"The last evening in Poznan", the title of the spectacular independent film, coming at the end of the summer 2009, and I am spending my time trying to give away all of my stuff so that my baggage will conform to Ryanair's hellish demands. Our sponsor from the states, Stefan, who has been with us for the past few days, says that people were literally crying when he was taking a Ryanair flight to Poznan. Can't wait. I've planned much less for this lag of the journey than I did for France; I'm just too tired. I'll probably wake up early and try to write down at least the directions to the bus station in Zadar before I walk out into the great unknown, but for the most part, I'm acting almost like I'm going to be winging things, which would usually have me frightened, but I'm so tired from working my butt off for the past three days that my level of personal apathy has risen to unprecedented heights.
Our final week in the lab has been representative of our time here in some ways and in others, this last week has become a kind of farce that has me quite frustrated. I mean, you spend three weeks telling me that you just want to relax and take it easy after the grad student leaves because there's only so much that can be done. You barely come in to work, saying that not everyone needs to be there, and then leaving. You speak condescendingly to me while you are there, but I go along with it because I'm exhausted and I just don't care. And then, all of a sudden, someone who matters shows up, and now, for the last three days, you ensure that all of the projects are yours, you are giving arbitrary directions for the sake of getting face time, and you have suddenly become the most dedicated worker in the lab. Would that not frustrate anyone just a bit?
But I am feeling better about this now, after some good feedback. We've done well and I might have an opportunity to come back, the best of all possible outcomes. It will be nice to have a break from the lab group (Though, honestly, I didn't spend a whole lot of my free time with them, so my parting is not as sweet as it will be when JP and Jonathan return to their respective routines, devoid of each other's company), but don't get me wrong; for the most part, I have enjoyed our moments together; the handshakes and hugs sure to come at the entrance to the S-Bhan in Frankfurt are sure to be a bittersweet thing.
I am sure to get over it though; Croatia, and beaches that face the sunset, await me in less than three days.
It is a sad thing to be leaving Poland, but I go with the knowledge that I have had my fill of the Ziwiec glass, made Hanna ecstatic by urinating on the Palace of Culture in Warszawa, done a plank off in the laser room on the hottest day of the summer thus far, gotten laughed at in the Stary Browar food court for pulling out two bags of frozen plums and tucking in, gotten anxious questions from Poles about whether or not all Americans are obsessed with frozen fruit (I assured them that, in this respect, my behavior is strange in all lands on this green earth), eaten so much I nearly wept with pain (10 apples and a whole chicken breast in the space of 2 hours), spent long hours of the night listening to the whine of hundreds of police cars and ambulans passing directly under my window, learned Polish from Rosetta Stone and drunk guys in equal amounts, danced to lady GaGa in the halls, witnessed a horde of Spaniards (Who are apparently SO cool) douse an entire corridor with the fire extinguisher during a hallway disco at the Jowita at 5 in the morning, explained to the masses of firemen who showed up that I didn't live on that floor, kept my alcohol consumption to a minimum but trying the mulled wine from Germany, eaten so much Polish food that I have the palate memorized for future culinary enterprises, sat on the banks of one of the largest natural lakes in Poznan and watched the sunset, and listened to Joe Dassin with my hallmates, all of us recalling our first time travelling down Les Champs Elysses.
It has been one of the most wonderful periods of my life and has offered much in the way of bolstered courage. I am grateful for the positive feedback that I have received about my portrayal of the American people while here, and I hope that my friends don't take too much stock in Bruno (Well, not them actually; I know they are a bit brighter than that.).
And so, with my last opportunity to give you all a glimpse into the wonderful world of Poland before I start telling you how great fresh fish is while you're herding sheep, I will share with you one thing: if someone is wearing a Poznan Lech scarf, tell them that Poznan Lech is very dear to your heart, and never mention Warszawa. Not even in passing.
Thanks to everyone who supported me with comments and feedback; I truly appreciate it and I hope that you are interested in more than just Poland, for I can find adventure anywhere, even if it is only a dark alley where I can relieve myself.
Croatia Ho!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
"Bosko!" (I No Ruskie Spy)
Just a quick observation that I had this afternoon when I was eating the Texas Pete that I brought back (I brought back 6 things; Texas Pete, Tostidos Salsa, Cookie Crisp, Kool Aid, extra strength Benedryl, and a bag of resturant chips. One of my carry on bags was a big bag of chips. I got looks, but I managed to get them back to Poland completely intact. You are all in awe, I'm sure):
Polish people love foreigners; the impression I get is that Poland has been insular for so long (By influence of Governmantal Regime, oppression from external powers, lack of investment, a unique and incredibly difficult language, and general absence of knowledge from the rest of the world) that Polish people are tired of each other. My neighbors all want to know me, and they are especially excited to see an American; apparently not too many of those here, as most of the foreigners are EU, most of the students Erasmus. And thus, you don't even have to try to be liked by the general populace of Poland (Excluding the skin heads who wait on the corner outside of the Jowita. Actually, I'm wrong; they think we're British). It's as if just picking Poland as a country to come to is good enough; by choosing Poland, you become family.
And if you go out of your way to learn a bit of Polish history or culture, the Poles will dote on you. I spent 4 hours talking with a guy who conned me into buying him a beer, even though he spoke only Polish and a few words of Espanol. He never seemed to realize that I didn't fully understand, he was just happy that I was a foreigner and that I was listening. But buying him that beer paid off, since I was able to pick up a fair amount of Polish after the 4 hours in the rain and darkening skies (I could have been arrested. I was told last night that drinking in public is illegal, and that it doesn't even matter if you were the one drinking. I mean, seriously?! In Poland?!!). So, when I throw out random words of Polish into conversations with my neighbor, she always seems ecstatic. I can actually string some sentences together now; I wonder how she would react to that.
One guy told me that to know a little bit of Polish is great; people are very appreciative of your interest in the culture and truly value your attempts to learn one of the hardest languages on earth (Possibly the hardest). But if you know too much Polish, people can get suspicious. This is why, if you become fluent in Polish, you should be living here so that your abilities to navigate social customs are up to speed with your lengual skills and Poles assume that you are one of them, and not a Ruskie spy. Also a good tip; I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: don't speak Russian or German.
So in the end, this should be encouragement for other to follow in my footsteps to this country. Here is a place that is on the cusp of a technological and cultural revolution that loves foreigners, values their opinions, and makes a place for them in society. While Poland is not one of the frequently toted "emerging powers" (And I think this is mainly because everyone forgets about them. Maybe when they go on the Euro in 2012, there will be more notice, but that's worse for those that use the dollar. My chicken will suddenly become expensive!), it is going to be important soon.
It's my last week here, and I know already that passing from these borders will lie heavy on my heart. When I was in France, I was thinking about returning "home", and it dawned on me that the home I was thinking about was my little one room in the Jowita. Going back to the states, I knew that I was returning to my family and the place I lived, but once again, when I left, I was leaving for "home" in Poznan. To pharaphrase my friend from Portugal with my own vivid diction, "Ah, that Polonia. 'Aye, she is a fiesty beast. Those who travel amongst her bounties are oft trapt by her wily ways. They come and never return to their home ports. Their hearts are repainted Red and White." I'm not that bad off, but Poland will always have a place in my heart, as will the bonny banks of Loch Lomund.
Polish people love foreigners; the impression I get is that Poland has been insular for so long (By influence of Governmantal Regime, oppression from external powers, lack of investment, a unique and incredibly difficult language, and general absence of knowledge from the rest of the world) that Polish people are tired of each other. My neighbors all want to know me, and they are especially excited to see an American; apparently not too many of those here, as most of the foreigners are EU, most of the students Erasmus. And thus, you don't even have to try to be liked by the general populace of Poland (Excluding the skin heads who wait on the corner outside of the Jowita. Actually, I'm wrong; they think we're British). It's as if just picking Poland as a country to come to is good enough; by choosing Poland, you become family.
And if you go out of your way to learn a bit of Polish history or culture, the Poles will dote on you. I spent 4 hours talking with a guy who conned me into buying him a beer, even though he spoke only Polish and a few words of Espanol. He never seemed to realize that I didn't fully understand, he was just happy that I was a foreigner and that I was listening. But buying him that beer paid off, since I was able to pick up a fair amount of Polish after the 4 hours in the rain and darkening skies (I could have been arrested. I was told last night that drinking in public is illegal, and that it doesn't even matter if you were the one drinking. I mean, seriously?! In Poland?!!). So, when I throw out random words of Polish into conversations with my neighbor, she always seems ecstatic. I can actually string some sentences together now; I wonder how she would react to that.
One guy told me that to know a little bit of Polish is great; people are very appreciative of your interest in the culture and truly value your attempts to learn one of the hardest languages on earth (Possibly the hardest). But if you know too much Polish, people can get suspicious. This is why, if you become fluent in Polish, you should be living here so that your abilities to navigate social customs are up to speed with your lengual skills and Poles assume that you are one of them, and not a Ruskie spy. Also a good tip; I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: don't speak Russian or German.
So in the end, this should be encouragement for other to follow in my footsteps to this country. Here is a place that is on the cusp of a technological and cultural revolution that loves foreigners, values their opinions, and makes a place for them in society. While Poland is not one of the frequently toted "emerging powers" (And I think this is mainly because everyone forgets about them. Maybe when they go on the Euro in 2012, there will be more notice, but that's worse for those that use the dollar. My chicken will suddenly become expensive!), it is going to be important soon.
It's my last week here, and I know already that passing from these borders will lie heavy on my heart. When I was in France, I was thinking about returning "home", and it dawned on me that the home I was thinking about was my little one room in the Jowita. Going back to the states, I knew that I was returning to my family and the place I lived, but once again, when I left, I was leaving for "home" in Poznan. To pharaphrase my friend from Portugal with my own vivid diction, "Ah, that Polonia. 'Aye, she is a fiesty beast. Those who travel amongst her bounties are oft trapt by her wily ways. They come and never return to their home ports. Their hearts are repainted Red and White." I'm not that bad off, but Poland will always have a place in my heart, as will the bonny banks of Loch Lomund.
I want to hit short, panhandling women
-Taken directly from my notes, drafted upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle RER station B;
"F*** LOT Polish Airlines."
A couple of weekends ago, before I went back to the states for the funeral, I took my first solo international sojourn, hitting up the cities of Warszawa to do what I came to Poland to do, Paris (the one in France) to hear my sister sing wondrous melodies with the Capital City Girls Choir, and then Cracow to sit on the bank of the river and snack on frozen plums while I got a forehead tan. For every step of the journey, save the first since JP and Jonathan spent the weekend in Warszawa with one of JPs Polish girlfriends (He met her at a birthday party that he, Jonathan, and Dustin crashed), I was getting by through my own volition and blind luck, and I figured that, if I could get through this, somehow getting to France from Poland without being fluent in either French or Polish, without knowing the bus routes, without knowing how to get to my hotel, and with flights timed ever so perfectly to put me in terrible situations, as you shall read later, then I would be uberman, able to do anything. It would be by God's will that I made it back to Poland in one piece, and the whole trip was like one long chain of close calls, conspiring to have me stuck in a country where you can be stuck at an intersection for three hours while a gay pride parade files past (Nothing on gays, but Man! was that parade long. Quite entertaining though. I did the YMCA)
We got into Warszawa after a fairly uneventful train ride; I've gotten in the habit of trying to exersize whenever I travel, so I don't feel like crap, and on this ride I stood out in the hall and was doing a pretty strenuous ab workout when a guy came out of the coach next to me, took one look at my screwed up face muscles, and then retreated back into his little space with a startled look on his face. After picking up my first batch of Apples and meeting Claudia at the mall, she took me to the bus stop where I would need to board in order to leave my walking directions to the airport in my backpack; I really didn't want to be that guy that walks to the terminal. And then, a quick hug form JP and Jonathan, and I was on my own. I knew what I had to do. I was going to the Archeological Museum even if it meant missing my flight (At least this is wht I eventually decided. I fought with myself for about 20 minutes; there was a part of my brain that just wanted to give up, play it safe, and get to the airport 3 hours beforehand. Another part told me I was nuts to give up now. Guess which side won?). But the ancient slavic gods and tutelary spirits in whom my quest is borne must be conspiring against me, for the museum is closed on Fridays. If I had but looked at the picture I took earlier of my exasperation over the closing hours, I would have seen that my excitement upon arriving in Warszawa was in vain. But sometimes, it is the wish unfulfilled that brews the most heady mead, and this one has stirred up a doozie of longing. I will return. And when I do, I shall storm the stronghold with my anticipation.
I arrived at the airport with plenty of time, and then found out that even more time still, as LOT had delayed my flight for two more hours so they could do a series of tests that never really seemed to end. A good example to the Polish mindset; planes will take off when they take off. At least trains leave on time. Dramatic pause for forshadowing. What didn't occur to me when I was stuck twiddling thumbs and eating 7 apples was that a two hour delay would put my flight at CDG airport around 12:15, 15 minutes after the last RER B line train left for the night, the train I needed to catch to put me within 2 hours of my hotel. I was pissed like a brooding viper. I spent the first hour waiting for the trains in the station next to some Hungarians and Japaneese tourists, fuming and ready to curb stomp anyone who disturbed me. The second hour I realized that at two in the morning, CDG was practically empty, and why did I have to be confined to the station? I could explore to my heart's content! So I went free running for about an hour in a business park adjcent to the station. During my explorations, I found a four star Hilton that was being cleaned by a skeleton crew that wasn't paying attention to the door, so for the last two hours, until 4:30 when the trains started running, I slept in a very nice armchair in a corner behind the bar and they never found me. Then, as I was getting off the train a young Arab guy grabbed my arm and tried to pickpocket me. He wasn't very good, and he was blazed out of his mind; I was able to slam his hand in the door of the train and he got away empty handed. As I walked away from the train, a guy who had seen what happened launched into a violent tirade about Arabs coming to France and doing nothing but stealing from society, voicing all of the concerns that I had heard from my friends at the Jowita. That gave me a little smile, but I felt so naive; next time, I'll be more quick to punch the guy in the face. Two more hours of walking in the French twilight, and I was able to collapse into my bed at 6 in the morning.
At 11, I woke up and started out for the City Hall, where my sister would be singing early in the afternoon. On the way, I exchanged 8 euro for 13 apples and some chicken at a Chinese market; they told me I had to spend at least 8 euro. By the time I reached the venue, all but 3 of the apples had disappeared. Don't judge me; I hadn't eaten in a long time. The guard outside the town hall didn't speak English, so I tried to explain in Espanol that I was there to see a concert, which he told me was happening on Monday and that I needed to leave. Perplexed, I wandered for the next 3 hours through the streets of Paris, past Notre Dame, back through the Gay pride parade, among several enormous buildings of state, and all along the Siene, in the direction of the gril's hotel, where I waited for another hour an a half, reading French graphic novels in the lobby and sprinting into the keycoded bathroom whenever someone was leaving. Convinced that the girls had, in my absence at the concert, given up on me and gone to do some shopping and dining, I decided to set out on my own for Les Champs Elysees, to see the familiar landmark from the many hours I have spent playing Deus Ex. I can't remember if I've talked about this before now, but there was a computer game called Deus Ex that was the catylyst for one of the four true turning points in my life; I study nanoscience and biomaterials now because of my experience with this game. The globe hopping adventure led me to CG haunts all over the world, one of them being the streets of Les Champs Elysses in a Paris under martial law, and it became my quest to find and photograph the real world inspiration for the allyways I spent so much time wandering at my console.
On the way I passed back through the Gay pride parade for now the third time since waking up that morning (I later discovered that it was this parade that had held up the girl's bus in traffic for 3 hours), stopped off at the doggy park behind the Notre Dame and got some amazing pictures, bought more apples, saw the outside of the Louvre, stood in the exact spot that Chris Cooper stood in the Bourne Identity on Pont Neuf (And then proceeded to the corner where Matt Damon placed the tracking device on the white van), marveled at the glass pyramid that I think was somehow significant in the Da Vinci code, trapsed through the Garden of Tulips, and was accosted by a guy who wanted to do a characture of me.
This was probably my most interesting encounter of the day, other than being pickpocketed. I used the phrase "Nie razumiem po Angrosku" throughout the day (I don't understand English, in Polish) as a means of avoiding those that wanted to take my money, and it always worked because, really, no one speaks Polish outside of Poland. But for some reason, when this guy came up to me and said that he wanted to paint me because I had great hair, I started speaking in Russian. First he asked me where I was from, (in English, so I could have stopped him right there, but I'm not that fast) and I replied "Ya Ruskie". He then gave me a cheerful "Dobre Dien! A kak ble?" and I panicked, stammering "Ya Polskie, Ya Polskie". It is likely that he caught on to my ruse then because he greeted me in Polish and then started speaking in French and English, attempting to cooerce some euros out of my pocket. By that point I realized that he only knew how to greet people in all of these languages and that he couldn't really speak any of them, so I continued denying him in Polish, and wandered away, leaving him a bit angry.
Back through the ponds by the tulips, across Le Plac du Conchordes, where I did my obligatory dance as the FOTC song "Fou du Fa Fah" played over my iPod, and then the long walk down the Champs, stopping in several stores including the Louis Vuitton store and the Virgin megashop, until I reached Le Arc de Triomphe just as the moon was coming up behind it. The 2 minute photo shoot was over soon enough, and I realized that I would now have to repeat the three hour walk back to the girl's hotel and then walk another two hours to get to my hotel; it was already 9. I got back to where the girls were staying just in time to catch their director in a quick phone call from the lobby, who confirmed both the place they were singing the next day and that I definitely couldn't see my sister at midnight.
Walking through Paris at midnight through neighborhoods that were not on the tourist bill had me a bit worried at first, but I soon discovered that my fears lay unfounded. I was not stopped once, though I changed sides of the road several times to avoid figures that seemed a wee bit suspicious. The highlight of this trek came when I saw a guy a little ways ahead of me appear out of the darkness and run up to a kebab stand, frantically grabbing napkins. As I got closer, I saw that his entire right arm was shredded and that blood was pouring from the wounds now bound by tissue. The women sitting outside enjoying the all to familiar midnight kebab stood up repulsed, and quickly backed off to a resturant across the road. This guy was moving incredibly fast for someone who had lost so much blood, and as I came upon him nearly sprinting away from the stand, he started yelling something into his phone. I certainly hope he was calling for an ambulance. I got worried that the same fate would befall me, but I realized that I could tell where he had come from by watching the road to the reflective drips of blood that marked his trail like breadcrumbs. I was not at all pleased to find that he had been following the exact path that I now had to take to my hotel, but just as I went under a bridge, I lost the trail and felt more comfortable. Never once did I see the huge splatter that I imagine would have marked the place where he ran into trouble. By the time I got to my room, I had been walking for 8 hours without sitting once, and I gladly passed out on top of the sheets.
After picking up another peck of apples the next morning, I easily found my way to the American Church, a beautiful venue that made me wonder if there was such a thing in Poznan. This is unlikely; all churches are Catholic and very conservative, not exactly the combination that would suit the more contemporary leanings of American Catholisism. I greeted my sister with the standard Polish fare, three kisses on the cheek and met everyone I would be travelling with for the day. I was warned by my sister's friend that the thirty or so girls had not been let out much and had not seen a teenage boy for nearly a week, so I should prepare myself for what was sure to come.
The day passed quite well and I managed to fulfill my little dream of having lunch in a small French Caf on the banks of the Siene, though I did not get my chance to have my glass of French wine until midnight; two things that I would dispise myself for if I missed the opportunity to sample. My sister and I talked pretty much all day, trading stories from the land of bree and the home of bad rave (Happened in Warszawa; I thought it was going to be a live concert, but it turned into a night with a mediocre DJ. Still can't believe they kicked me off the stage). We forwent the Louvre and instead wandered through the street shops until our date at the Notre Dame. The inside of the cathedral was spectacular and the outside was crawling with women who had learned how to say "Do you speak English" and how to hold up a card with a sob story written by their panhandling bossman. Honestly, I just wanted to hit them; it sounds terrible, but you would too. If you want my money, you have to learn more than four words; they should all take a leaf from the guy who tried to make me a hair model.
Dinner was, well, pork, but it was free and the ratatoullie tasted heavenly. I also managed to steal several apples from the hotel resturant, but when I broke them out during our spectacular river cruise that night, they were revealed to have a crispiness that was subpar to everything else I bought. My sis and I did the Zissou pose on the bow of the ship as the sun faded into a horizon of archaic towers, the skyline of Grand Old Europe. One day I'll return here, but when I do, I must return with a lover, for Paris truly is a city for lovers. Just like Wroclaw.
Then everything went nuts. Got back to the hotel at midnight and asked for a wakeup call at 3. The wakeup call at 3 never came. I slept until 6 when my consciousness fell subject to the deus ex machina of my sleeping irregularities and awoke me naturally. I saw sunlight in the windows, yelled out a bunch of stuff that I won't repeat, threw a towel around my waist (I had fallen into bed straight from the shower that morning), and started frantically searching for someone at the front desk. Crazy-eye set in, with good reason; my flight left in an hour. The drive to the airport was nearly 40 minutes. I had to hire a cab (the price of that cab was more expensive than my total purchases in Poland for the first three weeks), and on the way over, a sudden calm hit me. I was feeling down about my rapidly depleating funds, but I realized that I had spent in two days what I was expecting to spend in Poland over 10 weeks to see family, and that revelation made me realize just how far you will go to find your blood ties. Everything felt like it was rushing by me as I maintained a steady hand and a relaxed and happy mood; just barely making it on the plane, having to deal with the screaming child, a train ride out of a blistering heat in Cracow that got back to Poznan at 3. Family took me to do it all, and I wrote something in my journal on the ride back that captures the feeling in a sense. All I know is that I'm lucky to feel that way about kin.
Ironic that I had such a startling acceptance of this, and then I come back to find that my Granddad died.
"F*** LOT Polish Airlines."
A couple of weekends ago, before I went back to the states for the funeral, I took my first solo international sojourn, hitting up the cities of Warszawa to do what I came to Poland to do, Paris (the one in France) to hear my sister sing wondrous melodies with the Capital City Girls Choir, and then Cracow to sit on the bank of the river and snack on frozen plums while I got a forehead tan. For every step of the journey, save the first since JP and Jonathan spent the weekend in Warszawa with one of JPs Polish girlfriends (He met her at a birthday party that he, Jonathan, and Dustin crashed), I was getting by through my own volition and blind luck, and I figured that, if I could get through this, somehow getting to France from Poland without being fluent in either French or Polish, without knowing the bus routes, without knowing how to get to my hotel, and with flights timed ever so perfectly to put me in terrible situations, as you shall read later, then I would be uberman, able to do anything. It would be by God's will that I made it back to Poland in one piece, and the whole trip was like one long chain of close calls, conspiring to have me stuck in a country where you can be stuck at an intersection for three hours while a gay pride parade files past (Nothing on gays, but Man! was that parade long. Quite entertaining though. I did the YMCA)
We got into Warszawa after a fairly uneventful train ride; I've gotten in the habit of trying to exersize whenever I travel, so I don't feel like crap, and on this ride I stood out in the hall and was doing a pretty strenuous ab workout when a guy came out of the coach next to me, took one look at my screwed up face muscles, and then retreated back into his little space with a startled look on his face. After picking up my first batch of Apples and meeting Claudia at the mall, she took me to the bus stop where I would need to board in order to leave my walking directions to the airport in my backpack; I really didn't want to be that guy that walks to the terminal. And then, a quick hug form JP and Jonathan, and I was on my own. I knew what I had to do. I was going to the Archeological Museum even if it meant missing my flight (At least this is wht I eventually decided. I fought with myself for about 20 minutes; there was a part of my brain that just wanted to give up, play it safe, and get to the airport 3 hours beforehand. Another part told me I was nuts to give up now. Guess which side won?). But the ancient slavic gods and tutelary spirits in whom my quest is borne must be conspiring against me, for the museum is closed on Fridays. If I had but looked at the picture I took earlier of my exasperation over the closing hours, I would have seen that my excitement upon arriving in Warszawa was in vain. But sometimes, it is the wish unfulfilled that brews the most heady mead, and this one has stirred up a doozie of longing. I will return. And when I do, I shall storm the stronghold with my anticipation.
I arrived at the airport with plenty of time, and then found out that even more time still, as LOT had delayed my flight for two more hours so they could do a series of tests that never really seemed to end. A good example to the Polish mindset; planes will take off when they take off. At least trains leave on time. Dramatic pause for forshadowing. What didn't occur to me when I was stuck twiddling thumbs and eating 7 apples was that a two hour delay would put my flight at CDG airport around 12:15, 15 minutes after the last RER B line train left for the night, the train I needed to catch to put me within 2 hours of my hotel. I was pissed like a brooding viper. I spent the first hour waiting for the trains in the station next to some Hungarians and Japaneese tourists, fuming and ready to curb stomp anyone who disturbed me. The second hour I realized that at two in the morning, CDG was practically empty, and why did I have to be confined to the station? I could explore to my heart's content! So I went free running for about an hour in a business park adjcent to the station. During my explorations, I found a four star Hilton that was being cleaned by a skeleton crew that wasn't paying attention to the door, so for the last two hours, until 4:30 when the trains started running, I slept in a very nice armchair in a corner behind the bar and they never found me. Then, as I was getting off the train a young Arab guy grabbed my arm and tried to pickpocket me. He wasn't very good, and he was blazed out of his mind; I was able to slam his hand in the door of the train and he got away empty handed. As I walked away from the train, a guy who had seen what happened launched into a violent tirade about Arabs coming to France and doing nothing but stealing from society, voicing all of the concerns that I had heard from my friends at the Jowita. That gave me a little smile, but I felt so naive; next time, I'll be more quick to punch the guy in the face. Two more hours of walking in the French twilight, and I was able to collapse into my bed at 6 in the morning.
At 11, I woke up and started out for the City Hall, where my sister would be singing early in the afternoon. On the way, I exchanged 8 euro for 13 apples and some chicken at a Chinese market; they told me I had to spend at least 8 euro. By the time I reached the venue, all but 3 of the apples had disappeared. Don't judge me; I hadn't eaten in a long time. The guard outside the town hall didn't speak English, so I tried to explain in Espanol that I was there to see a concert, which he told me was happening on Monday and that I needed to leave. Perplexed, I wandered for the next 3 hours through the streets of Paris, past Notre Dame, back through the Gay pride parade, among several enormous buildings of state, and all along the Siene, in the direction of the gril's hotel, where I waited for another hour an a half, reading French graphic novels in the lobby and sprinting into the keycoded bathroom whenever someone was leaving. Convinced that the girls had, in my absence at the concert, given up on me and gone to do some shopping and dining, I decided to set out on my own for Les Champs Elysees, to see the familiar landmark from the many hours I have spent playing Deus Ex. I can't remember if I've talked about this before now, but there was a computer game called Deus Ex that was the catylyst for one of the four true turning points in my life; I study nanoscience and biomaterials now because of my experience with this game. The globe hopping adventure led me to CG haunts all over the world, one of them being the streets of Les Champs Elysses in a Paris under martial law, and it became my quest to find and photograph the real world inspiration for the allyways I spent so much time wandering at my console.
On the way I passed back through the Gay pride parade for now the third time since waking up that morning (I later discovered that it was this parade that had held up the girl's bus in traffic for 3 hours), stopped off at the doggy park behind the Notre Dame and got some amazing pictures, bought more apples, saw the outside of the Louvre, stood in the exact spot that Chris Cooper stood in the Bourne Identity on Pont Neuf (And then proceeded to the corner where Matt Damon placed the tracking device on the white van), marveled at the glass pyramid that I think was somehow significant in the Da Vinci code, trapsed through the Garden of Tulips, and was accosted by a guy who wanted to do a characture of me.
This was probably my most interesting encounter of the day, other than being pickpocketed. I used the phrase "Nie razumiem po Angrosku" throughout the day (I don't understand English, in Polish) as a means of avoiding those that wanted to take my money, and it always worked because, really, no one speaks Polish outside of Poland. But for some reason, when this guy came up to me and said that he wanted to paint me because I had great hair, I started speaking in Russian. First he asked me where I was from, (in English, so I could have stopped him right there, but I'm not that fast) and I replied "Ya Ruskie". He then gave me a cheerful "Dobre Dien! A kak ble?" and I panicked, stammering "Ya Polskie, Ya Polskie". It is likely that he caught on to my ruse then because he greeted me in Polish and then started speaking in French and English, attempting to cooerce some euros out of my pocket. By that point I realized that he only knew how to greet people in all of these languages and that he couldn't really speak any of them, so I continued denying him in Polish, and wandered away, leaving him a bit angry.
Back through the ponds by the tulips, across Le Plac du Conchordes, where I did my obligatory dance as the FOTC song "Fou du Fa Fah" played over my iPod, and then the long walk down the Champs, stopping in several stores including the Louis Vuitton store and the Virgin megashop, until I reached Le Arc de Triomphe just as the moon was coming up behind it. The 2 minute photo shoot was over soon enough, and I realized that I would now have to repeat the three hour walk back to the girl's hotel and then walk another two hours to get to my hotel; it was already 9. I got back to where the girls were staying just in time to catch their director in a quick phone call from the lobby, who confirmed both the place they were singing the next day and that I definitely couldn't see my sister at midnight.
Walking through Paris at midnight through neighborhoods that were not on the tourist bill had me a bit worried at first, but I soon discovered that my fears lay unfounded. I was not stopped once, though I changed sides of the road several times to avoid figures that seemed a wee bit suspicious. The highlight of this trek came when I saw a guy a little ways ahead of me appear out of the darkness and run up to a kebab stand, frantically grabbing napkins. As I got closer, I saw that his entire right arm was shredded and that blood was pouring from the wounds now bound by tissue. The women sitting outside enjoying the all to familiar midnight kebab stood up repulsed, and quickly backed off to a resturant across the road. This guy was moving incredibly fast for someone who had lost so much blood, and as I came upon him nearly sprinting away from the stand, he started yelling something into his phone. I certainly hope he was calling for an ambulance. I got worried that the same fate would befall me, but I realized that I could tell where he had come from by watching the road to the reflective drips of blood that marked his trail like breadcrumbs. I was not at all pleased to find that he had been following the exact path that I now had to take to my hotel, but just as I went under a bridge, I lost the trail and felt more comfortable. Never once did I see the huge splatter that I imagine would have marked the place where he ran into trouble. By the time I got to my room, I had been walking for 8 hours without sitting once, and I gladly passed out on top of the sheets.
After picking up another peck of apples the next morning, I easily found my way to the American Church, a beautiful venue that made me wonder if there was such a thing in Poznan. This is unlikely; all churches are Catholic and very conservative, not exactly the combination that would suit the more contemporary leanings of American Catholisism. I greeted my sister with the standard Polish fare, three kisses on the cheek and met everyone I would be travelling with for the day. I was warned by my sister's friend that the thirty or so girls had not been let out much and had not seen a teenage boy for nearly a week, so I should prepare myself for what was sure to come.
The day passed quite well and I managed to fulfill my little dream of having lunch in a small French Caf on the banks of the Siene, though I did not get my chance to have my glass of French wine until midnight; two things that I would dispise myself for if I missed the opportunity to sample. My sister and I talked pretty much all day, trading stories from the land of bree and the home of bad rave (Happened in Warszawa; I thought it was going to be a live concert, but it turned into a night with a mediocre DJ. Still can't believe they kicked me off the stage). We forwent the Louvre and instead wandered through the street shops until our date at the Notre Dame. The inside of the cathedral was spectacular and the outside was crawling with women who had learned how to say "Do you speak English" and how to hold up a card with a sob story written by their panhandling bossman. Honestly, I just wanted to hit them; it sounds terrible, but you would too. If you want my money, you have to learn more than four words; they should all take a leaf from the guy who tried to make me a hair model.
Dinner was, well, pork, but it was free and the ratatoullie tasted heavenly. I also managed to steal several apples from the hotel resturant, but when I broke them out during our spectacular river cruise that night, they were revealed to have a crispiness that was subpar to everything else I bought. My sis and I did the Zissou pose on the bow of the ship as the sun faded into a horizon of archaic towers, the skyline of Grand Old Europe. One day I'll return here, but when I do, I must return with a lover, for Paris truly is a city for lovers. Just like Wroclaw.
Then everything went nuts. Got back to the hotel at midnight and asked for a wakeup call at 3. The wakeup call at 3 never came. I slept until 6 when my consciousness fell subject to the deus ex machina of my sleeping irregularities and awoke me naturally. I saw sunlight in the windows, yelled out a bunch of stuff that I won't repeat, threw a towel around my waist (I had fallen into bed straight from the shower that morning), and started frantically searching for someone at the front desk. Crazy-eye set in, with good reason; my flight left in an hour. The drive to the airport was nearly 40 minutes. I had to hire a cab (the price of that cab was more expensive than my total purchases in Poland for the first three weeks), and on the way over, a sudden calm hit me. I was feeling down about my rapidly depleating funds, but I realized that I had spent in two days what I was expecting to spend in Poland over 10 weeks to see family, and that revelation made me realize just how far you will go to find your blood ties. Everything felt like it was rushing by me as I maintained a steady hand and a relaxed and happy mood; just barely making it on the plane, having to deal with the screaming child, a train ride out of a blistering heat in Cracow that got back to Poznan at 3. Family took me to do it all, and I wrote something in my journal on the ride back that captures the feeling in a sense. All I know is that I'm lucky to feel that way about kin.
Ironic that I had such a startling acceptance of this, and then I come back to find that my Granddad died.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Cruise
Hello everyone; if you are still with me after nearly two weeks without a post, I am deeply grateful for your patience and I promise that it shall be rewarded. It has been a long and difficult time since last I sat writing, but I am glad to once again be telling my tale.
I got back from Paris the weekend before last (This trip, and my new found hate for LOT Polish Airlines, will be the subject of the next post) to find that I had several e-mails from my Dad, each subsequent message more urgent sounding than the last, until the last two e-mails, telling me that I should call home immediately. Not exactly the kind of thing that you want to come back to after a trip out of the country. I called home and did not receive an answer, so I went to bed and called home the next morning. My Dad answered and passed on the news.
My Granddad, Aaron Victor Cruise, one of the greatest and most resounding influences on my life, died on June 29, 2009, on a bright and wonderful Monday afternoon.
I finished my groats and called Jonathan to tell him that I would be taking the day off. I then sat around and debated what to do. There are rituals that I usually perform for the dead in my life, carried out in solitude and silence, as a way of putting my own emotional turmoil to rest. They are especially important when I cannot be present for funerals or dedications; I did one for my Aunt Ella, who died a few weeks ago, when I knew that I could not return for her funeral. But this time I did not feel like doing anything. I took a shower and wept for the first time, then headed out to the Morasco campus to sit in their beautiful gardens, taking along a couple of bags of frozen plums and the little journal that I had received at the beginning of my freshman year. It is a hard thing for me to journal; I find it incredibly abrasive to my personality to write as if I were speaking to a friend. Esoteric stories are much simpler to transfer to paper. But that day, I sat and wrote, remembering a few of the things that my Granddad had brought into my life. In the end, I was not able to write much; I was distracted by the beautiful day, but it was just as well since, when I got back that night I was able to put much more on paper. On the way back from Morasco, I picked up a bag of onions, a jar of apple cider vinegar, wheat cracker bread, some grapefruit, and a bottle of the darkest, most bitter wine that I could find.
One of the things that Granddad most loved to do was come in after a long day outside, sit at the table with a bowl of onions and vinegar to put on crackers, and watch a couple of episodes of Frasier. Some of my most vivid memories of him stem from laughing at the disproportionally highbrow antics of Kelsey Grammar and David Hyde Pierce. That night, I ate enough onions to make me sick, and I laughed so hard, and so desperately, that it hurt to move. As for the wine, there is something I once read about the death of one of the oldest African gods. When his two sons, estranged for years, met again the eve after his death, they sat, drinking an old, bitter vintage made from the tears of virgins, wine made for the gods, and told stories. While my draught was not the product of virgin tears, nor did I drink as deeply as the brothers, it was a mighty thing to be able, for the first time in my life, to do, and as I had no family with whom to tell stories, I wrote.
And I wrote.
And I ate.
And I wept.
I travelled home on Thursday, arriving back in Raleigh on Friday, coming home to a house filled with all of my family, from all over the world; myself from Poland, my cousin from Korea, and my Aunt from Scotland. At the table the following morning, we had a truly international conversation, exchanging Won bills and Zloty. It was incredible to see someone representing every branch of the Cruise tree all under the same roof. I hadn't seen my cousin West for 9 years; the last memories he had of me were from back when I toted around my 20 pounds of Pokémon cards wherever I went. Needless to say, it had been far too long, and though the circumstances had an underlying tone of the morbid, the atmosphere was much akin to the end of a Wes Anderson movie. It was three days of "Ooh La Lah", "Everyone", "Queen Bitch", and "Les Champs Elysses".
Music was a big thing over the weekend. I finally pulled off "Into the West" from the end of Return of the King and I could not get it out of my head (actually, it's still stuck in there), but it was so appropriate that I only encouraged its entrenchment by listening to it over and over again. Tim Stewart from the NC Symphony played a couple of pieces to accompany my brother, my sister and I, and he played the best taps that I've ever heard. No fitter ceremony for a magnificently lived life could have been given.
While I was in the States, it felt like everything was moving very slowly, that I would have plenty of time with my family and friends, an ample chance to grieve my loss and to recover; now that I am back in Poznan, it feels like everything moved to fast to be real, and that none of it really happened. The feelings are very confusing and difficult to master. I am incredibly sad about the great man that I have lost, but memories are still fresh enough and I have not truly come to grips with my Granddad's absence, so it seems as if I could return in a few weeks and see him out in the yard, doing what he always did. At the same time, I have said goodbye and I know that what I have left of him is the sizable portion of my own character which draws its strength from his being.
What this disparity leaves is a calm sadness and the overcoming desire to live gloriously. Glimpses of the past, mostly images of sitting at the table with my Granddad, or hugging him when he arrived and left my house three times a year, rise to the surface of my consciousness whenever concentration drifts, and these parsings make my heart heavy. But knowing that I got everything I could possibly get out of our relationship, and that he was following every step of this journey I am currently on, it pushes me past sadness and into a jump up and get busy mode. Before his death, life in Poznan had been stagnating, but I am now seeing beyond what kept me locked in earlier.
I have not yet let on my plans for after the next couple of weeks yet, I think. The research project was only supposed to last for 10 weeks and then we would all go home, but I have elected to stay on in Europe and do a bit of travelling on my own. After leaving Poznan, I will fly with the others for Frankfurt am Main, Germany and then take a train to Frankfurt Hesse where I will spend a day, doing what I don't know (maybe checking out the Deus Ex II location in Trier). Then I will fly to Zadar, Croatia and make my way down the coast to the town of Opuzen, where a recent acquaintance will be getting me in touch with a shepherd. I will spend the next three weeks shepping sheep, swimming in the warm, blue ocean, camping on the beach, and whittling my crook. Then I have to get back to Zadar, where I will fly to Edinburgh, Scotland.
Here is where I complete my encircling of the family tree. My Granddad came from a line of Scots, the Foster Clan, and I value this heritage just as much as that which stems from Polish soil. It pains me that, only now after he can no longer read my adventures, do I come around to mentioning this part of my trip and the importance that my Granddad's roots have to me. But in a way, I feel like he was always aware of this; it didn't necessarily need to be said.
It has taken much courage to get through some of the ordeals I have faced on this splendid sojourn into parts of the world previously unknown, courage that I can trace directly to experiences and lessons shared through my Granddad. Without his presence in my life, I would have turned out a much different person, and I don't know how much of this I would have been able to do. It is thus that I dedicate this trip and everything I have done and will do this summer to his memory. At his funeral, I spoke of the living's remembrances and how my Granddad's life was so powerful and affected so much that it could never be forgotten. And I spoke of the continuation of adventures, both those of the surviving and those that now await Granddad, in a far green country with a swift sunrise. There will be a day when I can have that country too, but until then I shall seek Fiddler's Green on Earth and I shall not forget, because I simply cannot, my Granddad. He is a part of me, and though the source is gone, its creation lingers and flourishes, rewriting its origins again and again in the minds of others.
I found it incredibly fitting that the 23rd psalm was explained during the funeral. This is a psalm for shepherds, and the reader gave advice on the actual art of shepherding during the service. It was as if I was simply receiving another lesson from a man hell bent on seeing his grandson succeed. There is none more fortunate in familial ties than I.
If you would like to read my speech, the link to the google doc is here: http://docs.google.com/View?id=dcwm2bz6_0d5wtxnhm
I got back from Paris the weekend before last (This trip, and my new found hate for LOT Polish Airlines, will be the subject of the next post) to find that I had several e-mails from my Dad, each subsequent message more urgent sounding than the last, until the last two e-mails, telling me that I should call home immediately. Not exactly the kind of thing that you want to come back to after a trip out of the country. I called home and did not receive an answer, so I went to bed and called home the next morning. My Dad answered and passed on the news.
My Granddad, Aaron Victor Cruise, one of the greatest and most resounding influences on my life, died on June 29, 2009, on a bright and wonderful Monday afternoon.
I finished my groats and called Jonathan to tell him that I would be taking the day off. I then sat around and debated what to do. There are rituals that I usually perform for the dead in my life, carried out in solitude and silence, as a way of putting my own emotional turmoil to rest. They are especially important when I cannot be present for funerals or dedications; I did one for my Aunt Ella, who died a few weeks ago, when I knew that I could not return for her funeral. But this time I did not feel like doing anything. I took a shower and wept for the first time, then headed out to the Morasco campus to sit in their beautiful gardens, taking along a couple of bags of frozen plums and the little journal that I had received at the beginning of my freshman year. It is a hard thing for me to journal; I find it incredibly abrasive to my personality to write as if I were speaking to a friend. Esoteric stories are much simpler to transfer to paper. But that day, I sat and wrote, remembering a few of the things that my Granddad had brought into my life. In the end, I was not able to write much; I was distracted by the beautiful day, but it was just as well since, when I got back that night I was able to put much more on paper. On the way back from Morasco, I picked up a bag of onions, a jar of apple cider vinegar, wheat cracker bread, some grapefruit, and a bottle of the darkest, most bitter wine that I could find.
One of the things that Granddad most loved to do was come in after a long day outside, sit at the table with a bowl of onions and vinegar to put on crackers, and watch a couple of episodes of Frasier. Some of my most vivid memories of him stem from laughing at the disproportionally highbrow antics of Kelsey Grammar and David Hyde Pierce. That night, I ate enough onions to make me sick, and I laughed so hard, and so desperately, that it hurt to move. As for the wine, there is something I once read about the death of one of the oldest African gods. When his two sons, estranged for years, met again the eve after his death, they sat, drinking an old, bitter vintage made from the tears of virgins, wine made for the gods, and told stories. While my draught was not the product of virgin tears, nor did I drink as deeply as the brothers, it was a mighty thing to be able, for the first time in my life, to do, and as I had no family with whom to tell stories, I wrote.
And I wrote.
And I ate.
And I wept.
I travelled home on Thursday, arriving back in Raleigh on Friday, coming home to a house filled with all of my family, from all over the world; myself from Poland, my cousin from Korea, and my Aunt from Scotland. At the table the following morning, we had a truly international conversation, exchanging Won bills and Zloty. It was incredible to see someone representing every branch of the Cruise tree all under the same roof. I hadn't seen my cousin West for 9 years; the last memories he had of me were from back when I toted around my 20 pounds of Pokémon cards wherever I went. Needless to say, it had been far too long, and though the circumstances had an underlying tone of the morbid, the atmosphere was much akin to the end of a Wes Anderson movie. It was three days of "Ooh La Lah", "Everyone", "Queen Bitch", and "Les Champs Elysses".
Music was a big thing over the weekend. I finally pulled off "Into the West" from the end of Return of the King and I could not get it out of my head (actually, it's still stuck in there), but it was so appropriate that I only encouraged its entrenchment by listening to it over and over again. Tim Stewart from the NC Symphony played a couple of pieces to accompany my brother, my sister and I, and he played the best taps that I've ever heard. No fitter ceremony for a magnificently lived life could have been given.
While I was in the States, it felt like everything was moving very slowly, that I would have plenty of time with my family and friends, an ample chance to grieve my loss and to recover; now that I am back in Poznan, it feels like everything moved to fast to be real, and that none of it really happened. The feelings are very confusing and difficult to master. I am incredibly sad about the great man that I have lost, but memories are still fresh enough and I have not truly come to grips with my Granddad's absence, so it seems as if I could return in a few weeks and see him out in the yard, doing what he always did. At the same time, I have said goodbye and I know that what I have left of him is the sizable portion of my own character which draws its strength from his being.
What this disparity leaves is a calm sadness and the overcoming desire to live gloriously. Glimpses of the past, mostly images of sitting at the table with my Granddad, or hugging him when he arrived and left my house three times a year, rise to the surface of my consciousness whenever concentration drifts, and these parsings make my heart heavy. But knowing that I got everything I could possibly get out of our relationship, and that he was following every step of this journey I am currently on, it pushes me past sadness and into a jump up and get busy mode. Before his death, life in Poznan had been stagnating, but I am now seeing beyond what kept me locked in earlier.
I have not yet let on my plans for after the next couple of weeks yet, I think. The research project was only supposed to last for 10 weeks and then we would all go home, but I have elected to stay on in Europe and do a bit of travelling on my own. After leaving Poznan, I will fly with the others for Frankfurt am Main, Germany and then take a train to Frankfurt Hesse where I will spend a day, doing what I don't know (maybe checking out the Deus Ex II location in Trier). Then I will fly to Zadar, Croatia and make my way down the coast to the town of Opuzen, where a recent acquaintance will be getting me in touch with a shepherd. I will spend the next three weeks shepping sheep, swimming in the warm, blue ocean, camping on the beach, and whittling my crook. Then I have to get back to Zadar, where I will fly to Edinburgh, Scotland.
Here is where I complete my encircling of the family tree. My Granddad came from a line of Scots, the Foster Clan, and I value this heritage just as much as that which stems from Polish soil. It pains me that, only now after he can no longer read my adventures, do I come around to mentioning this part of my trip and the importance that my Granddad's roots have to me. But in a way, I feel like he was always aware of this; it didn't necessarily need to be said.
It has taken much courage to get through some of the ordeals I have faced on this splendid sojourn into parts of the world previously unknown, courage that I can trace directly to experiences and lessons shared through my Granddad. Without his presence in my life, I would have turned out a much different person, and I don't know how much of this I would have been able to do. It is thus that I dedicate this trip and everything I have done and will do this summer to his memory. At his funeral, I spoke of the living's remembrances and how my Granddad's life was so powerful and affected so much that it could never be forgotten. And I spoke of the continuation of adventures, both those of the surviving and those that now await Granddad, in a far green country with a swift sunrise. There will be a day when I can have that country too, but until then I shall seek Fiddler's Green on Earth and I shall not forget, because I simply cannot, my Granddad. He is a part of me, and though the source is gone, its creation lingers and flourishes, rewriting its origins again and again in the minds of others.
I found it incredibly fitting that the 23rd psalm was explained during the funeral. This is a psalm for shepherds, and the reader gave advice on the actual art of shepherding during the service. It was as if I was simply receiving another lesson from a man hell bent on seeing his grandson succeed. There is none more fortunate in familial ties than I.
If you would like to read my speech, the link to the google doc is here: http://docs.google.com/View?id=dcwm2bz6_0d5wtxnhm
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