Spring

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

Kiosks

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

Poczta Polska

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

Why do my q-tips have an expiration date?

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

Hope

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

Lwow, Ukraine in 3 days or less

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

Happy Mardi Gras

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