Europe Year

When I was 18 I spent ten days traveling around Italy with my mother.  I saw famous works of art, spoke in snippets of Italian, and ate a lot of gelato.  I chased chickens in a tiny village outside of Rome and got a fashionable haircut at a salon in Florence.  I loved every minute of my trip.  From that time I have had the urge to travel again--to see, to do, to taste.  In college I would scour the Internet for affordable flights to someplace new.  Sometimes I found amazing deals and would spend hours daydreaming of an Irish holiday or a beach-bound getaway until I remembered reality.  I had school or work or a dwindling bank account.  This was not the right time for travel, but someday.... 

My last night in Mexico I promised these two we'd
see each other again in Europe.
We reunited for Christmas in Worcestershire.

Two years ago, bored with my dead-end job and the dull routine of commute/work/commute/Netflix, I decided it was finally time to make "someday" happen.  

Outside the Blue Church in Bratislava

I can say with absolute sincerity that in all my daydreams of travel, I never dreamed of Mexico or of Poland.  When I imagined myself living and teaching abroad, I pictured Italy or Costa Rica--somewhere glamorous, sexy, desirable.  I dreamed of a destination that others would secretly envy, and rural Mexico and Poland just didn't seem to fit that bill.  The name Poland always seemed to conjure up images of a grim, formerly Soviet state with harsh lines in its environment and its people.  This is the bias of those who have only traveled in Western Europe.  When people asked me if I would consider staying in Warsaw longer than my one-year contract, I didn't say no, but I secretly doubted that I would.  Now my year here has expired and as I prepare for the next year here, I cannot even think about leaving.  Not yet.

And now that I've officially reached August 10, the day a year ago I landed in Warsaw, I feel bound by sentimentality to make some sort of post.  I have survived a year of Polish weather and its vindictive volatility  (seriously, it was boiling hot yesterday afternoon and pouring torrential rain last night) and I have survived the equally vindictive Polish wódka.  I've survived Polish travel and Polish grocery stores.  Most importantly, I have survived interactions in Polish.  It has been trying, frustrating, humiliating, and humbling, and I've loved it all.  

Looking down from Buda Hill in Budapest, Easter 2013

My last night in Tehuacan, between shots of tequila and goodbye hugs, I promised my friends that we would meet again within a year.  Next year, I swore, next year would be Europe Year, the year I went to Europe to travel, teach, and live a glamorous ex-pat life.  I like to think that since coming to Warsaw, I've done well living up to that goal.

Midnight in Logrono: giggling with my best friend as we
discovered this musical park outside the town's science museum

Sunset on the beach in Sopot, just after I dipped my toes in the Baltic Sea

Riding the Flåmsbana from Myrdal to Flåm in Norway.  Not 

a bad view, eh?

Reverting to my natural state of "little kid excitement" as
we approach the carriage house and see the carriage and
horses at Łańcut Castle outside of Rzeszow

Overlooking Lake Hancza in the Suwalszczyzna, or the
Suwalki region in Northeastern Poland

Happy Toes!  Sunbathing on the Black Sea in Burgas, Bulgaria

...On Reading

I haven’t written much about my reading list since coming to Warsaw.  I’ve been so preoccupied with life in this foreign city that my project has become rather secondary to the business of life and survival.  But I have been reading—

My first book was Roald Dahl’s Going Solo.  I read Dahl’s first memoir, Boy, when I was nine (also, interestingly, while living abroad) and I was eager to reacquaint myself with Dahl’s adventures.  Going Solo details Dahl’s life after school, his early adventures in Africa, and his experiences flying with the RAF.  It is a wonderful, exciting and surprisingly touching account, full of the English schoolboy spirit that I have heretofore expressed a love for (perhaps I got some of that from Boy?).

I actually read King Solomon's Mines as an ebook off of
my smartphone, which made it both convenient (for bus
travel) and inconvenient (for obvious reasons).

After finishing Going Solo, I turned to King Solomon’s Mines by Henry Rider Haggard.  Like Going Solo, King Solomon’s Mines is an entertaining adventure of British spirit and derring-do.  Having previously encountered Allan Quartermain, the novel’s narrator, I was curious to read his tales of Africa, and few things appeal to me like a hunt for buried treasure (thank you Indiana Jones).  Set in Africa and peppered with all sorts of characters ranging from British aristocracy and military to African tribal nobility, I’m sure that it would make a fascinating study of British colonialist attitude and racism (though, as I write this, it occurs to me that as there are studies abound of gender, race, sociology, etc. on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Star Wars, someone or many someones have made their extensive studies of King Solomon’s Mines, so I’ll move on).

After my flirtation with the British schoolboy mentality, I moved into a haze of novels by Michael Crichton and John Grisham—a two to three month indulgence in paperback fiction that was thrilling and entertaining, but not necessarily enriching of mind or soul. 

• Rising Sun, Michael Crichton: A sort of business corporate thriller involving Japanese businesses in California and a couple of disillusioned detectives.  Brief, but decent.
• Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton.  JP, dude, JP.  ‘Nuff said.
• The Andromeda Strain, Michael Crichton: Gripping and fascinating.  It’s a short novel that almost made me miss my bus stop more than once.
• The Broker, John Grisham: I’ve actually read this several times, but when I saw it on sale at my favorite bookstore, I had to buy it.  The main character, a former broker in the Washington, D.C. political game, is secretly relocated to Bologna, Italy, where he indulges in amazing Italian food and forces his brain to adopt a new language.  While my own situation is far, far from similar to the Broker’s, it was fun to read about an adventure in a foreign land and someone’s struggles with a foreign tongue.  Although, I must say, I’d take learning Italian over learning Polish any day.  As I’ve said so so so many times before, Polish is effing hard!

In January, motivated primarily by the delightful experience of watching The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, I bought myself a copy of The Hobbit and set about devouring it.  Although I’d listened to it years ago as a book-on-tape, I remembered very little, so it was like experiencing the story for the first time and I loved every minute of it.

My beautiful and much traveled books--The Fellowship was
purchased in England, The Two Towers came with me to
Slovakia and Hungary, while The Return of the King
accompanied me to Spain.  

After finishing The Hobbit I finally made my return to my reading project, turning (appropriately enough) to The Lord of the Rings.  While Warsaw does not have every book I’ve wanted (and my local Empik seems to have more soft-core vampire porn lit than anything else) I was able to find copies of The Two Towers and The Return of the King.  I wasn’t, however, able to locate a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring until I went to Worcestershire for Christmas (Worcestershire, incidentally, was Tolkein's own Shire, and I kept my eyes peeled constantly, hoping for a glimpse of a hobbit!) .  Fortunately for my own pretty-book loving self, all three books are from the same publisher, so their jacket covers are all similar in style and design—elvish runes set upon a stark, black background.  I think Tolkein would approve.  While I do want to write more about LOTR, this is not the post for that, so I will save that for another day.  I do, however, want to finish with this one last note.

I love my copies of The Lord of the Rings and it delights me that I was able to find editions from the same publisher.  They have one small quirk, though.  In keeping with the fact that the Lord of the Rings is not a trilogy, but one continuous story broken into six books and three volumes, The Two Towers and The Return of the King do not start at page 1, but (I think) both pick up where the last book ended.  I have to qualify this statement with “I think” because the page numbers in each of my books do not match up.  My copy of The Fellowship of the Ring ends on page 407 while my copy of The Two Towers starts on page 537 and ends on 971, and my copy of The Return of the King starts on 977.

My copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, published in 2011, is the newest of the trio, and is the biggest in page size, which I think accounts for the discrepancy in page numbers between it and The Two Towers.  Since it has absolutely zero effect on the story, I find this little quirk charming and I like to pretend that these missing pages exist somewhere, containing lost text—some heretofore unknown story in the epic quest of hobbits, elves, and men.  It makes me happy.

Snippets

Elevated Lit on My Lunch Break

I've taken to reading clippings from the New York Review of Books during my lunch break and during my daily bus commute. The former scholar in me stirs to life as I read reviews and responses to new books, films, and the occasional TV show. My heart positively swells whenever I read a review of a familiar history and I find passages or statements upon which I, too, can comment with confidence.

There are many, many ways to my heart, and one of those ways is through my undiminished love for my country and its forefathers.  True story: in grad school a friend kept a board of quotes made by fellow students. My favorite quote, besides the classic “You can read Foucault in hell,” which perfectly sums up my thoughts on that subject, was from a fellow student of American history. I forget the context, but the quote read something like, “(My) greatest obstacle: I just can't stop loving America.” So true. Despite her failings, shortcomings, and disappointments, I just can't stop loving her too.

Another way is to present a sentence that rings with clarity, passion, truth, or beauty. Today's clipping, a review of Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln from January, managed to weave together both. After praising playwright Tony Kushner's script, Daniel Day-Lewis' delivery, and (most of) Spielberg’s decisions, the review considered the film’s anachronisms and all-out departures from historical accuracy. In the end, the reviewer seemed to decide that while peppered with inaccuracies, the film and its message are “honorable” (a beautiful verdict if I ever read one). The reviewer then closes with this perfect observation of both film and history:

“Democracy, as Lincoln points out with sufficient plainness, discovers its justification not in emergency actions but in the ordinary and difficult work of passing laws, and the daily dedication of people who agree to live by laws.”*

This, paired with the fact that my children ate their lunch with relative speed and silence and minimal complaints, made for an almost perfect lunch break.

*David Bromwich, "How Close to Lincoln? Lincoln a film directed by Steven Spielberg," New York Review of Books, January 10, 2013, 10.

The True Confessions of a Bad Teacher

I should preface this with the fact that I love my children. After nine months with them, I love them as if they were my own. They comprise as much of my world here as my friends do, and they are one of the major reasons for my decision to remain in Warsaw a second year.

That being said, sometimes they push me to my very limits.

My youngest child turned four in December; my oldest child will turn seven sometime this spring. At this age they each have distinct personalities with strong attitudes and opinions. They are as volatile as I am--one minute they love me, they listen with rapt attention, and they are excited for English, and the next they hate English and everything to do with it (including me).

To deal with this, I have learned that one must laugh whenever possible. It's not the greatest strategy--sometimes it encourages bad behavior--but for the most part it works to get me through the day.

Here are some of the things I've found humor in:

When I asked why the dollies were
hanging out naked, I was
informed that they (the dolls) wished it,
and that settled that.

1. My kids like to contort their Barbies into inappropriate or physically impossible positions. I am compiling an album of these for family and friends to laugh at. I am aware of the wrongness of it all.

2. In the same vein, my kids tend to leave their Tinkerbell and Friends dolls laying around naked and in...er...compromising positions. I also document these incidents for future laughs. This is not limited to just fairy dolls, however. For example, at the moment our classroom teddy bear is engaged in a rather aerobic three way with Mickey Mouse and a one-armed baby doll. I can't even make this shit up.

My children have excellent
table manners...

3. I catch myself uttering inane or absurd or just plain insane sentences like:

• “Honey, don't smell your shoes, that's icky.”
• “Honey, don't lick your socks.”
• "Oh my God, did you just lick your shoe?"
• “Honey, you have ham in your hair! How did you get ham in your hair?!”
• "Honey, we don't use our toothbrush to clean the bathroom."

4. I have had equally ridiculous conversations, like:

Me: “What are you doing, kiddo?”

Child: “Me? I am doing what you see me doing.”

Me: “How did this tea get all over the table? Were we playing with the cup?”

Child: “No!”

Me: “So it jumped out of the cup and onto the table?”

Child: “YES!”

5. My children are obsessed with Star Wars and love to hum the main Star Wars theme and the Imperial March. Sometimes I like to play the Indiana Jones theme just to fuck with them.  It amuses me every time.
6. Sometimes the more annoying toys that my children love manage to...disappear conveniently on days when my nerves are wearing thin.

7. I am aware that this makes me a bad teacher and something of a terrible human being. I am okay of this knowledge.

It would seem that I am not alone in all of this. I have a friend who works as an au pair for two children in Germany. As I was writing my “Confessions,” I saw her Facebook status: "When the comeback I've concocted in my head lacks sufficient zing to suck the wind out of my 11 year old's sails, i resort to correcting his grammar. He in turn gets more pissed while i in turn find some sort of warped joy. It's a vicious but enjoyable circle. Try it."

As I told her, it's good to know I'm not alone.

Viva la Vida

A glass of Rioja red, my Ex-Pat Diaries, and
Jerica Mercado, sitting in El Plaza del Mercado.
This is as close to awesome as it gets.

Sitting in a café/bar called Café del Mercado sipping my (second) Rioja wine, writing and letting the sounds of conversations in English and Spanish flow over me. The day has been relaxed and casual--un café con leche here, un helado there as my much-abused brain struggles to string together sentences in Spanish after eight months of learning Polish. Already I have said "tak" when I should have said "sí" and "dzień dobry" when I ought to have said "buenos tardes," but the people are gracious and patient with my fumbling self, and I trust that in time my vocabulary will return.

As I sit here though, I cannot help but feel like the luckiest girl. Just over a year ago I was sitting in sunny, beautiful, most-loved Mexico; just over a month ago I was drinking wine in Budapest, the most beautiful city I've ever seen; and just days ago I was drinking wine with my good friend on her balcony in Warsaw, the city I now call home. At the end of the month I will visit Gdansk (Poland) and Bergen (Norway). And at the moment I am getting pleasantly tipsy in Logroño, Spain. I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't get much better than this.

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.

From My ExPat Diaries: Sarita and the Dance of the Swan

As an ESL teacher in a preschool, I spend most of my time worrying that I have no impact on my children.  On my bad days I know with some surety that to my kids, I am nothing more than a pesky fly, pestering them with buzzing words of a foreign language.  I am an annoying and only occasionally amusing presence who prevents them from playing with their LEGOs.  On my good days, though, I mostly know that this is not the case. 

"I am Rico! Where's Kovalski?...Evaporation!"  Still not sure
how it fit into a game about cartoon penguins, but who am I
to question "kid logic"

During our most recent project, two weeks of intensive exploration of water in its various shapes and forms, I spent a day teaching the water cycle.  We spent two hours playing with and experimenting with evaporation, condensation, saturation, and precipitation.  Later that day I heard one of my six-year-olds shout “EVAPORATION!” like it was an interjection in a comic book.  Instead of BAM! or POW!, he opted for “EVAPORATION!” and ran off to continue his game of “Penguins of the Madagascar.”  It probably wasn’t the correct context, but this child remembered a word I’d taught him, so I’m counting it as a victory.

This last Thursday we concluded a week of lessons about music.  We learned the names of instruments, listened to various genres, we discussed what we liked or disliked, and we listened to music to hear the emotion or the story it conveyed.  For this last activity we listened to the awakening beauty of the sunrise in Peer Gynt and the violin’s heartbreaking melancholy; we listened to clips of Beethoven’s Fifth and Ninth Symphonies, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and (humorously) Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.”  To end the lesson, I told them that often dance can also express musical sentiment and to illustrate, I showed them a video of a ballerina dancing the death of the swan from Swan Lake.  My girls exclaimed over the poignant beauty of the music and the dancer’s grace as she fluttered and floated to her tragic end.  I then played clips from Glenn Miller and ABBA and asked them to dance the way the music felt and we laughed as they tried to shake, rattle, and roll to “Dancing Queen.”

Later that day, after playtime, lunch, and naptime, I was working on lesson plans as the children had free playtime.  My partner put on a CD mix of Polish songs and classical music for the children to listen to as they played their individual and organized games.  During one particularly sweet piece of classical music, my partner Aneta whispered to catch my attention; I looked up and saw that my Sarita was dancing Swan Lake.

Now although I shouldn’t have favorite children, I have to admit that Sarita is one of my favorite children.  Quiet and small, Sarita is often drowned out by the four boisterous boys in her age group and she is often ruled over by her two more dominant friends.  In six months of work together, though, I have seen her grow in confidence and strength, and occasionally I see her challenge the other children and hold her own ground.  And although I have to tell her to be quiet and to sit on her bum, I am inwardly delighted to see her meeting the world head-on.  As I watched Sara dance the dance of a swan, I felt a similar feeling of pride and delight.  Sara wasn’t using any of the words that I’d taught, but she was moving her arms and gliding just as the Russian ballerina had.  Watching her, it was clear that the lesson had resonated with her, and when she heard the classical music, she decided to dance her own childish but graceful imitation.  It was perfectly beautiful and touching.  It is moments like this that make my “pesky fly” days more easy to endure.