My First Impressions of Warsaw

While it pains me to admit, I must confess that my first weekend in was primarily spent recovering from my exhausting day of travel (a full 16 hours of flight split between three flights: Idaho Falls to Denver, Denver to Newark, and Newark to Warsaw, with extra time thrown in for connections, on-ground delays, and weather delays in and out of Newark) and from the dramatic shift forward in time eight hours.  My roommate and I did explore our surrounding neighborhood a bit and ventured out into the downtown area of Warsaw, but for the most part I slept an ungodly amount and walked around in something of a dreamlike haze.  I am more happy to announce, though, that I more than made up for this lack of excitement my first weekend with festivities during our second weekend in Warsaw.

Fresh flowers from a student

The other teachers at our school had organized an evening out to welcome back a friend who had recently been abroad, and to welcome Jean and me, their new friends and colleagues.  On Friday evening we all gathered at the Centrum, a bus stop close to the central bus and metro station in Warsaw.  From the Centrum we traipsed along a few blocks to a small bar popular among college students and foreigners.  The bar itself is so small that it can only seat 20 or so people, but it is set off of a small, quiet road or alley so that most of the bar's patrons (and the patrons of neighboring bars and restaurants) spill out onto the sidewalks and the street itself.  So after purchasing our beverages, we all relocated to sit on the curb and sip our beers.  Our small group of teachers was soon joined by a group of girls who had formerly taught at our school, and after we finished our drinks, they decided to take us to a new club that had just opened and was having a party to celebrate.

The club is nestled against the Vistula River and offered both indoor and outdoor bars, a rooftop area for drinking and sitting, and a stage area for music and dancing.  The seating was a delightful mixture of canvas liquor logo chairs and wooden pallets on wheels that could be rearranged to accommodate larger or smaller groups.  Bathrooms had not yet been set up, so off to the side was a large semicircle of port-a-potties with portable sinks for handwashing.  

I have something of a horror of outdoor bathrooms, particularly those frequented by large groups of people who have been consuming mass amounts of alcohol.  The likelihood of standing or sitting in someone else's urine (or worse) is so strong that I shudder to think of it.  Unfortunately, though, after two glasses of strong Polish beer, I was forced to admit defeat and join the line for the bathrooms.

As I stood in line for the bathroom, I let my mind wander, feeling as though I were pleasantly floating in a sea of Polish.  I soon became aware that I was standing in front of two young men who were blowing into their beer bottles to make a sort of "whoo whoo" flute sound.  I smiled to myself as I heard them say something about Peru, realizing that they must be pretending to be Peruvian pipe players.  They must have seen me react to their antics, or had otherwise been watching me, because immediately after that one of the young men leaned over to me and asked, "Hablas espanol?"  I was so surprised that he was talking to me that I didn't immediately realize that he'd addressed me in Spanish.  I quickly stammered out, "Si, un poco...uh...pero hablo ingles," at which point both the Spanish-speaking fellow and his companion laughed and started talking to me in English.  

We chatted for a few minutes--they wanted to know where I was from and what had brought me to Warsaw, and I was impressed that they spoke not only English but a fair amount of Spanish.  I met up with them again after what can only be described as a harrowing experience in the toilet and managed to cobble together quite the conversation about ourselves that spanned English, Polish, Spanish and (for reasons that can only be attributed to drink) Italian.  Mostly these two men were curious about me and how I was finding Poland.  I tried to explain that for me, growing up in a city that was barely over 100 years old, to find myself in a city that was centuries old was a heady experience.  Despite the fact that much of Warsaw was destroyed during the war and only recently rebuilt, the architecture of the city is beautiful and the buildings, to me, are breathtaking.  I was pleased to discover that although these two men had lived in Warsaw for quite some time, they completely understood what I meant.  

The sun setting on Gagarina street--my street--
as I make my way home from school

At one memorable point in the conversation, I told them that Warsaw was a most beautiful city.  Actually, I think at this point in the evening, my exact words were: "Warsaw es un ciudad bonito.  Muy bonito.  Belissima, che belissima!"  They politely overlooked my slip into Italian and agreed. But Warsaw isn't a city, one told me, it's an idea.  Blackfoot, the place that I was from, that was a city.  Warsaw isn't a city, it's too big, it's too varied.  Warsaw is an idea, a beautiful idea that encompasses so many brilliant facets, like architecture, society and culture.  And, most wonderfully, this party we were at was not a party but a celebration of that very idea.  

Now it's entirely possible that, sensing my inebriated state, these two guys were just messing with me, spouting pretty words to impress the drunk American.  I doubt this, though.  I'd prefer to think that they believed what they were telling me.  That they felt the magic and wonder of this amazing moment.  We were sitting on wooden pallets with the Vistula River at our backs, looking out at a city covered in twinkling fairy lights.  Overhead hovered hot air balloons and around us our fellow celebrants danced to remixed Michael Jackson songs.  The feelings I felt were so complex and so huge that it seemed impossible to give voice to them.  But to characterize the evening as a celebration of the utterly indefinably beautiful idea that is Warsaw seems as an apt a description as any I can find even now.

In the days since meeting those two gentlemen, this part of our conversation has stayed with me when other details (such as their names) has not.  Every time I encounter some new aspect of Warsaw, I recall this description of the city.  I've only been in the city for just over two weeks now, so I'm suffering from equal parts infatuation and lack of experience, but each day as I walk the streets of Warsaw, I feel over and over again that I am incredibly fortunate to be alive and celebrating daily the idea that is Warsaw.

And Finally, Meeting Another Duck in Puerto

The third and final place we stayed during our stay in Puerto Escondido was the Tower Bridge Hostel. While still in Puerto Escondido, the Tower Bridge was a few miles down the coast from the Zicatela Beach. We were a twenty minute walk from the Carizalillo Beach, a beautiful little cove with small, gentle waves perfect for easy floating and learning how to surf.
As the name would indicate, the Tower Bridge was a vaguely British themed hostel owned by a British expat. The front sitting area had old but comfortable couches that afforded a perfect view of the hostel's ceiling, which was an impressive tribute to British singers and bands. The room gave way to a gorgeous open courtyard with an outdoor pool and charming walkways. There was also a bar and food area with the most eclectic collection of graffiti and decorative items. It was also home to the sweetest little Tabby whom a chalk sign informed us was named Doc. It was at the bar that we made ourselves most comfortable, ensconcing ourselves in more comfortably worn-in couches and making easy conversation with our fellow guests. The bar at the Tower Bridge, it seemed, attracted patrons from several surrounding hotels and hostels. This was not surprising, though, as the bar was run by a French chef and a bartender from Portland.
I instantly made friends with Jesse the Bartender, delighted by the fact that he was from Portland, and within minutes I discovered that he too was an Oregon alum and just as in love with Duck football as I. I also found out that even after several months of living and working at the hostel, I was the first Duck he'd encountered in Mexico--Jesse told me that he'd met someone from Oregon State, but to a Duck, a Beaver is a poor substitute. As silly as it was to sit at a bar in the middle of paradise to talk about football and Eugene, it was an absolute pleasure to do so. I happily spent many many hours at that bar talking to Jesse the Bartender (who makes a mean mango margarita and a chili coconut mojito that could bring a person to tears) and to Alexi the French chef who was pausing in Puerto to make French fries and the best guacamole ever before continuing his bike ride down to South America. I also made instant best friends with Damien from Sligo, a couple of girls from Paris, a guy from Guadalajara, and so many others. We talked, laughed, drank, and had a phenomenal time living the good life in this ultimate break from reality.
When we stayed at La Luna, I felt time slow down as we each embraced a slower and more tranquil way of life. At Dan's we sped life up a bit more and learned the true value of a well broken-in hammock, and at the Tower Bridge I fell in love with this Mexican sort of bohemian lifestyle. It was here more than any other one place that I promised myself that I would continue to travel. I swore that I would find more places like the Tower Bridge where I could mingle and meet people from everywhere, and where I could truly escape from the boring or the mundane or commonplace. I would live an adventurous life like Jesse and Alexi and make mojitos in some exotic location. Someday I will be the Duck that some other UO grad will stumble into.
I don't know that Warsaw will necessarily count as my exotic destination or that my new school really equates with drinks mixing, but I think it's a step in the right direction.

Learning to Splash Like a Duck

After leaving the tranquil beauty of la Luna, we moved into almost the heart of Puerto Escondido to a delightful cabana at the Casa de Dan y Carmen.  Dan, whom we met early into our stay, is a Canadian expat who came to surf Puerto's waves and, loving the area, bought up large tracts of land to build a hotel and breakfast cafe.  The cabana we stayed in was a beautiful small apartment, complete with spiral staircase to the bedroom and a charming outdoor shower.  We discovered later that this was where Dan himself lived while he was building his hotel.  

Watching the sunset from Dan's rooftop

Dan's hotel was comprised of several buildings and a beautiful tiled swimming pool, but its best feature was an open rooftop which afforded the most amazing view of the neighboring buildings and the Zicatela Beach.  Guests were allowed to freely come and go from this rooftop, so we happily took drinks and treats up to the roof to watch the sun set over Puerto Escondido.  While my roommate Caroline was greeting the day on the rooftop one morning, she encountered a couple of surfers staying a few cabanas down from us.  They joined us for a slammin' breakfast at Dan's Cafe and then invited us to join them for a drink or two at the beach.  

The Zicatela Beach stretches along the main thoroughfare of Puerto and is dotted with hotels and restaurants.  The sand is beautiful and dark, appearing almost black as it is moved and packed by the roaring tide.  In the sun, however, the sand sparkles and as we walked along barefoot, our feet looked like they were covered with a fine layer of black glitter.

After I carefully made my way back to shore, shaking with
equal parts fear and adrenaline, I snapped this photo
of my companions diving like ducks in the waves

The waves at the Zicatela are not the calm, frolick-friendly type of waves, sadly.  The rip-curl was so strong that as I stood on the wet sand, I was knocked backwards and then sucked forward with the retreating wave.  Our two surfer friends, familiar with all types of waves, warned us that attempting to swim in these waves would be dangerous if not fatal.  If we were interested, though, they would show us how to "duck dive," or dive down under the waves.  If a person dives below the wave just before it crests, she can lie flat just above the ocean floor as the wave breaks and she will pop up behind the wave like a cork in the water.  It is a most singular experience and was without a doubt the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I've ever done.  I barely had time to suck in a frenzied breath or two before I had to dive down again.  As I dove, I could feel the violent churning of water above me, threatening to pummel and pound me if I rose too soon.  Once or twice I didn't dive quickly enough and was somersaulted around until the wave passed.  It was awesome, absolutely awesome in the true sense of the word, inspiring in me a sense of awe and humility at this amazing force of nature.

Bahìa la Luna

So my companions and I endured a day and a half of travel, a major transportation mishap, and, as I described in my last post, a comical episode of miscommunication. By early afternoon on our second day of travel, we were sticky with travel and sweat, tired, and more than a little cranky. Our Combi deposited us in a small town called Pochutla, about an hour outside of Puerto Escondido, and after some negotiation, we commissioned a taxi to drive us to our first hotel, Bahìa la Luna.
Bahìa la Luna is a beautiful hotel set (literally) off the beaten path. The hotel itself is a series of private cabañas set into a small hillside overlooking the hotel’s private beach. There is a common eating area that opens up onto a bright white beach broken only by palm trees and gently swinging hammocks. After the stresses of travel and the ordeal of our drive from Oaxaca, the hotel’s serene beauty welcomed us and put us each at ease again. Within an hour of arriving, we were comfortably settled on the beach, relaxing to the sound of the waves and gently sipping our our Coco Locos (a fresh coconut and rum cocktail served in a hollowed coconut and garnished with a tropical flower). By sundown I was convinced first that I was in paradise, and second, that someone was going to have to forcibly evict me from my cabaña.
We passed two nights and roughly two days at our hidden paradise. We made sand castles, frolicked (yes, actually frolicked) in the waves, snorkled, played a brutal game of beach volleyball, and,in general,had a most fabulous time. We were completely caught up in the magic of La Luna, lulled into a beautiful, peaceful calm.
When we were in Tehuacan, our days were fast-paced and incredibly busy, filled with teaching and lesson planning. On the weekdays we rose early and went to bed late, often snatching only five or six hours of sleep a night. Our weekends were often crazier, a blur of color, music, and tequila. We were badly in need of a break from reality and the hectic pace of our daily lives. La Luna was the perfect escape, allowing us to recharge before rejoining the world in Puerto Escondido.

This is my favorite picture from La Luna.
We were so comfortable and so content, and the scene
was so idyllic, that I felt all we needed was a bucket of beers between us
and we could be in one of those Corona commercials.  Brittany took this picture
so we could make our own Corona ad

I call this adventure: "the time we almost bought weed in Mexico"

So I have one of my many many confessions.  I am a victim of this technological generation; I have been infected by an impulsive need to think of cute or snippy status updates for Facebook and I catch myself thinking in phrases of 140 characters or less.  I punctuate my own thoughts and reactions with hashtags.  I admit this because during my entire four months in Mexico, my one recurring thought--my mantra if you will--was "Ohhhh Mexico."  Usually, this was accompanied in my mind with a hashtag that connected this latest episode with all the other memorable, inane, and "so ridiculous they sound more like fiction than fact" misadventures I encountered. 

The epitome of #Ohhhhh Mexico moments came at the beginning of our trip to Puerto Escondido.  After arriving in the city of Oaxaca we had a gap of about eight or nine hours before our next bus was scheduled to leave.  We had intended to explore the city center, wandering in and out of shops and historic buildings until we needed to return to the bus station.  Minutes after arriving in Oaxaca, though, the heavens opened up  and began pouring.  We were forced to seek refuge at a restaurant with a covered patio, cold and dripping with rain water and disappointment.  

I should mention at this point that we had come to Oaxaca with something of a mission.  My friend Caroline, or Caz, smoked cigarettes with her own rolling tobacco.  Finding tobacco, however, had proved to be a bit of a challenge and we had only located a couple of suitable places thus far.  Knowing that Oaxaca was a major city, we figured we would be able to locate at least one tobacconist in town.  After a cursory exploration of the shops in the city center, though, we were forced to admit that tobacco was not to be found.  We still had several hours before leaving Oaxaca, though, so Caz and I decided we'd explore the local mall in the hopes that we might stumble upon rolling tobacco at the mall.  We interviewed several people, each of whom gave us a different answer (all entirely in Spanish, a language with which neither Cazzie nor I was all that proficient) and after six or seven mall employees told us they didn't know where we could find rolling tobacco, we were ready to admit defeat.  

Caz snapped this picture at some point during our
misadventure.  By the end of this cab ride, we had
somewhat lost the smiles, though it's possible we're laughing
at the thought of the two of us rolling up to some seedy
backdoor location and purchasing weed thinking it was
some local variety of tobacco

We rolled our still-dripping selves out to the main entrance and I hailed a taxi.  As he loaded our sodden luggage into the trunk of the car, I showed him Caroline's bag of rolling tobacco and asked if he knew where we could find this particular brand of tobacco.  The conversation went something like this: 

Me: We want buy this, where possible to buy this?

Taxi Driver: Yes, yes, I know a place.

Me: Yes?

Taxi Driver: Yes, yes, we go.

So we happily piled into the taxi and took off.  As we drove through the maze of a parking lot, Caroline grew increasingly anxious--was I sure he knew where he was going? should we ask again if he knew where we could find a tobacconist?  Eventually she just started chattering to the driver that we needed a tobacconist, we needed a tobacconist.  Finally she realized that he wasn't understanding her words so she translated it as best as she could, "tobacco, para fumar.  Tobacco."  Now, I feel obligated to state that while I had never explicitly said "Me gustaria comprar tobacco," or "I would like to buy tobacco," I believed it to be clearly implied when I handed our driver the bag with huge stamped letters TOBACCO on the front.  The driver took her bag of tobacco again and inspected it closely--examining the front logo, opening and closing the bag, and (somewhat oddly) smelling the tobacco.  Then he started talking animatedly, which was problematic because I only understand when people speak slowly and clearly, and even then it's pretty hit and miss.  My brain finally caught on a single word, however: mota.  At that one word, everything became clear; he thought that Caz and I, two obvious foreigners, were asking him to take us to buy marijuana.  

Over the next few minutes I simultaneously struggled to stifle both laughter and horror and desperately tried to find the words to coherently explain that no, we did not wish to buy marijuana, thank you, and would he please just take us back to the city center.  It was thus that we returned to our companions, sticky with sweat and rain and empty-handed but for the story of the time we almost bought weed in #Mexico.

Semana Santa

La Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is the week preceding Easter. In Mexico, as in the United States, this is a week free from school as many families take the opportunity to travel and vacation. My roommates and I, deciding to seize the opportunity to see more of Mexico, made reservations at three places in and around Puerto Escondido, in the nearby state of Oaxaca.
In the days that follow, I'll post photos of each of the three places we stayed, but today is dedicated to the misadventure that constituted our trip from Tehuacan to Oaxaca and then on to Puerto itself.
Much of Mexico is connected by a wonderful bus line called ADO. Tickets are fairly reasonably priced and afford the luxury of sitting in an air conditioned bus watching a badly dubbed film while the Mexican desert whizzes by. The bus from Tehuacan to Oaxaca city takes about three hours. The bus was 45 minutes late leaving the station, but as our next bus didn't leave for eight hours, we still had plenty of time. We spent the following hours exploring the city center and arrived back at the station with time to spare. The boarding announcements, though, were made solely in Spanish, and the PA system was fuzzy at best. So it's not entirely surprising that we missed the initial boarding call and that, after fighting our way through crowds of vacationers to squeeze our way onto the boarding platform, our bus was gone.
The road from Oaxaca to Puerto is a mountainous nightmare that, by bus, takes approximately 10 hours to wind and wend. The next available bus wasn't until 2 pm the following day, and after 10 hours wasted in transit, we would have lost an entire day that was meant to be spent on a private beach. To say that we were panicking would be a gross understatement.
Fortunately, though, we found a hostel manned by an incredibly helpful clerk who recommended taking a Combi to Puerto (see my earlier posts about Combis). The Combi was not only less expensive, but it took half the time of a bus. We wouldn't lose our entire day in travel.
Unfortunately, to make a drive like that in roughly five hours requires drivers to fly around the sharp corners of the mountain passes at speeds that made my head spin and my stomach turn. The four of us (Joe, Brittany, Caroline, and I) were crammed into the back seat of a minivan, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat. The air was stuffy and stale, the air conditioner was broken, and after two hours, I was convinced that death by plunging into one of the canyons we were flying around was preferable to the insane feeling of nausea that I was fighting. By the fifth hour, I was more dead than alive, breathing slowly with my face pressed against the window and telling myself over and over again that I was going to survive. I don't know that I've ever been so happy to escape a vehicle.
Fortunately, though, all the pictures I snapped were from our first hour on the road, when we were bored but not struggling to maintain sanity and composure.
At some point my roommates and I intend to return to Mexico and to the places we stayed while in Puerto Escondido. We plan to recreate the entire trip, starting in Oaxaca and traveling exclusively by Combi. I'll be sure to pack my Dramamine.

Cholula

Situated in the heart of Puebla, mere minutes away from the capital city of Puebla, is the city/district of Cholula.  During our first month in Mexico, we dedicated a weekend to exploring Puebla and parts of Cholula.  While the city hosts a thriving university and a hopping night life, as well as several churches of beautiful, European influenced architecture, the city is perhaps best known for its ancient pyramid.  According to the literature I've read, the Great Pyramid of Cholula is the largest archaeological site in the New World.  Instead of the stereotypical pyramid made popular by the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, the pyramid in Cholula consists of several building and structures, including a courtyard dedicated to altars for worship and for sacrifice.  The pyramid is phenomenal.  The beauty and precision of the architecture is astonishing, and the extent to which the structures have been excavated and restored is impressive to say the least.  

This is one of my favorite misadventures and
by far one of my favorite pictures from this
trip

While the pyramid is amazing, though, a person can find all sorts of pictures of the pyramid online.  Exploring the visitor-accessible areas of the pyramid did constitute a significant portion of our time in Cholula, but it was not our most memorable experience, however.  As we were leaving the pyramid and slowly making our way back to the bus stop, we encountered a small parade or celebration in a park.  As we stopped to watch the procession, we saw people dressed in all sorts of colorful costumes--dog heads, bird heads, Mexican wrestling masks, etc.  We pulled out our cameras and started taking pictures, which turned out to be a bit of a mistake.  A group of costumed characters (including one frightening man in a cartoon mask dripping fake blood and toting a gun) saw Caroline and me standing alone they immediately closed in on us, surrounding the two of us and cutting us off from the rest of our group.  They clearly meant us no harm, but they did come uncomfortably close, jostling us as they laughed and danced.  Caroline and I laughed, shrieked, laughed more, and screamed at our friends to rescue us.  They did not, but one companion had the good fortune to snap this gem of a photo.