One of Many Final Thoughts

Someone's lost sandwich is found and hanging from a sign....

So, two months have passed, and all the people asking me "So?  What have you decided?" makes me feel a little like being a contestant on the dating game.  So very much food for thought, is the only thing I can really wrap my head around at the present moment.  I can only let them come up to the surface one at a time, and I would be remiss if I weren't to mention a very fundamental difference between American and Norwegian culture: Trust.  I don't mean the kind of trust between people who really know each other ("Honey, does my butt look big in these pants?"), but the kind of trust between a group of people, say inhabitants of a city or even a country, that ensures a certain level of quality of life they have inadvertently agreed upon.   This is why I can walk next to a cross-walk and cars will indeed come to a halt or at least pause with the driver trying to get into my head, "Is she going to step into the street?  What's she doing?  Continuing on?"....if you really want to piss off a Norwegian, hang out next to a cross walk and pretend you're going to cross.  If you want to piss off an American, be in the crosswalk already and watch them have to obey the law.  Anyway, back to trust.  I can trust that here, I will not get run over.  I can trust that when I walk into a restaurant and have to hang my jacket well out of eyesight, it will be there when I leave (and not because it's the frumpiest one on the rack, mind you!).  I can trust that laws designed to protect people, like drinking and driving laws, will be enforced and therefore are followed (we were randomly pulled over on the offramp tonite coming home from a movie and Ela was given a quick breathalizer test.  Yes.  Just like that.).  People really do NOT drink and drive here.


Imagine what I must have felt like when my hosts had several keys made for their house to distribute amongst the various people doing work for getting the home ready to put on the market.  Here ya go, Mr. Photographer, here's a key to the house!  Here ya go, roof repair man, here's a key in case you need to access the power supply within the house....The reason I was a bit nervous was because my hosts were taking a trip to Poland for 4 days, and I would be alone in the house for this time.  Nightfall.  Dark. Big house with 3 levels and lots of rooms....for creepy construction people to hide in and wait to come out at night....to come downstairs in the dungeon and.....strangle meeeeee!!!!!!  Mwaahhhhh!  Or, I imagine walking into the house after a nice hike to find the TV missing, all the computer stuff gone, and my peanut butter ransacked....


How American of me!  


This idea of trust congealed for me all at once because I am also reading one of those "A Very Short Introduction To...." books, this one on Economics.  Now, I vaguely remember sitting through two  semesters of economics in college...it's just too bad they were my first two semesters, because had I waited to take econ when I was at least a junior, I think more would have been able to stick to my whirling, party-infested, undisciplined brain.  But hey, 32 years later, and I'm ready!  


Economic systems are born from cultures and cultures are the embodiment of the degree of trust that a group of people exhibit in order to peacefully co-exist, even flourish, as a society.  Social order is maintained through trust, either at a community level, or delegated at a governmental level.  Research has shown there there is, not surprisingly, a positive correlation between trust and economic prosperity.  Hm.  It doesn't take much research on my part to see it operate here on a very basic level.  


Norway's economic system is neither truly capitalist nor truly socialist, but a mixture of the two.  America is steeped in capitalism, which, with Social Darwinism at its roots (especially ingrained circa. 1890's),  exhalts competition almost to Machiavellian proportions.  We are taught as children in very subtle ways to not trust.  Always look out for #1.  An Army of One.  Because You are worth it!  Never, ever talk to strangers.  My child is an Honor Student at Me-So-Good-Elementary School. Be the best!  Do whatever you must do to rise to the top!  


Ok.  Maybe not so subtle.  But you get my drift.  We, as Americans, feel like such a fish out of water right now, because we have never been taught as children, as a society, as a culture, as an economic player, to trust each other, to collaborate with one another.  Here, people basically trust their government, because their government does what it says it is going to do and just what it was entrusted to do  (kind of  like good parents do, I suppose).  The police enforce the laws, just like they are entrusted to (totally random breathalizer tests to prevent drunk driving).  People just pay their taxes because it is what they agreed to do to live here and pay for "stuff" (oh, you know, like education and health care and what-not).  Trust. 


It may not be perfect.  It is not nirvana.  Just a place where people have decided upon what they value and to what degree they trust one another to make those things happen for as many people as possible, if not everyone.  I think Norway has some hard times coming, though.  Last year, July 22, was a breakdown in trust, in my opinion.  Anders Breivik no longer trusted his government to provide those things it had been entrusted with because of its open policy on immigration and political asylum.  The immigration issue is a real issue here, because it represents the problems created when differing concepts of trust try to co-exist in a single economic system.  


Well, that's my totally abreviated take on it anyway.  


On a parting note, I guess it is nice to see that juveniles can still be entrusted to grace public thoroughfares with artwork, but only a Norwegian would think to do it in masking tape so it can be easily removed....

High School Anatomy Class Day Hike?

Bain de Soleil

Out and About at Bryggen

So much of this blog has been devoted to my wondering, whining about, making fun of, and waxing eloquent about the rain, that it seems natural for Mother Nature to have had enough of my blathering.  This past weekend, the huldra named Bergenette performed what I like to think of as the strip-tease, showing me the true blue that lay underneath all that drab, grey clothing.  What a glorious weekend!!!  Everyone was out and about, with perma-grins on their faces, gladly parting with hard-earned kroner for a chance to sit in any vacant seat of a sidewalk cafe sipping a beer.  There were indeed no vacancies at any of these places that had heretofore   reminded me of the abandoned gas station/cafes along I-40 between Kingman and Flagstaff.  Could "summer" be in the air?  A fellow blogger commented that she liked to think of summer as "particular days" rather than a season.  Funny, that's exactly how I think of winter back home in Vegas.  

The Navy's Clipper Ship

Private boats along the pier, with Fløyen up in the background

Shadows mean.......SUN!  Wishing I were on that boat....

Not wanting to start drinking at 12:30 pm, and really not enjoying the thought of drinking alone, I headed over to the aquarium.  I had been meaning to go there for some time, but had been putting it off thinking if I wait long enough, a perfect day will come along for me to actually walk there, enjoying the sights along the way.  The last and only time I ever visited an aquarium was in Seattle.  Apparently, that experience spoiled me because Bergen's aquarium is, well....I can only say strange, actually.  Here I am, in a nordic country and there were actually more exhibits devoted to tropical species and spiders than to creatures of the sea.  Several types of pythons, crocodiles, even a California king snake, a tarantula....what the hell?  Yet, only 2 seals?  And a handful of penguins?  However, they did have Rocky on display, the stuffed body of the oldest penguin to have lived in captivity:  29 year old, according to the Guinness WBoR.  

Handful of Penguins at Akvariet

While eavesdropping on a guide leading a group of teenagers, I discovered why there were so many exotic creatures housed here...the illegal trafficking of exotics is the third largest criminal activity in Norway.  A majority of these poor creatures were captured in raids and are now permanently sheltered here.  So, the aquarium can be considered more of the local humane society for unadoptables.  Believe me, there is nothing about an 18" diameter python that makes me want to see it adopted by some private citizen.  Thank you, Bergen aquarium, for providing a decent habitat for these less fortunate creatures to live out their lives and I suddenly feel like my $25.00 entrance fee is worth it.  And I can wipe away some of my tears....why I bring myself to view animals that should be wild but kept in captivity for our convenience, I'll never know.  My last zoo visit was in....um.....198?  Never again, I had promised myself.  

Barnehauge (Kindergarten) - the "outdoor" type

Saturday dawned perfectly clear with the sun screaming through the windows for us to get up!  get going!  get outside!  After breakfast, enjoyed amid the background of the radio telling us of Friday night's arrests of drunken revelers (I had even said, when arriving at Bjørn and Gro's house the night before that the cops would busy....people were out and about enjoying the sun like NBA fans at  an All-Star game host city), we donned the appropriate shin-high boots and set out on a 4 hour hike into the hills above Bergen.  There was not a cloud in the sky!  

We started our hike in Hjortland, (deer-land), at one of those outdoor kindergartens I had mentioned in a previous post.  Yes, children are encouraged at a young age to play outside...to stay outside as much as possible.  This is perhaps training for them, to learn how to love a life of less than ideal weather and to never consider that weather could ever be an excuse for....well.....anything really.  These particular barnehauger seem to have much in common with cemeteries in the U.S. in that they sit on some of the nicest real estate.

After about an hour of hiking up through the trees, we emerge onto a plateau-like ridge of beautiful granite, clumps of grass, moss, and lots of mud.  Hiking here is never without the sound of suction and squishing.  The mud and water never really gets deeper than the ankles if you learn where to step.  But, 9" high leather boots that can be waterproofed are a must.  It allows one to walk without constantly having to search for ways around the mud.  I can simply walk through it and enjoy the scenery instead...which is stunning:

Along the way

You can see the North Sea on a day like today

I make every effort to just take in the sights, the sounds, and the smell of the cleanest air I have experienced in a very long time.  

Making the dogs mind.  We don't want them leaping off for birds...it's a long way down!

It's STRAIGHT down to that farm!

Teresa & Shaka

Every once in awhile, when glancing down the valley, I realize that we are really just outside the city, but that's the amazing thing here...you can be really "out there" and in eyesight of the city.  Anchorage is bit like that, as well, if I recall: a place where a city actually ends and has places where you can die of exposure within eye/earshot of suburbs....

Our destination, the Vikings Hytte

Cables on the Viking Hytte

Upon our arrival at Viking Hytte, it is warm and windless, two conditions that are surely so foreign to March in Western Norway...I immediately notice the cables running from their moorings in the ground to the top of the hut, and I ask jokingly if they are really there to hold the building up...."Yes, of course!" says Gro.  "The winds are very bad here!"  I imagine years of high winds would slowly cause these huts to list after awhile.  We had been near this ridge earlier during my stay, and it was windy then.  Really windy.  I could barely stand up, even with the help of my legs knee deep in snow.  So we had turned back.   Not so today!  I actually could have been in shorts, and optimistic-me had brought a pair along with me, but they were at home.  I hadn't intended to wear them outside actually, but I could have on this day!


A quick stop and then we were off down into Hjortland, where we hike quite a bit with the dogs.  We exited a different way, though and passed by the farms, kennels, and stables along the small road that leads into the valley.  

Typical farmhouse with 1 wall being of stone

Heading down the road, a Norwegian fjord horse on the right

Nice example of a Norwegian Fjord Horse

I had been hoping to see a Norwegian Fjord horse during my stay here.  They are truly lovely, and very adept for use helping farmers till the soil on the steep slopes of the fjords.  I think this one is more for riding anymore, no doubt...They seemed well cared for, and happy to not be standing out in the rain, which had been the case each time we were here earlier during my stay.  

Bjørn, spying on us

 Back at the ranch, it was all business: sun, lounge chairs, beer, chips, salsa, conversation...and waiting for Bjørn to do a fly-by.  He had been flying on this gorgeous day, taking out relatives as well as children battling cancer.  He tipped his wing and I would have tossed a beer up to him, but I'm not that good of a throw, and drinking and flying is against the law here.  I think.  


We ended the day in proud American fashion...with a taco dinner and then lounging around the TV watching singing contests.  What is it about singing popular music that makes everyone want to make a contest out of it?  Every country seems to be obsessed with this medium, and I just don't understand it, really.  Typical for Norway, though, it is a little more gentlemanly.  On this particular elimination round, instead of pitting 2 singers against each other, one by one, they must sing a duet together with small solo parts within the duet.  The judges then choose the winner of the two, but they had the opportunity to make beautiful music together first.


Yes, I am still in Norway aren't I?  Where even the contests are designed not to hurt anyone's feelings.

Random Stuff

Postcard from Bergen

"I wanna know, have you EVER seen the rain?...." Really?  They are actually playing that on the radio?  And Norwegians are singing along?  And no, it isn't because they don't know English, because they do.  Other popular songs I have heard are The Eurythmics' "Here Comes The Rain Again" and Phil Collins' "How I Wish It Would Rain.."...whatever.  Norwegians have a great sense of humor.  Who else would don their dogs with rain jackets?  I saw three of them yesterday while riding the bus to the other side of town.  One thing is for sure:  when the current weather displayed on my cell phone says "dreary", I know I am in store for more laughs!  We in the Mojave desert have no such sense of humor.  Otherwise, I know I would hear more of John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulders", or America's "Horse With No Name", or even Katrina and the Waves' "I'm Walkin' on Sunshine".  They never play those songs here in Bergen, though.  I suppose it's better to find the humor in the present reality than to create angst for what never will be. 


Next random thing:  Bergensers have this very strange and at first, unnerving, habit of gasping.  A lot.  It is not a big gasp, but just enough to make you think that what you are saying or showing them is interesting, fascinating, frightening, or even really worth listening to.  The first time I heard it, I was filling out the application for my on-line Norwegian class, and for each line, the clerk would gasp so that by the end, I was wondering, "What?!  What?!  Did I spell my own name wrong?!"...Why does she keep gasping?  It's not a gasp with intonation.  Just a short, sharp inhale.  Just enough to make me a nervous wreck by the time I was finished.  About a week later, after hearing so many more people doing it, I realized  what it was...practice for when the sun comes out!  Gasp!  Look at that golden orb!

Spring is here!

With all this rain, it must be that Spring has arrived!  Temps are nicely in the 9c-10c range for highs now (yeah, but it's a humid cold!), and I find the climate to be very comfortable.  Crocuses are coming up, ducks can swim again in the previously frozen lakes, birds are back en masse, winter clothing sales are over, and I was able to get out on the bike to go to Asane Senter the other day!  

First blomsters

Here come the Tulips!

Flowers will be growing as if on steroids soon, with the daylight increasing each day by up to 5 minutes.  So very much like Anchorage, but with the warmth of the Gulf Stream.  

With the onset of Spring comes the real estate season, and the house here in Tertnes is going up for sale!  Ok, so I'm not even going to discuss home prices here because like discussing the cost of everything else,  I would run the risk of sounding like a broken record...like talking about how much the sun shines in Las Vegas....ok, and about how much it rains here.  Point well taken.  

What I have noticed, though, is how different the process is.  I am in the real estate industry as an appraiser, so of course, I notice these things.  First, a call is made to the Realtor of choice and a CMA is created/presented, and suggestions for staging and repairs to be made is discussed, much like in the U.S.  That's pretty much where the similarity ends.  

After 2 weeks worth of fussing around with refinished flooring, repaired roofing, gardening, cleaning, painting, replacing sliding glass doors, etc...you know the drill:  finally making the house the one you always dreamed of living in but only doing it for someone else's benefit, the taksmann (who works for the Realtor's company) is scheduled to arrive.  This is what I do for a living.  The taksmann is the appraiser.  So.  The appraiser is called before the house even hits the market.  Before the photographer (who is here today) even works his magic for the internet.  Additionally, the taksmann is required to be almost a home inspector, and he thoroughly combs through the house, even analyzing the blueprints right there at the table, making sure that everything is in working order, etc.  He will then write up a report of his opinion of value and the process will proceed from there.  

What a concept!  The buyer can know what the house is worth and what is or is not wrong with it BEFORE they buy it!!!!  Standard M.O. in the U.S.A is to make the process as stressful as possible by requiring NONE of the work to be done or any valuation to be made until a contract has been signed and then, the buyer has a whopping 10 days to get their due diligence, buyer beware, completed or they lose their earnest money deposit.  Obviously, an intelligent seller in the U.S. will attempt to make the home as appealing as possible in order to get it sold, but they are not required to reveal any defects.  Well, at least without having ones' feet held to the fire.  Here in Norway, the buyer has 5 years after the sale to come back to the seller for repairs if necessary.  That's a pretty nice motivator to make sure you are being as transparent as possible while selling your house.     

Transparency is a key word for all things "business" here.  I'm sure there are exceptions, but with transparency, so much cheating and stress is eliminated.  If you want to engage in business with a particular company, you can go on line and look at their books.  Literally.  Every business is required to have a government authorized accountant who maintains and audits their bookkeeping and then publishes it on an official website which is accessible by all.  Imagine, being able to do business with people you know will pay their bills because you know they actually have liquidity.  And another thing:  you don't "do" your taxes.  You don't "prepare" your taxes and then file them.  The government does because they know how much you earn.  And you simply get a bill in the mail: "Hi.  Here is what you owe.  Thank you!"  Americans would shudder at such a concept, but at its core it is quite simple:  Most Norwegians perhaps trust their government to be less crooked and more reasonable than most businesspeople.  Americans feel the exact opposite.  I'm not sure what I believe, but I know that transparency is usually better and eliminates at least half of the problems and stress created by trying to cheat.  Americans, for the most part, are very interested in cheating, raising it to the status of a virtue.  But I digress....

After the taksmann verifies and/or changes the asking price suggested by the original CMA (comparative market analysis), the house goes on the market and appointments for a visning (showing) can be made.  There are no listing vs. buyer's agents battling it out.  Just one Realtor.  People can put in bids with this Realtor, and the seller can choose the highest bid.  The buyer knows what they can afford according the very, very, very, very sound lending practices here in Norway (housing crisis?  credit crisis?  I don't think these words even exist in their dictionary), and boom.  Finit.  Apparently, it is always a seller's market here.....and has more to do with inventory than anything else.

I was explaining our process in the U.S. to Bjørn's son, who is a Realtor here, and he just gave me a blank stare and then  asked, "How does the buyer have any idea what is wrong with the house or how much it is really worth before he buys it?"  To which I replied, "Oh, they find out, but usually not until they enter into a contract.  And they find out how much it is worth usually just before they close the deal."    Another blank stare (but no gasp!  Here, a gasp would be perfect).  Then,  just some comment akin to what someone might ask the zookeeper about why exactly those baboons do that to each other?

Anyway, being a taksmann here would be a welcome relief.  So much of my job entails educating lenders about what fraud is and asking them why they continue to ask me to commit it on a daily basis.  If only we in America could understand that some transparency and government regulations in these areas can result in such a nicer game of life, where people just know that it's ok to be fair to one another in most things.  

Big government is by no means a perfect solution to finding a way for many people to live together in relative harmony.  But, it is a better way than no government at all, where people are left to run rough-shod over their countrymen, all in the name of "success" or "survival of the fittest", only to then alleviate their guilt though conspicuous charity and philanthropy by putting their names on hospitals, sports fields, and foundations.  

Hey!  It has stopped raining!  I think it's time for a bike ride to the store...on the huge bike path which runs EVERYWHERE, even to the center of town....paid for by the money everyone sends in after being notified that "Hi.  Here's what you owe so that we can make your life pretty darned okay.  Thank you."

The Rhythm of Work

Malgosia, Andrzej, & Marcin, sorting & bagging potatoes

There is a very well-known parable that goes something like this:
"A very rich businessman decides to take a vacation to a small tropical island in the South Pacific. He has worked hard all his life and has decided that now is the time to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He is excited about visiting the island because he’s heard that there is incredible fishing there. He loved fishing as a young boy, but hasn’t gone in years because he has been so busy working to save for his retirement.

So on the first day, he has his breakfast and heads to the beach. It’s around 9:30 am. There he spots a fisherman coming in with a large bucket full of fish!

'How long did you fish for?' he asks. The fisherman looks at the businessman with a wide grin across his face and explains that the fishes for about three hours every day. The businessman then asks him why he returned so quickly.

'Don’t worry', says the fisherman, 'There’s still plenty of fish out there.'

Dumbfounded, the businessman asks the fisherman why he didn’t continue catching more fish. The fisherman patiently explains that what he caught is all he needs. 'I’ll spend the rest of the day playing with my family, talking with my friends and maybe drinking a little wine. After that I’ll relax on the beach.'

Now the rich businessman figures he needs to teach this peasant fisherman a thing or two. So he explains to him that he should stay out all day and catch more fish. Then he could save up the extra money he makes and buy even bigger boats to catch even more fish. The he could keep reinvesting his profits in even more boats and hire many other fisherman to work for him. If he works really hard, in 20 or 30 years he’ll be a very rich man indeed.

The businessman feels pleased that he’s helped teach this simple fellow how to become rich. Then the fisherman looks at the businessman with a puzzled look on his face and asks what he’ll do after he becomes very rich.

The businessman responds quickly 'You can spend time with your family, talk with your friends, and maybe drink a little wine. Or you could just relax on the beach.'

 

Marcin going with the forklift to get another box of potatoes

For the first time, I have heard this story differently, and it wasn't when I was there on the farm helping with the work.  My new realization came when I was back in Bergen hiking, and I noticed how everyone walks at a different pace, with a different rhythm, depending on their goals, their destinations, and their reasons for being out on a hike in the first place.  This story is not just about contrasting the different values society places on work.   I had proceeded to write a diatribe on why some jobs are valued with higher wages over other jobs that are just as valuable but in a different way and came with salaries that were so much lower, and the rat-race we all find ourselves in because we want to "succeed" and make a "better" life for ourselves, blah blah blah.  Certainly, arguments could be made from both perspectives.

But, since I know well the motivations of both types of people and the types of lives that both lead, I notice there really isn't that much difference at their core.  The only real difference between these two types of people is the amount of money involved in their happiness, unhappiness, satisfaction, angst, fear, and security.  Every person, every family, experiences these emotional states, no matter how much money they make or how much freedom they perceive they have, or how much free time they think they have, or how much work they have.  So, rather than look at this story in terms of ideology or values, I saw from another angle the peace in this story:  A story of rhythms.

When thinking about how everyone lives their lives according to a rhythm, I am able to see why some work very hard and fast in order to accumulate as much money as possible so that they can take vacations and rest (in "The Tortoise and the Hare", these would be hares) and why some take their time and make a certain amount of money during their entire lifetime and take small rests along the way (the tortoises).  Neither way is better than the other because each one represents a choice that people make for what makes them content.  And only we can know exactly what that is for ourselves.  

Malgosia, preparing cabbage for market

Marcin and I, weighing the bags and stacking

 We are constantly making choices about how we would like to live and what is the best way to go about creating that life.  I believe that we, as individuals, are more responsible for our own satisfaction in life than any government, ideology, or religion.  I don't know what that makes me, for saying that, but it's what I see around me.  How else is it that my Polish family can smile in the face of selling their potatoes for 1 zloty (3.1 zl. = $1.00) per 15 kilograms?  How else can I make sense of my father, having earned so much money doing what he loved, laying in a grave next to his brother, who made nearly nothing, doing what he loved?

Andrzej

We must find the rhythm we love, that we vibrate best to, and live in that space.  Here is where happiness dwells.  Here is where fulfillment resides.  Here is where our needs are defined.  Here is where an abundance of that which is necessary to fulfill those needs is found. 


From this perspective, all judgment vanishes from my mind and my soul.  I can see people from literally all walks of life and notice the rhythms that they have chosen and to which they have become accustomed to dancing.  This is how I attempt to love every being I encounter:  by noticing and respecting their rhythm of living and cherishing the differences from my own,  much like each brushstroke of a master painter is one of many within a great masterpiece.


I am back in Norway now, and have learned so much from my visit at the farm in Poland.   My biggest lesson I guess is a dancing lesson.  I am already back into this rhythm here, and am grateful for having learned a couple of new dances!  


I will leave you with a short video which introduces each member of the family on the farm.  There are 4 generations represented at that little kitchen table, all hearts beating to the rhythm of the soup-bowl.  

"We're all gonna be here forever..."

Malgosia and Andrzej's Fields

My aunt Ana is suddenly clutching my arm and waving towards the horizon to the northwest of us, at a large patch of trees in the distance.  It is very windy, and the cold is starting to set in for the evening, and we are on our way home from one of those typical Polish hospitality visits.  You know: unannounced, a thousand kisses on cheeks, coffee, tea, cakes, conversation, sit, sit, sit, sit, sit, get up, more kisses on cheeks, bundle on the clothes again, slowly make our way back home.  We had just gone down the road to my cousin Franek's place, which is the original Krolak farm.  


Franek's father was Wladislaw, the oldest son of five children (4 boys and 1 girl), and to the eldest goes everything.  It's not favoritism.  It's not valor.  It's more like a Darwinian thing, with the eldest being the biggest and strongest, and therefore the obvious choice for carrying on the "species". 


My father, Stas, was the next oldest, with Josef and Marian being the youngest boys, and finally a daughter, Ana.  Ana is all that remains of that generation, not counting in-laws, and it is through her memories of by-gone days that I have any idea whatsoever now of the life my father once knew. 


She is pointing to where she used to watch over the cows and dream that Stas was coming home and that he would be coming over the hill covered with the grove of trees.  And how happy she would be if that speck of a man in the distance were indeed him.  And how it would be such a big re-union in the family, and I'm sure, out would come the vodka, and the festivities would begin, just like the story of the prodigal son.  Her eyes grow misty and she is clutching my arm quite strongly and getting her point across as best as her broken English can manage, but I understand her, and her tears become contagious.  

The grove of trees in the distance, from which my Aunt envisioned my father reappearing

This land.  This air.  This wind.  These clouds.  These trees.  This road.  Those houses.  This place is our place.  This is where we come from. 

Neighbors place.  Was also an old, tiny store when Ana was a child

Malgosia's farmhouse

As I walk along, I can only imagine how it was; with no cars or tractors, then through the ravages of the biggest war the world has ever endured, and then through the shackles of communism, finally to emerge as a typical Polish farming community struggling to survive, actually, in a world where shopping is the #1 pastime (Sieradz, a town of appr. 45,000 has 3 big shopping malls or "gallerias", but no cinema) and therefore, jobs providing more income with which to shop are more important.


My father was never remiss about thanking the powers that be for World War II.  It was his ticket out of Dodge, and for a precocious young boy who had already used up all the educational opportunities available to him locally, and with a father who had no intention of promoting him beyond the life of a farmhand, Germany's shipment of young Polish farmhands to replace their local boys that had been conscripted was a godsend.  Twisted logic, but I have learned from this never to judge any situation. 


Ana's dream was finally realized, only about 58 years later, but my father did not come walking over that hill from the forest. How many suppers had passed?  How many days in the fields had passed?  How much time must have passed until everyone basically believed him to have either been killed in the Korean war, or to have just vanished into the soup cauldron that is America....Everyone's lives in Poland had gone on:  Wladek inherited the farm, had 3 boys, (2 of which are now deceased), Josef went to seminary and then went into farming (the farm at which I am now staying) and had 1 daughter, Marian became a veterinary scientist and had 1 son, and Ana went into clerical work, mainly for various banks and offices and had 2 daughters. 


There was a prodigal son return.  And when my father found his family after so long, for the first time in my life, I saw him cry.  War and ideologies are crazy creatures and double edged swords.  They alone were responsible for the worst and the best things in my father's life.  In that respect, I suppose they are like religion: capable of bringing out the best and the worst in humanity.  


Stas had 6 years to be with his family before he departed this world.  Six years is not a hell of a lot of time for dearly loved brothers and sisters and their families to catch up on 58 years of absence.  Some of my own friends had even more time than that to know Stas.  But everyday I wake up in this house, I look out the shrouded windows (Polish households are obsessed with sheer semi-laced curtains) upon that same landscape he looked upon as a child, and for me, it is different.  Because I am looking through the eyes of his realized dreams.  That he got the hell out of here and "made" what he wanted of his life.  


As Malgosia and I return from dropping Ana and Cezary off at the train station, we drive past the cemetery.  This is the route to and from Sieradz, so Gosia passes the cemetery all the time.  She calls out, "Czesc, chlopiec!" (Hi, boys!), to Wladek, Josef, and Stas, all the sons who rest there.  A warm feeling comes over me, knowing that my father made it home and indeed will be here forever.  I have had the lyrics of a wonderful Lyle Lovett song in my head for most of the time I have been here, and some of them are particularly apropos.  So I will leave you with them.


"And there are more I remember
And more I could mention
Than words I could write in this song.
But I feel them watching
And I see them laughing
And I, I hear them singing along:


We're all gonna be here forever
So mama, don't you make such a stir.
Put down that camera
And come on and join up
The last of the family reserve."  


(" Family Reserve" by Lyle Lovett)

Nie movie po polsku....prszepraszam.

Friday, March 9, 2012

As soon as the airplane touched down in Wraclaw, any confidence I had gained in terms of communicating with locals completely vanished.  Over the past 13 years, I have visited family in Poland several times.  And before each trip, I made it a point to throw myself whole-heartedly into the process of cramming as much Polish into the antiquated PC mimicking as my brain as possible.  It is at times like these that I wish I had a more modern processor capable of storing much more information as well as accessing it more quickly.   One of the first things Elzbieta told me upon arriving in Norway was to give up all intention of learning 2 languages at the same time.  “Bah!”, I said to myself.   “I’ll show her!”  Yeah.  That’s right.  I’ll show her how incredibly lame I am.  One thing is for sure, however.  I know a lot more Norwegian than I thought I did, because no matter what I do to prevent it, everything I try to say in Polish comes out in Norwegian….without my even having to think about how to say it in Norwegian!  Awesome!  Score one for my efforts to learn Norwegian.  How I will survive 6 days on a farm where no-one speaks either of the languages I can use to say, “I’d like some coffee”, “Where is the toilet?”, and “I would like to help you with your chores rather than sit here like a dumb-ass, drinking all your coffee and going to the toilet all day,” is a challenge I will just have to meet when I get there. 

I should mention the humor I found in trying out my closeted French (which I have not used in 20 years) on Elzbieta’s friend (and our host in Wraclaw)  while we were sitting around the dinner table.  We actually were able to have decent conversations, since her French was much better than her English, and my French is leagues beyond my Polish, but my brain was still working hard to unbury all that vocabulary.  Visions of any one of my deceased mother’s storage sheds crammed to the ceiling with, um…..stuff….come to mind when I think about all the words I once knew.  My once nearly-fluent French is eerily similar to one of her gorgeous antique trunks that in its glory functioned so perfectly and was beautiful, but now is a shadow of it’s former self, in need of repair and in living in fear of being used should it’s poor hinges fall off. 

The first thing that always strikes me about Poland when comparing it to Norway is the tell-tale signs of an Eastern block country that had to endure years under the heavy hand of Communism.   The main attraction of which I speak is the good old communist block buildings that in their efficiency manage to sacrifice all semblance of individualism.  I lamented how mundane it must be to live in one, to which Ela corrected me that one would dream about having the opportunity to live in one at the time.  Wow.  What was the alternative?  A burned out brick skeleton with no heat or running water or indoor plumbing?  Yes.  

The view outside the living room window
of my aunt & uncle's apartment in Gzierzuniuw

Their living room

But, Poland is in the EU now.  Money has been forthcoming and each time I visit, there are new highways, new buildings, and apparently new quantities of paint, since the only way to individualize these massive concrete boxes is to paint them different colors.  I appreciate the efforts and really, there is plenty of grey in the sky.  One does not need to see it on the outside of every building as well. 

We spend an afternoon in Wraclaw in a very large and bustling shopping mall, in which there is even a Starbucks (ugh?).  Haute fashion is in the Polish blood, I think, and women are adorned with high-heeled boots, trendy sweaters and coats, modern hairstyles and cosmetics….one thing is for sure:  Polish women are beautiful and they make gallant  efforts to make sure that everyone around them notices.  The reverse-peacock effect, let’s say.  As I sit waiting for Ela to finish shopping, I enjoy taking in the sight the older people enjoying now what they had been denied access to for so much of their earlier lives.  As much as I bemoan the consumerism that capitalism always spawns, I am keen on understanding the benefits of the choices it allows.   Women enjoy having an opportunity to choose cosmetics and clothing that express how they feel about themselves.  People enjoy having a choice of what kind of tea or coffee they want to drink, what kind of toilet paper they want to have (gone are the days of using newspaper!), what kind of fruits they would like to eat,  what kind of cell phone they want to use, what kind of wine they would like to drink with what kind of meat they would like to eat.  The year 1989 was a long time ago, but not really.  Unraveling the accoutrements of decades under communism is a time-consuming and costly affair.  I immediately wonder how time consuming and costly the American recovery from the ravages of capitalism-gone-amuck will take.  But Poland is moving forward briskly, albeit on a fragile track.  All of Europe seems fragile these days, though.  Like the U.S., Poland’s unemployment is around 10%, which is far below the last time I was here.  The youth here seem like the youth anywhere else I go…tuned into their i-pods, cell-phones and all things technological, wearing the latest styles they have seen on TV shows from around the world, and many more are able to speak English than I have encountered in the past.

So much of how I experience a country and assess my comfort level in it is related to my command of the language.  I am very self-conscious about everything I do that involves having to actually accomplish something, like buying a stick of gum, trying on a pair of shoes, buying a bottle of lotion, etc.  And the “universe” always manages to pick up on this and provide the appropriate “crisis” to enhance my self-consciousness….like handing the cashier a 50 zl. note for something that costs 8.5 zl. and she rolls her eyes, has to get up to go to the other cashier to make change (requisite sighing from customers behind me increasing in volume), then comes back and tells me again how much it costs and looks at me for the money, not remembering that in her hand is the money that I indeed gave her first, not that the other cashier gave her, and she was truly stumped.  I just grabbed 40 zl. out of her hand, saying “prosze”, and if I had known how to say “keep the tip”, I would have.  Jeesh.  So, what this all boils down to is my wondering how long it takes for the mundane, mindless things in life to become mundane and mindless again in another language.   That’s my measure of fluency, I think.  When shopping for toothpaste is just shopping for toothpaste.  I’ll say this much:  thank GOD for numerals and digital displays.  Under normal circumstances, they circumvent the need to think in a foreign language, briefly.

On a final note, as I look out the window of my aunt’s flat I see that other reminder that I’m in Poland: Dogs just cruising around like they know where they're going.  Short legged dogs.  Those who know me know that I’m basically a dog-fanatic, so I notice these things.  Ninety percent or more of the dogs here look as though they have had the lower part of their legs removed….there goes a German Shepherd now!   Oh wait, it IS on the sidewalk and not in the gutter.  And no, these are not special breeds.  My husband and I witnessed a litter in the making and we can validate that indeed, that was most likely not a German Shepherd, but the product of a German Shepherd and well….some Corgi or Terrier thing. 

Whatever kind of dog it was, I know exactly how it feels when it is lying under the table at the feet of a bunch of humans talking in some language it doesn’t understand.