Everyone likes a bargain, me included, and the Poles are no exception. When I go shopping for anything, I like to feel that I've got a good deal, or value for money. When the Poles go shopping they like to feel they bought something cheaper than everyone else, regardless of quality. his is a constant source of conversation and, as the English discuss the weather, so the Poles will discuss the price of goods and consumables at great length.
Shops and supermarkets have, of course, latched on to this and many now feature the words in their bylines. Here's a few examples:
Carrefour - tanio i wygodnie (cheap and comfortable)
Geant - wszystko i tanio (everything and cheap)
Leader Price - zawsze tanio (always cheap)
Leclerc - bliżej i tanio (closer and cheap)
Lidl - jest tani (do I really need to translate this one?)
Praktiker - prakticzne i tanio (practical and cheap)
Tesco - tanio, tanio Tesco (cheap, cheap Tesco; no longer used as they're now one of the most expensive here)
Top Market - bliżej, taniej, lepiej (closer, cheaper, better)
In addition, other places talk about dobry ceny (good prices), niskie ceny (low prices) and zer dla skner (not for skinflints).
This is how businesses compete and it's amazing how narrow these advertising slogans are. Like the disposable income of most of their customers actually...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Do as I say, not as I do...
Recent weeks have seen an upsurge in the ridiculous behaviour by the government here. Finance Minister Zyta Gilowska, forced to leave after (unfounded and unproved) allegations of collaboration with the secret police, has been reinstated into government and her first task has been to announce that becikowe - the payment of 1000zł to new mums brought in earlier this year - will be stopped. The reason? Not enough people have had children and so the incentive will be cut. Maybe the incentive is too small? Or maybe all those of child-bearing age are now romping and frolicking on distant shores, where 1000PLN works out at less than a week's wage.
Further to this, hidden cameras 'caught' Samoobrona MP Renaty Beger attempting to trade support for office. She was offered, by Adam Lipiński (a member of the prime minister's office), a ministry if she defected to the Law and Justice party in order to ensure a continued Kaczyński-controlled run in government. When the film hit the news, the government said it was perfectly normal, that this kind of thing happens all the time. We're in the right, said Kaczyński, this is nothing unusual. So the party that was elected because it promised to get rid of corruption from office has been found guilty and now refuses to admit it is wrong. Instead of sacking Lipiński as an example, he was held up as a model of a good politician and the heat has been turned onto the news station, TVN, which first broadcast the incriminating film. The newspaper Gazeta Polska has now accused TVN of taking the advice of an ex-secret police mamber to secretly film the interview. In turn, Gazeta Polska published the wrong guy's photo. The journalist's association that firstly supported the Law and Justice side is shocked (and so it should be, when it should be on the side of its members and the side of free speech).
The government is now trying to accuse the press of victimisation while, at the same time, continuing to claim that Poland is a free and democratic state. I always thought that democracy involved freedom of the media, or at least the media were allowed to say something about government without politicians taking it as a personal insult. Recently a front page news story highlighted this to a pathetic new height. According to reports, a homeless man said something derogatory about the president. The next day the 'whole of Poland' was out looking for him. When you're a public figure you have to expect this kind of thing and if a German newspaper compares you to a potato then you have to either accept it or leave office, not feign illness and snub the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, as Lech did. Last week the EU once again warned Poland that its xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic stance was unacceptable and it was treading on dodgy ground. When you joined the EU, it went on, it wasn't solely for your own benefit. You joined for the greater good of Europe, not just yourselves. Here I paraphrase but you get the idea.
So, now we have a situation where the government struggles to stay in power, desperate to make coalitions with anyone equally depserate for power. Kaczyński is, as it said yesterday: 'too weak to govern and too strong to stand down'. Cynics would say this reads too stupid and too stubborn. For fifty years Poland lay under communist rule and when it was overthrown there must have been so many tears and sighs of relief. But what price was that freedom? It seems those on the frontline in 1989 are now taking their lead from pre-89 leaders and trying to recreate that society. And the opposition? Where are they? Perfect opportunities to highlight the government's mistakes are left untaken. Tusk sits in his ivory tower saying nothing. He appears to oppose nothing, to offer no alternative, to suggest no way forward. Political stalemate or just simply stagnation? No wonder people in their millions (estimated at 3 since 2004 and Poland's accession into the EU) are leaving for a life za granica - beyond the border or, depending on your translation, beyond the limit.
Sunday sees a march against the government. We'll be there, adding weight. Maybe one voice can't change anything but without trying, you're as bad as they are.
Further to this, hidden cameras 'caught' Samoobrona MP Renaty Beger attempting to trade support for office. She was offered, by Adam Lipiński (a member of the prime minister's office), a ministry if she defected to the Law and Justice party in order to ensure a continued Kaczyński-controlled run in government. When the film hit the news, the government said it was perfectly normal, that this kind of thing happens all the time. We're in the right, said Kaczyński, this is nothing unusual. So the party that was elected because it promised to get rid of corruption from office has been found guilty and now refuses to admit it is wrong. Instead of sacking Lipiński as an example, he was held up as a model of a good politician and the heat has been turned onto the news station, TVN, which first broadcast the incriminating film. The newspaper Gazeta Polska has now accused TVN of taking the advice of an ex-secret police mamber to secretly film the interview. In turn, Gazeta Polska published the wrong guy's photo. The journalist's association that firstly supported the Law and Justice side is shocked (and so it should be, when it should be on the side of its members and the side of free speech).
The government is now trying to accuse the press of victimisation while, at the same time, continuing to claim that Poland is a free and democratic state. I always thought that democracy involved freedom of the media, or at least the media were allowed to say something about government without politicians taking it as a personal insult. Recently a front page news story highlighted this to a pathetic new height. According to reports, a homeless man said something derogatory about the president. The next day the 'whole of Poland' was out looking for him. When you're a public figure you have to expect this kind of thing and if a German newspaper compares you to a potato then you have to either accept it or leave office, not feign illness and snub the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, as Lech did. Last week the EU once again warned Poland that its xenophobic, homophobic, anti-Semitic stance was unacceptable and it was treading on dodgy ground. When you joined the EU, it went on, it wasn't solely for your own benefit. You joined for the greater good of Europe, not just yourselves. Here I paraphrase but you get the idea.
So, now we have a situation where the government struggles to stay in power, desperate to make coalitions with anyone equally depserate for power. Kaczyński is, as it said yesterday: 'too weak to govern and too strong to stand down'. Cynics would say this reads too stupid and too stubborn. For fifty years Poland lay under communist rule and when it was overthrown there must have been so many tears and sighs of relief. But what price was that freedom? It seems those on the frontline in 1989 are now taking their lead from pre-89 leaders and trying to recreate that society. And the opposition? Where are they? Perfect opportunities to highlight the government's mistakes are left untaken. Tusk sits in his ivory tower saying nothing. He appears to oppose nothing, to offer no alternative, to suggest no way forward. Political stalemate or just simply stagnation? No wonder people in their millions (estimated at 3 since 2004 and Poland's accession into the EU) are leaving for a life za granica - beyond the border or, depending on your translation, beyond the limit.
Sunday sees a march against the government. We'll be there, adding weight. Maybe one voice can't change anything but without trying, you're as bad as they are.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
26 August 2006
This photo was taken on 26 August 2006 at the Urząd Miasto, Plac Bankowy, Warsaw, the day I married Agnieszka. I have never been happier. She is the most wonderful girl and I am very proud.
From left to right: My mum Jean, Agnieszka, Alicja (Agnieszka's mum), Anna (Agnieszka's sister), me, my dad Norman.
Foraging in the forest...
Autumn is my favourite season, the richness of the colours, the chill mornings that give way to sunny, hot afternoons, the twilight and colours of the light as evening approaches, the flocks of starlings to be seen like clouds of smoke above the flats or by the river, the apples and plums on stalls by the side of the road.
It’s also a favourite season because it’s the time when mushrooms appear. I’m a great fan of fungi and a couple of weeks ago we took a train out to Podkowa Leśna, a small town whose hospital was made famous by the soap Na dobre i na złe. We were intent on picking some mushrooms of our very own. The journey takes about 40 minutes, although the hard plastic seats of the rumbling, lurching, thundering WKD train make it feel longer. We passed through Pruszkow, famous for its gangsters and out into the countryside, alighting at our stop in an almost different world, where sounds are more natural instead of the constant roar of Warsaw traffic. An old train was sitting at the platform but we weren’t interested in that and headed off – after a brief glance at a map – towards the forest.
At first I thought it was going to be a let down, the road we followed allowed cars along it and was dusty and noisy but as soon as we reached the forest proper it got infinitely better and we followed a path that wound along the edge of the trees. After a while we struck into the forest itself and all the sounds from the town gradually quietened. A woodpecker was calling, a dog barked in a far-off garden, a plane rumbled over head, but the best sound of all was the gentle breath of the wind in the treetops, the movement of branches and, above all, the silence of the outdoors.
Collecting mushrooms isn’t as easy as it sounds. For a start, all the ones you find immediately, the white ones, the tall ones, the red and white fairytale ones, they’re all deadly poisonous. If you do eat one that's a bit dodgy you can look forward to symptoms that include stomach ache, vomiting, high temperature, heavy diarrhoea and muscle ache. Obviously, the safe ones, the ones you can eat grow low down, in shady places and they’re coloured green and brown, khaki and grey to blend in with the undergrowth and leaf mould on which they grow. In the dappled sunlight of a September afternoon they’re bloody hard to spot. After a while, and after you’ve found the first few, you get used to looking, and it becomes easier. We moved deeper into the forest to find more, I got really excited that, for probably the first time in my life (excluding blackberries and Mrs Orrell’s apples) I was foraging for something I would later eat. Every so often we’d meet other people, some old men pushing bikes, big plastic buckets full of mushrooms, or a family with little wicker baskets, all gathering for the winter like connoisseur squirrels. For me, the delight of the day was being in the forest, searching, in the peace and quiet. Lately we’ve talked of moving to Gdynia, or somewhere else on the coast and I realised that it isn’t just the sea I miss, it’s the silence of the countryside, away from the roar of traffic, the smell of fumes and the crowds of people.
We stopped to eat our sandwiches on a gate, seeing as there were absolutely no benches to be found. An old woman shuffled past, taking an even older-looking dog for a walk. She disappeared into the distance, muttering and shuffling along in her slippers but the dog grew tired and wandered back the way they had come. She never even noticed and the last we saw, she was stood at the edge of the trees, looking for something in the undergrowth. A mushroom maybe, or a long lost jewel, or a memory.
At some point in the afternoon, the foraging stopped being fun. I think it was when we decided that we didn’t know exactly where we were, that the afternoon was wearing on and we had no idea how long it would take to get to Otrębusy for the train back. The last hour or so was a - still enjoyable but slightly less so - brisk walk, along some fairly unpleasant roads full of drivers trying to beat land speed records and it was with some relief that we got to the station to wait for the train. The seats on the return were much comfier, due mainly to the train being a new one, not one of those old bone-shakers we’d travelled out on.
Back home the mushrooms were sliced, threaded onto string, draped over the clothes horse and left to dry. The next day they were put in the oven to dry them further as they still seemed to be damp. It turned out that what we’d picked (a full carrier bag full) were fairly wet and of course when they dried, they shrank. So our carrier bag of forage is now down to a couple of hundred grams in an empty mayonnaise jar. One day I’ll make some soup with them but for now I’ll remember the afternoon I became a hunter gatherer again and went into the forest to pick mushrooms. As the weather is still warm and sunny we may get another chance to forage for provisions, before the cold, dark days of winter leave us snuggled in front of the television.
It’s also a favourite season because it’s the time when mushrooms appear. I’m a great fan of fungi and a couple of weeks ago we took a train out to Podkowa Leśna, a small town whose hospital was made famous by the soap Na dobre i na złe. We were intent on picking some mushrooms of our very own. The journey takes about 40 minutes, although the hard plastic seats of the rumbling, lurching, thundering WKD train make it feel longer. We passed through Pruszkow, famous for its gangsters and out into the countryside, alighting at our stop in an almost different world, where sounds are more natural instead of the constant roar of Warsaw traffic. An old train was sitting at the platform but we weren’t interested in that and headed off – after a brief glance at a map – towards the forest.
At first I thought it was going to be a let down, the road we followed allowed cars along it and was dusty and noisy but as soon as we reached the forest proper it got infinitely better and we followed a path that wound along the edge of the trees. After a while we struck into the forest itself and all the sounds from the town gradually quietened. A woodpecker was calling, a dog barked in a far-off garden, a plane rumbled over head, but the best sound of all was the gentle breath of the wind in the treetops, the movement of branches and, above all, the silence of the outdoors.
Collecting mushrooms isn’t as easy as it sounds. For a start, all the ones you find immediately, the white ones, the tall ones, the red and white fairytale ones, they’re all deadly poisonous. If you do eat one that's a bit dodgy you can look forward to symptoms that include stomach ache, vomiting, high temperature, heavy diarrhoea and muscle ache. Obviously, the safe ones, the ones you can eat grow low down, in shady places and they’re coloured green and brown, khaki and grey to blend in with the undergrowth and leaf mould on which they grow. In the dappled sunlight of a September afternoon they’re bloody hard to spot. After a while, and after you’ve found the first few, you get used to looking, and it becomes easier. We moved deeper into the forest to find more, I got really excited that, for probably the first time in my life (excluding blackberries and Mrs Orrell’s apples) I was foraging for something I would later eat. Every so often we’d meet other people, some old men pushing bikes, big plastic buckets full of mushrooms, or a family with little wicker baskets, all gathering for the winter like connoisseur squirrels. For me, the delight of the day was being in the forest, searching, in the peace and quiet. Lately we’ve talked of moving to Gdynia, or somewhere else on the coast and I realised that it isn’t just the sea I miss, it’s the silence of the countryside, away from the roar of traffic, the smell of fumes and the crowds of people.
We stopped to eat our sandwiches on a gate, seeing as there were absolutely no benches to be found. An old woman shuffled past, taking an even older-looking dog for a walk. She disappeared into the distance, muttering and shuffling along in her slippers but the dog grew tired and wandered back the way they had come. She never even noticed and the last we saw, she was stood at the edge of the trees, looking for something in the undergrowth. A mushroom maybe, or a long lost jewel, or a memory.
At some point in the afternoon, the foraging stopped being fun. I think it was when we decided that we didn’t know exactly where we were, that the afternoon was wearing on and we had no idea how long it would take to get to Otrębusy for the train back. The last hour or so was a - still enjoyable but slightly less so - brisk walk, along some fairly unpleasant roads full of drivers trying to beat land speed records and it was with some relief that we got to the station to wait for the train. The seats on the return were much comfier, due mainly to the train being a new one, not one of those old bone-shakers we’d travelled out on.
Back home the mushrooms were sliced, threaded onto string, draped over the clothes horse and left to dry. The next day they were put in the oven to dry them further as they still seemed to be damp. It turned out that what we’d picked (a full carrier bag full) were fairly wet and of course when they dried, they shrank. So our carrier bag of forage is now down to a couple of hundred grams in an empty mayonnaise jar. One day I’ll make some soup with them but for now I’ll remember the afternoon I became a hunter gatherer again and went into the forest to pick mushrooms. As the weather is still warm and sunny we may get another chance to forage for provisions, before the cold, dark days of winter leave us snuggled in front of the television.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside...
Sometime earlier in the year, June I think, we queued at Central Station until one in the morning in order to buy cheap tickets to go to Gdynia, on the coast. They were ridiculously cheap, 15zł or three quid, each way. We booked a place to stay and then sat back and waited for the weekend to arrive.
So it was on Saturday morning that the alarm went off at 5.30am and we got up, showered, coffeed and out for the 6am bus to town. I assumed it would be quiet, being Saturday and all, but the bus was packed with people obviously, judging by the number of bags and suitcases they had with them, heading for the station. We were crammed in a spot by the door and being rocked by the motion of the bus when I spotted a space and we headed for it. This was our first mistake. We were rewarded by the stink of an unwashed, or possibly never washed, body. No wonder there was room near the man dozing on the seat. He reeked. I mean, really hummed. He was possibly homeless but was not badly dressed so it isn't definite. We had to endure the pong for almost fifteen minutes before the doors opened and we dived off the bus at Centralna, gasping great lungfuls of slightly fresher air.
Inside the station was the usual chaos but our train was at the platform and we were able to board it and found our seats quickly. That's where we stayed for the next four and a half hours as we trundled across the northern Polish landscape towards the coast. The recent rain had turned the withered and yellowing fields into a rich, lush green and now and again we were able to see the tall white figure of a stork, standing watch in a field. When we reached Gdansk the train pretty much emptied, but we remained, only alighting a half hour later in a wind-swept, drizzly Gdynia.
The weather didn't look up to much, cloud and some wind-blown dampness, but we decided to walk to our digs. We took directions off a friendly old woman, and headed up a small lane, wooded on one side. The sound of the sea reached our ears and seagulls were mewling overhead. After a couple of minutes of checking numbers, we found the place we were staying and rang the bell. The guard dog watched us intently, its tail wagging slowly. A big, walrus-moustachioed man in shorts and sandals waddled out and gruffly greeted us. We were taken round the back of the house and, as he unlocked a door in the wall, I had a fleeting vision of being housed in a coal cellar, with no lights or windows and only the mice and spiders for company. As it turned out, it was a large basement room, complete with small bar in one corner and two sofa-beds, made up for guests. There was a small kitchen with a washing machine (which would later rumble and chug its way through a very long washing cycle) and a bathroom. A small portable tv sat in one corner. We would later find out it had only one channel and was showing footage of the Sopot festival, taking place only five miles away. A smell of damp wafted through the rooms but it was clean and, after a small argument about how long we were staying, we were given a key and left to our own devices.
As soon as we ventured out we got wet. The rain started to come down heavily, so we went back inside and waited while the shower eased. After ten minutes it stopped and we took a small path down to the front. That's when the heavens opened. And I mean a deluge. Within a minute or two we were completely soaked and had to make a dash to a nearby restaurant. The girl on the desk was obviously amused at our soggy state, but we dripped all over the nice clean floor and the coffee was good so we didn't mind too much. As we drank we watched the rain lashing down and then, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped. A line of lighter sky showed under the grey clouds and while the sun didn't come out, it stopped raining. That's how it stayed for the rest of the weekend.
We trudged soggily up the front to the pier at Gdynia and after a walk on the beach, amused ourselves with the sign on one boat, the gunship 'Błyskawica', which had a post office on board. This was, the sign said:
"Open in the hours of ship's accessibility to visitors. Retail of post stamps at the ships booth. Stamping the postal matter with an occasional date marker."
I wanted to get my postal matter stamped with an occasional date, but it cost too much just to do that, so we just sniggered at the sign before moving on. We heard the beat of a drum and saw that some boys were practicing in their Dragon boats. Two boats attempted to race, but half-heartedly, the crews wishing they were with the others on the quay, standing around drinking beer. Taking that as a cue, we decided it was time for food and repaired to a small cafe on the front, sheltered by a plastic screen so we could sit outside. We got fish, chips and stung. The menu said the fish was 6zł per 100g but I think they must have weighed it when it was still in the boat as the bill came to some astronomical sum. It was nice though, despite the bones.
On the Sunday we walked down the beach to Gdynia Orłowo. It felt good to be near the sea, to hear the waves and to listen to the screech of the gulls: no cars, no sirens, no buses... At one point we had to go into the woods that back on to the beach as the tide was too high to get around the headland. Almost immediately on heading into the trees we saw an owl which silently glided off a tree stump and flew deeper into the woods. This was probably my favourite bit of the whole trip, the walk along the beach (marvelling at the strange frutti de mare which had been washed up by the storm: apples, onions, a cauliflower, a leek...) and then through the forest, views from the crumbling cliffs and then emerging once more onto the beach. The only downside being the amount of litter that is strewn along the sand: cigarette butts, bottles, plastic cups and other assorted debris. If the Baltic resorts want to attract more visitors then they need to address this problem quickly and efficiently.
After a quick coffee we jumped on to a train to Gdansk to see the Dominican Fair, held every year in August. What a disappointment. The last time I visited this fair it was amber, amber, wood crafts and amber. Now, it seemed to be a cheap version of a crappy Sunday market: bras and knickers (do Dominicans wear thongs?), jeans and other clothes, plastic crap and odd 'crafts' that are mass produced in some sweat-soaked Chinese factory. On one street there were some nice, homemade glass pieces, some carvings and, of course, amber jewellery, but on the whole it was cheap plastikowy gowno and full of pushing and shoving Warszawiaks, not looking where they're going. All in all it put a bit of a dampener on the day. Gdansk has changed so much in the few years since I first arrived on an overnight train from Berlin (again, to cascades of rain). Then you could get real coffee and toursits were still a bit of a novelty. Now, they're everywhere and Gdansk offers fifty variations on a cappuccino instead of a standard cup of pick-me-up. The one cafe we did find that had regular coffee on the menu had a broken machine. They could offer us tea only. What good is that when you've been tramping round a market for a couple of hours?
Before we left we bought huge doughnuts, covered in icing, dessiccated coconut and filled with white cheese. Sounds weird, but very tasty. The train back to Warsaw seemed to take forever, but there were more storks, a couple of deer and plenty of green fields to stare at, thinking of the sea, the sounds and the smells and wondering when we'd be back there again. Maybe next time for good?
So it was on Saturday morning that the alarm went off at 5.30am and we got up, showered, coffeed and out for the 6am bus to town. I assumed it would be quiet, being Saturday and all, but the bus was packed with people obviously, judging by the number of bags and suitcases they had with them, heading for the station. We were crammed in a spot by the door and being rocked by the motion of the bus when I spotted a space and we headed for it. This was our first mistake. We were rewarded by the stink of an unwashed, or possibly never washed, body. No wonder there was room near the man dozing on the seat. He reeked. I mean, really hummed. He was possibly homeless but was not badly dressed so it isn't definite. We had to endure the pong for almost fifteen minutes before the doors opened and we dived off the bus at Centralna, gasping great lungfuls of slightly fresher air.
Inside the station was the usual chaos but our train was at the platform and we were able to board it and found our seats quickly. That's where we stayed for the next four and a half hours as we trundled across the northern Polish landscape towards the coast. The recent rain had turned the withered and yellowing fields into a rich, lush green and now and again we were able to see the tall white figure of a stork, standing watch in a field. When we reached Gdansk the train pretty much emptied, but we remained, only alighting a half hour later in a wind-swept, drizzly Gdynia.
The weather didn't look up to much, cloud and some wind-blown dampness, but we decided to walk to our digs. We took directions off a friendly old woman, and headed up a small lane, wooded on one side. The sound of the sea reached our ears and seagulls were mewling overhead. After a couple of minutes of checking numbers, we found the place we were staying and rang the bell. The guard dog watched us intently, its tail wagging slowly. A big, walrus-moustachioed man in shorts and sandals waddled out and gruffly greeted us. We were taken round the back of the house and, as he unlocked a door in the wall, I had a fleeting vision of being housed in a coal cellar, with no lights or windows and only the mice and spiders for company. As it turned out, it was a large basement room, complete with small bar in one corner and two sofa-beds, made up for guests. There was a small kitchen with a washing machine (which would later rumble and chug its way through a very long washing cycle) and a bathroom. A small portable tv sat in one corner. We would later find out it had only one channel and was showing footage of the Sopot festival, taking place only five miles away. A smell of damp wafted through the rooms but it was clean and, after a small argument about how long we were staying, we were given a key and left to our own devices.
As soon as we ventured out we got wet. The rain started to come down heavily, so we went back inside and waited while the shower eased. After ten minutes it stopped and we took a small path down to the front. That's when the heavens opened. And I mean a deluge. Within a minute or two we were completely soaked and had to make a dash to a nearby restaurant. The girl on the desk was obviously amused at our soggy state, but we dripped all over the nice clean floor and the coffee was good so we didn't mind too much. As we drank we watched the rain lashing down and then, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped. A line of lighter sky showed under the grey clouds and while the sun didn't come out, it stopped raining. That's how it stayed for the rest of the weekend.
We trudged soggily up the front to the pier at Gdynia and after a walk on the beach, amused ourselves with the sign on one boat, the gunship 'Błyskawica', which had a post office on board. This was, the sign said:
"Open in the hours of ship's accessibility to visitors. Retail of post stamps at the ships booth. Stamping the postal matter with an occasional date marker."
I wanted to get my postal matter stamped with an occasional date, but it cost too much just to do that, so we just sniggered at the sign before moving on. We heard the beat of a drum and saw that some boys were practicing in their Dragon boats. Two boats attempted to race, but half-heartedly, the crews wishing they were with the others on the quay, standing around drinking beer. Taking that as a cue, we decided it was time for food and repaired to a small cafe on the front, sheltered by a plastic screen so we could sit outside. We got fish, chips and stung. The menu said the fish was 6zł per 100g but I think they must have weighed it when it was still in the boat as the bill came to some astronomical sum. It was nice though, despite the bones.
On the Sunday we walked down the beach to Gdynia Orłowo. It felt good to be near the sea, to hear the waves and to listen to the screech of the gulls: no cars, no sirens, no buses... At one point we had to go into the woods that back on to the beach as the tide was too high to get around the headland. Almost immediately on heading into the trees we saw an owl which silently glided off a tree stump and flew deeper into the woods. This was probably my favourite bit of the whole trip, the walk along the beach (marvelling at the strange frutti de mare which had been washed up by the storm: apples, onions, a cauliflower, a leek...) and then through the forest, views from the crumbling cliffs and then emerging once more onto the beach. The only downside being the amount of litter that is strewn along the sand: cigarette butts, bottles, plastic cups and other assorted debris. If the Baltic resorts want to attract more visitors then they need to address this problem quickly and efficiently.
After a quick coffee we jumped on to a train to Gdansk to see the Dominican Fair, held every year in August. What a disappointment. The last time I visited this fair it was amber, amber, wood crafts and amber. Now, it seemed to be a cheap version of a crappy Sunday market: bras and knickers (do Dominicans wear thongs?), jeans and other clothes, plastic crap and odd 'crafts' that are mass produced in some sweat-soaked Chinese factory. On one street there were some nice, homemade glass pieces, some carvings and, of course, amber jewellery, but on the whole it was cheap plastikowy gowno and full of pushing and shoving Warszawiaks, not looking where they're going. All in all it put a bit of a dampener on the day. Gdansk has changed so much in the few years since I first arrived on an overnight train from Berlin (again, to cascades of rain). Then you could get real coffee and toursits were still a bit of a novelty. Now, they're everywhere and Gdansk offers fifty variations on a cappuccino instead of a standard cup of pick-me-up. The one cafe we did find that had regular coffee on the menu had a broken machine. They could offer us tea only. What good is that when you've been tramping round a market for a couple of hours?
Before we left we bought huge doughnuts, covered in icing, dessiccated coconut and filled with white cheese. Sounds weird, but very tasty. The train back to Warsaw seemed to take forever, but there were more storks, a couple of deer and plenty of green fields to stare at, thinking of the sea, the sounds and the smells and wondering when we'd be back there again. Maybe next time for good?
Holidaying Polish-style
Now that we're in the thick of summer, with temperatures reaching the low 30s and clouds a distant winter memory, all thoughts have turned to holidays. Every day on the tv come reports of holidaying Poles (the ones not desperate to leave the country and work abroad, that is) who are packing the Baltic coast beaches and queuing up to buy tickets which will allow them access to the top of mountains. However, you'll find most people on their summer break heading down to Castorama or Leroy Merlin, the do-it-yourself superstores, where the aisles are choked with men in t-shirts and shorts - and, naturally, socks with sandals - trying to explain patiently to their wives or girlfriends why THAT colour is no good for a bathroom and why EVERYTHING should be painted magnolia. Emulsion, and its application to interior surfaces, is big business for Poles in July and August.
I am, of course, no exception and have myself made several trips to the above-mentioned shops to buy DIY accessories. The result is that I have spent the early part of August painting the hall, kitchen and bathroom. I've put in a tiled splashback behind the sink and cooker; I'm in the process of fitting new lights to the bathroom and I'll finish by changing the bare bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway to a proper set of spotlights to illuminate the bookshelves. I've cleaned up any mess I've made and have removed any rogue blobs of paint from floor or walls where they shouldn't be and I'm pretty pleased that the flat looks clean and presentable.
For the first summer, this is a novelty, but I'm a believer in traditional summer holidays spent at the beach or in the mountains, not in the paint aisle and up a ladder. Next year, it's the Baltic!
I am, of course, no exception and have myself made several trips to the above-mentioned shops to buy DIY accessories. The result is that I have spent the early part of August painting the hall, kitchen and bathroom. I've put in a tiled splashback behind the sink and cooker; I'm in the process of fitting new lights to the bathroom and I'll finish by changing the bare bulb hanging from a wire in the hallway to a proper set of spotlights to illuminate the bookshelves. I've cleaned up any mess I've made and have removed any rogue blobs of paint from floor or walls where they shouldn't be and I'm pretty pleased that the flat looks clean and presentable.
For the first summer, this is a novelty, but I'm a believer in traditional summer holidays spent at the beach or in the mountains, not in the paint aisle and up a ladder. Next year, it's the Baltic!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Shop till you drop
Shopping is an experience in Warsaw. We are lucky to have a new, modern shopping mall within easy reach of the flat but sometimes we don't have time to go there and it's necessary to call in to the Carrefour supermarket in the Wileński mall in Praga. I like this mall because I know it's safe. I know it's safe because there's a little sign on the entrance: a pistol in a red circle that tells people they're not allowed to bring their guns in. Comforting.
Outside, when the Pope came, the supermarket set up a stall selling the most holy of accessories: water and biscuits. Other people sell strawberries, cherries, potatoes from stalls, or hang around waiting for buses, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes and scratching equally rancid armpits. Only 58% of Poles aged between 18 - 24 have a shower on a daily basis. This rises slightly for the 34 - 44 age bracket and then falls sharply to only 16% for the over-65s. Why? Communism. That's the usual excuse. Communism is the reason people don't wash. As logical as anything else here really.
Shoppers too, are worthy of note. Like the guy in the small supermarket near the flat. Dressed in paint-splattered white overalls, completely bald and with a huge walrus moustache he passed through the checkout, before ten in the morning, purchasing a French stick, a litre of tomato juice and a three-quarter pint bottle of vodka. Once through the till, the loaf was snapped in two to fit the carrier bag and off he went. Presumably back to work and several Bloody Marys...
On another occasion, I was behind a woman, at 8.30pm, in a city centre supermarket. She was middle-aged, well dressed. She had a small dog in her shopping bag and in her basket? One Domestos toilet freshener. At Wileński there is a woman who uses a green, plastic clothes peg as a cigarette holder...
Outside, when the Pope came, the supermarket set up a stall selling the most holy of accessories: water and biscuits. Other people sell strawberries, cherries, potatoes from stalls, or hang around waiting for buses, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes and scratching equally rancid armpits. Only 58% of Poles aged between 18 - 24 have a shower on a daily basis. This rises slightly for the 34 - 44 age bracket and then falls sharply to only 16% for the over-65s. Why? Communism. That's the usual excuse. Communism is the reason people don't wash. As logical as anything else here really.
Shoppers too, are worthy of note. Like the guy in the small supermarket near the flat. Dressed in paint-splattered white overalls, completely bald and with a huge walrus moustache he passed through the checkout, before ten in the morning, purchasing a French stick, a litre of tomato juice and a three-quarter pint bottle of vodka. Once through the till, the loaf was snapped in two to fit the carrier bag and off he went. Presumably back to work and several Bloody Marys...
On another occasion, I was behind a woman, at 8.30pm, in a city centre supermarket. She was middle-aged, well dressed. She had a small dog in her shopping bag and in her basket? One Domestos toilet freshener. At Wileński there is a woman who uses a green, plastic clothes peg as a cigarette holder...
The land that music forgot
After almost two months of hot, sunny, dry days, this morning was grey and chilly and rain has been seeping down from a leaden sky for the past couple of hours. I don't know where the time has gone since I wrote the last entry here. June was a blur, culminating in a trip to Katowice, and July was taken up with a teacher training course which, hopefully, will get me a better, more secure job. I'm not holding my breath though.
With the summer months comes the festivals. All the greats of yesteryear are now struggling to make a living, have to drop their fees and so make their way to Poland for gigs. So far we've had Guns n' Roses, The Cult and King Diamond. INXS are due in October. Star of the Sopot festival is Elton John. Who says dinosaurs are extinct?
So why this love of oldies? Is it because Poland can now afford to pay for these acts? Ticket prices aren't cheap, though, with most on a par - or more expensive - than they would be in England or Germany. The radio is partly to blame. Whichever station you tune to you get the same music. Like each station only has one cd - a compilation of 80s hits, plus a compilation of Polish singalong tunes. Favourites, played once an hour, or more, include: Remixes of the Police - Message in a bottle, Roxanne - Vanessa Paradis' abysmal Joe le taxi, the irritating singalong choruses of Finnish scrubbed-faced oiks, The Rasmus, Eurythmics, Jimmy Somerville... In a recent edition of one of the free morning papers, a survey was carried out asking who people would like to see in Poland. The results were frightening:
Lukasz, aged 20: 'Shakira.'
Katarzyna, aged 26: 'Jon Bon Jovi, Celine Dion or Eros Ramazotti.'
and Konrad, aged 21: 'The Rolling Stones.'
Thankfully, after Keith Richards, for reasons of his own, dived out of a coconut palm, the Stones cancelled their trip to Poland. But every day brings a new set of posters, advertising new acts, long forgotten in England, about to appear in Warsaw. It's only a matter of time before dinosaurs live again here...
With the summer months comes the festivals. All the greats of yesteryear are now struggling to make a living, have to drop their fees and so make their way to Poland for gigs. So far we've had Guns n' Roses, The Cult and King Diamond. INXS are due in October. Star of the Sopot festival is Elton John. Who says dinosaurs are extinct?
So why this love of oldies? Is it because Poland can now afford to pay for these acts? Ticket prices aren't cheap, though, with most on a par - or more expensive - than they would be in England or Germany. The radio is partly to blame. Whichever station you tune to you get the same music. Like each station only has one cd - a compilation of 80s hits, plus a compilation of Polish singalong tunes. Favourites, played once an hour, or more, include: Remixes of the Police - Message in a bottle, Roxanne - Vanessa Paradis' abysmal Joe le taxi, the irritating singalong choruses of Finnish scrubbed-faced oiks, The Rasmus, Eurythmics, Jimmy Somerville... In a recent edition of one of the free morning papers, a survey was carried out asking who people would like to see in Poland. The results were frightening:
Lukasz, aged 20: 'Shakira.'
Katarzyna, aged 26: 'Jon Bon Jovi, Celine Dion or Eros Ramazotti.'
and Konrad, aged 21: 'The Rolling Stones.'
Thankfully, after Keith Richards, for reasons of his own, dived out of a coconut palm, the Stones cancelled their trip to Poland. But every day brings a new set of posters, advertising new acts, long forgotten in England, about to appear in Warsaw. It's only a matter of time before dinosaurs live again here...
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Pass the parcel, eventually...
In a recent report, Poczta Polska admitted that the number of items they were unable to deliver had increased. The reason for this was due to the increase in the total volume of items they handle. The emphasis here was not on their failure to improve their service, but to redirect blame onto customers who had, inconsiderately, sent even more letters and parcels than previously. It was their fault, the article implied, that Poczta Polska had been able to not deliver, or lose, even more letters and parcels than ever they could previously. In PP's favour, though, it should be remembered that at least the percentage remains constant and that their consistency in achieving this figure - in respect of the heavier workload their workers face - is, indeed, commendable.
In a possibly unrelated incident I received a letter from my mum, posted in England and which was wandering about for two weeks before it arrived in Warsaw. When it finally limped into the flat, there was a clear postmark on the back which said: Lisboa. Unfortunately, it is impossible to lay the blame on anyone in particular. Did it get put on the wrong plane - by accident or on purpose - in England by a dyslexic, or just plain numty, sorting office employee?
Hmm, Poland. Name looks a bit like Portugal. Same difference...
Or was it mischievously redirected once it arrived in Warsaw by a similarly literally-disadvantaged space cadet? Who knows. The main thing is it arrived and now we have enough sudoku to last nearly two weeks.
But I digress. Another letter, this time posted in the city - but on the other side of the river - was returned to the sender. It seems the postcode was wrong. I've never had any trouble before but apparently if you put the wrong postcode on an item, it goes to the wrong post office and hence cannot be delivered. This is despite the fact that the street where we live is the only one of that name in the whole of Warsaw, and that the beginning of the code - 03 - is for this area only. All the post goes to the main post office which is round the corner from the flat. If I was, heaven forbid, a cynical type of person, then I would hazard a guess that the letter was never posted in the first place and the post office got the blame. Because, as everyone knows, they couldn't post a letter up their own backsides in the dark, but it's a convenient excuse and one that most people believe.
If a non-delivered, or re-delivered letter is irritating, it's small potatoes compared to the non-payment of wages and here the number-themed problem gets more absurd and surreal. My wages are now ten days overdue (nothing new there, after six months with this company I still haven't been paid on time) and when I called to find out why I was told I hadn't signed my contract for April. Having to sign a contract every month is, in itself, ridiculous, but it's what the employer insists on. I went to the office to find out more. There was my contract with the first two pages initialed by myself and the third page without a signature.
I signed this. I remember. And you should too because you were sat there watching me.
Ah, yes. I do remember, and I found out what happened.
Please, do tell, I can't wait for this month's excuse.
Well, the accountant was going through the contracts and she noticed that the first two pages were in 12-point font, while the third page was in 14-point. So she reprinted the last page in 12-point to make it the same as the other pages.
And threw away, shredded, whatever, the page with my signature on. Nothing if not original. So I had to re-sign my contract and am still waiting for the money. You may laugh at the absurdity of this, but it's a daily occurence here.
To give one further - wouldn't it be nice to say final? - example of this absurditiy, the farmers in Poland, along with other EU nations, are allowed to make claims for European Union subsidies. To do this they must submit a claim together with a map of the land they own and intend to farm. The deadline approached and the farmers panicked because the company that prints the maps they need wasn't going to be able to finish the job in time for the claims to be submitted, which would result in the loss of millions of Euro in subsidies. Instead of meeting the problem at the source, i.e. getting the maps printed more quickly, which would have involved some common sense and some 'joined-up thinking', the Agriculture Minister, the tanned and silver-haired Andrzej Lepper, had to go to the European Union and ask for a deadline extension. A month's grace was granted, but it is a fairly safe bet that it will be the same scenario next year. Why? Because in Poland it appears that no-one is responsible, no-one takes the blame and no-one looks further than the profit they can screw out of everything.
***************************************************
Aside: A supporter of Roman Giertych's ultra-Catholic LPR, 'League of the Polish Family', party was quoted as saying that 'anyone who opposes Giertych is gay, and all gays are paedophiles'. I may be wrong, but I thought we were in the 21st Century now and that the Dark Ages were far in the past. Here in Poland, it seems not.
In a possibly unrelated incident I received a letter from my mum, posted in England and which was wandering about for two weeks before it arrived in Warsaw. When it finally limped into the flat, there was a clear postmark on the back which said: Lisboa. Unfortunately, it is impossible to lay the blame on anyone in particular. Did it get put on the wrong plane - by accident or on purpose - in England by a dyslexic, or just plain numty, sorting office employee?
Hmm, Poland. Name looks a bit like Portugal. Same difference...
Or was it mischievously redirected once it arrived in Warsaw by a similarly literally-disadvantaged space cadet? Who knows. The main thing is it arrived and now we have enough sudoku to last nearly two weeks.
But I digress. Another letter, this time posted in the city - but on the other side of the river - was returned to the sender. It seems the postcode was wrong. I've never had any trouble before but apparently if you put the wrong postcode on an item, it goes to the wrong post office and hence cannot be delivered. This is despite the fact that the street where we live is the only one of that name in the whole of Warsaw, and that the beginning of the code - 03 - is for this area only. All the post goes to the main post office which is round the corner from the flat. If I was, heaven forbid, a cynical type of person, then I would hazard a guess that the letter was never posted in the first place and the post office got the blame. Because, as everyone knows, they couldn't post a letter up their own backsides in the dark, but it's a convenient excuse and one that most people believe.
If a non-delivered, or re-delivered letter is irritating, it's small potatoes compared to the non-payment of wages and here the number-themed problem gets more absurd and surreal. My wages are now ten days overdue (nothing new there, after six months with this company I still haven't been paid on time) and when I called to find out why I was told I hadn't signed my contract for April. Having to sign a contract every month is, in itself, ridiculous, but it's what the employer insists on. I went to the office to find out more. There was my contract with the first two pages initialed by myself and the third page without a signature.
I signed this. I remember. And you should too because you were sat there watching me.
Ah, yes. I do remember, and I found out what happened.
Please, do tell, I can't wait for this month's excuse.
Well, the accountant was going through the contracts and she noticed that the first two pages were in 12-point font, while the third page was in 14-point. So she reprinted the last page in 12-point to make it the same as the other pages.
And threw away, shredded, whatever, the page with my signature on. Nothing if not original. So I had to re-sign my contract and am still waiting for the money. You may laugh at the absurdity of this, but it's a daily occurence here.
To give one further - wouldn't it be nice to say final? - example of this absurditiy, the farmers in Poland, along with other EU nations, are allowed to make claims for European Union subsidies. To do this they must submit a claim together with a map of the land they own and intend to farm. The deadline approached and the farmers panicked because the company that prints the maps they need wasn't going to be able to finish the job in time for the claims to be submitted, which would result in the loss of millions of Euro in subsidies. Instead of meeting the problem at the source, i.e. getting the maps printed more quickly, which would have involved some common sense and some 'joined-up thinking', the Agriculture Minister, the tanned and silver-haired Andrzej Lepper, had to go to the European Union and ask for a deadline extension. A month's grace was granted, but it is a fairly safe bet that it will be the same scenario next year. Why? Because in Poland it appears that no-one is responsible, no-one takes the blame and no-one looks further than the profit they can screw out of everything.
***************************************************
Aside: A supporter of Roman Giertych's ultra-Catholic LPR, 'League of the Polish Family', party was quoted as saying that 'anyone who opposes Giertych is gay, and all gays are paedophiles'. I may be wrong, but I thought we were in the 21st Century now and that the Dark Ages were far in the past. Here in Poland, it seems not.
When plus comes to shove...
As with so many things here in Poland it seemed an simple task, to change cable tv providers. How naive we are. When will we ever learn that nothing here is straightforward or easy?
Firstly, the contract is renewed by the company in yearly instalments, which makes it difficult to remember the exact date you started and, before you know it, they've signed you up for another year. So the only option was to give, in writing, three months notice. Three months. On something you pay for monthly. Ok, it's a nuisance, but that's the terms of the contract. The CONtract.
So that's done. A week later a letter arrives, expressing great sadness that we're leaving the company. It looks like they really care, they've even highlighted part of one sentence, of what is otherwise a standard photocopy, in bold. A phone call follows, offering a discount if we decide to reconsider and stay.
What discount?
Well, for the next three months, half of what you're paying now.
And then?
Then it will go up by a quarter, then after three more months up a further quarter.
So inside six months I'll be paying the same as I am now? Fantastic. Can you ring me back tomorrow to discuss the finer details?
Er, no. Can't tomorrow, have to do it the day after...
Some incentive to stay that was. So thanks for trying so hard to keep our business.
Returning the equipment made an even bigger joke of the whole situation. If it wasn't so ridiculous it would be laughable. No wonder people put the decoder, cables and card in an envelope and post it back to them.
We rang the company.
You can take it to Targówek shopping centre and leave it at the customer service point there.
You mean the cardboard cutout 'office' place, where the girl sits on a computer chatline all day? Looking bored and sighing loudly if you ask for any help?
That's the one. Just leave it there.
But they don't accept it. They can't. Because the girl on the desk has cat litter for brains and doesn't know what to do. So we have to bring it back home and try again. Another phone call. Another address. Another part of the city. Another pointless journey. Another feckin' refusal.
We can't accept it.
Why not?
Because it's a day early. We can't accept it before the end of May.
But today is the 31st.
No, has to be tomorrow.
Can't you write a receipt for tomorrow?
No, it's forbidden.
Can I leave it?
No, it's forbidden.
I'll have to take it home and drag it back here at my own convenience and expense again, then?
You'll have to.
So we still have the equipment. As the new company can't connect for a week or two, we're using it to watch the Vicar of Dibley. We get to keep the satellite dish though. I think it'd make a nice bird bath. Or it would if I'd let the pigeons anywhere near the balcony.
Firstly, the contract is renewed by the company in yearly instalments, which makes it difficult to remember the exact date you started and, before you know it, they've signed you up for another year. So the only option was to give, in writing, three months notice. Three months. On something you pay for monthly. Ok, it's a nuisance, but that's the terms of the contract. The CONtract.
So that's done. A week later a letter arrives, expressing great sadness that we're leaving the company. It looks like they really care, they've even highlighted part of one sentence, of what is otherwise a standard photocopy, in bold. A phone call follows, offering a discount if we decide to reconsider and stay.
What discount?
Well, for the next three months, half of what you're paying now.
And then?
Then it will go up by a quarter, then after three more months up a further quarter.
So inside six months I'll be paying the same as I am now? Fantastic. Can you ring me back tomorrow to discuss the finer details?
Er, no. Can't tomorrow, have to do it the day after...
Some incentive to stay that was. So thanks for trying so hard to keep our business.
Returning the equipment made an even bigger joke of the whole situation. If it wasn't so ridiculous it would be laughable. No wonder people put the decoder, cables and card in an envelope and post it back to them.
We rang the company.
You can take it to Targówek shopping centre and leave it at the customer service point there.
You mean the cardboard cutout 'office' place, where the girl sits on a computer chatline all day? Looking bored and sighing loudly if you ask for any help?
That's the one. Just leave it there.
But they don't accept it. They can't. Because the girl on the desk has cat litter for brains and doesn't know what to do. So we have to bring it back home and try again. Another phone call. Another address. Another part of the city. Another pointless journey. Another feckin' refusal.
We can't accept it.
Why not?
Because it's a day early. We can't accept it before the end of May.
But today is the 31st.
No, has to be tomorrow.
Can't you write a receipt for tomorrow?
No, it's forbidden.
Can I leave it?
No, it's forbidden.
I'll have to take it home and drag it back here at my own convenience and expense again, then?
You'll have to.
So we still have the equipment. As the new company can't connect for a week or two, we're using it to watch the Vicar of Dibley. We get to keep the satellite dish though. I think it'd make a nice bird bath. Or it would if I'd let the pigeons anywhere near the balcony.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Better 'here it is!' than 'where is it?'
It seems to me that if they beat someone for asking questions, it should at least be his most personal question - especially if he is a writer. If a writer asks in the name of Europe or his country or the people, in whose name should the politician ask? But then what should a writer do, when the politicians have long ago stopped asking questions and take care only that they may rule without interruption, regardless of how harmful their rule may be?
The engine driver's story, Ivan Klima, 1992.
Kaczyńsky, Tusk, Lepper, Giertych. Are you listening?
A game of two halves...
Next month sees the 2006 World Cup, which will take place in Germany. The very words immediately bringing forth a yawn of such gigantic proportions I think my head will split and someone will try to park a car in my mouth. As far as ranking the event in order of importance goes, to me it comes somewhere between bungee-jumping and diving in a cage to see sharks. What will make it interesting, both here and abroad, is the entrance onto the international stage of the Polish football hooligan. Tribalism is rife here. Warsaw, far from alone among Polish cities, is plastered with graffitti proclaiming either neanderthal allegiance to a particular club or the dubious parentage or sexual activity of the opposition. You could be forgiven for thinking that children are first taught to write only the letter 'L' and then given aerosols, parental blessing and a blank wall on which to practice. When their manual dexterity improves, they are then allowed to graduate to drawing a circle around the 'L', topped off with a styilised crown, and there you go: Warszawa Legia - Mistrz. It appears everywhere: walls, trees, buses, trams, drunks, anywhere there's a space. There used to be a time when graffitti was interesting, political, funny even. Now it's just dull. (Except, of course, for the underpass in Giszowiec which bears the legend: 'Be realistic - demand the impossible!')
So along comes the World Cup and with it come the hooligans. So far, Polish hooligans have yet to leave their grubby fingerprints on what is, let's face it, simply a game. Germany is, by rail, only several hours away and it's expected that many fans (among them sincere and dedicated followers, intent on seeing a good match that doesn't involve riot shields or water cannon) will travel to support the red and whites. In a seemingly unrelated move, the train companies recently announced that the purchase and / or consumption of alcohol would be banned on domestic services. A good idea, perhaps. Until you read on. Those people with international tickets, for countries like, say, Germany, will be able to purchase and consume alcohol to their hearts content. If they are anything like the two boys on the flight from Liverpool to Warsaw over Easter, then beware. Between them these two drank a full 75cl bottle of vodka on the two-hour flight, refused to wear seat belts or to sit down and constantly played with switched-on mobile phones, despite repeated requests to turn them off. They could hardly stand after the short flight, so imagine what they'd be like after a six hour train journey.
So the German police will be waiting. But for whom? Almost every country in Europe now has a 'hooligan database' that lists known, and potential, trouble-makers. Except Poland. No-one is sure how many will travel, who they are or where they will go, but already there have been reports of a Poland vs Germany 'battle' in a forest near the border as a pre-World Cup warm-up. With Poland's reputation already slightly tarnished by its relationship with the European Union and its continually growing ultra-Catholic public face it remains to be seen what kind of image the fans will leave behind.
So along comes the World Cup and with it come the hooligans. So far, Polish hooligans have yet to leave their grubby fingerprints on what is, let's face it, simply a game. Germany is, by rail, only several hours away and it's expected that many fans (among them sincere and dedicated followers, intent on seeing a good match that doesn't involve riot shields or water cannon) will travel to support the red and whites. In a seemingly unrelated move, the train companies recently announced that the purchase and / or consumption of alcohol would be banned on domestic services. A good idea, perhaps. Until you read on. Those people with international tickets, for countries like, say, Germany, will be able to purchase and consume alcohol to their hearts content. If they are anything like the two boys on the flight from Liverpool to Warsaw over Easter, then beware. Between them these two drank a full 75cl bottle of vodka on the two-hour flight, refused to wear seat belts or to sit down and constantly played with switched-on mobile phones, despite repeated requests to turn them off. They could hardly stand after the short flight, so imagine what they'd be like after a six hour train journey.
So the German police will be waiting. But for whom? Almost every country in Europe now has a 'hooligan database' that lists known, and potential, trouble-makers. Except Poland. No-one is sure how many will travel, who they are or where they will go, but already there have been reports of a Poland vs Germany 'battle' in a forest near the border as a pre-World Cup warm-up. With Poland's reputation already slightly tarnished by its relationship with the European Union and its continually growing ultra-Catholic public face it remains to be seen what kind of image the fans will leave behind.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Death and the pigeon...
So spring finally arrived. It went from cold to hot almost overnight and I suspect we've gone from winter to summer without passing through spring. The trees have suddenly woken up and started to sprout green shoots. The grass has grown sufficiently to cover the copious mounds of dog turds that had steamed their way down through the snow only to emerge, like a sticky brown phoenix, during the thaw as a trap for the unwary.
But it isn't all joy. Those flying disease bags - the pigeons - are back. Worse still, there are two that are under the misguided impression that they'll be nesting again on our balcony. How naive. It is, however, more difficult than I thought to teach them that, under no circumstances, is this going to happen. I assumed a couple of good shouts of "shoo" - and a vision of me in a t-shirt, sans bills - would tell them they weren't welcome, but they just take no notice. I've started to get obssessive about it, getting up in the middle of the night to check if they're skulking round the plant pots; sneaking around in the morning in the hope of catching them cooing and crapping on the concrete; spying on the balcony from below to see if they have appeared again; tieing ribbons of flapping plastic to the rail as a bird scarer. I've caught one of them a couple of times now with a well-aimed brush up the tail feathers, but it still hasn't deterred them. I've started washing the floor of the balcony almost daily so that I know if they've visited while I've been out; the fresh piles of shit they leave as a calling card an obvious giveaway. Yesterday I raced out on to the balcony, waving my arms and shooing as loud as I could, like an over-excited steam engine. As I watched the pigeons flap away, I noticed someone sat down by the door of the mortuary (our view on one side), looking up to see what the fifth floor madman was up to. They continued staring for several minutes before getting up and going back inside.
Last year, I've been told, the pigeons nested in one corner of the balcony. They made a 'nest' by throwing a few sticks on the floor, keeping it held together with pooh-glue. At the end of the spring, when they left, a new mop had to be purchased to clean up all the gunk and crap that they left behind. This year I'm not prepared to let that happen, especially as the two boxes on the ledge are now full of seeds and my tomato plants will soon be big enough to plant outside. So for now, I continue to sneak around and then run manically outside, hissing and screeching, all because of my intense dislike of these feathered scumbags...
(Apologies to Andrey Kurkov for the title...)
But it isn't all joy. Those flying disease bags - the pigeons - are back. Worse still, there are two that are under the misguided impression that they'll be nesting again on our balcony. How naive. It is, however, more difficult than I thought to teach them that, under no circumstances, is this going to happen. I assumed a couple of good shouts of "shoo" - and a vision of me in a t-shirt, sans bills - would tell them they weren't welcome, but they just take no notice. I've started to get obssessive about it, getting up in the middle of the night to check if they're skulking round the plant pots; sneaking around in the morning in the hope of catching them cooing and crapping on the concrete; spying on the balcony from below to see if they have appeared again; tieing ribbons of flapping plastic to the rail as a bird scarer. I've caught one of them a couple of times now with a well-aimed brush up the tail feathers, but it still hasn't deterred them. I've started washing the floor of the balcony almost daily so that I know if they've visited while I've been out; the fresh piles of shit they leave as a calling card an obvious giveaway. Yesterday I raced out on to the balcony, waving my arms and shooing as loud as I could, like an over-excited steam engine. As I watched the pigeons flap away, I noticed someone sat down by the door of the mortuary (our view on one side), looking up to see what the fifth floor madman was up to. They continued staring for several minutes before getting up and going back inside.
Last year, I've been told, the pigeons nested in one corner of the balcony. They made a 'nest' by throwing a few sticks on the floor, keeping it held together with pooh-glue. At the end of the spring, when they left, a new mop had to be purchased to clean up all the gunk and crap that they left behind. This year I'm not prepared to let that happen, especially as the two boxes on the ledge are now full of seeds and my tomato plants will soon be big enough to plant outside. So for now, I continue to sneak around and then run manically outside, hissing and screeching, all because of my intense dislike of these feathered scumbags...
(Apologies to Andrey Kurkov for the title...)
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Only time flies here...
A fledgling airline has been advertising in the press recently, offering dicount flights to Sweden and Norway. As these countries are so expensive it makes sense to fly by one of these budget companies to save your money for essentials like bread and cheese without having to leave your arm and leg at the till. We talked about going over to Gothenburg, or to Oslo, and it seems like it could be a good idea for a short break, especially if the days are sunny and long.
So it was with interest that I noticed an advert in the Gazeta Wyborcza jobs section. It said:
Wanted - Pilots. Must have experience flying a plane.
Or something like that, I paraphrase. It made us laugh, the idea that they have a route, a price, we assume they have a plane, but as yet - no driver.
It's been a long, hard winter in Poland.
So it was with interest that I noticed an advert in the Gazeta Wyborcza jobs section. It said:
Wanted - Pilots. Must have experience flying a plane.
Or something like that, I paraphrase. It made us laugh, the idea that they have a route, a price, we assume they have a plane, but as yet - no driver.
It's been a long, hard winter in Poland.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Punch-up in the post office...
I was in the small post office opposite Sadyba market, buying stamps for my brother’s birthday card. As usual it was full of old women, paying rent or bills, or just professionally queuing, which is what most of them seem to do. To preserve this system of queuing, you have to take a ticket from a machine and then, until it’s your turn, while away the time as best you can. I got my ticket and, seeing there were eleven punters in front of me, took a seat. At the window directly opposite my uncomfortable green plastic chair, a man was leaning, his hood pulled up despite the heat inside. He seemed to be waiting for his turn but I’m not sure now.
The bell sounded and another number clicked up on the display. It said 501 and a large bear-like man of around thirty, but possibly younger, came up to the window next to where the hooded guy was leaning. I heard 502 mentioned, then out of the blue the two – hoody and the bear – started to push each other at the window. Words were exchanged, then more pushing, then fists started to fly. A scuffle broke out in the not-too-large post office, the old women scattered like frightened hens and clucked and scolded but it fell on deaf ears. I moved further away to a better vantage point and because, as the only other person in there under 70, thought I might be expected to try and break it up. It was, however, much too entertaining to do that. Coats were pulled, punches exchanged, muffled swearing and grunting, and then the spinning dance that happens when two people can’t get a clear smack at each other. After a few minutes it calmed down and they both went back to the window. The old women drifted back to their previous positions, chunnering and tutting and adjusting their mohair berets.
Once the two combatants got back to their original positions I thought I’d slipped back in time. It was like watching an action replay as exactly the same thing happened again: the words, the push, then shouting, shoving, and then fists again. There was on duty a skinny, silver-haired, bearded security guard of advancing years and when the second scuffle broke out he took two precautions: he locked the door to the outside and he locked himself behind the counter. After several more minutes of scuffling, order was resumed, with the bear going back to the counter and using his size and apparent victory as a basis for his right to be served next. What did he buy? One ticket, normal tariff, for the bus. Nothing else.
I bought my stamps – as the girls had started serving again now that the fuss had died down – and came to leave but had to wait while the security guard came out from his safe haven and unlocked the door. He tried to keep the bear inside, but he was ineffectual and the last I saw, the security guard was trying to phone someone on his mobile. I don’t blame him for not getting involved, but if it had been any more serious he would have been useless, as he was too frail – and I am too careful, or chicken – to get involved.
The bell sounded and another number clicked up on the display. It said 501 and a large bear-like man of around thirty, but possibly younger, came up to the window next to where the hooded guy was leaning. I heard 502 mentioned, then out of the blue the two – hoody and the bear – started to push each other at the window. Words were exchanged, then more pushing, then fists started to fly. A scuffle broke out in the not-too-large post office, the old women scattered like frightened hens and clucked and scolded but it fell on deaf ears. I moved further away to a better vantage point and because, as the only other person in there under 70, thought I might be expected to try and break it up. It was, however, much too entertaining to do that. Coats were pulled, punches exchanged, muffled swearing and grunting, and then the spinning dance that happens when two people can’t get a clear smack at each other. After a few minutes it calmed down and they both went back to the window. The old women drifted back to their previous positions, chunnering and tutting and adjusting their mohair berets.
Once the two combatants got back to their original positions I thought I’d slipped back in time. It was like watching an action replay as exactly the same thing happened again: the words, the push, then shouting, shoving, and then fists again. There was on duty a skinny, silver-haired, bearded security guard of advancing years and when the second scuffle broke out he took two precautions: he locked the door to the outside and he locked himself behind the counter. After several more minutes of scuffling, order was resumed, with the bear going back to the counter and using his size and apparent victory as a basis for his right to be served next. What did he buy? One ticket, normal tariff, for the bus. Nothing else.
I bought my stamps – as the girls had started serving again now that the fuss had died down – and came to leave but had to wait while the security guard came out from his safe haven and unlocked the door. He tried to keep the bear inside, but he was ineffectual and the last I saw, the security guard was trying to phone someone on his mobile. I don’t blame him for not getting involved, but if it had been any more serious he would have been useless, as he was too frail – and I am too careful, or chicken – to get involved.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Where is the spring?
It's almost the middle of March and there's still no sign of spring. This morning they announced on the radio that it was minus ten outside, so it's still a case of big coat, hat and scarf. During the day the sun melts some of the snow and leaves big puddles across all the paths which, overnight, turn into sheets of ice and lie in wait for those hurrying to work or for buses.
On February 23rd, there was a dzień bez łapówki - a day without bribes. This was advertised all over the place and I thought it was nice that, once a year, you can have a day where no-one takes a bribe. The usual excuse given as to why people take bribes is that those in poorly-paid jobs need the money to supplement their wages. So this makes it right? An 'extra' payment for doing what you're supposed to? For greasing the wheels a little? As an example, I was told that, to book the room for the wedding, I would have to give the woman in charge 'something', a box of chocolates maybe. For doing what? For writing two names in a book? And if I don't? Well, then she makes a few noises and says it isn't possible. So I have no choice now? To bribe and get what I want - and what it is her 'duty' to give me - or to ignore this and be frustrated by the soviet throwback attitude that people will only do their jobs if they get a little bit of something 'extra'. We've both decided she won't get an envelope, a box of chocolates, or even a thank you if she doesn't do what she - however poorly - is paid to do. Without a little 'gift' here and there, where is the job satisfaction? What is even more annoying is that it isn't just those people who grew up under the communist yoke that think bribery is not only an acceptable part of life, but almost a given way of getting things done.
This type of thinking sometimes goes beyond rational thought into the land of nonsense. On one tv programme, it was said that those who live together and aren't married are no better than cave people, who lived the same way, and therefore society is regressing into a prehistoric age. This was uttered without any sense of irony or mirth and reflects how the church not only keeps a tight grip on its followers here, but also strangles any kind of thought that goes against its teaching. Again, it isn't just the old who profess these things, the youth too are blatantly ignorant and intolerant and there is little feeling that change is possible. Apathy would reign if only people could be bothered...
On February 23rd, there was a dzień bez łapówki - a day without bribes. This was advertised all over the place and I thought it was nice that, once a year, you can have a day where no-one takes a bribe. The usual excuse given as to why people take bribes is that those in poorly-paid jobs need the money to supplement their wages. So this makes it right? An 'extra' payment for doing what you're supposed to? For greasing the wheels a little? As an example, I was told that, to book the room for the wedding, I would have to give the woman in charge 'something', a box of chocolates maybe. For doing what? For writing two names in a book? And if I don't? Well, then she makes a few noises and says it isn't possible. So I have no choice now? To bribe and get what I want - and what it is her 'duty' to give me - or to ignore this and be frustrated by the soviet throwback attitude that people will only do their jobs if they get a little bit of something 'extra'. We've both decided she won't get an envelope, a box of chocolates, or even a thank you if she doesn't do what she - however poorly - is paid to do. Without a little 'gift' here and there, where is the job satisfaction? What is even more annoying is that it isn't just those people who grew up under the communist yoke that think bribery is not only an acceptable part of life, but almost a given way of getting things done.
This type of thinking sometimes goes beyond rational thought into the land of nonsense. On one tv programme, it was said that those who live together and aren't married are no better than cave people, who lived the same way, and therefore society is regressing into a prehistoric age. This was uttered without any sense of irony or mirth and reflects how the church not only keeps a tight grip on its followers here, but also strangles any kind of thought that goes against its teaching. Again, it isn't just the old who profess these things, the youth too are blatantly ignorant and intolerant and there is little feeling that change is possible. Apathy would reign if only people could be bothered...
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
We care a lot... [sic]
With the temperature so low the streets are strangely empty of people as everyone seeks to stay in out of the cold. Even the bus drivers have started, grudgingly, to use the heaters on the buses and, on our local express, there is a note - in big letters - informing the dear passengers that, due to the extremely cold weather and in force until the 29 January, the bus will stop at any stop, not just the ones at which it normally slides to a halt. This claim is accompanied by a little asterisk on the page which directs your gaze to a footnote where, in even smaller letters, it explains about the exceptions to this information. So we discover that the bus won’t stop if: the stop is a regular one served by another route; the stop is too close to one where the bus would normally stop; the stop is before a left turn; or the stop is at the end of the line. Quite who would get on at the end of the line is beyond me, but it seems as reasonable as any of the other exceptions. So this show of a new, caring attitude by ZTM isn’t quite as caring as we’re led to believe.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Troche zimno...
I think I am finally beginning to tire of the winter. Yesterday was the coldest day in January with a high temperature of minus 20 degrees. That's almost thirty degrees difference between here and England and all of a sudden, ten degrees above freezing sounds positively tropical. Even the news that the weather will 'warm up' to a maximum of minus nine is greeted with enthusiasm. With the increase in temperature comes the promise of more snow and, as yet, I'm not fed up of that. I still get that excited might-get-a-day-off-school feeling in the morning when I look out of the window to see the street covered in snow and the cars going slowly round the corner sideways. It's a very childlike happiness, the sight of a fresh fall of clean, white snow, but it's one I think I will never tire of. Perhaps a remnant of living for so long in a country where the promise of snow is always greater than the reality.
I am, however, getting fed up of layering. Today I had to be at work, as usual for a Monday, at 7.30am. I get up at 6am and have, usually, plenty of time for a shower and coffee before venturing out to get the bus. The last couple of weeks though, have seen me nearly miss the bus on several occasions. This is all due to layering. An essential, and time consuming, part of the day. First the normal underwear, then the thermal: long johns and a long-sleeved top. Over this goes jeans and a t-shirt. Then a thin wool jumper, and a hoody. Boots, down jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. Then once I'm outside I put the hood up. I haven't owned a coat with a hood on since I was a kid and absolutely no-one put their hoods up then in case everyone else thought you were a big girl's blouse or something. Now I don't give a shiney sh*te. If I'm warm I don't care what I look like. I mean, everyone else is all bundled up. Everyone else's hair looks like mice have been nesting in it, everyone else's nose is redder than a baboon's bum, so who is looking at me? Dokładnie. No-one.
Over the weekend it snowed again, but it was the thin, powdery, annoying snow that stings your face and gets in your eyes and through the tiniest gap in your clothes. It must have snowed all of Friday night and it continued all day Saturday until after it went dark. Relentless, covering everything with a light film of white. Occasionally a flake would rest on a scarf or hat, a perfect six-pointed star, small and delicate, not melting because it was too cold and sharp enough to be able to study it carefully for some minutes. A thing that is beautiful, but so small and fragile at the same time. Together with others it can, and does, wreak havoc. In the hospital car park five snow-ploughs chased each other round and round before heading off in convoy towards the bridge where, on Friday morning, a speed-freak youngster doing over 100kph crashed his car into a bus shelter full of passengers, killing five of them and injuring several more. His car bounced over the parapet and down onto the road beneath but he walked away unhurt. The police said that he hit the people at the bus shelter so hard some of them flew through the air to land over thirty metres away, in the middle of a busy highway.
On Sunday the sun came out and the temperature dropped. Over the last couple of weeks the river has slowly been getting more and more clogged with ice. Small round floes, many of which carried a solitary seagull, or a host of cormorants, their wings held out to dry in the weak January sun, floated silently along the Vistula heading for Gdansk and the Baltic where they would try to congregate into a mass of wannabe icebergs. When the lumps hit the supports of the bridge, they made quiet slushing sounds that were like cold breaths in the crisp air. Overhead the traffic continued to thunder across the bridge, but down by the water, all waquiet. The only people there were me and a lonely fisherman, sitting on the ice hoping to catch a frozen fillet. That was last week. This week the ice has solidified and now the river is, on its surface at least, one solid mass of ice. The seagulls have gone now; their little boats are no longer viable means of transport. A group of Fieldfare, looking confused, could be seen trying to get a drink from the tiniest of holes that remained on the surface. They, too, will fly away soon, to Germany or somewhere further west, where the ground isn't solid and there is at least some sort of food.
To see the river was incredible, the widest stretch of water I have ever seen: solid, frozen and white. We had taken a bus there and walked across the bridge, then a tram and bus back to the flat. It took us less than an hour but by the time we returned we'd both had enough. How do people live in places where it is minus 20 or 30 for weeks at a time?
Today is just as cold and the prognosis for tomorrow is for the same but with more snow forecast on Wednesday. To experience this long, cold winter has long been a dream, to live through the snow and ice, the buses with their inside windows frozen - despite the heater being on - and to layer-up against the cold. Now it's becoming a chore, the hats and gloves and scarves every time you want to go out anywhere, even to the bin. When spring comes, as come it must, it will be a joyous occasion, to welcome the new growth, to see the green poking through the snow, to avoid being crushed by snow sliding off roofs, to feel the warm breeze and to know that on that breeze is the prospect of another summer in Warsaw.
I am, however, getting fed up of layering. Today I had to be at work, as usual for a Monday, at 7.30am. I get up at 6am and have, usually, plenty of time for a shower and coffee before venturing out to get the bus. The last couple of weeks though, have seen me nearly miss the bus on several occasions. This is all due to layering. An essential, and time consuming, part of the day. First the normal underwear, then the thermal: long johns and a long-sleeved top. Over this goes jeans and a t-shirt. Then a thin wool jumper, and a hoody. Boots, down jacket, scarf, hat and gloves. Then once I'm outside I put the hood up. I haven't owned a coat with a hood on since I was a kid and absolutely no-one put their hoods up then in case everyone else thought you were a big girl's blouse or something. Now I don't give a shiney sh*te. If I'm warm I don't care what I look like. I mean, everyone else is all bundled up. Everyone else's hair looks like mice have been nesting in it, everyone else's nose is redder than a baboon's bum, so who is looking at me? Dokładnie. No-one.
Over the weekend it snowed again, but it was the thin, powdery, annoying snow that stings your face and gets in your eyes and through the tiniest gap in your clothes. It must have snowed all of Friday night and it continued all day Saturday until after it went dark. Relentless, covering everything with a light film of white. Occasionally a flake would rest on a scarf or hat, a perfect six-pointed star, small and delicate, not melting because it was too cold and sharp enough to be able to study it carefully for some minutes. A thing that is beautiful, but so small and fragile at the same time. Together with others it can, and does, wreak havoc. In the hospital car park five snow-ploughs chased each other round and round before heading off in convoy towards the bridge where, on Friday morning, a speed-freak youngster doing over 100kph crashed his car into a bus shelter full of passengers, killing five of them and injuring several more. His car bounced over the parapet and down onto the road beneath but he walked away unhurt. The police said that he hit the people at the bus shelter so hard some of them flew through the air to land over thirty metres away, in the middle of a busy highway.
On Sunday the sun came out and the temperature dropped. Over the last couple of weeks the river has slowly been getting more and more clogged with ice. Small round floes, many of which carried a solitary seagull, or a host of cormorants, their wings held out to dry in the weak January sun, floated silently along the Vistula heading for Gdansk and the Baltic where they would try to congregate into a mass of wannabe icebergs. When the lumps hit the supports of the bridge, they made quiet slushing sounds that were like cold breaths in the crisp air. Overhead the traffic continued to thunder across the bridge, but down by the water, all waquiet. The only people there were me and a lonely fisherman, sitting on the ice hoping to catch a frozen fillet. That was last week. This week the ice has solidified and now the river is, on its surface at least, one solid mass of ice. The seagulls have gone now; their little boats are no longer viable means of transport. A group of Fieldfare, looking confused, could be seen trying to get a drink from the tiniest of holes that remained on the surface. They, too, will fly away soon, to Germany or somewhere further west, where the ground isn't solid and there is at least some sort of food.
To see the river was incredible, the widest stretch of water I have ever seen: solid, frozen and white. We had taken a bus there and walked across the bridge, then a tram and bus back to the flat. It took us less than an hour but by the time we returned we'd both had enough. How do people live in places where it is minus 20 or 30 for weeks at a time?
Today is just as cold and the prognosis for tomorrow is for the same but with more snow forecast on Wednesday. To experience this long, cold winter has long been a dream, to live through the snow and ice, the buses with their inside windows frozen - despite the heater being on - and to layer-up against the cold. Now it's becoming a chore, the hats and gloves and scarves every time you want to go out anywhere, even to the bin. When spring comes, as come it must, it will be a joyous occasion, to welcome the new growth, to see the green poking through the snow, to avoid being crushed by snow sliding off roofs, to feel the warm breeze and to know that on that breeze is the prospect of another summer in Warsaw.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
It's cold out there...
They announced earlier on the radio that it is minus eight outside. It’s not hard to believe, looking out of the window. For several weeks now the sun has been hidden above the cloud, its presence felt rather than seen. Over the last weekend, however, it made a very welcome appearance. On Saturday when we got up, the whole of the world outside was bright and clear, the light sparkling off the snow that fell just after Christmas and still lies in deep piles all along the sides of paths and roads. But with the brightness comes the cold. Deep blue skies are devoid of the cloud that insulates the earth and we watch the weather forecasters point to lows of minus fifteen and – how droll – highs of minus two. On the bus this morning the ice formed sparkling patterns on the inside of the windows and the places to hold on to – the metal bars – were difficult to keep hold of as they were so cold, even through gloves. Hold on you must as the driver still refuses to slow down or have any regard for his passengers, they’re just a nuisance that keeps him from reading the paper.
As we crossed the river I looked out of the window and was amazed at what I saw. Dotted across the water’s surface like strange, white lily-pads, small floes of ice drifted along with the current. Many carried a lazy seagull, hitching a ride further down the river. On one bank, the ice had formed into the river itself, a vast sheet populated by confused-looking cormorants and some lost ducks. The cormorants drying their wings in the weak morning sunlight; the ducks doing their usual busy swimming around. I was told the river wouldn’t freeze over because of the pollution in it, but it was hard to believe this morning, looking at the surface almost covered with the little blobs of white-tinged ice. I don’t want it to go much colder, I’m already wearing almost every piece of clothing I own, but I would like to see the river frozen over. I have to decide which I want more – warmth or novelty. I can’t decide.
Last weekend, in the trees near to the flat, a flock of two hundred Waxwings spent an hour, chattering and preening, resting from the cold. I’ve never seen one before and to see a whole flock of them completely covering a tree was amazing. They much be on their way to warmer places, as there’s nowhere to get food here. People do hang out bacon rind and bread, but the pigeons bully their way into getting most of it.
We took down our Christmas tree on Sunday. Rather than feeling sad that it had gone, our first Christmas tree together and the first in which I’ve taken an active part in its putting up and dismantling, I am positive in the feeling that this year will be good. The first of many spent with someone I really want to be with and who treats me like I really matter. More snow is forecast for the next week and as we trudged round the Old Town on Sunday, searching for a restaurant to hold the ‘wesele’, we realised how empty the city is in the winter. Many of the cafes take in their seats, leaving the ice and snow from the rooves free to crash down on a poorly-cordoned off footpath. Huge piles of ice now sit by every bus stop, the product of piling up snow after each successive fall. Some pavements are free of it, but many are still like glass, the ice and snow packed hard and worn smooth by hundreds of booted feet.
So the new year begins and I look forward to it. I always wanted to experience the cold of an eastern winter, to be freezing for weeks until one day there’s a breath of warm wind and the grass starts to grow again, the daffodils poking above the soil, announcing the start of another season. This year I get my wish, and by March I am pretty sure I will be welcoming the warmer air with open arms and, in stark contrast to now, an open coat!
As we crossed the river I looked out of the window and was amazed at what I saw. Dotted across the water’s surface like strange, white lily-pads, small floes of ice drifted along with the current. Many carried a lazy seagull, hitching a ride further down the river. On one bank, the ice had formed into the river itself, a vast sheet populated by confused-looking cormorants and some lost ducks. The cormorants drying their wings in the weak morning sunlight; the ducks doing their usual busy swimming around. I was told the river wouldn’t freeze over because of the pollution in it, but it was hard to believe this morning, looking at the surface almost covered with the little blobs of white-tinged ice. I don’t want it to go much colder, I’m already wearing almost every piece of clothing I own, but I would like to see the river frozen over. I have to decide which I want more – warmth or novelty. I can’t decide.
Last weekend, in the trees near to the flat, a flock of two hundred Waxwings spent an hour, chattering and preening, resting from the cold. I’ve never seen one before and to see a whole flock of them completely covering a tree was amazing. They much be on their way to warmer places, as there’s nowhere to get food here. People do hang out bacon rind and bread, but the pigeons bully their way into getting most of it.
We took down our Christmas tree on Sunday. Rather than feeling sad that it had gone, our first Christmas tree together and the first in which I’ve taken an active part in its putting up and dismantling, I am positive in the feeling that this year will be good. The first of many spent with someone I really want to be with and who treats me like I really matter. More snow is forecast for the next week and as we trudged round the Old Town on Sunday, searching for a restaurant to hold the ‘wesele’, we realised how empty the city is in the winter. Many of the cafes take in their seats, leaving the ice and snow from the rooves free to crash down on a poorly-cordoned off footpath. Huge piles of ice now sit by every bus stop, the product of piling up snow after each successive fall. Some pavements are free of it, but many are still like glass, the ice and snow packed hard and worn smooth by hundreds of booted feet.
So the new year begins and I look forward to it. I always wanted to experience the cold of an eastern winter, to be freezing for weeks until one day there’s a breath of warm wind and the grass starts to grow again, the daffodils poking above the soil, announcing the start of another season. This year I get my wish, and by March I am pretty sure I will be welcoming the warmer air with open arms and, in stark contrast to now, an open coat!
Friday, January 06, 2006
My Polish is terrible!
Moje Święta w Polsce były bardzo różnie niż w Anglii.
W tym roku zostałem u rodzina moja narzeczona na trzy dnia w Katowicach.
W Anglii, pierwszy dzień Świąt jest dzień specjalnego. Mamy duża kolacja i dajemy prezenty. W Polsce wszystko zdarza się w Wigilia.
Najpierw przełamaliśmy się opłatkiem i życzyliśmy każdy zdrowie albo szczęście albo łatwy droga do mówienie po polsku, i potem usiedliśmy do kolacji.
Zaczęliśmy od barszcz czerwony domowe, który był nalewany na pierogi z kapustą i grzybami. Potem mieliśmy inną zupę tym razem zrobiona w grzybowi.
Jako dania główne mieliśmy karp. W Anglii nigdy nie mamy ryby, zawsze kurczak albo indyk. W Polsce, kolacja jest bez mięsa. Na stolik był też kompot zrobiony z moreli i śliwek.
Pierwszy i drugi dzień Świąt spędziłem relaksujący albo wyprowadzając psy na spacer do lasu, który był piękny w śnieg.
Wróciliśmy do Warszawy na drugi dzień z mnóstwem jedzenie, które wystarczyło dodatkowe trzy dni.
Spędziłem miło czas. Myślę, że w przyszłym roku Święta będą lepsze.
Bardzo dziękuje dla pomoc mój anioł ;-)
W tym roku zostałem u rodzina moja narzeczona na trzy dnia w Katowicach.
W Anglii, pierwszy dzień Świąt jest dzień specjalnego. Mamy duża kolacja i dajemy prezenty. W Polsce wszystko zdarza się w Wigilia.
Najpierw przełamaliśmy się opłatkiem i życzyliśmy każdy zdrowie albo szczęście albo łatwy droga do mówienie po polsku, i potem usiedliśmy do kolacji.
Zaczęliśmy od barszcz czerwony domowe, który był nalewany na pierogi z kapustą i grzybami. Potem mieliśmy inną zupę tym razem zrobiona w grzybowi.
Jako dania główne mieliśmy karp. W Anglii nigdy nie mamy ryby, zawsze kurczak albo indyk. W Polsce, kolacja jest bez mięsa. Na stolik był też kompot zrobiony z moreli i śliwek.
Pierwszy i drugi dzień Świąt spędziłem relaksujący albo wyprowadzając psy na spacer do lasu, który był piękny w śnieg.
Wróciliśmy do Warszawy na drugi dzień z mnóstwem jedzenie, które wystarczyło dodatkowe trzy dni.
Spędziłem miło czas. Myślę, że w przyszłym roku Święta będą lepsze.
Bardzo dziękuje dla pomoc mój anioł ;-)
Monday, January 02, 2006
Post Christmas blues...
It's the second of January and it's back to the grind. After a whole week off it was a real chore to crawl out of bed this morning. But manage it we did. Eventually.
I spent Christmas in Katowice with my soon-to-be adopted family, and it was a very different experience from the English one. For a start, everything happens on Christmas Eve: dinner and presents. The other two days are spent eating and chilling out. The emphasis is on the dinner and the family and the presents are tokens for others, not the focus.
To begin the celebrations, everyone takes some wafer, the kind you get in church and, offering it to others, you break a piece off each and at the same time wish people good luck, happiness, peace and, in my case, an easy road to speaking Polish. It seemed very formal after the relaxed pubbing of England, but was a sign of how much less commercial everything is here. I mean, people were still carrying Christmas trees home on the day before, so there's no rush to get a tree up at the beginning of December. This year, on a vist to England, I saw my first fully decorated tree in a Westaughton pub on the second of September, on the way into the beer garden with a pint of shandy. It made me wonder what the 'feast' of Christmas is about when for some it starts four months early.
So what about the food? All I can say is I've never had a CHristmas dinner like it and am extremely grateful to those who cooked it. Well, we started with barszcz made from scratch with several pounds of beetroot and almost as much butter. This was poured over pierogi (parcels of pastry containing mushrooms and cabbage) and was fantastic. Next came mushroom soup, again made from scratch. There then followed the carp (which the Poles eat instead of a roast) which came with potatoes and vegetables. After that I got a bit fuzzy about which dishes came after which and I was grateful we didn't have the traditional sixteen courses. I lost track of the number we had, but it was approaching twelve. The food was washed down with a fruit punch made from fresh apricots and plums and to finish we had some cake and little oranges. The whole thing took around four hours and then afterwards we exchanged simple, but thoughtfully purchased, gifts and then sat around, bloated, on the chairs. No James Bond for me this year! The following two days were the same, a round of food and drink, endless cups of tea and no television. Perfect. Even after so much eating we were still able to bring three days supply of food back to Warsaw and now, finally, the fridge is bare!
Snow dominated the scene between Christmas and New Year, with half a metre (or a foot and a half in old money) falling in two days. It's started to melt somewhat, creating skiddy patches everywhere and slush puddles the size of football fields, but the ground is still white in many places and perfect to look at. We went for a walk on New Year's Eve morning, to the forest near to the flat. It was magical. Trees were heavy with snow, the forest silent, only the sounds of some birds and the squeak of a wheel as a woman pushed a pram along a path. We walked for an hour before emerging into a small blizzard and I felt like an Arctic explorer for a time, walking Indian file along the side of the road in the footsteps of an ambling drunk. Real explorers would have done the journey in, probably, half the time and in shorts, but I enjoyed the challenge of putting myself against the snow, only taking a few minutes to shelter in a bus stop. If only Scott had had a karta miasta...
New Year's Eve we went to a party with friends. Vodka, made with fresh cucumbers, and shots called 'mad dogs' were the order of ceremony and although we left at one in the morning to get two night buses home, the party caried on until seven, with dancing and drinking. We drank champagne at midnight and I set off two fireworks that threw sparks into the trees and then bounced back, burning one girl's coat and frightening everyone else. The joys of being slightly drunk and slightly irresponsible experienced again. Sparklers finished off the outdoor entertainment and, with the temperature hovering around minus three, we popped back inside.
Now it is time to start the New Year proper. The post Christmas blues are here only because of the return to work and a semblance of normality, shakey as it may be. I'm not blue though, unless you count that brought on by the cold. I couldn't be happier. And I start this year with the knowledge that I will live in Poland for a long time, with the girl I love and who I will marry later this year. Who could be blue about that?
I spent Christmas in Katowice with my soon-to-be adopted family, and it was a very different experience from the English one. For a start, everything happens on Christmas Eve: dinner and presents. The other two days are spent eating and chilling out. The emphasis is on the dinner and the family and the presents are tokens for others, not the focus.
To begin the celebrations, everyone takes some wafer, the kind you get in church and, offering it to others, you break a piece off each and at the same time wish people good luck, happiness, peace and, in my case, an easy road to speaking Polish. It seemed very formal after the relaxed pubbing of England, but was a sign of how much less commercial everything is here. I mean, people were still carrying Christmas trees home on the day before, so there's no rush to get a tree up at the beginning of December. This year, on a vist to England, I saw my first fully decorated tree in a Westaughton pub on the second of September, on the way into the beer garden with a pint of shandy. It made me wonder what the 'feast' of Christmas is about when for some it starts four months early.
So what about the food? All I can say is I've never had a CHristmas dinner like it and am extremely grateful to those who cooked it. Well, we started with barszcz made from scratch with several pounds of beetroot and almost as much butter. This was poured over pierogi (parcels of pastry containing mushrooms and cabbage) and was fantastic. Next came mushroom soup, again made from scratch. There then followed the carp (which the Poles eat instead of a roast) which came with potatoes and vegetables. After that I got a bit fuzzy about which dishes came after which and I was grateful we didn't have the traditional sixteen courses. I lost track of the number we had, but it was approaching twelve. The food was washed down with a fruit punch made from fresh apricots and plums and to finish we had some cake and little oranges. The whole thing took around four hours and then afterwards we exchanged simple, but thoughtfully purchased, gifts and then sat around, bloated, on the chairs. No James Bond for me this year! The following two days were the same, a round of food and drink, endless cups of tea and no television. Perfect. Even after so much eating we were still able to bring three days supply of food back to Warsaw and now, finally, the fridge is bare!
Snow dominated the scene between Christmas and New Year, with half a metre (or a foot and a half in old money) falling in two days. It's started to melt somewhat, creating skiddy patches everywhere and slush puddles the size of football fields, but the ground is still white in many places and perfect to look at. We went for a walk on New Year's Eve morning, to the forest near to the flat. It was magical. Trees were heavy with snow, the forest silent, only the sounds of some birds and the squeak of a wheel as a woman pushed a pram along a path. We walked for an hour before emerging into a small blizzard and I felt like an Arctic explorer for a time, walking Indian file along the side of the road in the footsteps of an ambling drunk. Real explorers would have done the journey in, probably, half the time and in shorts, but I enjoyed the challenge of putting myself against the snow, only taking a few minutes to shelter in a bus stop. If only Scott had had a karta miasta...
New Year's Eve we went to a party with friends. Vodka, made with fresh cucumbers, and shots called 'mad dogs' were the order of ceremony and although we left at one in the morning to get two night buses home, the party caried on until seven, with dancing and drinking. We drank champagne at midnight and I set off two fireworks that threw sparks into the trees and then bounced back, burning one girl's coat and frightening everyone else. The joys of being slightly drunk and slightly irresponsible experienced again. Sparklers finished off the outdoor entertainment and, with the temperature hovering around minus three, we popped back inside.
Now it is time to start the New Year proper. The post Christmas blues are here only because of the return to work and a semblance of normality, shakey as it may be. I'm not blue though, unless you count that brought on by the cold. I couldn't be happier. And I start this year with the knowledge that I will live in Poland for a long time, with the girl I love and who I will marry later this year. Who could be blue about that?
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