My first Polish jokes - Painters at PZU

For some reason when I first came to Poland, people liked telling me jokes especially the joke (maybe you know it) with the punch line “piłka…do metalu” (complete with arm motions showing a ball and then a saw). The problem with that joke is that it is only funny in Polish. Translated to English it doesn’t make any sense. And even if you can figure it out, nothing kills a joke more than a long, drawn out explanation. So after about the 10th time hearing this joke, I just smiled and laughed at the appropriate time thus allowing at least the joke-teller some enjoyment.

So while living at PZU (if you don’t know, check out some old posts), I had an opportunity to hear this joke again – from the painters.

It was definitely unfortunate for me that PZU decided to paint their premises during the year of my stay. I got to know about it when I came home to my Archives and found my door wide open and all my belongings gone, excluding the contents of the wardrobe which were still there (but the door to the room was open and unlocked). I immediately went to the caretaker to politely inquire as to what was going on (translate – to ask her what the f*#$ was going on). She informed me that the building was being painted and that I had been moved to another room. Strangely enough, they wanted to leave my wardrobe in its original place but they moved the fridge from the kitchen to another room for me. Weird.

After many a morning of running into the painters on my way to or from the bathroom, one painter decided to be brave and talk to me. He started with a joke. I politely waited for the punch line and after seeing the hand movements indicating “a ball for sawing” I laughed accordingly. My newfound painter friend, spurred on by my laugher, decided to tell me another joke unfamiliar to me. As I didn’t understand a word, I didn’t laugh at the appropriate moment and after an awkward silence I said goodbye and continued back to my room. About 15 minutes later a friend came to visit me. She had also brought a message with her from the painters. They asked her to apologize to me for their “off-color” joke. Apparently, the second joke was a bit risqué and they thought that was why I hadn’t laughed.

All turned out well as the painters later invited me for a shot of vodka in my (and all of PZU’s) kitchen. When I stammered out one of the few clumsy yet useful phrases I knew in Polish “Bez popitki?”(without chaser?), the vodka-pouring painter laughed whole-heartedly and called for all the other painters to join us. A little bit later, well exactly 4 shots later, I had to excuse myself to go to one extra-curricular hour of English at the vocational school. When I arrived, my students, judging by the redness of my cheeks, decided that the weather must have turned colder since the morning ;) Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, totally unprofessional and unethical behavior I exhibited at the start of my career.

PS More recently I had a group of business people every Monday and Friday morning. The deal was that Mondays were mine, I could teach whatever “business crap” (as they put it) I wanted and Fridays were theirs to talk about whatever subjects they wanted – usually cars and cars and cars.

Every Friday morning started out with the “Peter Show” a 5-minute joke-telling set by the Vice-President of the Board of Directors aka Peter. His jokes were definitely off-color which I enjoy (who doesn’t?) and his comedic timing perfect. What he was lacking, due to all that “business crap” I was teaching them, was the proper vocabulary needed to tell such variety of jokes. So every lesson began with a pre-lesson vocabulary check with me. You know, nobody wants to “burn” a good joke. However, when you as teacher are asked practically all the vocabulary needed for a joke, you’ve pretty much got the joke figured out. But no worries, my fake but sincere-sounding laughing skills are just about perfected after all these years of teaching adults (just kidding). To give you an idea of how my Friday mornings usually started, here’s a taste…(attention - it's gonna be vulgar)

Peter: Chris, Chris! I have a really funny joke to start the lesson today. I just need one word.

Me: Cool. What’s the word?

Peter: How do you say “pizda” in English?

I knew that lesson was going to be a doozey.

I love my job!

Integration: A teachers’ trip to the mountains Integracja: wycieczka nauczycieli w góry

Integration – the combining of parts to make a whole.

If you have never worked in Poland, then you remain blissfully unaware of what integration means to the Polish workforce.

It usually means a trip to some location near or far to be forcibly integrated with your work colleagues (sounds painful) in hopes of breaking down barriers and creating a stronger, more productive team. Some variations of the integration meeting include activities such as survival tasks, bungee jumping and in one very unfortunate Moulin Rouge-themed meeting, painting the almost naked bodies of dancers hired to do the can-can and entertain the guests.

In the Village (10 years ago), it meant a teachers’ trip to the mountains.

[Refresher – We are talking about autumn ages ago when I first came to Poland and started work at a high school teaching English. I just happened to meet my Misiu there.]

How could I say no?

I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of travelling to the mountains (where ever they were) with a bus full of my colleagues, but at least Misiu would be going along. I signed up, paid my money and promptly bought a sleeping bag as I was told it was necessary for the trip.

On the day of the trip, I showed up at school, sleeping bag in tow. I checked out all the teachers who were going along and could not find even one simpatico in the bunch. This was going to be a long weekend.

Finally, Misiu showed up wearing a new jacket. It was really nice and I complimented him on it to which I received a harsh bark of , “Aren’t the sleeves too short?”.

“Ummm, no,” I muttered. Apparently someone in Misiu’s life thought his sleeves were too short. This was going to be a really long weekend.

After all these years, I don’t remember most of the trip. I do remember a visit to a castle (which was lovely) and a question from the geography teacher about castles in America.

I remember that I wasn’t too excited about the mountains as I am from a pretty mountainous area in the US, but was enticed to walk to the top by the promise of beer there.

I remember the feeling of dread as the Principal of our school pulled out his guitar and song books on our first night in the hotel.

I remember the hotel owners whom I will politely call Jack Sprat (with suspicious sexuality) and his wife (who could eat no lean) who would not turn on the heat or unlock the bathroom doors and who called the police on us.

I remember the police arriving (apparently our guitar-playing and folk-song singing was disturbing the other guests…oh wait, there weren’t any other guests) and lining us up to check our passports. When they got to me, one officer said in a serious voice, “Gentlemen, there is a foreigner among us.”

I also remember that the teachers treated me like a child, the Principal even once chiding me to sit up straight on the bus.

I remember that I got to spend some time with Misiu, but it did not go without comment by the other teachers.

Finally, I remember being very glad to be back in my archives room throwing my sleeping bag in the corner where it remained the rest of my stay.

Happy integrating to all!

Integracja – wycieczka nauczycieli w góry

Integracja – łączenie części, ażeby stworzyć całość

Jeśli nigdy nie pracowaliście w Polsce, pozostajecie błogo nieświadomi tego, co oznacza integracja dla polskich pracowników.

Zwykle oznacza to wycieczkę w jakieś bliskie lub dalekie miejsce, żeby tam na siłę zintegrować się z waszymi kolegami z pracy (brzmi boleśnie) w nadziei przełamania barier i stworzenia silniejszego, bardziej wydajnego zespołu. Niektóre odmiany spotkań integracyjnych mogą polegać na zadaniach survivalowych, skokach bunjee, a na jednym nieszczęsnym spotkaniu - powiązanym tematycznie z Moulin Rouge - na malowaniu prawie nagich ciał tancerek wynajętych, żeby wykonać kankana i rozbawić gości.

W miasteczku (10 lat temu) oznaczało to wycieczkę nauczycieli w góry.

[Odświeżacz – Mówimy o jesieni wieki temu, kiedy pierwszy raz przyjechałam do Polski i zaczęłam pracę w szkole średniej ucząc angielskiego. Tam właśnie zdarzyło mi się poznać Misia.]

Jak mogłam powiedzieć nie?

Nie skakałam z radości mając w perspektywie podróż w góry (gdziekolwiek one były) autobusem pełnym moich kolegów, ale przynajmniej wiedziałam, że będzie jechał Misiu. Zapisałam się, wpłaciłam kasę i szybko zakupiłam śpiwór, bo powiedziano mi, że będzie konieczny na wycieczce.

W dzień wycieczki pojawiłam się w szkole ze śpiworem w zanadrzu. Sprawdziłam wszystkich nauczycieli, którzy mieli jechać i nie mogłam znaleźć nawet jednego „simpatico” w całej bandzie. Zapowiadał się długi weekend.

Wreszcie zjawił się Misiu w nowej kurtce. Była bardzo fajna i ją nawet pochwaliłam, na co on ostro odszczeknął „Rękawy nie za krótkie?”

“Ee, nie”, bąknęłam. Najwyraźniej ktoś w życiu Misia myślał, że rękawy są za krótkie. Zapowiadał się naprawdę długi weekend.

Po tylu latach nie pamiętam większości tej wycieczki. Pamiętam wizytę na zamku (który był śliczny) i pytanie od nauczyciela geografii o zamki w Ameryce.

Pamiętam, że nie byłam zbyt podekscytowana górami, bo sama pochodzę z dość górzystych terenów w Stanach, ale zostałam zwabiona do wejścia na sam szczyt góry obietnicą piwa tamże.

Pamiętam poczucie grozy, kiedy dyrektor szkoły wyciągnął gitarę i śpiewnik podczas naszej pierwszej nocy w hotelu.

Pamiętam właścicieli hotelu, których ładnie nazwałam imionami z wierszyka dla dzieci Jack Sprat (podejrzana seksualność) i jego żonę (nie jadła nic chudego), którzy nie włączyli dla nas ogrzewania, ani nie otworzyli drzwi do łazienki i którzy wezwali na nas policję.

Pamiętam jak przyjechała policja (widocznie nasze granie na gitarze i folkowe śpiewanie przeszkadzało innym gościom ... o, chwila, nie było tam żadnych innych gości) i ustawianie nas w rządku, żeby sprawdzić dowody tożsamości. Kiedy doszli do mnie, jeden z oficerów powiedział poważnym głosem „Panowie, jest wśród nas cudzoziemiec.”

Pamiętam również, że nauczyciele traktowali mnie jak dziecko, dyrektor nawet raz zbeształ mnie i kazał prosto siedzieć w autobusie.

Pamiętam, że spędziłam trochę czasu z Misiem, ale nie obyło się to bez komentarzy innych nauczycieli.

Wreszcie, pamiętam jak zadowolona byłam po powrocie do mojego ARCHIWUM rzucając śpiwór w kąt, gdzie pozostał już do końca mojego pobytu.

Wesołego integrowania dla wszystkich!

Yeah, well, you’re not so smart either -No cóż, wy też nie jesteście tacy mądrzy

I have to say, I am quite sick of all the “Americans are sooo stoooopid” jokes. Enough already. We get it. Americans don’t know where Poland is, ha, ha, ha. Americans don’t know if we are fighting in Iran or Iraq, ha, ha, ha. George W. Bush was President of the United States, twice, ha, ha, h-wait- boo, hoo, hoo –that one’s pretty sad, actually.

I, too, sometimes criticize my American friends for their lack of knowledge about world events and their indifference to life outside the United States. They say that they don’t care because they don’t know. I say, they don’t know because they don’t care. Whatever! Once (a long time ago), I asked an acquaintance from Rwanda (or was it Uganda) if they had houses in his home country. Ok, I didn’t know, but at least I cared enough to ask.  And anyhow it was before I was proficient at googling.

Anyhow, this blog is not about Americans and their lack of knowledge. This blog is about Poland…and admit it, you’ve got stupid people too. Ok, maybe stupid is too harsh but here are 2 funny situations from my first year in Poland.

While taking a taxi across town, the taxi driver decided to chat me up. He was delighted to find out that I was an American. One thing that didn’t agree with him was that I worked as an English teacher. “But you’re not from England,” he said in surprise.

While sending a letter at the local post office, I said my usual “lotnicza do USA” (airmail to the USA) to which the post office clerk replied, “USA? I thought you were from America?”

Kind of “Miś” moments, wouldn’t you say?

PS Miś is a Polish film in which there is a funny scene at the post office in which the clerk cannot locate the city of London.

No cóż, wy też nie jesteście tacy mądrzy

Muszę powiedzieć, Mam dość jak słyszę te wszystkie dowcipy “Amerykanie są taaacy głupi”. Już wystarczy tego. Kapujemy. Amerykanie nie wiedzą, gdzie jest Polska – ha ha ha. Amerykanie nie wiedzą, czy walczymy w Iranie czy Iraku, ha ha ha. George W. Bush był prezydentem USA, dwa razy, ha ha, czekajcie – beeeeee – ten dowcip jest akurat przykry.

Ja też czasami krytykuję moich amerykańskich znajomych za brak wiedzy o wydarzeniach światowych oraz ich obojętność na życie poza Stanami. Oni mówią, że mają to gdzieś, bo nic nie wiedzą. Ja mówię wtedy, że nic nie wiedzą, bo mają to gdzieś. Nieważne! Kiedyś (dawno temu) spytałam znajomego z Rwandy (a może Ugandy) czy oni mają w swoim kraju domy. OK, nie wiedziałam, ale przynajmniej zadbałam o to, żeby spytać. Poza tym było to zanim nabrałam wprawy w GOOGLOWANIU.

W każdym razie, ten blog nie jest o Amerykanach i ich braku wiedzy. Ten blog jest o Polsce... i przyznaję, też macie tu głupich ludzi. OK, może głupi to zbyt mocne ale oto 2 zabawne sytuacje z pierwszego roku mojego pobytu w Polsce.

Raz jadąc taksówką przez miasto kierowca postanowił trochę mnie zagadać. Było mu niezmiernie miło usłyszeć, że jestem Amerykanką. Jedna rzecz mu się jednak nie zgadzała - to że pracowałam jako nauczycielka angielskiego. „Ale przecież nie jest pani z Anglii”, powiedział zaskoczony.

Kiedy wysyłałam raz list w miejscowym urzędzie pocztowym, powiedziałam jak zwykle „lotnicza do USA” na co urzędniczka odparła, „USA? A ja myślałam, że pani jest z Ameryki.”

Nie powiedzielibyście, że moment trochę jakby z “Misia”?

PS MIŚ to polski film, w którym jest zabawna scena na poczcie, w której urzędniczka nie może znaleźć miasta Londyn.

Shopping in the Village Part 2 - Zakupy Po Wiejsku Część 2

One thing that totally freaked me out in my 1st year of Village shopping was the eggs -

the eggs which were not refrigerated,

the eggs which were not refrigerated and covered in chicken shyte,

the eggs which were not refrigerated, covered in chicken shyte and resting in a dilapidated stack of egg crates in full sun outside a kiosk by the side of the road,

the eggs which were not refrigerated, covered in chicken shyte, resting in a dilapidated stack of egg crates in full sun outside a kiosk by the side of the road and given to you in a plastic bag to carry all the way home.

In my American experience, eggs should be white, clean, sold in quantities of 6 or 12, packaged in an egg carton and should always be refrigerated. Food should in no way recall its origins. Food is from the septic supermarket, not the farm.

I remember my first visit to an egg farm. I was about 3 or 4 years old. My parents had a corner market in my hometown - such a thing does not exist anymore. My father decided to take me to the Amish farm where we bought eggs for the shop. I was fascinated with those dirty, little, shoeless Amish kids. I was also fascinated with the chicken coop which in fact was a huge barn only for chickens.

On the way home in my Dad’s old truck, my Dad asked me what I thought about the farm. I answered that it was nice but asked, “Why all those chickens?” That’s when my father explained that eggs were in his words “baby chickens” to which I burst into hysterical tears. Boy, was my Mom angry at my Dad when we got home. I did not eat eggs again until 10 years later and till this day still expect to find a baby chicken every time I crack an egg. Thanks Dad.

But I am not even half as paranoid as another American I met here is Poland. First of all, I was so impressed that she could enter a shop and ask in Polish if there were eggs, - “Czy są jajke?”. Wow! I couldn’t do that. She must be an authority on the subject. Then at home she carefully cleaned each egg with a water and (gulp) Domestos solution (it’s bleach gel). I tried to explain to her that the surface of eggs is porous, but to no avail. Next, each egg was cracked into a separate bowl and dutifully sniffed to check if it had gone bad. After that, any stray pieces of shell or yucky blood spots were removed. Finally, the eggs could be used, but by that time I had lost my appetite.

Another thing that could cause me to lose my appetite was the proximity of golonka (pig knuckles) to the chicken filets I wanted to buy in the meat case. How embarrassing is it to explain to the butcher that, yes, you want 2 chicken filets but not the ones touching the big, hairy pig legs. Apparently not too embarrassing, because I learned how to say it in Polish and I did say it whenever necessary, still do, in fact.

Something which struck me as odd back then but was really quite good for a single person such as myself, was the size of Polish products. I don’t mean that chairs and clothes and cars were teeny tiny (scratch that, cars are teeny tiny), but that products come in small-sized packages while in America every jam, jelly, mayo and ketchup is in such a huge amount, you’ll never use it before it goes bad. Well, scratch that too. American products will never go bad due to all the preservatives, so I suppose you can buy a bucket of peanut butter and expect to use it all up. I remember how surprised I was to return to a jar of  Polish jam after one week, only to find that it was furry. Now we have larger sized packages in Poland but still nothing like in the US. US-sized products seem comical to me now – as do US-sized people.

One last thing about shopping in the Village is that you can buy various agricultural products from the classified ads in the newspaper. My favorite ad - “Prosięta – 10 sztuk”. (Piglets – 10 pcs)

 

PS Preservatives are konserwanty in Polish. Prezerwaty in English are condoms. Hee, hee.

PS2 Kielbasa Stories has 2 new followers. Welcome lotnica and Modlishka! Thanks for joining us and thanks for reading.

Zakupy Po Wiejsku Część 2

Jedna rzecz, która mnie totalnie przerażała podczas mojego pierwszego roku pobytu w Miasteczku to JAJKA -

jajka nie były w lodówce,

jajka nie były w lodówce oraz były pokryte kurzym gównem,

jajka nie były w lodówce, były pokryte kurzym gównem oraz leżały na rozwalającej się kupie wytłaczanek, w pełnym słońcu pod kioskiem, na skraju jezdni,

jajka, które nie były w lodówce, pokryte kurzym gównem, leżące na rozwalającej się kupie wytłaczanek, w pełnym słońcu, na skraju jezdni były podawane w plastikowym woreczku, który zanosiłaś do domu.

Z mojego amerykańskiego doświadczenia, jajka powinny być białe, czyste, sprzedawane po 6 lub 12 sztuk, zapakowane w karton i zawsze powinny być w lodówce. Jedzenie nie powinno w żaden sposób przypominać o swoim pochodzeniu. Jedzenie jest ze sterylnego supermarketu, a nie z fermy.

Pamiętam moją pierwszą wizytę na kurzej fermie. Miałam 3 albo 4 lata. Moi rodzice prowadzili sklepik na rogu w naszym rodzinnym mieście – takie coś już nie istnieje. Mój ojciec postanowił zabrać mnie na fermę Amiszów, gdzie kupowaliśmy jajka do sklepu. Byłam zafascynowana brudnymi, małymi, bosymi dziećmi Amiszów. Byłam też zafascynowana kurnikiem, który tak naprawdę był wielką stodołą tylko dla kurczaków.

W drodze do domu w starej półciężarówce mojego taty, mój tata spytał mnie jak mi się podobało na fermie. Powiedziałam, że było fajnie, ale spytałam „ Dlaczego tam są te wszystkie kurczaki?” Wtedy to mój tata wyjaśnił mi, że jajka to – w jego słowach – „dzidziusie kurczaczki”, na co ja wybuchłam histerycznym płaczem. O jejku! Ależ moja mama była zła na tatę, kiedy wróciliśmy do domu. Nie jadłam potem jajek przez następne dziesięć lat, a nawet do dziś, spodziewam się kurczaczka za każdym razem jak rozbijam jajko. Dzięki, tato!

Ale nie jestem nawet w połowie tak paranoidalna jak moja inna amerykańska koleżanka, którą poznałam tu w Polsce. Przede wszystkim byłam pod wielkim wrażeniem, ze ona umie wejść do sklepu i zapytać po polsku czy są jajka, - „Czy są jajka?” Wow! Tego nie potrafiłam. Ona musi być autorytetem w tej dziedzinie. Później w domu ona wyczyściła każde jajko wodą i odrobiną DOMESTOSA (to jest żel wybielający). Próbowałam jej wytłumaczyć, że powierzchnia jajka jest porowata, ale bezskutecznie. Następnie, każde jajko było rozbijane do osobnego półmiska i starannie obwąchiwane, ażeby sprawdzić czy się nie zepsuło. Potem, wszelkie kawałeczki skorupki lub ohydne kawałki z krwią były wyrzucane. W końcu, można już było spożytkować jajka, ale do tego czasu ja już straciłam apetyt.

Kolejną rzeczą, z powodu której traciłam apetyt była bliskość GOLONKI i filetów z kurczaka, które chciałam kupić w garmażerce. Jakież to zawstydzające tłumaczyć rzeźnikowi, że tak, chcesz 2 filety, ale nie te, które dotykają wielkich, owłosionych świńskich nóg. Widocznie nie aż tak zawstydzające, gdyż nauczyłam się jak to powiedzieć po polsku i mówiłam to zawsze kiedy było to konieczne, tak naprawdę ciągle to robię.

Coś co uważałam za dziwne, ale wtedy było to coś dobrego jak dla osoby żyjącej w pojedynkę tak jak ja, to rozmiar polskich produktów. Nie mam na myśli tego że krzesła albo ubrania albo samochody są malutkie (skreślam to, samochody SĄ malutkie), ale to, że produkty są w małych opakowaniach podczas gdy a Ameryce każdy dżem, konfitura, majonez i keczup są w takiej olbrzymiej ilości, że ich nie skonsumujesz zanim się zepsują. Cóż, skreślam to też. Amerykańskie towary nigdy się nie zepsują z powodu wszystkich konserwantów, więc przypuszczam, że można kupić wiadro masła orzechowego i spodziewać się, że zużyjemy wszystko. Pamiętam, jak zdziwiona byłam, kiedy po tygodniu powróciłam do słoika polskiego dżemu, jak zobaczyłam, że wyrosło na nim futerko. Teraz też mamy większe opakowania w Polsce, ale ciągle to nic w porównaniu ze Stanami. Amerykańskie rozmiary opakowań wydają mi się teraz komiczne - zresztą tak samo jak rozmiary ludzi w Stanach.

I ostatnia rzecz, jeśli chodzi o zakupy w Miasteczku to to, że można kupić różnorakie produkty rolne z ogłoszenia w gazecie. Moje ulubione – „Prosięta – 10 sztuk”.

PS Preservatives to konserwanty po polsku. Prezerwatywy po angielsku to CONDOMS. Hee, hee.

Shopping in the Village: How To Get What You Want - Zakupy w Miasteczku czyli Jak Dostać To Co Chcesz

We return to our trip down memory lane and fondly remember my first year in Poland. Oh, the days before Biedronka and Żabka ‘round every corner ;)

Imagine that you take your ecological shopping bag, grab your keys and head out the door to do your shopping. All the supermarkets and self-service shops in your town have evaporated overnight, your only choice left-  a small, corner shop where you have to ask the shop assistant for each product that you want. There’s no window shopping, no browsing. You have to know what you want and promptly ask the shop lady for it as a line forms behind you. The language that she speaks is unknown to you. The products all are new to you. The money in your pocket is strange. Although all the products obviously have names, you don’t know how to say any of them and everyone is looking at you and you are sweating and you are wearing totally retarded cowboy boots.

Day one, you go home empty-handed, but on day two you are determined…and hungry. You have a shopping list and dictionary. That’s how I felt in the Village. Hungry and determined, armed with a shopping list, my yellow dictionary and totally retarded cowboy boots.

On one of my first shopping trips, I wanted to buy a loaf of bread. How I tired myself trying to figure out how to say just that – a loaf of bread. Little did I know that in Polish the word for bread, (chleb) is countable. Of course, you can order a loaf of bread but it is sufficient to say “poproszę chleb”. I got the bread back home proud as anything only to realize that I did not have a knife ; (Deep dark confession- Before coming to Poland, I had never sliced a loaf of bread. The berating may begin.)

Another day I decided to get crazy and order some rolls. In  Polish the ending of the noun changes depending on the number (and gender) and those numbers are not so easy to say. I could manage 1 or 2 rolls but 3 was impossible. It had nothing to do with the rolls but with the number 3 (trzy). 4 (cztery) rolls was pretty safe but the safest number for me was 5 (pięć). It was the easiest to say, but at the number 5, the ending of the word rolls is different. As I stood in line, I  contemplated pięć bułki? pięć bułek? pięć bułków? As I often did, I listened very carefully to what the other shoppers were buying and this time they did not let me down. I went home with “pół chleba”. What? It’s practically the same thing and much more useful to me than pół litra.

In Poland, I discovered 2 juices which I liked very much and drank all the time – banana juice and peach juice. Maybe that’s why I go so fat during my short stay. Banana juice is pretty easy to say, sok bananowy, but peach juice is almost impossible, sok brzoskwiniowy. The shop ladies knew that I really liked banana juice so sometimes when they were running low, they put one carton under the counter just for me. (Super nice) And from that, my clever plan was born. If I didn’t see any banana juice on the shelf, I still asked for it. More often than not, a carton was waiting for me, but in the event that there was no banana juice, the shop lady then offered me peach juice to which I only had to say “tak”.

A smart plan, wasn’t it?

Powracamy w naszej podróży do przeszłości i z rozrzewnieniem rozpamiętujemy mój pierwszy rok w Polsce. Och, było to zanim pojawiły się BIEDRONKI i ŻABKI na każdym rogu.

Wyobraźcie sobie, że bierzecie swoją ekologiczną torbę, klucze i walicie za drzwi, żeby zrobić na zakupy. Wszystkie supermarkety i sklepy samoobsługowe wyparowały przez jedną noc, jedyny wybór, który pozostał – to sklepik na rogu, gdzie musisz poprosić panią ekspedientkę o każdy produkt, który chcesz. Nie ma oglądania wystaw, przeglądania towaru. Musisz wiedzieć, co chcesz i szybko poprosić o to ekspedientkę, bo już tworzy się za tobą kolejka. Język, którym ona mówi jest ci nieznany. Towary też stanowią nowość. Pieniądze w kieszeni dziwne. Chociaż wszystkie towary mają nazwy, nie wiesz jak się je wymawia, a jeszcze każdy się na ciebie patrzy, a ty się pocisz i masz na nogach totalnie ułomne kowbojskie buty.

Dzień pierwszy – wracasz do domu z pustymi rękami, ale na drugi dzień jesteś zdeterminowana ... i głodna. Masz listę zakupów i słownik. Tak się czułam w Miasteczku. Głodna i zdeterminowana, uzbrojona w listę zakupów, mój żółty słownik i totalnie ułomne kowbojki..

Na jednej z moich pierwszych wypraw na zakupy, chciałam kupić bochenek chleba. Jak ja się namęczyłam, żeby wymyślić jak to powiedzieć – bochenek chleba. Nie wiedziałam nic o tym, że słowo chleb w języku polskim jest policzalne. Oczywiście można zamówić bochenek chleba, ale wystarczy powiedzieć „poproszę chleb”. Wróciłam z chlebem do domu, żeby tylko zorientować się, że nie mam noża ;) (Wyznanie prosto z serca – zanim przyjechałam do Polski nigdy przedtem nie kroiłam chleba. Teraz możecie mnie zwymyślać.)

Następnego dnia postanowiłam zaszaleć i kupić parę bułek. W polskim końcówki rzeczowników zmieniają się w zależności od liczby i rodzaju, a liczebniki te nie są łatwe w wymowie. Umiałam powiedzieć jedna lub dwie bułki, ale już trzy było niemożliwe. Chodziło o liczbę 3 (trzy). 4 (cztery) było już bezpieczniejsze, ale najłatwiejsza była liczba 5 (pięć). Było to najłatwiej powiedzieć, ale przy liczbie 5 zmienia się końcówka słowa BUŁKA. Jak tak stałam w kolejce, zaczęłam kontemplować pięć bułki? pięć bułek? pięć bułków? Tak jak to często robiłam posłuchałam uważnie co inni klienci kupują, no i tym razem nie mogli mnie zawieść. Wróciłam do domu z PÓŁ CHLEBA. No co? To praktycznie to samo i bardziej dla mnie pożyteczne niż pół litra.

W Polsce odkryłam 2 soki, które bardzo polubiłam i piłam przez cały czas – sok bananowy i sok brzoskwiniowy. Może dlatego tak utyłam podczas mojego krótkiego pobytu. Sok bananowy – w sumie łatwo powiedzieć, ale BRZOSKWINIOWY po prostu niemożliwe. Panie sklepowe wiedziały, że naprawdę smakował mi sok bananowy, więc czasami kiedy już im się kończył zostawiały coś dla mnie pod ladą. BARDZO FAJNIE. I tak zrodził się mój sprytny plan. Jeśli nie widziałam soku bananowego na półce - to i tak o niego prosiłam. Często karton czekał już na mnie. Ale kiedy nie było już soku bananowego, sklepowa zawsze proponowała sok brzoskwiniowy, a wtedy już mogłam tylko powiedzieć TAK!

Sprytny plan, co nie?

Nature Calls

As I mentioned awhile back, my living quarters when I first came to Poland were less than desirable - the archives room of a PZU office building in the Village – unless you like that kind of a thing. Also, previously mentioned was my kitchen/bathroom situation - I shared a bathroom and kitchen with all of PZU which was less than desirable too, unless you are an extreme people person and you like that kind of a thing. If you need a refresher, click here.

I shared my bathroom with all PZU, until one day when they informed me that the bathroom was out of order, but not to worry, it would be repaired later that day…and as I was new to Poland and to plumbing problems, I believed them. My neighbors downstairs (the maintenance man and his family) joked that I could use their bathroom, but when it turned out that the bathroom would not be repaired in one day, the offer evaporated. OK, there was another toilet for use in the building for PZU employees. It was far away – not a problem when you really got to go, except for one problem, it was locked after 4 pm and no amount of begging could persuade anyone in charge that my need for the key was legit.

So, there I was left with no toilet and no shower and not knowing how long it would be. Great.

The best part was that no one cared. When I explained my plight at school and asked for some assistance in resolving the issue, I was met with helpless shrugs of the shoulder. Finally, the Principal said he would “take care of it”. If you want to know what “I will take care of it” really means in the mouth of this Principal, I can tell you.  It means: I will forget about this problem as soon as you leave this room and never think about it again. When you ask me about it in another week, I will act as if I am hearing it for the first time.

Now that I think about it, it really burns me up that they treated me like that, but on the other hand, it gave Misiu an opportunity to come to my rescue, first by offering me a place to get washed up and second by making sure my bathroom got repaired.

On a positive note, I made a nice friend – the night shift gas station attendant who was very generous with the WC key.

PS Kielbasa Stories has a new follower. Welcome akwarelia! Thank you for joining us and thank you for reading.

Yellow papers anyone?

You may have heard of the pink slip (it is a euphemism for getting fired in America), but have you heard of the yellow papers? No? Then you are probably not Polish. Getting your “yellow papers” in Polish means that you are certified crazy…I mean mentally ill.

I do not have a lot of experience with the mentally ill, but I think that everybody knows someone (or at least knows of someone) who has some degree of mental illness. I just have the misfortune of attracting these people to myself…like a magnet…like a big old crazy magnet.

As I was walking the 3 minute walk from my room at PZU to school in the Village, I had my 2nd encounter with crazy…Polish style. (My first encounter was Karolek who followed me home). How much trouble can you get into in a 3-minute walk? Just leave it to me.

First, I have a habit of greeting people on the street. Well, I had a habit. It is a small-town-America habit and doesn’t really translate well to another culture, so I stopped doing it. People were starting to think I was crazy.

On my walk to school, I pretty much kept to myself and only greeted those people (usually students) who greeted me first. On this particular day, I noticed a well-dressed man approaching me. Could it be a student’s father? Probably not, he seemed a bit too old, but who was I to judge? Well, he was well-dressed in the sense that he was wearing a suit, a 3-piece suit if my memory does not fail me and a smart overcoat. He was wearing a nice hat and carrying an umbrella as well, one of those large umbrellas with a wooden handle. Strangely, one of his pant legs was rolled up to the knee, but I thought perhaps he had been riding his bike and had forgotten to put his pant leg down. But then I noticed that he was wearing only one shoe. Quite odd. Of course, my summary of this man lasted all of about 15 seconds. And then he marched straight up to me with a determined look on his face and hit me with his umbrella sharply right on top of my head…and it hurt. Then he marched away saying nothing.

I told no one of this encounter because who could I have told and who would have believed me anyway? I later found out that this gentleman was Crazy Jurek. I did not give him the nickname no matter how suitable it seems. Crazy Jurek, as it turned out, was Misiu’s sister’s downstairs neighbor. Long divorced from his wife, Jurek had been given just one room in his marital home. His wife and children remained in the rest of the apartment. I don’t know how it was possible by law to do this, but the room was simply bricked off from the rest of the apartment (it does have an exit to outside) without access to heat, water or any bathroom facilities. And I forgot to mention that Jurek was/is under sporadic treatment of schizophrenia. Hitting a passerby with an umbrella is one of the tamest things he has done.

To make life at my sister-in-law’s even more interesting, Crazy Jurek’s sister, Faustyna, also suffering from schizophrenia lived upstairs in the attic apartment. My sister-in-law lived in the middle of a kind of schizophrenia sandwich. Every time I entered the main doors of the house, I was bombarded from above with cursing screams of “You f-ing whore. Get you f-ing ass out of here”. I did not take these comments personally because #1 she was mentally ill (she has now passed away) #2 she screamed the same thing to everybody who entered the building. #3 I didn’t understand what she was saying.

Once when we came back home to my sister-in-law’s, Faustyna was hanging by her finger tips from the 3rd storey window to which my sister-in-law told her to jump, but not before she moved her car. Some dark humor for ya.

Another time while sitting in the kitchen my niece wiped a drip of a mystery liquid from the tip of her nose. This mystery liquid was dripping from the ceiling. Origin? Faustyna’s apartment. As it turned out, Faustyna had been storing bagged milk under her sofa and some of the bags had broken and dripped down to my sister-in-law’s.

Despite my sister-in-law’s dark sense of humor, she really was sorry for them. She often called the authorities out of pity and out of fear for everyone’s safety. Usually they were locked in a mental facility for some time and then released back home where they had no care and stopped taking their medication. Jurek, this last very cold winter, in his last attempt to survive somehow, destroyed my nephew’s car spectacularly and was then locked up in a mental hospital where unlike at home they have heat, water, and food. Could you blame him?

Chestnuts - Kasztany

I did do other things in the Village those 10 years ago than just try to pick up boys. I also went for walks ;)

I am not very good at finding my way around so I started on mini-walks using the big church (close to my home) as a reference guide. Then as I got to know more of the Village, I ventured further and further away. If I had realized then what a beautiful place I was living in, I certainly would have bought a bike (and perhaps a map) and explored.

I was interested in seeing everything that was different- the different architecture, the different birds and animals, the different trees and plants. I was very happy one day to discover an enormous chestnut tree which had dropped a carpet of chestnuts on the sidewalk. We have a lot of chestnut trees in my hometown in the US and my part of my hometown is even named after the chestnut. I was pretty excited (C’mon, I didn’t have a TV).

At that moment, I decided that Polish people were wasteful, allowing perfectly good food (chestnuts) to rot on the street. I collected a couple of handfuls of chestnuts and took them home.

As you can probably gather, I had brought home so-called horse chestnuts. They look different than edible chestnuts, but I thought it was just a different kind of chestnut (like cabbages in Poland - they are huge!) The sad part is it took me to my third chestnut to finally decide that there was something wrong with these chestnuts.

Horse chestnuts are edible (I think, ‘cause I ate 3 and didn’t die), but terribly bitter.

Smacznego.

Horse chestnuts are good for making little creatures with match stick legs.

Other Suitors

Let’s recap: It’s about 10 years ago. I had just come to Poland. Misiu’s girlfriend was back in town. And the short-lived thing with Maciek was definitely over.

Not that I didn’t have other suitors to choose from, ha ha ha.

First was Karolek. Karolek I met one of my first weeks in Poland. He followed me home like a stray dog, mumbling something under his breath all the way behind me. As we reached my door, I explained to him (in English) that he should go home and leave me alone. I later learned that he was a patient in the nearby mental hospital and following women home was his M.O. About 2 years ago, I saw him again in the City in the Market Square up to his old games trying to catch the attention of as many women as he could .

There was another gentleman, but I wasn’t sure if he was an admirer or not. He invited me a lot of places to talk which was great for me. It broke up the monotony of the school days, and I think it was good for him as he could practice his English. He never overtly expressed any interest but enjoyed inviting me to his home and asking his girlfriend to wait on us. With every tray of food and drink she served, he reminded me that she was just temporary, that he would never marry her, that she wasn’t good enough for him. I think he was trying to advertise himself, but in this case it was a kind of anti-reklama.

As you know Misiu and I are together now so somewhere in my first year in Poland we managed to get together. That didn’t stop some of my suitors. Well, I’m not sure if the next two count as suitors either as they were alcohol inspired and underage.

One boy from one of my classes decided to declare his love for me one cold January night. As I mentioned before, I lived at PZU. I did have an intercom to my room except on very cold nights when it didn’t work. I didn’t have a phone either, so if you wanted to talk to me on a cold January night, you had to be pretty resourceful. The resource this boy chose was a tangerine as a tool to get my attention by throwing it at my window... on the top floor. How romantic. Not really. Tangerines hit your window with a big thud and he missed quite a few times and hit my neighbors window (the maintenance man lived under me). Did I mention he was 17? I opened the window to see the smiling-faced boy as he asked “Did I wake you?” and then demanded “Let me in. Please, let me in. Let me in. It’s so cold.”

I responded very responsibly that he should go home, but he claimed to be locked out. I considered my possibilities. I could tell this poor drunk boy to go home. He could wander away to the park, pass out and freeze to death or I could let him, give him a pillow and blanket for the floor and send him home the next morning. No freezing to death involved but maybe a little burning in hell involved because I lived directly next to the church and the last thing I needed was church-goers seeing a 17 year-old boy sheepishly exiting my apartment early Sunday morning.

As I was running the possibilities through my head again, he asked, “What’s the problem? Is Misiu there?” Misiu was his teacher too. Someone else was very observant or maybe I just wasn’t very discreet. “Go home,” I implored, absolutely sure my downstairs neighbors were also listening at their window sorry that they didn’t know English. He finally gave up, went home and we never mentioned it again.

Another boy from the same class with the unfortunate nickname Mały (because he was small) decided to declare his love for me on his class trip. I had been chosen as chaperone of the class trip to Gdańsk along with 2 other teachers. It was at the start of June and we were expecting wonderful weather, except we didn’t get what we expected. It was cold, cold, cold at the seaside and the bungalows we were staying in did not have heat. Until it was time to sleep we all, students and teachers, decided to congregate in one room. The kids prepared sandwiches and I suspected drank some alcohol. It was a dilemma for me as most of them by this time were 18 years old, the legal drinking age in Poland, but I was their adult chaperone. I told them that I did not want to see them drinking, that they were forbidden from leaving the premises and that no children were to be born 9 months from this trip.

The kids continued to talk some of them saying more to me in the previous 10 minutes than they had they whole school year in class. Especially Mały, who informed me that he had something important to tell me. I leaned in and he declared loudly to the whole room of classmates and teachers, shouting in my ear, “Miss Chris, I am in love in you!” I guess I hadn’t taught them their prepositions very well. I laughed as he offered me a bite of his pâté sandwich to seal the deal. I declined the sandwich to which he ordered, “Miss Chris, kiss me! Kiss my face!” It was so funny watching this shy boy declare his drunken love for me that I obliged. Taking his face in my hands, I brought his forehead to my lips and gave him a kiss. This inspired oohs and aahs from the rest of the room to which Misiu, another chaperone on the trip said, “Mały, hands off my girlfriend, man.” To which inspired a quieter level of oohs and aahs. Misiu had admitted to the kids that we were together. They didn’t know what to say. They all decided to play it cool. And so did we.

What did I know anyway?

And what did I know about Polish relationships anyhow? Maybe it didn’t work like in America. I decided to forget about this Misiu guy and I turned my direction to Maciek. I mean, I didn’t have a choice, he was hard to ignore. He was everywhere - waiting for me outside of the school after my classes ended, in the morning outside my building to drive me to school (or to be seen driving me to school) or every Monday at 6:00 pm when he drove me to the next town for dinner.

Yes, he had a car which he tried to impress me with, but I’m American, possessing a car by a 19-year old is nothing impressive for me. By Polish village standards back then he was a catch - a catch set to inherit his father’s business some day and oh, the dimples. I had almost forgotten about those dimples.

Once when I went to the City to visit my friends, he was waiting for me at the station when I got off the bus. He spent the whole weekend with us, and it was really a lot of fun. It was also fun to have other people around us to take the pressure off of me because Maciek couldn’t really speak English, and I couldn’t speak Polish. During our weekly dinners, you can imagine that we ate a lot and talked very little.

He really was sweet and tried to entertain me and take care of me in his own way. If he noticed that I needed something in my apartment, he brought it for me. If I looked sad, he invited me for a walk. He was very thoughtful.

But I was 22 and he was 19 and I thought that was an insurmountable age difference at the time. I was stupid ‘cause now, I’d be all over that Maciek, but then…

Besides the “huge” age difference, I couldn’t get over the fact that I felt like an accessory. Like next to the nice clothes, nice car, fancy dinners, and trips to the City, the next best accessory was an American girlfriend. I know that wasn’t the whole reason for his interest in me, but it was in the mix.

It definitely wasn’t going to work. I wanted to break it to him gently. I really did like him, but before I could even broach the subject, he brought it up himself, in the corridor of my city friend’s apartment. I told him it was the age difference, the language barrier, everything. “But you like me,” he said. It wasn’t a question, just a kind of statement of the situation. I answered, “Of course, I like you. I like you very much.” And it was true. It was a long drive back to the Village, but always the gentleman, Maciek carried my bag up to my apartment. I invited him in. He sat down but didn’t take off his jacket.

He idly thumbed through my yellow dictionary and looked up, “It’s Misiu, isn’t it?”

I was taken aback. I wasn’t the only one who had been observant. I protested, “No, of course not. He’s got nothing to do with it.” My voice trailed off sounding unconvincing even to myself.

He got red in the face and grabbed the dictionary again looking for something he wanted to say. His eyes searched following the lead of his index finger down the page. “He’s utilizing you,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

He handed me the dictionary, pointing to the entry and repeated, “He’s utilizing you.” I looked down at the dictionary entry: wykorzystywać: to utilize, to use, to make us of, to exploit, to take advantage of. I got it. I protested again, “Use me? Why? What for?”

“To go to America,” he answered defeated, deflated, with no spite. He wasn’t angry. He just wanted me to be aware. As much as I wanted to deny it, the idea had crossed my mind before - not specifically about Misiu, but about people in general and their motivations for wanting to get close to me. I mean I was American in a small town in Poland (years ago). I was aware of the attraction of the “nowość” factor. I wondered if it was really so desirable to go to America anyhow. Well, for the time being it didn’t matter. This was over and so were the Monday 6:00 pm dinner dates. Pity. Time to move on.

All my Ex’s Live in Texas

I remember the first time I met Misiu’s ex.

And she wasn’t his ex at the time.

There was the first time I was supposed to meet her. She had invited me through Misiu to go to the swimming pool with them but got called for a job interview at the last minute and had to cancel. Not long after that, I was off for the seaside and had forgotten all about her existence. When I returned from the seaside, she was (conveniently for me) abroad working. For the first 2 months of school, I would have Misiu all to myself. Of course, this “all to myself” business was purely in my head, but so what.

I met Misiu often as we worked together and shared groups of students. It was unavoidable. I was even invited to their (his and his girlfriend’s) apartment which was for me the epitome of what a “European” apartment should look like – white walls, white tiled floors, a lot of glass and black leather. Sexy, huh?

After a short time, the invitations became more frequent and had less and less to do with working together. So with the confidence of an American girl abroad, I indicated that I was interested, and Misiu (surprise, surprise) indicated that he was interested, too. I thought, What the heck. Let’s have an interesting 2 months till his girlfriend gets back.

I know that for some people (especially women) I had broken some secret code of conduct – You don’t go after a taken man and you don’t try to break up a happy home. But in my own defense, they were not married and I wasn’t taking, only borrowing. I had no intention of keeping him and anyway - Chłop nie mydło. Nie wymydli się. I would return him in one piece.

But as the 2 months of Misiu all to myself dwindled down to 1 month and then to 1 week, I started to feel sad that it’d all be over before it even had a chance to start. But oh well, there are more Polish boys in the sea, right?

On the day of her return from working abroad, some friends of theirs were invited to their place, somehow with me included. I was a little excited to meet her and hoped that she wouldn’t be able to read the shame on my face for having so brazenly borrowed her boyfriend. But then something happened. I met her. And I didn’t feel ashamed at all, even though I should have felt ashamed and maybe should still feel ashamed today. I didn’t feel ashamed, not even one iota, for the simple fact that she was beautiful. And I was not. I knew that as one of the beautiful people, she would somehow be alright in the end.

It also helped that I didn’t like her. I didn’t like how she pushed and pulled on Misiu trying to straighten him up when he slouched or prod him on when he didn’t laugh enough. I didn’t like how she flirted with one particular guest when Misiu was out of the room. I didn’t like how long her legs were or how blonde her hair was. You get the picture - I didn’t like her.

It wasn’t enough that she was beautiful, could speak a couple of languages and had Misiu, but how could she, in this room full of friends who were teachers, insult the teaching profession – as translated to me by an English teacher guest. I asked, “But she knows we are all teachers, right?” Anita replied with a sigh, “Yes, she does.” We all weren’t teachers though. There was one young friend, Maciek, who worked in his father’s company and there was one doctor, a very good friend of all, of course.

The conversation turned, and I could see the plan developing by the others to match me with the Doctor. Not that he wasn’t attractive or anything, but he was about as interested in me as I was in him. After a while, everyone let me alone and their conversations started to flow freely again. No one even bothered to translate, but that was alright by me. It gave me a chance to observe. I may not have understood a word of Polish, but through keen observation I was able to pick up some vital information that evening.

With Polish conversations swirling and buzzing around me, I slouched down deeper and deeper into the big, black leather armchair wishing it could somehow swallow me up and deposit outside on the sidewalk with the rest of the guests being none the wiser. Supposing that this was impossible, I waited a respectable amount of time and then excused myself, explaining that I wanted to turn in early. I was heading to the City to visit some friends the next morning, and I had an appointment to call them that evening. Misiu walked me out to the pay phone.

I made my phone call and as we parted, I think I surprised Misiu by telling him matter-of-factly that his Doctor friend was in love with his girlfriend. From the look on his face, I knew that it must be true. “That’s what they tell me,” Misiu said. “Whatever,” I said and walked myself home. And that was that.

Observant as I was, I couldn’t figure out how she felt. She flirted with the Doctor, but she also showed off Misiu like a mannequin she had dressed up for the occasion. From what I could gather, she wanted them both – the doctor part of the Doctor (money, social standing, etc.) and the Misiu part of Misiu (funny, likeable, handsome). It seemed to me that she wanted Dr. Misiu. But Dr. Misiu didn’t exist.

PS1 “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” is a country music song made famous by George Strait. In my hometown (not in Texas), there is a diner with little jukeboxes at each table, and this song has been on the playlist as long as I can remember. I’m not a country music fan, but I’ll always remember this one.

PS2 There is something which Misiu calls Kryśka’s Morality. I guess you could call it my code of conduct, but maybe my code of misconduct would be a better name. In this post you have learned some of the finer points, such as:

• Chłop nie mydło. Nie wymydli się. -A man is not soap. You cannot use him up.
• Beautiful people are always somehow alright in the end.

Not included in this post but crucial elements of Kryśka’s Morality are:

• When I am driving, I am king of the road. Pedestrians look out!
• When I am a pedestrian, I am king of the road. Drivers look out!
• As a teacher, your success is my success. Your failure, however, is all your own.
• Living in America for 10 years and not learning English is totally unacceptable. Living in Poland for 10 years and not learning Polish is absolutely understandable ;)

I could go on and on…

Polish is hard

Polish is a difficult language. I know with that statement I am not “discovering America” (nie odkrywam Ameryki) as you say in Polish, but it is worth stating.

When I first came to Poland, I didn’t know a word of Polish. Well, except for szafa and dupa which are not especially helpful in everyday life. I didn’t even know tak and nie. (szafa=wardrobe, dupa=ass, tak=yes, nie=no)

Stupid, huh? Travel to a country for an extended stay not knowing the language at all. For an American, not really. As a 22- year-old American girl, I had the utmost confidence in myself and truly believed I’d just learn the language. Just like that. I mean I figured I’d have to spend about 4-6 hours a day every day for about 2 months, but that for sure, it’s learnable. It just requires some effort and a lot of memorization.

All of that would be true if I had been learning, I don’t know, English perhaps, but it just doesn’t work for Polish. Not that I didn’t try…until I finally gave up and stopped trying, my effort seeming futile ‘cause I couldn’t say anything anyhow.

I did learn a lot of vocabulary though. I loved sitting in my Archiwum reading the dictionary, making lists of words and memorizing them. I also tried to learn the vocabulary lists of the 1st and 2nd classes of high school (9th and 10th grades). I wanted to show my students that I was making an effort and on test day, they also prepared a test for me. I didn’t always do too well.

I had my favorite words, too. One of my all time favorites is smakołyk and its plural, smakołyki. It means a delicacy or treat as in a food treat, but I just love the sound of it - smak-o-łyk. Cool.

My favorite expression, I learned from my neighbor in the Village. It is lepszejszy. It should be dobry, lepszy, najlepszy (good, better, best,) but in his version it is dobry, lepszy, lepszejszy (good, better, bestest). This expression is totally awesome and I use it all the time. (Remember, Professor Miodek says the first rule of language is to communicate and next is to speak correctly.)

One of my least favorite words is wdzianko. It means something like outfit or smock, but somehow sounds like a dirty word to me.

Misiu’s old school mate who studied both Polish literature and English has his least favorite word – ruchać - (say it like you mean it and don’t forget to roll your “r” for dramatic effect). In old literature, it simply meant “to move”, but now it means “to fuck”. Another word from this base is ruch meaning movement, motion, traffic. And by the way, if while hitchhiking somebody stops to pick you up and asks you if you are going to Ruchaczewo, say no.

With a large vocabulary in Polish, you can understand a lot more of what people are saying, but you yourself cannot say very much. In English, it is quite the opposite. With just basic grammar and some vocabulary you can express a lot, even after only a few lessons.

Let’s take a look.

Today I go school. (Today, I’m going to school)

Tomorrow I go school. (Tomorrow, I will go to school.)

Yesterday I go school. (Yesterday, I went to school.)

Understand? Pretty much.

Let’s try in Polish.

Dzisiaj idę szkoła. (Dzisiaj idę do szkoły.)

Jutro idę szkoła. (Jutro idę do szkoły.)

Wczoraj idę szkoła. (Wczoraj poszłam do szkoły.)

(Wczoraj poszedłem do szkoły.)

Rozumisz?

Not convinced. What about this?

Using the same verb form in English we can change the subject to “he” or even “she, we, they” and still be more or less understood.

Today he go school. (Today he is going to school.)

Tomorrow he go school. (Tomorrow he will go to school.)

Yesterday he go school. (Yesterday, he went to school.)

In Polish, it is more difficult to figure out who we are talking about.

Dzisiaj on idę szkoła. (Dzisiaj on idzie do szkoły.)

Jutro on idę szkoła. (Jutro on idzie do szkoły.)

Wczoraj on idę szkoła. (Wczoraj on poszedł do szkoły.)

Kumasz? Coraz trudniej.

After learning food, I couldn’t order in a shop or restaurant. I had to learn whole sentences by heart.

Poprosze dziesięc plasterków szynki…

…which was good if I wanted 10 slices of ham. If I wanted 5 or 15 slices I was out of luck and how to explain to the lady that I don’t want the ham located near the hairy pig’s leg in the display case. That was beyond me.

After learning numbers, I couldn’t tell time because you tell time in Polish in ordinal numbers.

Która godzina? Pierwsza…

…which means 1st o’clock, not one o’clock and don’t get me started on the 24-hour clock and how that screwed me up at the beginning.

After learning days of the week, I couldn’t make an appointment.

Kiedy się spotkamy?

Na Poniedzałek? W Poniedziałku? W Poniedziałek?

Somehow, I managed to learn Żywiec and how to get 2 of them, practically from day one.

A girl has to have priorities.

So, I started to make sentences. I mean, I couldn’t just learn endless lists of vocabulary forever, could I? And one day walking with Misiu, I lamented that I didn’t have a hat. “Nie mam czapka,” I said. “Nie mam czapki,” he corrected. “What?” I asked. “It should be ‘nie mam czapki’ not ‘czapka’,” he further explained. And that was the moment I realized Polish was hard.

hat = czapka

I have a hat. Mam czapkę.

I have hats. Mam czapki.

I don’t have a hat. Nie mam czapki.

What???

I don’t have hats. Nie mam czapek.

Huh???

I have a blue hat. Mam niebieską czapkę.

I have blue hats. Mam niebieskie czapki.

I don’t have a blue hat. Nie mam niebieskiej czapki.

I don’t have blue hats. Nie mam niebieskich czapek.

And if you want to buy a hat and you ask the lady, “Czy są czapki?” her answer may be “Są czapki” (there are) or “Nie ma czapek” (there aren’t). But hey, why isn’t it “Nie są”???

UGGGHHH! What did I get myself into?!?

By Easter he was with me

When I came to Poland, he was living with his girlfriend, his parents stockpiling vodka for their future (yet unplanned) wedding, but by Easter he was with me and not with her...

...and it had nothing to do with me.

I mean, that he was with me, had everything to do with me, but that he was not with her had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her…

...and him.

I know that now...

...and I think she does too.

Getting Sick in the Village

I learned that as a first year teacher, I was bound to get ill often, and as a first year teacher starting her career on a different continent, I would get ill very often. Mutated germs, I guess.

I learned that the school did not register me as an employee, so I had no right to go to the doctor or to get L4 (sick leave). Every “sick day” was deducted from my already meager pay.

I learned that a thermometer handed to you from the table by a doctor should go under your armpit and not in your mouth.

I learned treatment of a bladder infection po polsku is warm underwear and not antibiotics.

I learned that at the pharmacy all medicine (OTC and prescription) and anything else you want to buy is behind the counter and has to be given to you by the pharmacist.

I learned from a friend that vodka kills germs ;)

I learned that when you get a physical exam you should bring your urine with you.

Ok, that one requires a bit more explanation.

To work as a teacher (anywhere I guess, in the US and in Poland) you have to undergo a medical exam every so many years. My school figured out that I, too, should undergo the same tests after I had already been working there a couple of months. Knowing that it was not something I could manage myself, the principal (the one married to the student he got pregnant) asked Misiu to take me. Not the most obvious choice, but the female English teacher who had been responsible for me was on a 2 or 3 month sick leave. Misiu explained that he’d take me to the doctor for a blood test, a urine test and a chest x-ray. The chest x-ray was supposed to check for TB. I had brought my latest TB test results with me just in case (we need them to student-teach in the US), thus, getting myself out out of a quite unnecessary dose of radiation.

Misiu picked me up from PZU as planned (in case you are just joining us, I lived at PZU) and walked with me to the doctor’s. When we arrived, I saw that there was a long line of people waiting to talk to the lady in the window, the kind of window like in the post office where you have to bend down so the lady can hear you. I supposed she was the receptionist. Actually it was a lab, not a doctor’s office.

We went to the end of the line and waited. Finally, it was our turn and Misiu explained why we were there. Misiu turned to me and asked, “Where’s your urine?” How rude, I thought. Well, I don’t know where you keep your urine in Poland, but mine is in my bladder. “Uh, inside me. Why?” I answered. “You have to bring it with you,” Misiu explained. I explained that in my lab in the US, they give you a container so you can give a “fresh” sample, so to speak. After some explanation, the nurse handed me a container, “organized” me a container would be a better description, and directed me to the WC.

I fought my way past the disgruntled folks waiting in line until I found the WC. I got in there, locked the door, took my pants down and then looked at the container. It was a small glass jar with a cork top, the opening of which had the diameter of about 1/2 centimeter. It looked like it should hold magic potion not urine samples. I am a whole lot of talented, but even I didn’t attempt to fill it. I pulled up my pants and reported back to the nurse that my urine sample was a no-go. That’s when I noticed the other people waiting in line with their samples in little jars, jars like from jam or some other food product. There was even one ambitious young man who had filled a pretty big pickle jar. It was so big it didn’t fit through the opening in the receptionist’s window and she had to come out to retrieve it. The nurse advised me to buy some jam in a jar, empty it, clean and boil the jar and lid and deliver it full of urine, my urine, back to her.

After my blood test, Misiu and I walked to the store, bought some mustard, returned to PZU, emptied the mustard, and washed and boiled the jar. I did my business, labeled the jar and Misiu took it back to the lab for me which then I took as a small glimmer of affection for me, but was probably just his wanting to get away from me for the rest of the day.

PS We have urine sample containers now in Poland widely available at every pharmacy for about 1.50 PLN.

PS2 To “organize” something czyli organizować means to arrange something. In this case, it means to arrange something with a little difficulty.

Sex and the Teachers’ Lounge

The Polish teachers’ lounge in my experience is a very relaxing place especially if you don’t speak Polish. I mean it becomes a relaxing place if you can get over the fact that everyone around you is speaking a language that you don’t understand and some vital information could be passed on, with you none the wiser. Vital information being that the bathroom on the ground floor is out of order and shouldn’t be used or perhaps that November 1st is a national holiday and there will be no classes that day. Purely hypothetical examples of course ;)

When you don’t understand a language you often get the feeling that people around you are arguing - that every raised voice, every gesture is a sign of rage waiting to explode. Except in the teachers’ lounge of my Polish school where you couldn’t get a rise out of anybody for any reason except maybe if the coffee had run out.

I usually never asked what the teachers were talking about. Not that I didn’t care, but usually as soon as they noticed that the conversation was being delivered to me in English, they just stopped talking. Not that the conversations were anything out of the ordinary. I guess they were just self-conscious. So everyday I sat in the teachers’ lounge preparing my lessons without anyone bothering me (teachers out there, be jealous!) with the soothing sound of the Polish language buzzing around me.

Until one particular day, I noticed that the teachers were involved in an especially heated discussion. After a few moments of observation, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked another English teacher what everyone was talking about.

“Sex,” she replied pretty matter-of-factly.

“Sex?” I asked, pretty darned surprised. I mean there’s a crucifix hanging in the lounge.

“Yes, sex,” she answered again.

What had I been missing all these days gone by when I didn’t understand what the teachers had been talking about. Had they been discussing hot taboo topics, - these ordinary looking high school teachers? Had I underestimated them or even “misunderestimated” them as George W. Bush so famously flubbed?

“Even the priest?” I inquired.

“Especially the priest!” she enthusiastically announced.

Mmmmm, the hot priest and a debate about sex. I wondered what side of the argument he was on. Pro-sex? Anti-sex? Wait a minute. What were they talking about exactly?

“About sex? The priest? Really?” I asked for the last time.

“Yes,” replied the exasperated English teacher. “It’s a very important topic for the Catholic church. You have sex in America, don’t you?” she asked.

What a personal question! It’s not like, hey, you have pierogi in America, don’t you. It was sex. A timeless universal. I replied slowly, “Well, yes, of course we have sex in America.”

The English teacher continued, “You have those Amish or something, right?”

Huh? Amish? What?

Ohhhh. Sects.

My red-faced answer, “Yes, yes, we have sects and we have Amish too, but I’m not sure they actually qualify as a sect.”

And then as so many times before, I was saved from further discussion by the ringing of the class bell.

Second day of School

The second day of school was my first day to have actual classes with students, and I was pretty excited. This was a college prep high school which included 4 grades numbered 1 – 4. The younger students were 14-15 years old and the oldest were 18-19. I was 22.

I arrived to school at 7:30 a.m. as practically the first teacher there. Classes started at 8:00. I received my schedule from the teacher I later named Plan Man. I was happy to see that I had Fridays off as a courtesy to me as a foreign teacher who might want to travel on the weekend. I had a full-time Polish teacher’s schedule of about 20 hours (full-time is 18-24 teaching hours). I had every group from all grades once a week and the seniors twice a week. Unfortunately, I also had a Polish teacher’s salary. My salary for the whole year plus the 13th salary bonus still did not cover the cost of my plane ticket to get to Poland. Oh well.

That morning, I learned that I would not have a permanent classroom. I would have a different classroom for practically every lesson, requiring me to return to the head cleaning lady aka “mother of the school” to show her my schedule and get a key. Sometimes the key had gone missing and I couldn’t have a lesson. Other times, we opened the door to the room to discover there were no desks or no chairs or both.

I got my key and began searching the enormous old German school building for my classroom. I entered, prepared myself and waited for the students to arrive. As it turns out, teachers often congregate in the staff lounge until the bell rings at 8:00, so they thought that I was absent and sent someone to check if I was there. The students filed in. It was the 1st grade of high school before the most recent reforms so that would translate to American 9th grade. The students stood at their desks, wished me a “Good morning” in unison and continued to stand even as I sat myself down. I stood up and told them that they may be seated indicating with my hands. My hands were going to get a real work-out this school year.

I had written on the white board (which had “fuck” written in permanent marker in the bottom corner) :

What is your name?

My name is …

I am ….. years old.

I told them my name and how old I was and proceeded to ask each and every student the same questions, one by one.

What is your name? My name is Łukasz.

How old are you? I am 14 years old.

What is your name? My name is Agnieszka.

How old are you? I am 14 years old.

What is your name? My name is Agnieszka. (It’s a popular name)

How old are you? I am 15 years old.

And so on and so on for about 30 students. I walked around the room and pointed to students at random asking them their names and ages and tried to run through everybody’s name aloud as a new name/face was added to the list. It was really difficult as all these foreign names were completely new to me and this was just the first names. When I couldn’t remember somebody’s name I asked again, What is your name? and got back My name is… Pretty simply, you’d think.

It was all running smoothly until I got to the last girl. She was agitated and bright red throughout the whole lesson. Maybe that’s why I saved her for last. I asked her, “What’s your name?” Her response was nothing but a big smile and nervous laughter. I asked her again adding that my name was Chris. Nothing. Ok, third times a charm so I dared ask again to which I got a scream of “Nie wiem” as she burst into tears. Then the bell rang literally one second later. I think we both appreciated being saved by the bell.

The class cleared out, and I took my things and the key and locked up. I went to the teacher’s lounge kind of shell shocked and wondering how I was going to do this for one whole year.

First day of School

My first trip to the Baltic Sea had come to an end. I left the Baltic a little sad but also excited to get the school year underway. This would be my first school year as a real teacher. My new friend put me on the train (with a bagged lunch packed by his mother) which would deliver me to the City at about 5 o’clock in the morning. After that, I’d have a short bus ride to take me back to my new home in the Village. I had arranged the return trip before even leaving for the sea because I wanted to be absolutely sure to get back with a day or two to spare before school started. Note to travelers: Don’t sit next to a sleeping person (I mean passed-out drunk person) at the train or bus station. You are likely to get splashed by urine as they pee their pants. I’m just sayin’.

Even though the return trip was planned before leaving, I had given Misiu (my new work colleague) my new friend’s number just in case. Misiu and I cannot remember now, but I think we arranged that I call him when I got to the sea, but since he already had my return schedule, I didn’t call him before coming back. Imagine my surprise (and secret thrill) to see Misiu waiting for me at the bus station in the Village. I was just a little disappointed to find out that he lived with his girlfriend practically right next to the station, but only a little disappointed. Misiu helped me with my bags, helped me do some shopping and reminded me to come to school the first day.

As I mentioned somewhere before, I got a big shock in the staff lounge aka “the teachers’ room” at school the first day when I discovered the guy I was drooling over was in fact the hot priest. The next surprise was that I was incredibly overdressed. I was wearing a smart skirt, a blouse and a fitted blazer with high-heeled shoes. Some teachers were even wearing jeans. I quickly adapted.

The day started out with a teacher gathering in the lounge and then a more formal start in the auditorium. After that, all the students went home and the teachers returned to the lounge for some meetings. Misiu was supposed to be translating for me, but he was simply telling me about each teacher one by one around the room. That’s the nice biology teacher and that one’s a bitch. That guy’s the principal. A few years ago, he was secretly dating a student, got her pregnant and now she’s his wife. You know, the kind of vital information every teacher needs to start the year out right. After that, we were excused for the day and Misiu invited me for a beer. No one seemed to care about my questions like: What’s the English language curriculum? Where’s my classroom? What books will we be using? What classes will I have? I quickly adapted.

Welcome to the Baltic Sea

When I mentioned to one of my university professors in the US that I was considering a trip to Poland and maybe even a swim in the Baltic Sea, he recoiled in horror. “Don’t do it,” he said. “Don’t go to that contaminated country and for gawd’s sake don’t swim in the Baltic or eat any fish.” In case you didn’t know, the Baltic Sea, according to my professor, is a secret Soviet dumping ground for nuclear waste, and Poland is so contaminated by Chernobyl that we all should be glowing in the dark.

As my new friend took me for my first trip to the sea, I had that advice in mind. It was really hot out, and I was wearing a sundress which was not a good idea as it drew attention to my horribly bruised legs. I was impressed by the beautiful, fine, pale brown sand on the beach. I was also impressed by the beautiful pale brown Polish women on the beach. We had only been on the beach 10 minutes, but I was already sweating. Children were frolicking in the water, so I took off my sandals and headed towards the water to dip my toes. Now it was my chance to recoil in horror as I discovered that the water in the Baltic Sea is freezing cold. I looked more closely at the children who were begging their mom’s for just 5 more minutes in the water, and I could see that their little lips were blue and their teeth were chattering.

When I returned to my new friend he asked, “What do you think?” I replied, “There’s something seriously wrong with your ocean,” to which I got a geography lesson drawn in the sand explaining why in fact it is not an ocean and why it couldn’t possibly be anything but cold.

During the rest of my stay, I didn’t venture in the water again but I did eat some fish from the Baltic. My new friend also took me to meet his friends, to a disco, to a military museum with really light security which meant I could touch practically everything, and to his mom’s work in the local municipal government office where we looked through all the new passports (or ID’s, I don’t remember) which were waiting for the owners to come and pick them up. My new friend didn’t allow me to buy anything or pay for anything the whole time, and I now realize that this was an imposition on my part and for that, I am truly sorry.

I hope someday to go to his hometown on the Baltic again and visit his mother and thank her for her hospitality.

The Baltic Sea and a Good Night’s Rest

My new friend welcomed me, and I was already feeling better. He carried my bags as all Polish gentlemen insist on doing, and we were on our way to his mother’s house where a fantastic home-cooked meal was waiting. I must have looked a fright because his mother looked at me quite strangely, but what could I do? It wasn’t my fault that the train conductor wanted to rape me.

After a delicious dinner and my first taste of buckwheat, my new friend showed me around the town. Then we came back home and decided to turn in early probably for my benefit. And here’s where the fun begins…no, not that kind of fun. I should mention that when I am stressed or really tired, I walk in my sleep. A sleepwalker in Polish is called a lunatyk which cracks me up. Actually, it is kind of accurate because when somebody hears that I sleepwalk they tend to think that I am crazy. Needless to say, that after changing countries, travelling to the seaside and getting hit in the head, I was pretty well exhausted. I should also mention that one month before my trip to Poland, I had been hospitalized for food poisoning and still was pretty scrawny and prone to bruising. We all got ready for bed and I was sporting my new pj’s (top and shorts) bought in the US. All the better to see my badly bruised legs which had not been bruised from the attack, but rather by my dragging and pulling my little suitcase from the Poznań bus station to the Poznań train station. We all went to bed - my friend in one room, me in another and his mom in another.

I mentioned that I was stressed on the train about missing my stop or getting robbed. I was also afraid that I would fall asleep on the train, thus guaranteeing missing my stop AND getting robbed. So, that night, safe and sound in bed, I had a dream that I had fallen asleep on the train. I woke up on the train (I was absolutely sure it wa s the train) thinking that the train was stopped somewhere and that I was trapped. I went to the window and saw that the outside wasn’t passing by in a blur so that added to my conviction that we must be parked somewhere at the station. I went to the next “compartment” and turned on the light where I saw a male passenger sleeping. The next compartment contained a female passenger sleeping. Another compartment was a bathroom. And still yet another, I could not get open because it had a funny lock (a Gerda lock for those of you in the know). At that moment, I wondered why I had my pj’s on in the train and wandered back to bed. My friend’s mom looked at me so pitifully the next morning. She was grateful that I hadn’t been able to open the front door and get out onto the street. She was convinced that with the attack, the bruises and the sleepwalking, I had undergone a horrible trauma which was haunting me. A good Polish breakfast and a trip to the beach were sure set me right again.

PS Beware what you do or say when you are buying pj’s because it’s a small world. While standing in line to buy new pj’s in the US before coming to Poland, I decided to pull out another new purchase from my bag to kill some time. It was my new guide to Poland. After about 4 pages of my guide book, it was finally my turn to pay. I put the pj’s on the counter hardly looking at the sales lady until she asked meekly, “Are you going to Poland?” I replied, “Yes,” as I noticed the name Ewa on her name tag but still not registering the fact that she could be Polish. To make a long story short, it turned out that I’d be traveling to her home area. She gave me the name and address of her sister who owned, at the time, 2 shops in the center of the City and asked me to go there and tell her sister the funny coincidence of our meeting (now one shop is a Rossman and the other one is a club). I did go there and all the sister could say was, “amazing” over and over as she quickly dismissed me with a brush of her hand and I was escorted out of the shop. Oh well…

You think your journey was bad: An eventful train ride to the Baltic Sea

Returning to my arrival to the Village. Recap: I was installed in my Archives room at PZU, I had met Misiu and unfortunately his girlfriend and had more than 2 weeks to kill before school started. What’s a girl to do? Go to the Baltic Sea!

One of my university friends had been to Poland on a student exchange and had sent my contact information to her best Polish friend. He lived at the Baltic Sea and true to Polish hospitality invited me for 2 weeks.

I set out on my journey which involved one short bus ride and then another longer bus ride to Poznań where I needed to change to the train and continue on to the sea. I was very proud that I made it to Poznań by bus, but realized that I did not know where the train station was. I asked some college students and not only did they show me the way, they also helped me buy a ticket and got me on the train. I thanked them profusely and then I was off!

I was really stressed on the train. I was worried that I wouldn’t get off at the right stop (I didn’t realize that my stop was the last) or that someone would rob me. I started my journey in a compartment full of older people. I felt as if I should have my name and destination pinned to my sweater like a child. The older people slowly departed and a group of painters returning from work got in. They offered me a shot of vodka, but I thought it best to decline.

Then the painters departed and I was finally alone and could relax. The conductor had been around a few times to check everyone’s tickets and since he had already checked mine more than once, I was surprised to see him again. He was saying something to me in Polish, but I didn’t understand anything. That’s a shame because maybe if I had, I could have avoided what came next.

The smiling conductor closed the door to the compartment along with the curtains and locked the door. I straightened up in my seat. I started to protest when a large hand struck me across the head and face. As I had never been hit in the head before, accidentally or on purpose, I was out for a moment. As the little birdies flying around my head dispersed, I could feel the conductor grabbing me between my legs and opening his belt. I knew that I had to react and save myself from whatever he was planning. I had taken some self-defense course required at university, and had always had a mental blockade to screaming and to hitting someone. The blockade goes out the window when you are being attacked for real, not by some self-defense instructor in a padded suit. I kicked, hit and scratched the conductor and jumped up and began screaming and banging on the door. Luckily for me, it was only about 10 minutes to the last stop and people had already began congregating in the corridor of the train. The other passengers began screaming back and in a matter of seconds the door was unlocked by the conductor and he was scurrying away clutching his opened zipper and belt in his hands. The other passengers asked me if I was ok and if someone was waiting for me. I was never so happy to see the smiling face of my new friend waiting for me and I think the first thing I told him was that this country is messed up and that I wanted to go home.

PS If you get lost in Poland and need help, I recommend asking some young people. It worked for me in Poznań. Another time it didn’t work out for me as I asked a young, handsome man, “Do you speak English?” to which he replied, “Yes, only. I’m Dutch.” Oh, well.

PS2 Return the favor and help someone out who looks lost. Once I helped some tourists in the City. They were lost and couldn’t find the Market Square which was visible from where we were standing. Their problem was that they had a map that only included the Market Square, not the surrounding streets, and it was a pop-up map no less.