On Expat Communities

Being an expat is a funny thing.  When you live in a city with other expatriates there’s an automatic sense of community that often occurs upon meeting.  I would never just join a random conversation in a bar somewhere in the States, but overseas it’s a different story.  Last week I overheard an American guy talking in a mix of Polish and English and found myself going over just to say hi, and more than once I’ve had someone do the same to me.  Sometimes this leads to friendship, but often it’s just another expat saying hi and briefly connecting with a fellow American.  And it’s just completely normal; as American expats we’re the minority overseas, so why not at least be friendly to one another?  Warsaw is a busy European capital and there is quite an expat community.  There are several American events that take place here, like Superbowl parties and Thanksgiving dinners.  Were I to feel particularly homesick, I could easily reach out and meet with my fellow countrymen.  I don’t, but it’s nice to know I have the option.

This was not the case, though, in Pingdingshan.  For our first month in the city (a city of somewhere around five million people) Kristen and I just did not see other foreigners.  Because Pingdingshan is not really a tourist destination, it does not attract foreigners in the way that Beijing or Shanghai do.  Nor does it host big international companies that often employ an international staff.  We had been forewarned by our predecessor that there wasn’t really an expat community, but we just didn’t fully comprehend.  It’s one thing to hear stories of Americans in smaller Chinese cities where they are so noticeably foreign (or laowai, literally “outsider”), but it’s another to be the first foreigner a Chinese person has ever encountered.  Kristen had one Chinese girl so overwhelmed by meeting a foreigner that all she could do was hug Kristen and cry hysterically. 

In a lot of ways it was an amazing experience to fully immerse myself in a foreign culture.  Why go all the way to China if I’m going to have only expat friends?  I could do that in Idaho and save myself the torture of that long plane ride.  And because of this sort of isolation I really learned what life in an average Chinese city is like, an invaluable experience.  But still, there is something comforting about at least having an expat community to reach out to, to know there are others nearby who know exactly what you’re going through.  So when we heard of an American girl living in Pingdingshan, we immediately reached out. 

As soon as we met Jessie we loved her, not just because she was American, but because she was the coolest kind of American.  Jessie had purple tinged hair, a Chinese husband, and had been living in China for several years.  She speaks Chinese well and was full of helpful information—you can sometimes find cheese in this store, that store is the only one that actually sells deodorant, etc.  She’s the kind of American every American expat wants to be—open-minded, easy going, completely content living abroad and fully acclimated (I never saw her struggle with chopsticks or even blink at the lack of Western toilets at a bar or restaurant).  In a word, Jessie is cool.  And more importantly, Jessie was welcoming; as soon as she met us, we were a part of her circle.

Tea set from one of my first outings with our expat friends. We spent hours just drinking various types of Chinese tea, talking, and learning tidbits about tea culture in China. I love this picture because it's nice and the silver teapot was just lovely (this poor camera does not do it justice) , but to me this was the day I knew I'd found a circle of real friends. A good thing, too, because tea was followed by a very cramped drive to dinner; smashed up in the backseat with four other people is only fun when you're with new friends.

Also included in this circle was Jessie’s husband, LJ, one of the few Chinese men we ever met with long hair and beard; JiaJia, who became one of our most constant friends during the year; Sam, who would later include us in his seaside wedding; Dandy and Lizzie, a married couple who had been LJ’s friends in high school; and Peter, or Piotr, who was our resident Polish friend.  Yes, we left Poland to go to the middle-of-nowhere China and our tiny expat community included a Polish guy.  I have to digress here for a moment, in my travels I am constantly finding Oregon fans/alumni and Polish people—seriously, Oregon alumni in a fjord in Norway and a table of Polish guys behind me on an island in the Philippines so small that large portions of the island disappear into the sea during high tide.  My heart rejoices every time I encounter either. 

The first time I met this amazing circle of friends was over dinner at a hotel restaurant.  Coincidentally this was where I would ultimately meet with all them for the last time, too, but that’s a different story.  We gathered around the round table with its lazy susan, debated over what to order, and that was it; we were friends.  By the time we settled the bill and stood to go, plans were being made for the next meeting, and it wasn’t a question of “do you want to come?” but “what time can you be there?” 

From that first dinner with Jessie.  It was fish prepared in a
sweet and sour type sauce and topped with sprinkles.
Seriously.  Sprinkles.  Laughing over this really helped bond
us all.  So did laughing when I discovered that I'd managed to
dip half my hair into my bowl of soup.

That first night, as we got to know each other, Peter asked the classic getting-to-know-you question, “What are your plans for the next year?”  Kristen, who had been slowly losing the battle against homesickness, told him this would be her last year of living abroad.  I quietly told him that I’d been considering returning to Poland.  Peter, a long-term expat laughed and said things can change after a few months, after I’d fully adjusted.  I doubted it, but played along.  Eventually I did adjust, largely in part due to my friendship with this teeny expat community.  And Peter was right; a few months later I did decide to stay a second year in Pingdingshan.  I’m writing this in Warsaw, so clearly things changed, but that’s a different story.

Over the nine months I lived in Pingdingshan, Jessie and her expat community became some of my closest friends.  They were without a doubt the very best part of my life in China.  We had girls’ nights with smoothies Channing Tatum movies, taco night, and pizza night with cards and naughty Pictionary.  We had countless dinners and shared too many beers to remember.  We even shared a roadtrip and met with several of our friends in the Philippines for a short holiday that culminated in Sam’s wedding.  Over time we even managed to add a few more expats to our community, but that too is another story for a different day.

Cercando di la historia

Do you ever sit down to write and just find…nothing?  Not necessarily a lack of words but an inability to string those words and phrases into cohesive thought.  I’ve sat in front of a blank screen so many times, waiting for the words to come or for the right story to unfold.  Just waiting for genius to happen.  The longer I wait, the better the story needs to be to justify the gap in writing, and yet nothing comes.  More than once I’ve felt that spark of inspiration and rushed to put words down but when I stopped to read, the narrative rambled and digressed and I gave up and hit CTRL + A + Delete. 

In short, I’ve tried to write and it all came out crap.  Messy, unoriginal crap.  Well, I’ll be generous, it wasn’t all crap, but it never felt worthy of sending out into the world.  If I’m going to write and “publish,” it had better be good--or if not good--at least readable.  It should be my story with my voice, told from my unique, Jer-perspective.  I guess that’s why I indulge in this blog.

So here are some stories that didn’t make the cut:

•   The Last Minute Contract: A tale of adversity in which my friend/travel companion/partner-in-crime Kristen and I are interrupted in our quest to enjoy summer (I in Mallorca and Kristen in the States) to confront a questionable employer and a dodgy contract.  After several days conflict with the company, we, the heroines, retreat, fleeing our Beijing contract.  We next spent a week wending our way through the treacherous waters of job hunting and ended up signing a new contract and setting our sights on a new home: Pingdingshan.
•  The Misadventure of the Visa: In which I detail our quest for a Chinese visa.  First we languished, trapped in an ever-repeating cycle of “Your paperwork should arrive soon.”  Then we battled inane districting rules regarding the states and their corresponding Chinese consulates (a bit bitter on this point—WHY is Idaho represented by the District of Columbia and the Chinese embassy rather than ANY consulate closer to home?!)  But we conquered the obstacles, obtained visas, and booked our flights…nearly two months after we were supposed to arrive.
• The Story of Settling In: In which I list all the differences between the western world and my new home—coming face-to-face with my first “squattie pottie,” being noticeable foreigners in a place where foreigners are few and far between, being surrounded by characters rather than recognizable letters and words, etc.

Cheerful statue in a tea shop where I
had my first Chinese tea service

I thought about writing all these posts, but the thing is…they’re not new.  I’m not the first foreigner to encounter a shady contract from a school looking to hire native English speakers.  A quick Google search after we started having doubts about our contract revealed that countless teachers had had the exact same experience (several with our own company).  Nor am I the first person to attempt jumping through the multiple hoops in order to obtain a foreign visa.  In fact during my stay in China I helped two friends procure Chinese visas of their own, issuing my own letters of invitation to both (I felt quite official).  Again, during this process, a search on Bing (China and Google weren’t friends at the time) revealed several blog posts by people who had sought Chinese visas and had detailed their own trials and tribulations.  And finally, I am most definitely not the first person to immerse herself in a foreign culture and marvel at all the differences and wax prosaically about the culture shock. I mean come on, that’s why half of us have blogs. 

So one by one each post got the metaphorical axe.  The stories are entertaining, though, and they usually get a good laugh when I tell them over dinner or drinks (especially over drinks).  So perhaps after a while I’ll return, resurrect these tales and throw them out into the world.

Until then, and until I find the right words, I’m going to go back to the basics—a picture or two and a thought or an explanation as I start to tell a story—my story.  It starts in Pingdingshan, a city in He’nan Province, China, and ends (predictably?) in Warsaw, Poland.

From My Ex-Pat Diaries: Budapest

*An excerpt from my Ex-Pat Diaries, the European Chapters 

I’ve made several confessions on this blog, but this one I think was so obvious it didn’t really require saying it.  For those who do not know, though, here it is: I am a nerd.  Unquestionably.  Undeniably.  This is me.  Hello, my name is Jerica, and I am a nerd.

One of my nerdier traits is my love for sort of supernatural stories and science fiction.  I like Doctor Who and Marvel comic book movies.  I absolutely adored reading and watching The Lord of the Rings.  During my gap year my roommate’s boyfriend and I had movie marathons for both LOTR and the Alien movies.  Harry Potter completely rocked my world, and more recently, so did The Hunger Games.  And don’t even get me started on how much I adore everything that Joss Whedon has created. Seriously.  Firefly? Yes.  The Cabin in the Woods? Genius.  The script for The Avengers?  Straight up adored it!  And truly, vampires should exist only as Whedon has presented them—snarky, sexy, and slay-able; when staked, they die, dramatically transforming into a pile of dust.  They most definitely should not sparkle in the sun.

One of my nerdier guilty pleasures is Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian.  It’s pretty much tailor-made to suit me—a history and folklore-rich novel about Dracula told in the style of letters and memoirs and narrated from several points of view.  I downloaded the Audio Book years ago and probably once a year I listen again to the story as it wends its way through the cities and traditions of Eastern Europe.  When I accepted a contract from Poland, I noted to myself that the Carpathian Mountains (which feature prominently in the story) were near Poland and perhaps I’d one day see them.  During my first several months in Warsaw I heard reference to many places featured in The Historian, and I casually daydreamed of seeing them all—the dome of the Hagia Sophia, the winding canals of Venice, the Chain Bridge in Budapest.  And then came my chance—we were going to Budapest for Easter!

Szechenyi Bridge, or the Chain Bridge, connecting the cities
of Buda and Pest across the Danube River

As I mentioned in a previous post, the first leg of our journey was the Slovakian capital of Bratislava.  As I settled onto our bus from Warsaw, I switched on my freshly-charged iPod and started listening again to The Historian.  Although the narrative was broken by infrequent bouts of napping as we motored across the countryside, I had made a sizeable dent in the story by the time we reached Bratislava.  Once I stepped off the bus, however, the excitement of a foreign city pushed all thoughts of Dracula and vampire hunters from my brain.  There were Slovakian phrases to learn, cobbled streets to explore, and hot bowls of goulash to sample.  So naturally I was more than a bit surprised when we entered Bratislava Castle and I came face to face with an actual element of my book.

Gazing up at the magnificent Buda Castle

Our brochures informed us that we were seeing artifacts and archeological pieces from the life and times of Constantine and Methodius, brothers who changed the world.  Revered for their works with mission work and the Catholic Church throughout Eastern Europe, Constantine and Methodius are the patron saints of Europe.  Among their many contributions to humanity, they are responsible for creating the Cyrillic alphabet.  And, more relevant to my story, they are discussed at length (and even celebrated) during the major characters’ sojourn in Bulgaria. 

Admittedly, Brothers Cyril and Methodius (as they are referred to by Kostova) do not play a major role in The Historian.  Indeed, they are only referred to in passing; famous figures whose celebration provides Kostova the opportunity to describe a Bulgarian saint’s day, and the traditional music and food that accompany it.  For me, though, walking around the exhibit was surreal almost.  The castle I was standing in was stunning, but I knew nothing of its past or the royalty who had inhabited it.  The faces in the paintings and tapestries on the walls similarly sparked no recognition.  But here, in this small museum exhibit, these two sainted brothers felt familiar and real to me because I’d heard of them through a favorite book.  In a way, Kostova had brought to life one corner of history for me and now I got to confront it.  It was amazing.

This feeling continued as our journey continued into Budapest.  In the book two of the major characters travel to Budapest in their quest to find and destroy Dracula.  Much of the city’s stunning architecture does not appear in the novel, but an important scene takes place on the famous Szechenyi Chain Bridge.  As I walked up to the majestic lions that flank the entrance, I felt a thrill of excitement and recognition.  I could perfectly imagine the two characters standing where I was, similarly soaking up the impressive view of river and city as the sun slowly set.  This first real collision of fact and fiction, history and fantasy and tourism was almost magical and I walked across the bridge with feelings of delight and accomplishment in finally visiting somewhere from my book.  Was this the nerdy historian’s version of a little girl seeing Sleeping Beauty’s castle for the first time?

Gorgeous carved lions guard both entrances to the Bridge

Since visiting Budapest I have had similar moments where history and/or fiction have converged with my present, my reality.  These moments strike like lightning—BAM! recognition! and they leave me with a mix of emotions.  There’s excitement at seeing something I’ve only ever read or heard about before.  I feel awe and humility at the sheer impressiveness of history.  And I feel pride in myself for having gone out into the world to see this site and experience this moment.  It’s pretty damn cool.

Standing at a lookout point on Buda Hill and taking in the breathtaking view.
I have loved each city I've visited, but Budapest holds a particularly
special place in my heart. It is a city I cannot wait to return to.

From My Ex-Pat Diaries: Bratislava

*An excerpt from my Ex-Pat Diaries, the European Chapters

Although I moved to Warsaw in mid-August 2012, work put such a demand on my time and energy that I didn't really travel until Easter of the following year.  When I did start, however, I quickly set about making up for lost time.  My first stop was the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava.

My story of Bratislava starts in Warsaw on Good Friday.  Although it was late March/early April, the Polish winter had been long and unforgiving.  The days were grey and short, filled with far too much snow and low, low temperatures.  That particular morning had seen sporadic snowfall that in the afternoon had steadied and intensified.  As my travel companions and I ventured across the city, we were slapped in the face by wind and big, wet snowflakes.  The snow had started to accumulate on the ground as well, so we were forced to drudge through inches of slushy snow as we trekked to our metro station, dampening shoes, socks, and spirits.  By the time we reached our bus we were soggy and cold.

Once we were on the bus, though, things started to perk up.  The heater was on and as soon as I situated myself in a chair I eased my boots off to allow both boots and socks to air dry.  I snuggled into my chair, cushioned by scarf, sweater, and coat and started to relax.  I had downloaded a 1920s copy of Vanity Fair earlier that day, so I happily worked away at my sandwich and marveled over the variety of Jazz Age ads as the bus motored its way across the countryside.

Attempting to be my best European traveling self

Because we’d had to work a full day at preschool, we’d also had to book tickets for a later hour and therefore did not leave Warsaw until early evening.  With bathroom breaks and scheduled stops included, the drive to Bratislava took about 10 hours.  Our plan was to sleep on the bus so that as soon as we arrived we could set about seeing as much as possible.  We arrived to an empty bus station at 4:45 a.m., and groggily gathering our things, bundled into our multitude of layers and stepped out into Slovakia.

Our first mission was to find the train station and buy tickets to Budapest.  A quick ATM withdrawal and a debate over a tiny tourist map and we were off.  At the train station we freshened up, slapping on fresh eyeliner and concealer to hide evidence of a sleepless night on bumpy roads.  And then we made our first mistake, spurning the busy diner in the station for a more authentic Slovakian café. 

Now, in the U.S., much of the city is still asleep at 5 in the morning, but some brave barista has already stumbled out of bed and into the coffee shop to serve the earliest caffeine addicts.  My two friends and I were all American and, unfortunately, arrived in Bratislava with the American misconception that coffee shops everywhere open early.  But this was Europe.  On a Saturday.  Nothing was open. 

So we explored the beautiful streets of the Old Town snapping photos and trying to ignore the chill in the air and our increasingly damp socks.  Through aimless wandering we discovered the Town Hall, several historic buildings of state, and beautiful chapels.  We cozied up to numerous bronze statues for cultural selfies and mimicked the faces of gargoyles.  We caught our first glimpse of the Danube River and the royal castle sitting perched above the city.  All the while, though, we returned frequently (and fruitlessly) to the main square to see if any early bird cafés had opened. 

By 8 a.m. we were ready to admit defeat.  The snow and ice on the ground had melted into a slush that had seeped into our boots and soaked our feet.  Our bellies were growling our brains were screaming for caffeine.  We were nearing that ugly point where friendship ends and hungry crankiness takes over.

In the main square of Old Town

And then we saw salvation—two iconic yellow arches beckoning to us, promising coffee and a hot breakfast.  McDonald’s.  We happily descended upon the sleepy restaurant, greedily ordering two hot breakfasts each and large, large coffees.  At first we ate quietly, but around the second breakfast and a safe distance into the coffee we finally returned to ourselves, laughing and joking at our situation.  We had come all this way—driven ten hours across hundreds of miles and  crossing international borders—and we were happily munching away on McDonald’s food. 

By breakfast’s end we had happy tummies, thawing feet, fresh, dry socks, and we were somewhat loathe to leave.  To prolong the visit, I went to the bathroom.  As I stood rearranging my many layers of scarf and jackets, I heard rustling and giggling in the stall next to me.  Then, as my friend and I made our way back to the table, she confessed to me that she’d solved our wet feet problem.  The bathroom stalls had held small disposable plastic baggies for depositing sanitary items into before throwing them into the garbage.  She had wrapped her feet in these baggies before putting them back into her shoes, insulating her feet against the slushy streets.  She was the giggling rustler in the stall next to mine.  She was also a genius.  My other friend and I quickly followed suit.

Entering the castle grounds

And so we emerged back onto the streets of Bratislava reenergized and better prepared for the rest of our day.  Ultimately we would tour the royal castle, visit the famous Blue Cathedral, and gorge ourselves on Slovakian goulash before exhaustedly collapsing into our train car to Budapest that evening.  And we did it all with dry(ish) feet.  And while I have beautiful memories of the city, its people, and its architecture, I cannot think of Bratislava without thinking of plastic baggies on feet or the absolute delight I felt biting into my McDonald’s breakfast sandwich.

On our train ride to Budapest, MK blow dried her still-damp boots
before weatherizing them with another coat of water-resist polish

On Memory

Memory is a funny thing.

 It shifts and changes with time, altering to fit mood and desire.  A person can absolutely hate an experience, but time and good cheer can work together to color the memory and make it happy and loved.  In my travels I have seen this happen more than once to an unhappy traveler—a city despised and disliked transforms with time into a much-loved haven of happiness.  Fickle memory, as inconstant as the moon.

But memory can be honest as well, and surprising.  A small occurrence or chance happening can trigger a memory so clear, so vivid that it be said to be truly relived.  Here the senses are our greatest ally.  Smell can activate a memory; the smell of leather and horses always takes me back to the summer I spent learning to ride in the foothills of Pocatello, while the smell of a certain cologne always reminds me of a long-ago love.  Sound, too, plays on the memory.  Van Morrison’s greatest hits will forever bring to mind my parents dancing in the living room of my childhood home, a happy feeling I turn to when I feel particularly homesick.  In my recent travels, songs have taken a place of importance in memory—Michel Teló’s “Ai Se Eu Te Pego” takes me immediately to Mexico and the fun and friends I found there, while the Dirty Dancing classic “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” brings to mind (and a smile to my lips) a night of dancing in Prague.  These memories brought forward by music are as precious as the souvenirs I have collected.

One of my many literary travel companions

Books, too, recall various memories.  Books read in my childhood bring back feelings of happiness and fond remembrance (except for Where the Red Fern Grows, which I read in a middle school class and remember vividly trying pathetically to hide my profuse tears and running nose from the kids around me.  I failed.)  Books read for school evoke a spectrum of feelings—Eureka Street always brings me the thrill of discovering a new favorite, while the mere mention of Foucault makes my brain groan involuntarily.  Here, too, travel has had an influence.  I have lived two years in a foreign country, so each book read has been in a foreign (if not eventually familiar) environment.  I read passages of Nostromo on a beach in Mexico and the two complemented each other beautifully, while I read Persuasion in a German airport on an eight-hour layover.  The drama of the love story and the anticipation of a happy ending saved me from absolute boredom that day. The Lord of the Rings brings back my spring of European travels while The Great Gatsby takes me to the 141 in Warsaw, and desperately trying to finish my chapter as I walked from bus stop to preschool.  The memory of each story—its characters and plot—is thus tied entirely to my own memories of travel and experience. 

After almost two years I finally left Europe.  I am spending a brief visit at home and then I will go to China, where I will encounter new smells, sounds, and memories.  Since becoming sort of an ex-pat, this blog has been less about the books I have read and more about the places I’ve seen and the experiences I’ve had.  So while I do not intend to entirely abandon my goal of reading my list of greatest novels, this will no longer be the focus of my blog.  Instead, as I continue to read and travel, the two will continue to intertwine in experience and memory and I will do my best to record both here. 

"A Postcard From...Mallorca"

My adorable imp writing a
postcard to mom
and dad

Over the last year the English teachers of my preschool were involved in a project we called the “Postcard Project.”  Essentially, it was a seven week course of lessons devoted to the study of seven countries, one week for each country.  Spread out throughout the school year, these Postcard weeks were a break from our standard lessons—a holiday of sorts, in which we “traveled” to a foreign country to learn about its language, culture, and peoples.  Each day of the week was dedicated to a particular element unique to the country, like art, history, music, etc.  At the end of each set of lessons, the children would create their own postcard to sum up their experience of the latest country.  The idea was a friend’s, and after she retired from the project, I took the reins.  To switch metaphors for one more accurate,

 I adopted the project and made it my own baby, choosing countries to study and searching for fun and innovative ways to learn about a foreign culture.  The project was overall a success.  My children loved the opportunity to learn about a new country, even requesting to return to popular subjects (like language and food) and eagerly anticipating the next installation of the project.  After a year of thinking in terms of preschool planning and “A Postcard From…” lessons, my brain can’t help but revert when thinking of how to describe my time in Mallorca.  So why fight it? 

Learning about Indonesian spices
by engaging their senses

Trying to pick up felt food using
chopsticks as we study about China

Day One: “An Introduction”

One of the great tourist draws in Palma, the
Gothic Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma is
a vast and dramatic cathedral that sits on a
hilltop in Palma, overlooking the city and
adding majesty to its skyline

Mallorca is an island set in the Mediterranean and Balearic seas.  Although it is a part of Spain, the common language is not Spanish but Catalan.  The residents can speak Spanish (or Castellano) but largely prefer Catalan, which, to my ears, is a blend of Spanish, French, and Italian.  The island itself is charming, dotted with hills and valleys, flat fields and hearty trees and an abundance of sheep.  The island is comprised primarily of villages and towns, with only one real city, the major city of Palma.  Although it is a small island (only --- square miles) and most of the villages are only a 10-15 minute drive from one another, each village exists as its own entity, even developing their own accents and manners of speaking.  A true Mallorcan local can  distinguish a speaker from Son Serverá or from Manacor based on accent in the way that an American can spot a New York or Boston accent.

I live in the Mallorcan countryside, surrounded by wooded hills and fields of sparse grass and many sheep.  Each sheep on the island has a collar with a bell, so that when it moves, the bell rings and tinkles.  During the daytime the sheep sleep under trees and are docile in the heat, but at night the air is full of the sound of bells and a chorus of bleating and bahhhhing.  The days are hot, but breezes move through the trees to cool the midday heat, and from our position on a hill, we can see the sea sparkling in the distance.  It's perfection.

The Cuevas del Drach, or the Dragon Caves, in Porto Cristo
are stunning and vast caves with stalactites, stalagmites,
and underground lakes galore.  The tour includes a classical
concert on this lake.  It is magical.

Coming in from the countryside, Mallorca hosts a multitude of summertime festivities to celebrate its many saints and patrons.  Each village has its own saint to celebrate, and the festivities include all-night parties and music and, in some cases, fire-wielding demons who dance to drums and scale lampposts to set off sparklers and small fireworks.   Many of the villages also host a weekly market where vendors come to sell their wares.  The market of Artá is quite vast and very popular with tourists.  By 11 a.m. one can hardly walk the streets, they are so packed with shoppers browsing the selections of jewelry, leather purses and wallets, and homemade Mallorcan soaps.  Even better are the smells from the freshly baked Mallorcan pizzas and pastries as they tempt shoppers and locals alike.

A glimpse of the sea from a countryside hilltop

The real draw for tourists, though, is the plethora of beaches Mallorca offers.  In the three weeks I have been here, I have been to more than ten beaches, and only returned to one more than once.  Some of the beaches are small, an inlet between two outcroppings of rock and land, while other beaches span large distances and offer spectacular views.  On all beaches, though, the water is warm and gentle and that impossibly clear blue-green color the Mediterranean is famous for.  There aren’t words for how beautiful and picturesque the beaches are, how majestic the sea, and how enchanting the views.  The muted tones of the houses—white, cream, and soft hues of pink and yellow—contrast beautifully with the blues and greens of the sea, enhancing and complementing both perfectly.  Every time we approach a new beach, my breath catches and I resolve anew to always live near the sea.  And I am not the only one with this thought; the island is teeming with tourists, primarily from Germany and from England, though my ear has caught snippets of French and Italian and once (I think) Russian.  Many of the restaurant signs I see in villages are trilingual—Spanish, German, and English.  A tour I took of the Cuevas del Drach (the Dragon Caves) included information in Spanish, German, English, French, and Italian.  And, to my absolute delight, I have even encountered some Polish—a farm building between the villages of Artá and Son Serverá has been tagged with “Dzisiaj też cię kocham” (Today I love you too). 

Well, random graffiti artist, you nailed it.  Dla ciebie też. 

Mallorca, ja bardzo bardzo BARDZO lubię cię!

...

In my role as "Ciocia," or "Auntie"

For the past two years my job has been to talk.  During my formal lessons I had to teach my children the day’s vocabulary and phrase structures, to give them instructions, guidance, and (often) reprimand.  After my lessons finished, though, the talking did not cease.  I maintained a constant flow of words around my children: narrating my activities, asking them questions about their day, talking to them about their work, their toys, etc., and answering their constant little questions of, “Ciocia, what you are doing?” and “Ciocia, what this is? What this is for?” Formally I was an English teacher, but my English lessons lasted for only 45 minutes; the rest of the time I was a preschool teacher, teaching the children how to eat properly, how to play nicely, and how to go about their daily activities.  In essence, my job was to teach my children how to be functioning human beings, all the while speaking to them/with them/at them in English.  And every day was filled with, “Don’t touch that!” “Chairs stay on the floor.” “Who hit you?” “We don’t say that word!” and “It’s okay, mama will be here later.”

It’s not surprising, really, that after eight hours of words each day with my children, I lost my voice.  Not literally, of course, my actual voice remained somewhat intact (if not a bit hoarse after a particularly grueling day), but my writer’s voice.  I spent all my words in forming and shaping my children, and at the end of the day, I would sit down to write, to update my adventures, but the words would not come. 

I tried more than once to remedy this situation.  I read travel writing blogs for inspiration and came away impressed and with a renewed sense of purpose.  I would write, I would become a writer…tomorrow.  Most days found me too tired to try to write, and on the days where I had the energy, I still couldn’t find the words.  I couldn’t find the right start.  So I read tips for “Finding Your Voice,” and experimented with the various suggestions—write in a crowded café, free write, write it in a letter to a friend, etc.  But I just couldn’t start.  Or I would start, write a few paragraphs, and hate everything I came up with.  The words just weren’t right.

So I gave up.  I stopped trying to be a writer to focus on the present.  I refocused my energy on my children, my work, and my friends.  The result is that, while this blog suffered from neglect, my life did not.  I left Warsaw a very different person than the one who arrived; indeed, I am much different from the girl who wrote this last post almost a year ago.  My Polish is better (I can order food without the server making the “pity switch” to English and I can almost carry on a conversation about certain topics), my photo album is fuller, and my heart is full to bursting with love for the city and the people I found in Warsaw.  And my children, oh my children!  They now say “yes, please” and “no thank you” and most of them speak English with much more confidence and ease than when I began.  And (best of all) they stopped viewing me as the English teacher and (I think) came to regard me with real affection and warmth.  And for my part, I showered them with attention, love, and far too many hugs.

When I wasn't "Ciocia" or "Miss Jerica," I was just Jerica, relaxing
in the park with my friends, or drinking too much piwo, and
probably laughing way too hard

I regret that I wasn’t able to update this blog with stories of my adventures—my parents’ visit this autumn, my second Christmas in Worcester, Easter in Prague, spring in the park with new and old friends—but in retrospect, I would not have sacrificed a moment of it to struggle over the right words.  I am on holiday now, where much of my day is spent in quiet thought and memory; I have my voice again, and I will try to recount some of what has passed.