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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
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 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.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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 . . .
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 . . .
Monday, August 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
"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
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
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
"--------," 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."
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."
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.JPG)
