Sąsiedzi

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.