Time to Leave Poland When: The Final Dispatch

THE BEGINNING OF THE END
A few days ago I stopped by the local Kefirek to pick up a few odds and ends for the last of my days in Poland and saw a special offer in the local shop that included two boxes of cake mix and the DVD “Mickey Blue Eyes.” I didn’t stare at in bewilderment as I used to. I didn’t ponder or try to work out the combination at all, I just looked onward to see what else was on offer. It took a few moments for me to really understand what this meant. A few philosophical moments later, when trying to convince the cashier to give me another bag, I looked back on a conversation I had with another American expat a few days before on this same topic. The more I got to thinking about how absurd this should have been, but was taking this as completely normal, the more I realized that when the curiosity has gone and the strange is no longer the unusual, it’s time to pack up and leave town. Not of course, however, without sharing a few of the many other things that have indicated to me that it is time to leave.

USUALLY UNUSUAL
It no longer strikes me as odd that apartment buildings don’t have elevators. Walking up to the fourth floor of my building yesterday, I thought about how many times I had walked up and down those stairs since I’ve been here. Today, I just noticed that the only two flats on the third floor are numbers 10 and 18 with no sign of the middle numbers anywhere else in the building. Instead of pondering deeply about this and asking “who does that?!?!” I simply continued up the staircase. I think, however, this pales in comparison to the day I saw the poster for the Second Annual Potato Festival and actually thought that it was a perfectly good way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Things have definitely taken a turn for the worse, the much worse.

AGGRESSION
As you all may know, I have recently developed a rather novel approach to Backgammon. This has not been the only sign of pent up aggression and rage. I was so distraught by the idiocy of a sign pointing in the wrong direction on a Warsaw street that I stood for five minutes and beat it with my umbrella, Jaime looking on at me helplessly while I gave it a stern talking to.

I also realized that one of the sure ways one knows that it’s time to leave Poland is when you or someone you know has been hit by a car. I was sitting at dinner with my old flatmate and she said casually, did I mention that I got hit by a car today? Um, no, no you didn’t. This is deemed perfectly normal. People always seem to be in a fight or ramming their cars into each other or under trams. Again, no one launches into hysterics and now I’m more curious to see which taxi company has been in an accident than to see if there were any injuries.

It has also become hazardous for me to be in close proximity to the landlady. Every time she comes by, I get the distinct urge to kill. As she comes by to drain every last grosze from me and cackles as she sinks her clenches into my helpless hands, I have to restrain the urge to launch across the table and throttle her. I was in the Cloth Hall today buying gifts for people back home when I saw a carved wooden axe and seriously considered what kind of damage one might do with it. I had to back away before it was too late.
FEARS AND OBSESSIONS
There are also a handful of things that I have now become either terrified or obsessed with. Krakow is known for the obwarzanki (the pretzel) which has astounded me. I’ve had a few of them and have been sorely disappointed. They have no flavor, but you see Poles eating them making orgasmic noises like it’s the best thing they’ve ever had in their lives. I noticed that in an airport, you can always tell which passengers are Polish, they’re always pulling pretzels out of their bag and eating them like there’s nothing better. I’ve taken to analyzing pretzel stands: organization of the selection, pricing, variety, who buys what and how many, and of course, the gratifying sounds coming from Poles going to town. I love to see tourists lured into false sense of ecstasy then bite into a pretzel and looked beaten. Only the non-Pole could walk around with a half-eaten pretzel and look disappointed. When Gazeta (the newspaper) ran a story on the new flavors of pretzels to be sold across town, I was intrigued by the pizza flavored ones only to discover on first bite that they didn’t actually taste any different than the regular ones. For some reason, however, I have been compelled to actually purchase them and relish those moments of pretzel goodness. I have actually debated which pretzel stands have the better pretzels and think this is a perfectly good treat.

I have also become obsessed with names. I have long given up on learning to spell Polish words although my Polish has taken off in the last two months. I can construct quite a few sentences now, mostly about colors, flowers, outside objects, and animals. My gem has been: “Slon lubi slonce; Lubie slonce, chile jestem slon” which translates to “Elephants like the sun; I like the sun, therefore I am an elephant.” It has philosophical flaws but I’m still quite proud. Angela will be pleased to know that I have learned to say, “excuse me, do you have any peanut butter?” along with a myriad of other useless phrases. “The doors are open” will not help you much when you’re in trouble. Anyway, I have become hopelessly obsessed with the unoriginality of Polish names. I know more than 4 Wojciech’s and at least 3 Przemyslaw’s. I’ve actually had to clarify who I was talking about with things like “Ania with the orange hair or Ania with the funny legs?” I am amused by the fact that there are 38 million Poles, and two dozen first names for the lot of them.

One of the curiosities, which another expat and I were discussing were Polish napkins, which is a stretch to call them that. They are little squares of wax paper that will not wipe or absorb anything, they merely smear things around. What is more perplexing is that they are arranged in napkin holders where it is impossible to pull one out without pulling all of them out. Many a time I’ve spent considering how to actually pull out one but never manage to pull out less than about thirty. It is most disturbing that I continue to try every time, every time a new method, every time failing miserably.

Poland has also turned me into one of those people who is obsessed with the weather. On any given day I can tell you the high, the low, the forecast for rain, and the outlook for the next ten days. I wouldn’t even consider venturing outside until this great oracle of weather.com has been consulted. It is simply unthinkable.

I used to claim that I had only two fears in life – snakes and ferris wheels. We can now safely add pigeons to this list. I have developed an irrational, unnatural fear of pigeons. I have nightmares about pigeons. They look at me from the windowsill in the mornings and I am convinced they’re plotting against me. I hear pigeon-y sounds on the roof and think of ways to kill them before they kill me. My most useful Polish phrase is: “Nie lubie golebie” (I don’t like pigeons). I think many months of therapy are going to be in order to undo the trauma that the pigeon-ness of Krakow has thrust upon me.

COMPLACENCY
In no particular order:

1. You are no longer shocked or amazed that you can buy popcorn at movie theaters, but can’t take them into the cinema itself.
2. You think you’ve figured out the Polish postal system.
3. You’ve actually bought dishwashing liquid and tram tickets at a kiosk and thought nothing of it.
4. The phrase “your chicken has been in an accident, would you like it repackaged?” in a phone call from KFC has not surprised you in any way.
5. You are no longer surprised by menus with items that the shop doesn’t actually have.
6. You can tell what’s missing from a pierogi by the smell.
7. You don’t see why a beer at 9am is a bad thing.
8. You can tell how much your neighbor’s sausage cost by the way it smells when it’s grilling
9. You’ve actually uttered the phrase, “it’s going to be warm tomorrow, upper 40s.”
10. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to own a dryer.

ON A SCARY, SERIOUS NOTE
Things are wrapping up here. I look around at the remnants of what has been my life for the last nine months. This week has pulled things slowly to a close. The culmination of nine months of research, countless hours of data compilation, and a few irate moments with statistics ended in a 45 minute presentation. Forty-five minutes was all I had to explain what I had done for the year after my graduation.

Looking back on it, I have to say that I’m proud of the year I’ve had since leaving Eckerd. I spent a wonderful summer learning to really do research in Cambodia, I spend some time backpacking in Europe, and then for my year here in Poland, complete with all its idiosyncrasies. I have enjoyed my time here, and I will be sad to say goodbye to it all, but there is some consolation in knowing that I’m simply moving on to my next adventure.

This adventure has been pretty amazing. I’ve made some fantastic friends, learned a lot, and have come to appreciate the education I received from the professors at Eckerd College, and what that has meant for my year here. Nothing, however, prepared me for a language without a word for cloves or erratic trains or $10 highlighters.

For those of you who have been with me for the last nine months, I thank you for reading and sending encouraging emails. It’s hard to believe that this is the end, that my time as a Fulbright scholar has passed. I came here to do what I said I was going to do, and I’ve done that, and more. I’m sure that when I look back on Poland I’ll remember the crazy taxi rides, the white cheese, and the impossibly long trousers. I will think about underpants sold at the post office and tram stops that change locations without notice.

I will never understand why things work the way they do, and for the last time, no, I really don’t speak Polish.

Dispatching from Poland and signing off,
April

LATIN PHRASE OF THE WEEK:
(A combined effort: phrase by Cyndi Butler, translation by Richard Ashworth)

Veni, vidi, currum desideravi.
I came, I saw, I missed the bus.