
Mark, a retired expat who’s lived here for years, tells us there’s a safe place we can leave the scooters, and then hop in the truck for the rest of the way. It’s another of kilometer of bumps and weaving, but we make it to a little store, not much more than a shed with a log bench, where we park and take a break. There’s some good-natured ribbing about the idiocy of taking our 90cc street bikes down this road, but I can’t help feeling a small amount of pride in having made it as far as we did. And truth be told, it was far more comfortable than the back of the truck; at the very least, on a scooter, you can drive around many of the worst holes and bumps. In a truck, you can only go over most of them, and if you happen to be squeezed with five other people and a frisky young dog into an unlined bed, you may start thinking it wasn’t so bad on the scooter.
Nonetheless, we all made it at last (the river turned out to be only 20 feet across or so, and not as deep as we’d been told, and thus mildly anti-climactic. Still would’ve swamped our engines), and as usual, worth the journey. A long, breathtaking curve of pale sand, scattered with bits of white coral, lined with palapas (beach restaurants), bordered behind those with jungled hills, all of it enclosing blue, crystalline water punctuated by a couple of small, rocky islands. But the most notable feature of Bahia de San Agustin is under the water: a coral reef that covers most of the sea floor and stretches almost to the beach, thus making it perfect for snorkeling. The locals take care of their reef; if someone is foolish or careless enough to actually stand on it, they quickly and vehemently yell at them to get off. It’s a community; behind the palapas are small homes, where it seems many of the owners and workers live. Mark told us they’d only gotten electricity in the last year or so, and all the drinking water has to be trucked in still.
We went to a palapa called Charly’s, where its namesake greeted us warmly, sat us down at tables under a thatched shelter with two hammocks strung from the side posts. We nearly had it all to ourselves. At a rough estimate, there must be at least thirty palapas on San Agustin. Most of them were closed, and of the handful that were open, none of them were full. Which is nice if you’re the visitor, but it’s easy to see that it’s bad for the locals, who are probably waiting anxiously for December and January when business picks up again.
Most of us headed straight for the water, cool at first, but warm and embracing after a few seconds. The tide was just coming in when we arrived, which seemed great initially; the low depth meant we could snorkel very close above the reef, but several of us independently discovered that in certain parts, as the waves pull back, you can get stranded in mere inches of water above the coral, with no way off but to wait for the next good wave and hope it lifts you up and not slams you down. This is the part where I’d love to detail all the fish I saw, but the only ones I could positively identify were the puffer fish. Most were colorful, many were flat and wide, some small and darting; a few tiny, vibrantly blue fish flickered in and out of holes in the reef. The coral itself was mostly a dark red or brown, greenish in the light in some places, and deceptively smooth-looking, rounded and curving over the floor. The water itself was the clearest I’ve seen yet; though all the beaches here are clean and swimmable, some are better than others for snorkeling, either because of reefs like this one, or, especially at the end of the rainy season, worse due to sediment and runoff (it should be noted that there’s virtually no heavy industry anywhere near Huatulco, and it’s sparsely populated. Runoff here means only dirt; while it can certainly turn the water of the bays cloudy and murky, there’s no need to be wary of it).
After we’d all trickled (literally) back to the tables, talk turned to lunch. There was a general consensus about fish, so we ordered two grilled “gallo.” A long time later (the coals weren’t ready yet), they appeared on our tables, nicely seasoned, firm flesh, reminiscent of tuna, fresh caught, with strangely small sides of rice and vegetables. There was a bit of grumbling when we got the bill later; 450 pesos per fish is a little high for Huatulco, but I do still think in American standards, and $45 for a fish large enough to feed 4-5 people is not a bad deal.
Later, some of us went out on Mark’s boat, cruising around the bay, where they caught sight of sea turtles and dolphins; a few of us, myself included headed back into the water for more snorkeling. By the time the boat returned, the sun had begun to set. Because of where Huatulco is in Mexico, the bottom of the curve eastward, and the position of the bay on that coast, I had the rather mind-twisting of sitting on a Pacific beach, looking out over the water with the sun setting behind me. It just didn’t seem right somehow, although still pretty. But no one wanted to drive that road in the dark, least of all me and Gary, so we settled up pretty quickly, shoehorned ourselves back into the truck and headed out.
The return was uneventful, retrieved our bikes, waved goodbye to the others, jounced our way back to the highway, and with the minor exception of a few thousand bugs dying by being crushed into our faces and chests, made it back to Crucecita without incident. At my apartment, I showered off the dust and insect guts, had a small sandwich, and went to bed early, with that pleasant tiredness of adventures survived, and a head full of new memories.

The University

Universidad del Mar, my new home. Or it feels like that anyway, since I spend and will spend a lot of time there. It's a beautiful campus, its position in the jungle maintained daily by a team of groundskeepers, who can be seen trimming, cutting, sweeping, painting, and hacking with machetes in a truly Sisyphean effort to keep the bushes, shrubs and trees from overwhelming the buildings completely. Amongst the flora, our fauna consists of black and white iguanas, assorted smaller lizards, giant hornets, innumerable spiders, rumors of scorpions (haven't seen any myself), ants in the billions, and birds, who are mostly seen as flashes of color and movement in the foliage. The buildings themselves are mostly made of thick stone and concrete, whitewashed or painted a pleasant orangey color, with terracotta tiled roofs. The paths are an oddly-patterned concrete, gouged in lines to resemble cobblestones, which at first I assumed had some practical purpose for drainage, but after splashing through many puddles during the first rain, I abandoned that theory and have decided it's purely decorative, because it's not exactly easy to walk on.
The classrooms have high ceilings and louvered windows that we never close, cooled only by two fans whose effective reach is straight down in a three-foot radius. The teachers stand on a low cement stage before the whiteboards, which, while it may make it easier for the students to see, does seem a little strange when you're the one standing there. In a perfect example of the university's rigidity, the student's desks are bolted to the floor in narrow rows, making it difficult to move around and monitor conversations and discussions. For all of that, my students are (mostly) interested and attentive, energetic and inquisitive, which is all a teacher can really ask. We are still getting to know one another, after a week and a half, though a few have already distinguished themselves, either by their preparedness and interest, or, in one notable case, severe truculence (but what can you do?).
Most of the teachers in the Centro de Idiomas have their offices in a pleasantly curved building, but mine is in the computer building next door, one of the few on campus that has air-conditioning. At the moment, I have it to myself; I will share it with Angela, our lone Aussie, whose paperwork has not been fully processed yet and will hopefully begin next week. There's a lot of us: a handful of English, a few Canadians, five or six Americans, a cadre of French teachers and one Chinese teacher who, for unknown reasons, is the only one who lives on campus. It's a good group, generally lively and playful, and conversations take place in a mix of Spanish, English, and French, with the occasional phrase in Chinese.
The university's administration has honed its bureaucracy to a dull, implacable edge. There is a form for everything, incomprehensible and contradictory instructions for becoming a fully legitimate employee, unnecessary journeys (in this age of information technology) to various offices to present the same documents, delays for signatures and signatures for delays, and proctors who prowl the grounds in hopes of catching us outside our classrooms or in the act of negligently leaving a fan or light on somewhere. But, I am assured, if you keep your head down, nod and smile, the situation is no more than a minor irritation, and as I have only one more trip to make (registering at the hospital for medical insurance) much of the stress and frustration of the last couple of weeks is behind me for good.
All in all, there's a feeling of relaxing around the campus as we settle into the new year. The girl in the library who makes copies no longer seems on the verge of tears all the time (all students need literally hundreds pages of copies of workbooks and texts for their classes), the shuffling of students from this class to that has died down, routines are becoming established, even the lizards seem to scuttle more slowly across the paths. There may be more shoes ready to drop somewhere, but for now, todo bien.

Yo quiero mi moto

I love my scooter. It may be the greatest thing I have ever owned, absolutely, no kidding. At first, after arriving in Huatulco, I had assumed I would get around by walking, bus, or, since they're so cheap, taxi. But the buses only run to the university twice a day, and are not terribly reliable, so I'm told; the taxis may only be 20 pesos (about 2 dollars), but multiply that by at least 4 times a day, 5 days a week (just to get back and forth to work) and soon we're talking serious money; and quite honestly, I'm kind of a sweaty guy under the best of circumstances: if I walked everywhere (and the town is rather spread out) I'd never dry out. So a scooter I bought.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.

I know, I know

So it's been far too long since I posted anything, and I have vowed anew to be more regular about it this time. Even if in my new home I am unable to get internet, I think I'll have plenty of time and opportunity to compose new posts. However, since I'm working on battery at the moment, this will have to be short.
For those who don't know, I have moved to lovely Huatulco, Mexico. I've been here five days now, and it's just about perfect. I'm told that in a few months, all the lush greenery will turn brown and dusty as we enter the dry season, but at the moment it's the kind of scenery that almost hurts to look at, impossibly pretty and alive.
I have an apartment and a scooter, and many new friends. Life should be pleasant here, and already I feel comfortable. But power is rapidly slipping away, and I want to post some photos . . .

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.