So this
morning I was indulging in my favorite Saturday morning activity—watching/listening
to QI while making breakfast and slowly eating a spoonful of peanut butter—when
my doorbell rang. Now this is an unusual
occurrence. I live in a building with a
buzzer, so if guests are arriving, I buzz them in and because I live on the
first floor, I can easily greet them as soon as they step in the outer door and
the doorbell is rendered unnecessary. So
I was quite startled to hear this rather foreign sound.
Also, I was in a t-shirt and underwear with winter unshaved legs and my
greasy hair pulled into a sloppy topknot and frankly alarmed at having to receive
company.
I opened
the door and was greeted by two well-dressed gentlemen. (This rendered my current appearance even more horrifying). We exchanged Polish “good mornings” and then one
launched into his spiel. This is the
point where I allowed my usual look of abject panic and fear to show as a
precursor to my “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Polish” disclaimer. Worried that this was some sort of official
building visit, I started searching my memory for any sort of Polish phrases I
could muster to find what these men wanted.
Then two things happened simultaneously.
The first was that one of my upstairs neighbors came down the stairs and briefly locked eyes with me. Her
expression was priceless: she had that “wide-eyed and engaged in silent
communication” look which, accompanied with the quick, furtive shake of her
head, plainly shouted “NO, send them away!” As she
gave me this silent message, the gentleman speaking to me handed me a flier
that, although in Polish, was clearly from one of those Christian groups who
believe that the end is coming sometime next week and we must all prepare
ourselves immediately. I now understood
my neighbor’s wordless warning. Fortunately
neither gentlemen spoke English and after reasoning out loud that they didn't understand English and I didn't speak Polish, they decided that this particular heathen American with greasy
hair, inappropriate dress, and hairy legs would just have to fend for
herself. They departed quickly.
Living
so far away from friends and family means that I do have to fend for
myself. In a country where my language
skills are rather limited, everything from purchasing a new face wash to
finding the right night bus is a challenge that, if accomplished, is a major
victory. But I’ve been in Warsaw for
exactly seven months now and it appears that I’ve established myself as some
sort of a presence in my neighborhood.
Most of the employees at my local Carrefour know me, know that I don’t speak
Polish, and know that I’m bound to make at least one stupid mistake per
visit (true story. This most recent trip it was that I printed out a sticker for red grapefruit, or grejpfrut czerwony, when I had selected grejpfrut biały, or white grapefruit, and had to make everyone wait as I reprinted the correct sticker). And a fair amount of my neighbors
seem to know me, or know that I speak English because they greet me with “hello”
rather than “dzień dobry.” I use this
sometimes. I like to think of myself as
the “Crazy American” and I let this status account for any odd behavior, like dancing
my way back from the dumpster or allowing for a momentary rock out as I ascend
the stairs. “Is that a mental person on
someone having a seizure there on the sidewalk?” “No, that’s just the Crazy
American.” But it would appear that I am
more than just the Crazy American, I think I have become an actual neighbor, a
member of this building community worthy of casual protection, if only from
eager Christians with an "urgent message."
It’s a
nice feeling.
