Dustin has left us. He has journeyed back to the States to move in with his girlfriend and has left three lonesome undergraduate researchers in his wake. While we are not lost without his guidance, I fear that we shall soon find that we took Daddy Dustin and the calm and work ethic that his presence inspired for granted. None of us managed to get much done today; I recovered a bit of Oligos 9 and 11, though it will take much longer to figure out what else came off the HPLC column, Jonathan found all of the absorptions of the different peak samples, though we are afraid to do an OD dilution because we don't know exactly what Prof. M. wants, and JP managed to finish all of Ghostbusters. You see what I mean. Hopefully we can get some results from Maldy tomorrow and find out if we actually made the hairpin crosslink or not. I'm optimistic though; it's only Monday. But this absence of graduate students who desperately want to publish raises some interesting questions.
For instance, did you know that there is going to be a Ghostbusters III? I'm stoked.
It's been almost two weeks now, but I keep thinking about the Farm and how much I want to be there again. The Farm is a large piece of land located outside of Warszawa that used to belong to Hanna, but when she left for the states, she was given the option of passing it to a family member or giving it up to the state. She chose the former option, and now her brother maintains the beautiful establishment that functions both as a home for his family and a resort for all types. It was here, on the first day, that I was able to sleep for 17 hours, wake up to a party just as the sun was rising at 3, do my Dr. Dre impression, and then fall back asleep. All meals were served outside in the summer kitchen, which, by the way, is the most kick ace kitchen I've ever been in, with a fire pit and everything. I've always wanted a home with a large exterior kitchen, and this place has given me some excellent ideas. I could tell you all about the food, but that would only piss you off. I will say this though; Polish people like their cold cuts for breakfast. This is not good for me, since ever time, without fail, that I have consumed red meat or ham (And the Polish eat almost nothing but ham), I have been overcome by a terrible stomach ache. The one unexpected blessing the Farm was to find sliced chicken amongst the morning's meaty appeteasers. I was stoked.
To me, the Farm was like a slap in the face of oppressive communism in Poland. Hanna also told us how it was that her brother acquired the vast amount of open field that I wandered around for 2 hours before finding my way back to the farm. This land had been taken away from its owners (Hanna said that they were probably killed. Her Grandfather, the original owner was only spared because he knew the right people) and split into several small pieces and doled out to the citizens of the new communist state. Well, many of these citizens had no use for farmland; they never were and would never be farmers. So her brother bought all of the individual tracts at cutthroat rates until he amassed the giant holding that he owns now. The system that prides itself on equalizing the classes definitely failed to stop this intelligent guy from exercising his ambitions. The whole time I was there, I just couldn't get over the fact that this whole beautiful little oasis of comfort once stood on the edge of takeover by the same people who tore down the friendly city of Warszawa and erected cold towers that playacted at power. I didn't mind laughing and enjoying myself at their expense.
Some of the things to do at the Farm; sleep for very long periods of time, take a shower in the room next to yours because something unspeakable has been done in your shower, eat heartily, chase rabbits as large as jungle cats through giant fields of poppies and tall grass, lose your bearings for several hours in giant fields of poppies and tall grass, eat heartily, dive into the lake, search for a warm spot before you achieve hypothermic conditions, pick off the leaches, sun yourself (Now a certain SOMEONE can't call me Casper), eat heartily, plan a celebratory party for being young and in Poland, dance with a older women to Surfin' Safari, eat 8 tomatoes, drag your friend off the stairs to pass out on the couch, get beat by a 11 year old at pool, start a fire (In the fireplace this time), cook sausages that you keep giving to other people so you can save room for tomatoes, exhaustedly play card games, sing selections from Les Miserables, watch "On a Boat", stop your friend from doing something ghastly to a mermaid. Then you fall asleep at 5, wake up at ten, and attempt to repeat. Though, this time, they tell you have to pack up and leave.
It was here that I decided that I would stage a coup. Violent or non-violent, whatever it takes, I made it my long term goal to unseat current representative of the USA Victor Ashe, and install myself as the Ambassador to Poland. I woke up after my 17 hour nap and since it was 3 in the morning and I didn't feel like partying, I got on the computer in the upstairs loft. For some reason, I looked up the embassy's website and I found researched the current Ambassador. Mr. Ashe is a History BA from Yale who served as Mayor of Knoxville TN for several years and is also a former state senator. There was no mention of whether or not Mr. Ashe spoke Polish, and I feel like that is something that they would have mentioned if he did. Kind of disappointing; I expected to find an Uber Polish superhero, but the reality was a letdown. I mean, what had this guy really done to merit an Ambassadorship to Poland? Yeah, he did a couple of things with Chelm when he was mayor, but really, anyone can do that. And history? Nothing on history majors, but this is not what Poland needs right now. Poland wants to establish a stronger relationship with our scientific community in order to bolster their own international standing in the sciences, so one would think that a logical choice for Ambassador to Poland would be an engineer or scientist. Hanna was also telling me that Poland is in a generational shift of the political sector; offices currently held by aging remnants of the communist era will soon be phased out by what she feels is the most important part of a revitalized Poland: youthful diplomats. Poland used to be famous for its diplomats, but this status suffered greatly under Russia's heel. Now there is a chance to regain that reputation through education of the youth, who know Poland by more than communist rule.
This is where I come in; a young and ambitious engineer, fascinated by Poland and his familial ties to the country, eager to learn the language and to watch others follow in his footsteps to the land of the White Eagle. Makes sense right? And who would you trust more with USA-Poland relations, A guy named Victor Ashe or Garyk Sadowy? Not a hard choice. I just have to contribute the right amount to the right Presidential campaign when the time comes. And as my first action, I will level the US Embassy (An incredibly ugly building) and build a one story farm in its place. Then, as Hanna suggested, I'll buy the Russian Embassy.
I met my good friend's Godfather and his family this past weekend. It's been hard to find things to do of late, since I come out of the lab at 9, exhausted and not wanting to do much else than eat and read foreign literature or watch Afro Samurai cartoons while I do pull ups in my door frame, so I was hoping that I could do something diverting with some Polish friends. We decided to go to the place where it is thought that Poland was baptized in 966, making Poland, for the first time, a true state ruled by the crown prince. The prince had a small, well-defended island in the middle of a lake where he had built a stone palace and a small chapel. We took a ferry over to the island and walked around the ruins of the stone structures. It was intriguing at first to see buildings more than a thousand years old, but after a few minutes of standing around looking at the rocks (All of the signs were in Polish, so they had to be translated laboriously for me), I found less enjoyment in the actual attractions and more diversion in the beautiful, summer day. That was when I realized what day it was.
The 21st of June is St. John's day, known as the longest day of the year, and there is an ancient Slavic myth that goes along with this day (One of my favorite pastimes is world mythology, my favorites being Polish and Norse). It was said that, on St. John's day, the peoples would go into the forests of Poland and search for what is called a fire flower, the bloom of the fern. They were incredibly hard to find, and even when one stumbled across one deep within the ancient woods, the hunt did not end there. Small demons and ifrits would attempt to distract the hunter from picking the flower. Often, they would succeed in preventing the hopeful picker from even approaching the flower, but with enormous strength of will, one could resist the demon's antics and wrest the flower from the magical fern. Bearers of fire flowers were said to be blessed with many boons, including the ability to read minds and deduce the locations of hidden treasures. I told my host about this and was surprised to find that he knew the myth! Out of all of the Polish people I have had the gall to tell my tales to (Most have simply laughed at me); he was the only one who knew what I was talking about. And what's more, he knew about some of the more risqué sides to the myth. For example, the search for fire flowers, or in modern times, the hunt for mushrooms, in the forest was often an excuse to escape accompanied by many lovers to a secluded place where giant sexual orgies took place. I was quite impressed.
I am disappointed in myself, however; it was St. John's day and I was in Poland, and what did I do that night? I fell into my sleeping bag, exhausted in my bones and with a swollen face, the product of some unknown allergic curse. This was no way to spend the evening; I should have been deep within the woods searching for the legendary flower. But in a way, maybe this is good. Now I have to come back to Poland. And when I biome Ambassador, I will fly over ever June 21st to canvass the forests, seeking destiny in the bloom of the fern.
This post has become quite lengthy, but I feel that I have made too many allusions to my favorite Polish myth to let it go unexplained any longer. In addition to the fire flower, I am seeking another Polish Artifact of great power, though this one is undoubtedly the more elusive. The Magic Belt of Poland was a cloth belt inscribed with the ancient runes form the Key of Solomon and the Grimorie Infernval that Polish Knights of the Jagellonian Golden Age carried into battle, held high above their heads. The legend of the Belt tell us that the Knights bearing it could summon the aid of both the Angelic host and the Infernal armies to the battlefield and that anyone riding under the belt would be impervious to any weapon. A true boon of God. The Belt itself actually existed, and it was being displayed at the Warszawa Museum of Archeology until 1939, when Poland was invaded by Nazi forces. Whether the Belt was destroyed, plundered, or just simply lost, as many things were at that time, is unknown, but it is my ultimate animus to find the lost Magic Belt of Poland, and to wear it proudly as the #1 Headband, bearing it back to its rightful place upon Polish soil.
Can you not see this? Me, riding into Poland wearing the Magic Belt of Poland about my head with a Fire Flower at my hip, the powers of the ancient Polish orders at my beck and call. I would be appointed Ambassador immediately. This sounds a lot like the return to a feudal Poland that I pooh-poohed earlier, but my vision is not to establish a line of knights and kings, but to unite the lost powers of ancient Poland with the dawn of the new Poland. I shall await that day with a great fire in my heart.
Anyway, that's what I'm talking about when I mention the Belt, and I was so close to getting some proof of its existence for the doubting Thomases who think I made up the whole thing from the Archeological Museum in Warszawa, but I arrived at its gates 15 minutes after they stopped selling tickets. But no matter; I am revisiting that stronghold of history this Friday, before I leave for France. Soon I shall have my documentation for you all (Though I will probably still be laughed at).
I'm getting stoked about France; apparently, I'm taking a river cruise on Sunday. This trip is going to mentally tax me when I end up spending more money in three days than I have for the past two months, but according to Jonathan, I've done my hobo thing long enough (Do I honestly have no pride to be taking what other people haven't eaten and making a meal of it? I would call that thrifty).
Monday, June 22, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Eau de Garyk
All my clothes reek of cigarette smoke. When I get back to the states, I think I'll repeat that line from Spaceballs; Air... AIR!
All Hail Baron Sadowy of the Order of the White Eagle!
I'm relatively worried right now. I'm travelling to Paris in just a few short days and I have yet to find a place to stay for the two nights that I will be there (I figured I'd spend my third night in the airport, since my flight back to Cracow is at 5). Many couchsurfers have told me that they will be out at that time, and I'm starting to get a little desperate. Worst comes to worst, I can Jason Boune it and sleep in the park, breaking the arms of any cops that try to kick me off the benches. Or I could try to find a cheap hostel. Whatever I feel like at the time.
A couple of weeks ago, on my second day in Cracow, I dined at the Wierzynek, a resturant for the highest class of dining, established in 1364 and fequented by Kings and Emperors. Hanna made reservations, telling us that we should expect to fork over a ridiculous amount of Zloty for a meal here; as much as 100 a head. I was excited. I've never had a 30-40 dollar meal before, and it just seems fitting that my first would be at the resturant listed under Poland in "1000 Places to See Before You Die". So, after Birkenau, we got together all of our classiest clothes (In Jonathan's case, this meant a faded blue t-shirt that, well, made him look like a bit of a bum. I think he should have gone with the eighties v-neck that he wore the first day in Poland) and walked the short distance to the market square, where the upper floor of the resturant over looks the hustle and bustle of central Cracow. It took us close to 20 minutes for everyone to decide what to get, and I find it significant that I bought water here; it cost just as much as beer in posh resturants like this. We agreed that we would all share our dishes, and thus, I dined not only on the duck that I had ordered, which was an orgasmic epicurian delight that took me nearly an hour and a half to eat, but on wild boar, goose, herrings, plum chicken, and an excellent barszcz czerwony. And everything was served under those silver dishes that I'd seen before only in bugs bunny cartoons; the waiters even pulled the dishes away in perfect coordination! What grace! It was darkening as we left and nering the time we had planned to meet up with some friends, and I grabbed a brochure from the resturant, in which were innumerated the various distinguished guests that had been hosted. I felt honored to have feasted in the same hall as George Bush, Juan Carlos, Charles de Gaulle, Viktor Yushchenko. It suprised me, though, to find that Kate Moss was listed before Steven Spielberg and Robert De Niro.
Cracow has some good memories. As I mentioned earlier, it feels much less like a city than Poznan and more like a walk through a park, in which beautiful edifices just happen to have been erected, much to the augmentation of the city's ambience. I won't forget my early morning runs through the mile long Warka field that led up to the city's ancient Barrows Hill, buying the most excellent Razowy bread at a specialty liquor shop and then eating a whole loaf, sunning myself on the banks of the river smack in the middle of the city with three bags of frozen plums and a can of herrings, being asked if I wanted a shot of heroin for 1 Zloty (about $ 00.32 at the time), learning how to make waiters understand that I was ordering my meal in Polish, looking at the tombs of the Polish Kings from beyond a roped off section because Hanna had my ticket for the exhibit, and not turning a corner without jumping back in alarm from a John Paul II statue that had suddenly run up in my face. Also watching the cherry blossoms float above Wawel Castle like lazy drifts of snow, disappearing into a brialliant arc of sun.
I'm so glad that neither the Nazis nor the Russians touched Cracow; it seems like there are very few places in Poland where the influence of these cultures has not choked out the life of the city, and Cracow reigns supreme amongst them. Everyone knows why there is an underlying animosity between the Polish and the Germans, or at least eeryone can figure this out after reading an AP history lesson on WWII. But the lingering hate the the Polish have for Russians is much less easily come by; the history books in the states say nothing about Stalin abandoning the Polish Home Army during the Warshawa Uprising in order to cut his own losses, about his "gift" to the Polish people of leveled cities and ugly monoliths dedicated to the working class that he would eventually persecute and kill. There is a brief mention of Solidarnosc, but nothing of the toll that enforced communism took upon the Polish people. And unmentioned is the good that did come out of this era; Poland was left with an essentially classless society, making it very easy to make a name for one's self under the new rule of capitalism. And now, Hanna says, there is an element of the Polish people that want to return to the class based society, to lines of Kings and Queens, where your name dictates your worth (This might work in my favor; Mark says that I have the distinguishing features of the Polish Aristocracy). While I wouldn't mind going by Baron Sadowy, this is all just BS. I hope that I won't have to kiss a ring in the near future.
Needless to say, when acosted by three drunken fifteen year old Polish skinheads who punched Jonathan in the back of the head, I felt a strong urge to curse them in Russian, or maybe repeat some Rammstein lyrics. I can just imagine how their little pre pubecent faces would have twisted under those dialects of oppression.
Just as a little note; my Aunt died Monday evening in a Burlington Hospice home. It felt good to know that she had heard my voice, but it pains me greatly that I missed the funeral. It really is difficult to be seperated from family at times like these.
In my next installment, I shall relate to you the beauty of Hanna's farm, where I decided that I would unseat Victor Ashe and install myself as Ambassador to Poland.
A couple of weeks ago, on my second day in Cracow, I dined at the Wierzynek, a resturant for the highest class of dining, established in 1364 and fequented by Kings and Emperors. Hanna made reservations, telling us that we should expect to fork over a ridiculous amount of Zloty for a meal here; as much as 100 a head. I was excited. I've never had a 30-40 dollar meal before, and it just seems fitting that my first would be at the resturant listed under Poland in "1000 Places to See Before You Die". So, after Birkenau, we got together all of our classiest clothes (In Jonathan's case, this meant a faded blue t-shirt that, well, made him look like a bit of a bum. I think he should have gone with the eighties v-neck that he wore the first day in Poland) and walked the short distance to the market square, where the upper floor of the resturant over looks the hustle and bustle of central Cracow. It took us close to 20 minutes for everyone to decide what to get, and I find it significant that I bought water here; it cost just as much as beer in posh resturants like this. We agreed that we would all share our dishes, and thus, I dined not only on the duck that I had ordered, which was an orgasmic epicurian delight that took me nearly an hour and a half to eat, but on wild boar, goose, herrings, plum chicken, and an excellent barszcz czerwony. And everything was served under those silver dishes that I'd seen before only in bugs bunny cartoons; the waiters even pulled the dishes away in perfect coordination! What grace! It was darkening as we left and nering the time we had planned to meet up with some friends, and I grabbed a brochure from the resturant, in which were innumerated the various distinguished guests that had been hosted. I felt honored to have feasted in the same hall as George Bush, Juan Carlos, Charles de Gaulle, Viktor Yushchenko. It suprised me, though, to find that Kate Moss was listed before Steven Spielberg and Robert De Niro.
Cracow has some good memories. As I mentioned earlier, it feels much less like a city than Poznan and more like a walk through a park, in which beautiful edifices just happen to have been erected, much to the augmentation of the city's ambience. I won't forget my early morning runs through the mile long Warka field that led up to the city's ancient Barrows Hill, buying the most excellent Razowy bread at a specialty liquor shop and then eating a whole loaf, sunning myself on the banks of the river smack in the middle of the city with three bags of frozen plums and a can of herrings, being asked if I wanted a shot of heroin for 1 Zloty (about $ 00.32 at the time), learning how to make waiters understand that I was ordering my meal in Polish, looking at the tombs of the Polish Kings from beyond a roped off section because Hanna had my ticket for the exhibit, and not turning a corner without jumping back in alarm from a John Paul II statue that had suddenly run up in my face. Also watching the cherry blossoms float above Wawel Castle like lazy drifts of snow, disappearing into a brialliant arc of sun.
I'm so glad that neither the Nazis nor the Russians touched Cracow; it seems like there are very few places in Poland where the influence of these cultures has not choked out the life of the city, and Cracow reigns supreme amongst them. Everyone knows why there is an underlying animosity between the Polish and the Germans, or at least eeryone can figure this out after reading an AP history lesson on WWII. But the lingering hate the the Polish have for Russians is much less easily come by; the history books in the states say nothing about Stalin abandoning the Polish Home Army during the Warshawa Uprising in order to cut his own losses, about his "gift" to the Polish people of leveled cities and ugly monoliths dedicated to the working class that he would eventually persecute and kill. There is a brief mention of Solidarnosc, but nothing of the toll that enforced communism took upon the Polish people. And unmentioned is the good that did come out of this era; Poland was left with an essentially classless society, making it very easy to make a name for one's self under the new rule of capitalism. And now, Hanna says, there is an element of the Polish people that want to return to the class based society, to lines of Kings and Queens, where your name dictates your worth (This might work in my favor; Mark says that I have the distinguishing features of the Polish Aristocracy). While I wouldn't mind going by Baron Sadowy, this is all just BS. I hope that I won't have to kiss a ring in the near future.
Needless to say, when acosted by three drunken fifteen year old Polish skinheads who punched Jonathan in the back of the head, I felt a strong urge to curse them in Russian, or maybe repeat some Rammstein lyrics. I can just imagine how their little pre pubecent faces would have twisted under those dialects of oppression.
Just as a little note; my Aunt died Monday evening in a Burlington Hospice home. It felt good to know that she had heard my voice, but it pains me greatly that I missed the funeral. It really is difficult to be seperated from family at times like these.
In my next installment, I shall relate to you the beauty of Hanna's farm, where I decided that I would unseat Victor Ashe and install myself as Ambassador to Poland.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Dragon's Teeth
It's taken me a while to truly gather my thoughts about Auschwitz and Birkenau; even while I was there, I didn't actually know what I was feeling. All I knew was that the platitudes that people so oft utter after visiting such places have no true meaning or bearing on the effect of the most famous of extermination engines. Getting off the small van after seeing the camps, I heard many people saying things like "That was incredible" or "What an amazing experience." It's not that I'm angry with these people for saying what they know they are supposed to say after visiting the camp, but I feel that to not actually examine your feelings is to detract from the significance of the place. And no one who really pays attention can walk out of Auschwitz and say it was incredible or amazing; after some introspection, I was a bit surprised to find that all of the things we are supposed to feel are not necessarily part of the subtle emotional tide that creeps over your frame as you follow the railroad tracks.
Auschwitz itself is a concentration camp, meaning that it was not meant for the mass exterminations that the slaughtering camps, like Birkenau and Treblinka, were engineered for. True, it does have a crematorium, a gallows, and a wall of death, but all of these devices were meant for more small scale elimination of those the Nazis felt had no right to live. Walking through its tree lined streets, I felt no connection to the place. In my mind I was struggling to rectify this; I had read Night in 10th grade and wept until there was nothing left. Shouldn't I be feeling something?
I had watched a very graphic short film about the camps on the journey out of Cracow and had been overcome with an urge of self-destruction. I wanted to feel pain! I desired in my heart to have my soul crushed by the bastion of death, to know the same tragic wisdom of the millions who passed through the gates of freedom, to be irrevocably scarred, to walk from the camp with the marks that never leave. But when I first saw the sign bearing black, rusting irony, there was nothing there. The buildings had no punishment for me. The cells couldn't tell me their tales. The gallows couldn't shorten my breath and the crematorium remained cold and stagnant. I had come wanting to be tortured by memories, but Auschwitz seemed determined to keep them from me.
We left that place and travelled the short distance to the sister camp of Birkenau, the massive, extermination counterpart. Approaching the gates to this camp, merely red brick and iron bars, I knew that this would be different. I stared through those bars down the train tracks to the end of the camp, where the ruins of crematoriums 4 and 5 were, and I became very peaceful. I had spent the time before entering the camps in a state of violent internal rage and had wandered through Auschwitz in a state of confusion, as if I had somehow travelled to the wrong place. None of it made any associative sense, but I feel like I had finally figured out how to "be" within the walls of the Final Solution, and that the camp itself was now allowing my soul a connection.
I separated myself from the group as we walked in, which turned out to be an excellent move. If you don't know too much about the camps, I might recommend taking a tour, but otherwise, just get a map; you get a much better opportunity to listen to the wind as it whistles through the grass.
Looking down at the whole camp from a watchtower at the entrance, a feeling of bitter irony rose against the peace within my mind. Birkenau is like a broken skeleton, emaciated from its own burning hunger and dashed by its terrible ambition. It is something to be laughed at. To the left and right are systemically placed chimneys and piles of brick, marking the houses of destruction that the Nazis themselves had to destroy as they were leaving, in an attempt to erase their high crimes. Birkenau, from above is a parody of both life and death, because, in the end, it could achieve neither and now it lies, frozen, a stillborn dream of glory and ashy remains of the heart of darkness from which we all flee. My face became long, in the fashion of a critiquing artist, and my eyes gazed out in disdain, as if I had no taste for this paradox of beginning/end.
But, the ground level was another story. As I mentioned before, you can hear the wind as it blows through the grass. The camp itself is beautiful; it reminds me of the countryside I used to wander through as a child in Texas. Clouds shift back and forth, scattering individual rays down upon the pathways and fields, briefly illuminating some ruin before sweeping across a wide plain of vivid green. That peaceful feeling returned with bolstered strength, and I felt a little like a hobbit at the end of The Lord of the Rings. After much destruction and pain, one finds that there is still beauty in the world, and that this beauty, coupled with the joy one feels when looking upon it, is exponentially more important than letting your smile recede under the weight of the past. We use places like this to remember our mistakes, because they are mistakes of a most grievous kind, and humanity shall never evolve unless we can overcome the desires that lead us to make them. But there is another reason we remember places like these. They are a foil for our own lives by which the wonderful nature of our existence is revealed. This is at least what I felt. I walked out of the camp, knowing that there were so many who were not as lucky as I, not with a smile on my face, but the shadow of one in any case, and a peace in my heart.
So, if you go to Auschwitz and Birkenau in standard masochist's fashion as I first thought I should, do not be surprised if the camp keeps its feelings to itself. The place is too powerful to simply acquiesce to the demanding sightseer, who wants instant emotional gratification. You will end up having to create your own sense of what you saw, and this memory will be dry and have no meaning. But if you walk amongst the crumbling monuments of millions and try to listen to the whistling grass, the camp may give you something that you did not expect, but something that is real, so real in fact that you may burst with the strength of it.
I looked back at my pictures after the trip, and found that I didn't really like any of them, except for one picture, where a single twist of barbed wire stands in focus against the long, iron fence. There is a sense of smallness that brings about the true feelings of a place like Auschwitz.
Auschwitz itself is a concentration camp, meaning that it was not meant for the mass exterminations that the slaughtering camps, like Birkenau and Treblinka, were engineered for. True, it does have a crematorium, a gallows, and a wall of death, but all of these devices were meant for more small scale elimination of those the Nazis felt had no right to live. Walking through its tree lined streets, I felt no connection to the place. In my mind I was struggling to rectify this; I had read Night in 10th grade and wept until there was nothing left. Shouldn't I be feeling something?
I had watched a very graphic short film about the camps on the journey out of Cracow and had been overcome with an urge of self-destruction. I wanted to feel pain! I desired in my heart to have my soul crushed by the bastion of death, to know the same tragic wisdom of the millions who passed through the gates of freedom, to be irrevocably scarred, to walk from the camp with the marks that never leave. But when I first saw the sign bearing black, rusting irony, there was nothing there. The buildings had no punishment for me. The cells couldn't tell me their tales. The gallows couldn't shorten my breath and the crematorium remained cold and stagnant. I had come wanting to be tortured by memories, but Auschwitz seemed determined to keep them from me.
We left that place and travelled the short distance to the sister camp of Birkenau, the massive, extermination counterpart. Approaching the gates to this camp, merely red brick and iron bars, I knew that this would be different. I stared through those bars down the train tracks to the end of the camp, where the ruins of crematoriums 4 and 5 were, and I became very peaceful. I had spent the time before entering the camps in a state of violent internal rage and had wandered through Auschwitz in a state of confusion, as if I had somehow travelled to the wrong place. None of it made any associative sense, but I feel like I had finally figured out how to "be" within the walls of the Final Solution, and that the camp itself was now allowing my soul a connection.
I separated myself from the group as we walked in, which turned out to be an excellent move. If you don't know too much about the camps, I might recommend taking a tour, but otherwise, just get a map; you get a much better opportunity to listen to the wind as it whistles through the grass.
Looking down at the whole camp from a watchtower at the entrance, a feeling of bitter irony rose against the peace within my mind. Birkenau is like a broken skeleton, emaciated from its own burning hunger and dashed by its terrible ambition. It is something to be laughed at. To the left and right are systemically placed chimneys and piles of brick, marking the houses of destruction that the Nazis themselves had to destroy as they were leaving, in an attempt to erase their high crimes. Birkenau, from above is a parody of both life and death, because, in the end, it could achieve neither and now it lies, frozen, a stillborn dream of glory and ashy remains of the heart of darkness from which we all flee. My face became long, in the fashion of a critiquing artist, and my eyes gazed out in disdain, as if I had no taste for this paradox of beginning/end.
But, the ground level was another story. As I mentioned before, you can hear the wind as it blows through the grass. The camp itself is beautiful; it reminds me of the countryside I used to wander through as a child in Texas. Clouds shift back and forth, scattering individual rays down upon the pathways and fields, briefly illuminating some ruin before sweeping across a wide plain of vivid green. That peaceful feeling returned with bolstered strength, and I felt a little like a hobbit at the end of The Lord of the Rings. After much destruction and pain, one finds that there is still beauty in the world, and that this beauty, coupled with the joy one feels when looking upon it, is exponentially more important than letting your smile recede under the weight of the past. We use places like this to remember our mistakes, because they are mistakes of a most grievous kind, and humanity shall never evolve unless we can overcome the desires that lead us to make them. But there is another reason we remember places like these. They are a foil for our own lives by which the wonderful nature of our existence is revealed. This is at least what I felt. I walked out of the camp, knowing that there were so many who were not as lucky as I, not with a smile on my face, but the shadow of one in any case, and a peace in my heart.
So, if you go to Auschwitz and Birkenau in standard masochist's fashion as I first thought I should, do not be surprised if the camp keeps its feelings to itself. The place is too powerful to simply acquiesce to the demanding sightseer, who wants instant emotional gratification. You will end up having to create your own sense of what you saw, and this memory will be dry and have no meaning. But if you walk amongst the crumbling monuments of millions and try to listen to the whistling grass, the camp may give you something that you did not expect, but something that is real, so real in fact that you may burst with the strength of it.
I looked back at my pictures after the trip, and found that I didn't really like any of them, except for one picture, where a single twist of barbed wire stands in focus against the long, iron fence. There is a sense of smallness that brings about the true feelings of a place like Auschwitz.
Monday, June 15, 2009
How did we get into that party?
As a note to start this off; I have been travelling around Poland for the past week or so, and have not had sufficient access to a computer to regale you with the exciting adventures I've been having. In lieu of posting, I took notes throughout my trip, so I will convert these into more interesting stories for your reading pleasure. I'll break them down into several different posts.
Last Saturday, I set out for the city of Cracow at 5 in the morning, after burning the groats that I cooked at 4:25; I swear, those hot plates are just getting hotter. My experience with trains in Poland has thus far been excellent and this trip, though long and indirect, was no exception. It was on the trains that I first experienced what my friend had told me, that the Polish truly value foreigners who travel to their country. When Mark and I travelled to Wroclaw, a couple of weeks ago now, and there was an altercation with the guy coming down hard off of something (knowing neither where he was going nor where he had placed his ticket), the train conductor handled the situation quite calmly, and with what I thought was superhuman patience. Afterwards, the girl in our compartment told me that he was really behaving himself in front of foreigners. I've since seen other examples of this (some more dubious than others), and I am incredibly grateful for this aspect of Polish culture. It's wonderful to go somewhere that you are wanted. Apparently, this also applies to the job market in Poland. A lot of emphasis is placed on foreigners and the skill that they could bring, so much so that they are often selected over Polish national for competitive jobs. Very different from the Godzone (NZ).
After 8 hours of random conversations with the study abroad students, finishing The Satanic Verses, and doing isometrics in the dining car, I arrived in Cracow, one of the few major cities that was not completely destroyed by either Hitler or Stalin, and was overcome by the beauty of the city that was immediately apparent. Where my location in Poznan boasted block after block of Soviet style egg crates, with some German bastions interspersed here and there, Cracow was like a walk through one giant park, bedecked with Italian ornamental designs. After leaving our bed and breakfast (where I got taken out by some ham the next morning), we ventured into the rynek, which was not a far walk and thus quite easily accessible. One of our number clamored for food, so we ate and then ventured up the uncountable steps of St. Mary's cathedral to buy a postcard from the bugler. He bugles from the four corners of his small living space up in that tower every hour of every day. I wondered how one became the bugler; is it an elected position, or perhaps defined by familial lineage? In any case, I wanted to be bugler for about 5 minutes, until he finished playing, and I realized just how terrible that job must be.
The next couple hours were spent wandering along the oldest shopping mall in Europe where I purchased certain gifts and spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not I should get a "genuine" Russian hat, complete with silly ear flaps and realistic Soviet stars. In the end, I decided not to buy it, for I had been warned not to act too Russian in Poland. Later in the week, I was to learn why most Poles frown when they hear that I speak some Russian, but at that point, I was unaware of the extent of the animosity and thus count myself lucky that I have a hard time parting with my Zloty. After I had taken in my fill of cheap trinkets and Baltic amber, I headed back to my room where I found both JP and Jonathan passed out on their beds.
The events that transpired next occurred in such a way that, if one of them were but slightly altered, I would not have had what I consider to be my best night in Poland thus far. Here is my tale:
I sat out in the lobby reading a book, since I didn't want to disturb the sleepers. A couple of the study abroad students passed by as I was falling into a state of sleep and told me that they were going to look for some food and an internet cafe. Hanna had said to meet her at 8:30, but no one knew what she wanted to do, so we figured that we'd just skip it and see her in the morning. But as we wandered closer and closer to the market, we figured we'd meet up with her and find out what was going on. Hanna's friend Kasia, the woman I met in Wroclaw, and her husband Michael were there and they told us that we had to come with them to see the parade of monsters on the river.
I feel a bit of explanation is needed. I have not gone a whole week yet without witnessing some kind of celebration; it seems like every other day I nearly starve since I can't find a delikatessy that hasn't been closed for a holiday. Poland is a party country, and the party that night in Cracow was one of the best I've ever seen. In Cracow, there is a giant castle, the Wawel Castle, that has stood since Poland was newly baptized thanks to the Nazi commander who was using it as a base and opted not to destroy it as he fled; he merely plundered some of the artifacts. As Hanna said, there were a lot of good Germans. In ancient times, a dragon lived under the castle, and the king entreated his sons to kill it. They did so by filling cattle skins with sulfur, which choked the beast when he attempted to swallow his foul smelling snack. The dragon under the castle became the symbol of Cracow, and every year the people put on a parade of monsters and dragons that puts the collective American parades on Thanksgiving to shame. I can only describe the celebration as a never ending, river borne, conga line of Nightmare Before Christmas/The Wall half-breeds, floating along in ponderous arcs amidst sweeping lasers and exploding fireworks, all set to John Williams' brilliant score for Star Wars: Episode I.
We started walking towards the river, eventually passing over it and coming to a posh looking building with many people in suits and dresses standing around. As we approached, I remember thinking, What the Hell are we doing? We can't be here! I was dead wrong. It transpired that Kasia had been invited to a private party for the guy (I don't know who he is, but I was told that we only missed him by about 30 minutes at the party) who had spearheaded the recovery of the Polish economy during the post Solidarnosc era, after the fall of communism. Everyone was impeccably dressed except for our group, wearing t-shirts and incredulous expressions, struggling to understand how we had found ourselves with free food and drink, not to mention the first class view of the river front and the surreal creatures. I took advantage of the situation and ate 5 plates of salad and about 3 kilos of fresh Polish strawberries.
All in all, this was the best night I have had in Poland, and I just can't get over the fact that somehow, I got into a private Polish party only 3 days after the celebration of Solidarnosc for one of the founders of modern day Poland, ate a ton of free food, and experienced the parade of monsters from a vantage that very few people have ever had. This is the kind of thing that I was hoping I'd get to do more of through the Park program, and it's funny that it happened first in Poland.
When I got back to the room, JP and Jonathan woke up and headed out for a kebab. Some things will never change.
It's been good to think back on these great times today since I recently learned that my Aunt is not expected to live, as of right now, for more than an hour. I just called her and sang a song written by Seu Jorge that my Portuguese friend translated for me a couple of weeks ago. It is a terribly desperate feeling to be in another country while a member of your family dies. I am grateful for my ability to communicate with her in her last hours over the phone, but it pains me not to be there with her. I have thought of her often over the past couple of weeks and unfortunately missed my last chance to actually have a conversation with her; life can play cruel tricks on us, but we must not shield feelings in regrets. I love her, and I wish her well; we have both lived our glorious lives, but mine is not quite at an end.
Tomorrow, I will write what has been very difficult in formulation: my journey to Auschwitz-Birkenau. I will probably keep up this method of posting to get in all of the events and information acquired during my trip, as well as the day to day dance that is the UAM physical chemistry lab. Things are moving along and look promising; I shall know more soon.
Last Saturday, I set out for the city of Cracow at 5 in the morning, after burning the groats that I cooked at 4:25; I swear, those hot plates are just getting hotter. My experience with trains in Poland has thus far been excellent and this trip, though long and indirect, was no exception. It was on the trains that I first experienced what my friend had told me, that the Polish truly value foreigners who travel to their country. When Mark and I travelled to Wroclaw, a couple of weeks ago now, and there was an altercation with the guy coming down hard off of something (knowing neither where he was going nor where he had placed his ticket), the train conductor handled the situation quite calmly, and with what I thought was superhuman patience. Afterwards, the girl in our compartment told me that he was really behaving himself in front of foreigners. I've since seen other examples of this (some more dubious than others), and I am incredibly grateful for this aspect of Polish culture. It's wonderful to go somewhere that you are wanted. Apparently, this also applies to the job market in Poland. A lot of emphasis is placed on foreigners and the skill that they could bring, so much so that they are often selected over Polish national for competitive jobs. Very different from the Godzone (NZ).
After 8 hours of random conversations with the study abroad students, finishing The Satanic Verses, and doing isometrics in the dining car, I arrived in Cracow, one of the few major cities that was not completely destroyed by either Hitler or Stalin, and was overcome by the beauty of the city that was immediately apparent. Where my location in Poznan boasted block after block of Soviet style egg crates, with some German bastions interspersed here and there, Cracow was like a walk through one giant park, bedecked with Italian ornamental designs. After leaving our bed and breakfast (where I got taken out by some ham the next morning), we ventured into the rynek, which was not a far walk and thus quite easily accessible. One of our number clamored for food, so we ate and then ventured up the uncountable steps of St. Mary's cathedral to buy a postcard from the bugler. He bugles from the four corners of his small living space up in that tower every hour of every day. I wondered how one became the bugler; is it an elected position, or perhaps defined by familial lineage? In any case, I wanted to be bugler for about 5 minutes, until he finished playing, and I realized just how terrible that job must be.
The next couple hours were spent wandering along the oldest shopping mall in Europe where I purchased certain gifts and spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not I should get a "genuine" Russian hat, complete with silly ear flaps and realistic Soviet stars. In the end, I decided not to buy it, for I had been warned not to act too Russian in Poland. Later in the week, I was to learn why most Poles frown when they hear that I speak some Russian, but at that point, I was unaware of the extent of the animosity and thus count myself lucky that I have a hard time parting with my Zloty. After I had taken in my fill of cheap trinkets and Baltic amber, I headed back to my room where I found both JP and Jonathan passed out on their beds.
The events that transpired next occurred in such a way that, if one of them were but slightly altered, I would not have had what I consider to be my best night in Poland thus far. Here is my tale:
I sat out in the lobby reading a book, since I didn't want to disturb the sleepers. A couple of the study abroad students passed by as I was falling into a state of sleep and told me that they were going to look for some food and an internet cafe. Hanna had said to meet her at 8:30, but no one knew what she wanted to do, so we figured that we'd just skip it and see her in the morning. But as we wandered closer and closer to the market, we figured we'd meet up with her and find out what was going on. Hanna's friend Kasia, the woman I met in Wroclaw, and her husband Michael were there and they told us that we had to come with them to see the parade of monsters on the river.
I feel a bit of explanation is needed. I have not gone a whole week yet without witnessing some kind of celebration; it seems like every other day I nearly starve since I can't find a delikatessy that hasn't been closed for a holiday. Poland is a party country, and the party that night in Cracow was one of the best I've ever seen. In Cracow, there is a giant castle, the Wawel Castle, that has stood since Poland was newly baptized thanks to the Nazi commander who was using it as a base and opted not to destroy it as he fled; he merely plundered some of the artifacts. As Hanna said, there were a lot of good Germans. In ancient times, a dragon lived under the castle, and the king entreated his sons to kill it. They did so by filling cattle skins with sulfur, which choked the beast when he attempted to swallow his foul smelling snack. The dragon under the castle became the symbol of Cracow, and every year the people put on a parade of monsters and dragons that puts the collective American parades on Thanksgiving to shame. I can only describe the celebration as a never ending, river borne, conga line of Nightmare Before Christmas/The Wall half-breeds, floating along in ponderous arcs amidst sweeping lasers and exploding fireworks, all set to John Williams' brilliant score for Star Wars: Episode I.
We started walking towards the river, eventually passing over it and coming to a posh looking building with many people in suits and dresses standing around. As we approached, I remember thinking, What the Hell are we doing? We can't be here! I was dead wrong. It transpired that Kasia had been invited to a private party for the guy (I don't know who he is, but I was told that we only missed him by about 30 minutes at the party) who had spearheaded the recovery of the Polish economy during the post Solidarnosc era, after the fall of communism. Everyone was impeccably dressed except for our group, wearing t-shirts and incredulous expressions, struggling to understand how we had found ourselves with free food and drink, not to mention the first class view of the river front and the surreal creatures. I took advantage of the situation and ate 5 plates of salad and about 3 kilos of fresh Polish strawberries.
All in all, this was the best night I have had in Poland, and I just can't get over the fact that somehow, I got into a private Polish party only 3 days after the celebration of Solidarnosc for one of the founders of modern day Poland, ate a ton of free food, and experienced the parade of monsters from a vantage that very few people have ever had. This is the kind of thing that I was hoping I'd get to do more of through the Park program, and it's funny that it happened first in Poland.
When I got back to the room, JP and Jonathan woke up and headed out for a kebab. Some things will never change.
It's been good to think back on these great times today since I recently learned that my Aunt is not expected to live, as of right now, for more than an hour. I just called her and sang a song written by Seu Jorge that my Portuguese friend translated for me a couple of weeks ago. It is a terribly desperate feeling to be in another country while a member of your family dies. I am grateful for my ability to communicate with her in her last hours over the phone, but it pains me not to be there with her. I have thought of her often over the past couple of weeks and unfortunately missed my last chance to actually have a conversation with her; life can play cruel tricks on us, but we must not shield feelings in regrets. I love her, and I wish her well; we have both lived our glorious lives, but mine is not quite at an end.
Tomorrow, I will write what has been very difficult in formulation: my journey to Auschwitz-Birkenau. I will probably keep up this method of posting to get in all of the events and information acquired during my trip, as well as the day to day dance that is the UAM physical chemistry lab. Things are moving along and look promising; I shall know more soon.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Liquid Oxygen and Politics
Yesterday, Dustin, our grad student, came down with bronchitis and was rushed to the hospital by Tomek before I even strolled in the door of the chemistry building. We were supposed to be learning how to change optics on the argon ion laser, though Tomek was the one who had to show us. By the time he got back, there were so many people waiting to learn about the laser, that he picked only JP to sit in on learning how to use it. I was ticked at first, since I had gotten excited about working with a two meter long instrument of certain death, but I had the rest of the day pretty much off, so that was a plus. I spent the time trying to figure out the cheapest way to achieve my post Poland plans, which are currently to head to Croatia and shep some sheep before visiting my fam in Scotland. God willing, by the end of the summer, I will have had enough experience herding those remarkably bright woolly friends that New Zealand will be bending over backwards to get me to emigrate. I may even be allowed to bring in some fruit!
So, what I'm trying to get to here is that Jonathan and I accidentally caused a buildup of liquid oxygen in the rotovap. Thank God there was no grease on the apparatus, or else we could have done a lot more damage to the lab than a mere fridge explosion.
I promised that I'd give you a little taste of the political viewpoint that I've seen here, which is comprised of several encounters, mostly with people my age and mostly with fairly reasonable people. I'll say first that Poland is not a nation of extremes; this is no China. Some people agree with government and some people don't. Some people think for themselves, and some people don't. If discussing politics with anyone here (not just polish students) could prompt me to make any kind of general statement, it would be that general statements are bunk. I've heard many things from fellow Americans studying abroad, and I find some of their perceptions to be a bit misconceived at the best, and just flat out wrong at the worst. But, I can give you what I have seen and heard.
First of all, I was fortunate enough to meet a political sciences student from Portugal who shares my conservative viewpoints on many matters. His first question was regarding Bush; live or let die? Perhaps he expected me to get defensive like so many Americans here who don't really have opinions about anything substantial, but have been told that the answer to this question is "**** Bush". Instead, I provided a detailed outline of what I found faulty with the Bush administration and what I felt they had done right. There were nods of agreement; I knew I was off to a good start. I cannot tell you how happy I was to encounter a European who did not blindly hate America's former leaders (The next night, I was depressed when, after being introduced to one of JP's friends, I was blamed for the mistakes of America).
I then inquired as to the image of President Obama in Western Europe, especially in his attempts to revamp foreign policy. What my Portuguese friend told me was that Obama has charisma (this I know, for Obama told me so), and had struck a harmonious note with two major concerns for Europeans: open foreign relationships and the environment. However, he felt, as I feel, worried about Obama; neither of us has very much hope that Obama can do half of the things that he's promised. And as far as foreign relationships go (I laughed for days when I heard about the "Overcharge" button in Russia; I mean, there is just something about giving Russia a button to push that defies all pretenses of professional behavior), Europeans are less concerned with some of the blunders that the administration has made trying to connect culturally, i.e. the aforementioned Russian incident, bowing to the House of Saud (some dark symbolism lurks in the shadows with this one), hugging the Queen, and more pleased with the fact that at least this administration is trying. It's the thought that counts apparently.
When I informed my friend that I was a supporter of Ron Paul, he was lost, but when I said Libertarian, his reaction was akin to Van Helsing attempting to stave off vampires with an outstretched crucifix. In European political science, students are taught that Libertarians want everyone to own their own nuclear weapons and smoke grass all day. I tried to assure that I wasn't pushing for backyard nukes, but I don't know if he believed me.
He said the view of Americans is just as we in the States fear; we are ignorant of our own political system and care little for the rest of the world. In reality, I see little difference between Estadosunidenses and the general European populace. I am familiar with the levels in the States where people either don't care, know very little and express other's opinions, or are knowledgeable and form their own opinions; the same categories are expressed here. It may be that Europeans just have a natural immunity to the guilt that the government in the US is affecting upon its citizens.
Just as a little side note; I am aware that there are other things that fall into play here. I'm just tired of writing about America's perceived shortcomings, especially when I consider that many Europeans who have attempted to criticize America know next to nothing about American culture.
That's all for my political diatribe. You may be able to tell that my good humor is ebbing. I will, however, relate one more thing that gave me some musings. I had another friend, Polish this time, tell me that she couldn't think of me as an American. She considered me, after a fashion, Polish. This is strange, and I don't know what it means. I could interpret this as a compliment on my personal character and composure, or this might be a revelation that the European perception of Americans is highly skewed. Which, I am not sure, but I aim to find out more.
Many of you will be pleased to know that I am well on the way to unearthing some of the legends of the Magic Belt of Poland. I will be travelling to Warszawa next week, and I will make sure to drop by the archeology museum, the last known resting place of the Belt, for some information. Hopefully, I can get some documentation to show all of you who think that I wrote the Wikipedia article that the Belt is a true legend (You know who you are).
Stay tuned for my next edition when I shall enlighten you with more of the nuances I discover hiding in the only country where it is fashionable for male teenagers to wear capris.
So, what I'm trying to get to here is that Jonathan and I accidentally caused a buildup of liquid oxygen in the rotovap. Thank God there was no grease on the apparatus, or else we could have done a lot more damage to the lab than a mere fridge explosion.
I promised that I'd give you a little taste of the political viewpoint that I've seen here, which is comprised of several encounters, mostly with people my age and mostly with fairly reasonable people. I'll say first that Poland is not a nation of extremes; this is no China. Some people agree with government and some people don't. Some people think for themselves, and some people don't. If discussing politics with anyone here (not just polish students) could prompt me to make any kind of general statement, it would be that general statements are bunk. I've heard many things from fellow Americans studying abroad, and I find some of their perceptions to be a bit misconceived at the best, and just flat out wrong at the worst. But, I can give you what I have seen and heard.
First of all, I was fortunate enough to meet a political sciences student from Portugal who shares my conservative viewpoints on many matters. His first question was regarding Bush; live or let die? Perhaps he expected me to get defensive like so many Americans here who don't really have opinions about anything substantial, but have been told that the answer to this question is "**** Bush". Instead, I provided a detailed outline of what I found faulty with the Bush administration and what I felt they had done right. There were nods of agreement; I knew I was off to a good start. I cannot tell you how happy I was to encounter a European who did not blindly hate America's former leaders (The next night, I was depressed when, after being introduced to one of JP's friends, I was blamed for the mistakes of America).
I then inquired as to the image of President Obama in Western Europe, especially in his attempts to revamp foreign policy. What my Portuguese friend told me was that Obama has charisma (this I know, for Obama told me so), and had struck a harmonious note with two major concerns for Europeans: open foreign relationships and the environment. However, he felt, as I feel, worried about Obama; neither of us has very much hope that Obama can do half of the things that he's promised. And as far as foreign relationships go (I laughed for days when I heard about the "Overcharge" button in Russia; I mean, there is just something about giving Russia a button to push that defies all pretenses of professional behavior), Europeans are less concerned with some of the blunders that the administration has made trying to connect culturally, i.e. the aforementioned Russian incident, bowing to the House of Saud (some dark symbolism lurks in the shadows with this one), hugging the Queen, and more pleased with the fact that at least this administration is trying. It's the thought that counts apparently.
When I informed my friend that I was a supporter of Ron Paul, he was lost, but when I said Libertarian, his reaction was akin to Van Helsing attempting to stave off vampires with an outstretched crucifix. In European political science, students are taught that Libertarians want everyone to own their own nuclear weapons and smoke grass all day. I tried to assure that I wasn't pushing for backyard nukes, but I don't know if he believed me.
He said the view of Americans is just as we in the States fear; we are ignorant of our own political system and care little for the rest of the world. In reality, I see little difference between Estadosunidenses and the general European populace. I am familiar with the levels in the States where people either don't care, know very little and express other's opinions, or are knowledgeable and form their own opinions; the same categories are expressed here. It may be that Europeans just have a natural immunity to the guilt that the government in the US is affecting upon its citizens.
Just as a little side note; I am aware that there are other things that fall into play here. I'm just tired of writing about America's perceived shortcomings, especially when I consider that many Europeans who have attempted to criticize America know next to nothing about American culture.
That's all for my political diatribe. You may be able to tell that my good humor is ebbing. I will, however, relate one more thing that gave me some musings. I had another friend, Polish this time, tell me that she couldn't think of me as an American. She considered me, after a fashion, Polish. This is strange, and I don't know what it means. I could interpret this as a compliment on my personal character and composure, or this might be a revelation that the European perception of Americans is highly skewed. Which, I am not sure, but I aim to find out more.
Many of you will be pleased to know that I am well on the way to unearthing some of the legends of the Magic Belt of Poland. I will be travelling to Warszawa next week, and I will make sure to drop by the archeology museum, the last known resting place of the Belt, for some information. Hopefully, I can get some documentation to show all of you who think that I wrote the Wikipedia article that the Belt is a true legend (You know who you are).
Stay tuned for my next edition when I shall enlighten you with more of the nuances I discover hiding in the only country where it is fashionable for male teenagers to wear capris.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A touch of Chumley
Today, I paid homage to the talents of a great man, my former English teacher, Jason Chumley.
When he was a younger man (16 I think), he travelled on his own to Greece and lived off of a pittance by mastering the art of taking food from other people's plates. He would sit down at a cafe and purchase something very cheap, like tea or coffee. He would then sit around, perhaps reading a novel, and people would come and go, eating their meals at the cafe. As these people would finish, Chumley would ask, "Are you done with that roll?" or "Have you finished your salad?" And after a time, he would have accrued enough food to make a meal. He would then return to the Greek life, well fed and without having to wash dishes for a meal.
Polish food courts at malls are like small grottos where actual sit down resturants cater to customers that sit in a shared sitting area. Food is of good quality (Even pizza hut looks like an upscale dining facility), and is served on real plates with silverware by waiters. I sat down in this grotto with my copy of Salman Rushdie's "Satanic Verses" and waited for people to eat. As a couple near me finished, they got up to leave, and I asked whether I could have a piece of pita that had been left on the plate. They didn't understand English, but after some sign language, I got my hands on the baked wheat goodness. After that, I didn't even ask. As people left, I would subtly sneak to their platesand remove articles of food that had not been touched. It was wonderful. I had a full meal in no time, and the food I ate was all excellent.
As I gorged myself on other's unfinished courses, I thought back to some of the stories that Chumley had passed on to my English class. I must say, this adventurer owes a lot to the tales of a real estate baron English teacher.
When he was a younger man (16 I think), he travelled on his own to Greece and lived off of a pittance by mastering the art of taking food from other people's plates. He would sit down at a cafe and purchase something very cheap, like tea or coffee. He would then sit around, perhaps reading a novel, and people would come and go, eating their meals at the cafe. As these people would finish, Chumley would ask, "Are you done with that roll?" or "Have you finished your salad?" And after a time, he would have accrued enough food to make a meal. He would then return to the Greek life, well fed and without having to wash dishes for a meal.
Polish food courts at malls are like small grottos where actual sit down resturants cater to customers that sit in a shared sitting area. Food is of good quality (Even pizza hut looks like an upscale dining facility), and is served on real plates with silverware by waiters. I sat down in this grotto with my copy of Salman Rushdie's "Satanic Verses" and waited for people to eat. As a couple near me finished, they got up to leave, and I asked whether I could have a piece of pita that had been left on the plate. They didn't understand English, but after some sign language, I got my hands on the baked wheat goodness. After that, I didn't even ask. As people left, I would subtly sneak to their platesand remove articles of food that had not been touched. It was wonderful. I had a full meal in no time, and the food I ate was all excellent.
As I gorged myself on other's unfinished courses, I thought back to some of the stories that Chumley had passed on to my English class. I must say, this adventurer owes a lot to the tales of a real estate baron English teacher.
Bits from week three
I went and saw a movie last night at the Polish theatre: Anoli i Demony. Polish theatres have an isle up the center, so perfect placement for a showing is out of the question, but when you purchase your ticket, you get to choose your seat from a display akin to the ones they have for airlines. I chose one in the back, thinking that I could have a good seat and be left alone if I fell asleep. No luck. A couple of elderly Polish women sat next to me and would not stop gossiping with each other for the entire film. At one point, the phone of the woman sitting next to me goes off and she pulls it out, making the terrible ringtone even louder. I was pissed, but I started to look away, thinking that this would surely be the end of this whiny pop tune. But then she does the unthinkable; she goes, "Oh, Bartyk," and answers the phone. As she sat there talking for two minutes, I slowly leaned forward in my seat staring directly into her face, shaking my head. I would expect that extreme loathing can be understood regardless of cultural barriers, but apparently not; she kept right on talking. I couldn't believe it. This has never happened before. However, some good did come of this; as I was walking out, I started talking to the group that had sat below me about this woman's base behavior, and thus made some new friends. Go friends!
I apologize for beginning my post with this rather tangential story, but I was thinking about it; needless to say, I'm still pretty ticked off. This past week has been one of the most eventful. On Tuesday, I went to the Polish opera to see Figaro. Kasia asked me whether I liked it afterwards, and I believe I summed my feelings best when I told her that, as I didn't understand any of it, I couldn't truly enjoy it, but I could appreciate the talents of the actors as singers, especially the soprano, so I came out on top. The opera itself was in both Italian and Polish, so there were words here and there that I picked up, but that only made the experience more confusing. I spent the majority of my time attempting to deduce whether or not an actor in an orange wig, red stockings, and a fair amount of rouge was a man. I remain unsure.
Juwenalia, the giant student festival began on Thursday, and I wandered down to the square where everything was happening (I had fallen asleep earlier in the day listening to the parade of school busses with no tops, elaborate stereo systems, and tens of screaming students). One of the focuses of the celebration was the construction of interesting costumes, for which prizes would be given, and among the five hundred or so students that I could see at any given time marching through the street, there were some exquisitely designed disguises. I whipped out my camera to take a picture of the human birth canal (complete with ovaries and fallopian tubes), but the damn thing was drained of batteries. It seems like any time there is truly something worthy to take a picture of, my camera is dead, and thusly, all of my photos seem kind of trite. Rest assured, I'm doing more in Poland than taking pictures of buildings.
Right after I passed the natally garbed reveler, I was confronted by the 105th division of beer drinkers, a group of students who had dressed in fatigues and strapped beers to themselves like sticks of dynamite. The culture of Poland truly does identify a large portion of itself with beer; for example, water is twice as expensive a beer at pretty much any given restaurant. Much like other European countries bars line the streets of the town square and the surrounding areas, and it seems as if the day's events revolve around the period of drinking that can begin as early as 5 and last until 6 in the morning.
I've come to the conclusion that, for the most part, Poland is a country where taking care of one's self is not of heavy importance. This conclusion is based on several things that I have noticed, the first being the excessive alcoholic consumption, and the second being that almost everyone here smokes (And in this case, when I say everyone, I am not generalizing). All of my friends on my hall smoke, people in restaurants and malls smoke, and I can't walk 500 metres without running into an ash collector (Poland has a lot of public trash cans, and it has led to some fairly clean streets). And because everyone smokes, no one ever runs, which explains my experiences of zipping by Poles glowering at my short shorts. Brilliant Holmes! But to look at the anatomy of the general population of Poland, one would never guess at the lifestyles of the peoples. Though the men do not generally seem to be attractive, most are thin, and the women are slender and beautiful! One might be surprised by this apparent paradox as I was, but I believe that between the extensive walking that Poles do during the day and the nicotine in the blood stream, there is a dearth of overweight Poles, though that by no means represents the health of the nation. So where America may be suffering from obesity (I, personally don't believe this), the US is not necessarily the nation with the least concern for health. Lewis Black had some scathing words for the American health clubs, but at least it encourages an interest in one's bodily condition.
A couple of nights ago, I took a journey to Wroclaw that was quite the trip. It had originally been for the study abroad students (A group of 6 girls and one guy from NCSU who have paid to take classes in Polish history and ethics in Biotechnology), but none of the study abroad students wanted to go, so I took the trip with a professor of Polish history, a remarkable man (A Morehead Scholar, but I don't hold it against him), who was able to provide an abundance of quite possibly my favorite commodity: stories. We met a couple on the way out of Poznan who had met on Facebook, and I told them at the end of the trip to add me as a friend. Oh the wonders of social networking! A friend of Hanna's, biochemist, psychologist, and yoga instructor, came to meet us at the train station, and proceeded to give us a brief tour of the city from her ponderously moving blue van, which was great since it was raining and I didn't really want to drench my hair. After our brief sojourn, she took us back to her house, possibly one of the most interesting homes I have ever been in, a clash of German, Soviet, and Polish influences, and we made some Jurek for supper. I didn't recognize it at first, but as soon as I plopped in a spoonful of horseradish, I knew it as the dish that my family prepared for Easter each year. She then made tea and gave me some advice on marriage.
We decided to move on and wander about the city, so she led us to the door and gave me the number of a choirmaster in Poznan. He had asked her what part I sung, so there is a chance that, before I leave, I will be able to sing with a Polish choir! (As a reminder to myself; call the Kazmierskis, Wojciech. and the choirmaster) We then proceeded to wander about the city, delighting in the plethora of parks and churches; literally three or four of each were on every corner. We saw an African-Polish wedding, something that is apparently pretty rare, stayed at an outdoor choral concert complete with electric guitar and orchestra, and peered in the windows of the city's many antique book shops. The food I had eaten earlier wasn't agreeing with me, so we sat and enjoyed ourselves at a kind of German tavern under the Town Hall, and discussed Polish History, the religious background of the Nazi party, and ancient Slavic beliefs and some of their modern day manifestations. After a light meal, we again ventured into the town square, now lit up as the sun died beyond the European architecture, revealing a shining crescent against the beautiful cerulean that can only follow a storm. It was an amazingly romantic scene. At one point, I found myself surrounded on all sides by flower salesmen and water fountains. In the low lights of the city at night, this was breathtaking. I have fallen in love with Poland.
We sat with a guy who was coming down rather hard off of something on the train ride back. Kind of ruined the end to a perfect day, but you can't have it all.
I promise in my next post, I'll give some perspective on political feeling here and the attitudes toward the USA. I may even get one of my friends studying political science to give me some notes. I would do it now, but I've got to run and do some work on the HPLC. Cheers!
I apologize for beginning my post with this rather tangential story, but I was thinking about it; needless to say, I'm still pretty ticked off. This past week has been one of the most eventful. On Tuesday, I went to the Polish opera to see Figaro. Kasia asked me whether I liked it afterwards, and I believe I summed my feelings best when I told her that, as I didn't understand any of it, I couldn't truly enjoy it, but I could appreciate the talents of the actors as singers, especially the soprano, so I came out on top. The opera itself was in both Italian and Polish, so there were words here and there that I picked up, but that only made the experience more confusing. I spent the majority of my time attempting to deduce whether or not an actor in an orange wig, red stockings, and a fair amount of rouge was a man. I remain unsure.
Juwenalia, the giant student festival began on Thursday, and I wandered down to the square where everything was happening (I had fallen asleep earlier in the day listening to the parade of school busses with no tops, elaborate stereo systems, and tens of screaming students). One of the focuses of the celebration was the construction of interesting costumes, for which prizes would be given, and among the five hundred or so students that I could see at any given time marching through the street, there were some exquisitely designed disguises. I whipped out my camera to take a picture of the human birth canal (complete with ovaries and fallopian tubes), but the damn thing was drained of batteries. It seems like any time there is truly something worthy to take a picture of, my camera is dead, and thusly, all of my photos seem kind of trite. Rest assured, I'm doing more in Poland than taking pictures of buildings.
Right after I passed the natally garbed reveler, I was confronted by the 105th division of beer drinkers, a group of students who had dressed in fatigues and strapped beers to themselves like sticks of dynamite. The culture of Poland truly does identify a large portion of itself with beer; for example, water is twice as expensive a beer at pretty much any given restaurant. Much like other European countries bars line the streets of the town square and the surrounding areas, and it seems as if the day's events revolve around the period of drinking that can begin as early as 5 and last until 6 in the morning.
I've come to the conclusion that, for the most part, Poland is a country where taking care of one's self is not of heavy importance. This conclusion is based on several things that I have noticed, the first being the excessive alcoholic consumption, and the second being that almost everyone here smokes (And in this case, when I say everyone, I am not generalizing). All of my friends on my hall smoke, people in restaurants and malls smoke, and I can't walk 500 metres without running into an ash collector (Poland has a lot of public trash cans, and it has led to some fairly clean streets). And because everyone smokes, no one ever runs, which explains my experiences of zipping by Poles glowering at my short shorts. Brilliant Holmes! But to look at the anatomy of the general population of Poland, one would never guess at the lifestyles of the peoples. Though the men do not generally seem to be attractive, most are thin, and the women are slender and beautiful! One might be surprised by this apparent paradox as I was, but I believe that between the extensive walking that Poles do during the day and the nicotine in the blood stream, there is a dearth of overweight Poles, though that by no means represents the health of the nation. So where America may be suffering from obesity (I, personally don't believe this), the US is not necessarily the nation with the least concern for health. Lewis Black had some scathing words for the American health clubs, but at least it encourages an interest in one's bodily condition.
A couple of nights ago, I took a journey to Wroclaw that was quite the trip. It had originally been for the study abroad students (A group of 6 girls and one guy from NCSU who have paid to take classes in Polish history and ethics in Biotechnology), but none of the study abroad students wanted to go, so I took the trip with a professor of Polish history, a remarkable man (A Morehead Scholar, but I don't hold it against him), who was able to provide an abundance of quite possibly my favorite commodity: stories. We met a couple on the way out of Poznan who had met on Facebook, and I told them at the end of the trip to add me as a friend. Oh the wonders of social networking! A friend of Hanna's, biochemist, psychologist, and yoga instructor, came to meet us at the train station, and proceeded to give us a brief tour of the city from her ponderously moving blue van, which was great since it was raining and I didn't really want to drench my hair. After our brief sojourn, she took us back to her house, possibly one of the most interesting homes I have ever been in, a clash of German, Soviet, and Polish influences, and we made some Jurek for supper. I didn't recognize it at first, but as soon as I plopped in a spoonful of horseradish, I knew it as the dish that my family prepared for Easter each year. She then made tea and gave me some advice on marriage.
We decided to move on and wander about the city, so she led us to the door and gave me the number of a choirmaster in Poznan. He had asked her what part I sung, so there is a chance that, before I leave, I will be able to sing with a Polish choir! (As a reminder to myself; call the Kazmierskis, Wojciech. and the choirmaster) We then proceeded to wander about the city, delighting in the plethora of parks and churches; literally three or four of each were on every corner. We saw an African-Polish wedding, something that is apparently pretty rare, stayed at an outdoor choral concert complete with electric guitar and orchestra, and peered in the windows of the city's many antique book shops. The food I had eaten earlier wasn't agreeing with me, so we sat and enjoyed ourselves at a kind of German tavern under the Town Hall, and discussed Polish History, the religious background of the Nazi party, and ancient Slavic beliefs and some of their modern day manifestations. After a light meal, we again ventured into the town square, now lit up as the sun died beyond the European architecture, revealing a shining crescent against the beautiful cerulean that can only follow a storm. It was an amazingly romantic scene. At one point, I found myself surrounded on all sides by flower salesmen and water fountains. In the low lights of the city at night, this was breathtaking. I have fallen in love with Poland.
We sat with a guy who was coming down rather hard off of something on the train ride back. Kind of ruined the end to a perfect day, but you can't have it all.
I promise in my next post, I'll give some perspective on political feeling here and the attitudes toward the USA. I may even get one of my friends studying political science to give me some notes. I would do it now, but I've got to run and do some work on the HPLC. Cheers!
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