From time to time I teach English at a language school of which there are many in Lodz. Mostly the teachers are Polish (Poles teaching English??), but at my school only 'native speakers' are employed. Many of the schools try to attract the masses that are leaving by advertising short intensive courses designed for those going abroad to live, there is a lot of competition for the dwindling population.
Despite speaking fluent Polish I often have trouble remembering the names of students which are similar sounding. I once had a class made up of nine men... Czarek, Jarek, Darek, Marek, Mirek, Romek, Krziszek, Grzeszek and Jacek. It gets easier after a few vodkas. The girls are usually called Kasha, Basha, Asha, Ania, Ilona, Ivona, Jola, Ola, Eva, Aga, Monika or Magda. In order to conform to Polish grammar all female names must end in a and male names with a consonant.
Word of the week: Zahipnotyzowac meaning to hypnotise.
Monday 31 March 2008
Thursday 27 March 2008
A session on the sunbed.
"You look so grey!" Luscious Lola barked at me over coffee, "you will to come with me to solarium, there you will to feel better."
Despite my misgivings she eventually convinced me that a session on the sunbed would do me the world of good so off we set to a local place she attends regularly called Jamaica Sun.
Once inside, a delicious little creature the colour of a tangerine appeared from an alcove like Mr Benn's shopkeeper and smiled. After recommending a sweet smelling bronzing cream, she cooed "I put you nice music to relax" and ushered me into a 'beam me up Scottie' type cubicle. I smothered myself in the cream, stepped in, and pressed the start button. Hoping to be welcomed by the soft soothing tones of Nat King Cole or even Dido, my hopes were dashed as a deafening and ghastly techno beat pounded my entire hearing system until I staggered out in a sweat six minutes later gasping for air.
Despite my misgivings she eventually convinced me that a session on the sunbed would do me the world of good so off we set to a local place she attends regularly called Jamaica Sun.
Once inside, a delicious little creature the colour of a tangerine appeared from an alcove like Mr Benn's shopkeeper and smiled. After recommending a sweet smelling bronzing cream, she cooed "I put you nice music to relax" and ushered me into a 'beam me up Scottie' type cubicle. I smothered myself in the cream, stepped in, and pressed the start button. Hoping to be welcomed by the soft soothing tones of Nat King Cole or even Dido, my hopes were dashed as a deafening and ghastly techno beat pounded my entire hearing system until I staggered out in a sweat six minutes later gasping for air.
Monday 24 March 2008
A quiet Easter in the Ugly City.
I spent Easter with Big Eggs in Warsaw. I booked myself into a hotel as he has a two-roomed flat and a sofa-bed which I'm convinced is stuffed with old potatoes. Poland being very Catholic, Easter is taken seriously and life comes to a standstill as the population return to their families. With nothing much else to do we wandered the desolate streets of the Old Town, not so Old as it was rebuilt fifty years ago. Stalin's troops watched as Hitler destroyed 94% of the city, then the Communists redesigned the capital in concrete. It's been known as the Ugly City ever since.
It wasn't until the next morning looking out of the hotel window 15 floors up and surveying the empty streets that it dawned on me that I was probably the only guest in the whole building. Keen for breakfast I whizzed down in the lift (not so easy with these security cards which often take a few attempts before working) and slinked self-consciously across the foyer which was resplendent in marble. In the restaurant the scowl on the waitress's face read "if it wasn't for cunts like you I could be at home celebrating Easter with my family in Bydgoszcz." I feasted on bacon and eggs (with HP!) with the skeleton staff watching me and then strolled 15 minutes across town to spend another lazy day with Big Eggs watching DVD's and chilling out. He also tends to spend public holidays alone since his mother told him she wished he'd never been born after he opened up to her that he is gay. She also told him he should change his name. Later in the evening, miraculously, we found a bar open and stayed late with a bottle of wine and sipping hot and spicy taco soup.
On waking back at the hotel on Easter Monday I knew that Big Eggs would sleep the whole day as is his wont so I got the surly receptionist to check the times of the trains and headed off to the railway station with my tatty suitcase and a three day old copy of the Sun which I'd discovered rather oddly sticking out of a hotel bin.
The wide and souless communist avenues of the capital were eerily quiet as was the station, a cold war monolith doomed among the sparkling new office blocks and shopping centres sprouting up all around it. I sat on a mile long platform for what seemed like an eternity, looking out at other mile long platforms. A lone tramp shuffled out of the shadows and asked for a cigarette, I gave him a pound, boarded a brand new train and settled down, its sole occupant, to the delights of a discarded tabloid... I'd never buy one of course!
One reason that would certainly keep Polish women off the streets on Easter Monday is the tradition of men drenching women in water. I have no idea from whence this bizarre ritual came but it is prevalent all over the country... men in villages with full buckets standing on street corners waiting for a female to walk by.
Once back in Lodz, I relieved Lola and her family (who'd been throwing back vodka since daybreak) of Molly and Daisy who she'd been looking after, and we waded through the snow to a large local park. We came across a handsome hound with a fine black coat that joined in the running and vigorous stick fetching. A young and bouncy Great Dane with his tail cut off, a cruel practice and one which I've never understood. In too good condition to be homeless, I wasn't surprised when a burly man with a stick emerged from the trees shouting Rex! Rex! Half the dogs in Poland are called Rex, the other half Nero, regardless of sex. I complimented him on his lovely dog but he ignored me, and instead of throwing the stick he proceeded to beat the poor creature. He wasn't interested in my protests and the dog cowered and followed him back to a block that backed onto the park. Rex had obviously escaped for a moments fresh air. We didn't see another living thing. I thought about the other dogs in the city, thousands of them, sat under tables in tiny flats all day while their owners drowned themselves in vodka and gazed at mindnumbing television.
Word of the week: Przeczyszczac meaning to wipe clean.
It wasn't until the next morning looking out of the hotel window 15 floors up and surveying the empty streets that it dawned on me that I was probably the only guest in the whole building. Keen for breakfast I whizzed down in the lift (not so easy with these security cards which often take a few attempts before working) and slinked self-consciously across the foyer which was resplendent in marble. In the restaurant the scowl on the waitress's face read "if it wasn't for cunts like you I could be at home celebrating Easter with my family in Bydgoszcz." I feasted on bacon and eggs (with HP!) with the skeleton staff watching me and then strolled 15 minutes across town to spend another lazy day with Big Eggs watching DVD's and chilling out. He also tends to spend public holidays alone since his mother told him she wished he'd never been born after he opened up to her that he is gay. She also told him he should change his name. Later in the evening, miraculously, we found a bar open and stayed late with a bottle of wine and sipping hot and spicy taco soup.
On waking back at the hotel on Easter Monday I knew that Big Eggs would sleep the whole day as is his wont so I got the surly receptionist to check the times of the trains and headed off to the railway station with my tatty suitcase and a three day old copy of the Sun which I'd discovered rather oddly sticking out of a hotel bin.
The wide and souless communist avenues of the capital were eerily quiet as was the station, a cold war monolith doomed among the sparkling new office blocks and shopping centres sprouting up all around it. I sat on a mile long platform for what seemed like an eternity, looking out at other mile long platforms. A lone tramp shuffled out of the shadows and asked for a cigarette, I gave him a pound, boarded a brand new train and settled down, its sole occupant, to the delights of a discarded tabloid... I'd never buy one of course!
One reason that would certainly keep Polish women off the streets on Easter Monday is the tradition of men drenching women in water. I have no idea from whence this bizarre ritual came but it is prevalent all over the country... men in villages with full buckets standing on street corners waiting for a female to walk by.
Once back in Lodz, I relieved Lola and her family (who'd been throwing back vodka since daybreak) of Molly and Daisy who she'd been looking after, and we waded through the snow to a large local park. We came across a handsome hound with a fine black coat that joined in the running and vigorous stick fetching. A young and bouncy Great Dane with his tail cut off, a cruel practice and one which I've never understood. In too good condition to be homeless, I wasn't surprised when a burly man with a stick emerged from the trees shouting Rex! Rex! Half the dogs in Poland are called Rex, the other half Nero, regardless of sex. I complimented him on his lovely dog but he ignored me, and instead of throwing the stick he proceeded to beat the poor creature. He wasn't interested in my protests and the dog cowered and followed him back to a block that backed onto the park. Rex had obviously escaped for a moments fresh air. We didn't see another living thing. I thought about the other dogs in the city, thousands of them, sat under tables in tiny flats all day while their owners drowned themselves in vodka and gazed at mindnumbing television.
Word of the week: Przeczyszczac meaning to wipe clean.
Saturday 22 March 2008
Kuba, Kristina & Krakow.
I spent a couple of days in Krakow which is my favourite city in Poland. I have a friend Kuba who has two of the nicest bars - including the first (established 10 years ago) in the Jewish Quarter which is the most bohemian part of Krakow and has not yet opened up to swarms of tourists and hordes of stag parties charging from one bar to the next.
I arrived late and Kuba swiftly furnished me with a drink in his dungeon like candlelit tavern. He had a 'meeting' with his solicitor and soon disappeared, but not before confidiing to me that it was to see his third ex-wife with whom he recently has had a child. His girlfriend Kristina with whom he has lived for the last four years didn't believe him... "Solicitor? At this time of the night?!" Watching him slink out the door she asked me if I knew anything but I couldn't betray his trust, although he betrays hers all the time.
Kristina is a pretty girl half Kuba's age. She told me while guzzling red wine that she has found prostitutes numbers in his mobile, brothel business cards in his wallet and keeps a count on the condoms in the bedroom as they regularly disappear. It's true, when I first met him he told me that he didn't know how to be faithful to one woman. He's been married three times with a kid for each, the last child with his third ex-wife just a year ago whilst living with Kristina. Yet Kristina is still with him, checking his mobile and grilling his friends.
Kristina told me how she'd had enough, how she wanted to move to another city, start again, that Kuba didn't love her. I've heard this drunken speech before but the next morning she's back on him again as if everything is hunkydory. After some time and a lot of alcohol an older man and his female student joined us. Having armed themselves with large lagers, they promptly got out a pile of text books and commenced a Persian language lesson. This is at 2am in a loud and very dark bar. Apparently this wise old Pole speaks twelve languages and lived in - amongst other places - Afghanistan for eight years. Kristina whispered to me that he is around 68 and she is 20... I nearly fell off my chair when she confirmed that they are a couple.
Krakow is a medieval city and feels like it, with narrow alleyways and curious nooks and crannies. It is far more European and cosmopolitan than other cities, including Warsaw. Krakow is a city for dreamers, full of crumbling grandeur, students and artists. It is the cultural and intellectual capital of Poland, and unlike elsewhere in Poland, the people are happy not to earn money but just to be in Krakow. The suburbs are blighted by ugly communist blocks like every Polish city, but the Old Town and Kazimierz remains untouched.
Kuba reappeared but didn't stay long as he was tired... not surprisingly. He got out his fags and offered the pack to me across the table... Kristina piped up "Is that all you have? You had a full pack when you left. You smoked them all??" He'd been caught off guard but recovered quickly and launched into a brisk monologue wherein he explained how he had unintentionally swapped the full packet for the near empty packet in the car. I was impressed by the detail, he couldn't possibly have known she would ask him that. He had another speech polished and ready in reply to her inevitable "What was the meeting with the solicitor about?" This is a scene they have been playing for four years. Kristina later whimpered "You see how he lies to me?"
I often think of moving to Krakow although it's much more expensive than Lodz, but what a difference! Cool and laid back, great bars and interesting people. Lots of foreigners around to liven things up and not far from the scenic mountains on the southern border with Slovakia, the rest of Poland being as flat as a pancake.
We left the Persian lesson in full swing and stepped out into the cold. I kissed Kristina goodbye on the corner and watched as she ran back home.
I arrived late and Kuba swiftly furnished me with a drink in his dungeon like candlelit tavern. He had a 'meeting' with his solicitor and soon disappeared, but not before confidiing to me that it was to see his third ex-wife with whom he recently has had a child. His girlfriend Kristina with whom he has lived for the last four years didn't believe him... "Solicitor? At this time of the night?!" Watching him slink out the door she asked me if I knew anything but I couldn't betray his trust, although he betrays hers all the time.
Kristina is a pretty girl half Kuba's age. She told me while guzzling red wine that she has found prostitutes numbers in his mobile, brothel business cards in his wallet and keeps a count on the condoms in the bedroom as they regularly disappear. It's true, when I first met him he told me that he didn't know how to be faithful to one woman. He's been married three times with a kid for each, the last child with his third ex-wife just a year ago whilst living with Kristina. Yet Kristina is still with him, checking his mobile and grilling his friends.
Kristina told me how she'd had enough, how she wanted to move to another city, start again, that Kuba didn't love her. I've heard this drunken speech before but the next morning she's back on him again as if everything is hunkydory. After some time and a lot of alcohol an older man and his female student joined us. Having armed themselves with large lagers, they promptly got out a pile of text books and commenced a Persian language lesson. This is at 2am in a loud and very dark bar. Apparently this wise old Pole speaks twelve languages and lived in - amongst other places - Afghanistan for eight years. Kristina whispered to me that he is around 68 and she is 20... I nearly fell off my chair when she confirmed that they are a couple.
Krakow is a medieval city and feels like it, with narrow alleyways and curious nooks and crannies. It is far more European and cosmopolitan than other cities, including Warsaw. Krakow is a city for dreamers, full of crumbling grandeur, students and artists. It is the cultural and intellectual capital of Poland, and unlike elsewhere in Poland, the people are happy not to earn money but just to be in Krakow. The suburbs are blighted by ugly communist blocks like every Polish city, but the Old Town and Kazimierz remains untouched.
Kuba reappeared but didn't stay long as he was tired... not surprisingly. He got out his fags and offered the pack to me across the table... Kristina piped up "Is that all you have? You had a full pack when you left. You smoked them all??" He'd been caught off guard but recovered quickly and launched into a brisk monologue wherein he explained how he had unintentionally swapped the full packet for the near empty packet in the car. I was impressed by the detail, he couldn't possibly have known she would ask him that. He had another speech polished and ready in reply to her inevitable "What was the meeting with the solicitor about?" This is a scene they have been playing for four years. Kristina later whimpered "You see how he lies to me?"
I often think of moving to Krakow although it's much more expensive than Lodz, but what a difference! Cool and laid back, great bars and interesting people. Lots of foreigners around to liven things up and not far from the scenic mountains on the southern border with Slovakia, the rest of Poland being as flat as a pancake.
We left the Persian lesson in full swing and stepped out into the cold. I kissed Kristina goodbye on the corner and watched as she ran back home.
Thursday 20 March 2008
Molly and Daisy.
I found Molly in the deep midwinter on my birthday. Or rather she found me. I was walking to the tram stop one bitterly cold night, it was about minus 12 degrees, when I noticed her walking behind me. Scraggy and nervous, she curled up on my feet as I waited in the thick snow. I managed to get her home and went out again for some food which she in turn devoured. I'd never had a pet before, so the next few days were a sharp learning curve, although Molly made it easy for me.
The next day the vet reckoned that she was about six months old, he said she wouldn't have lasted long on her own. Underweight with worms, and frightened, but otherwise alright. She'd obviously had an owner but it looked like she'd been dumped. Nevertheless, I placed several ads in the local papers, online, and on lamposts to say she'd been found. I was elated when no-one claimed her.
A year later she had six pups, parting with them was difficult but I found good homes and held on to the last one which nobody wanted whom I called Daisy. They are both an absolute joy, we have a lot of fun and are inseparable.
They often draw spectators as they run beside me while I'm cycling (the fastest dogs in Lodz!), plunge down pits or into lakes together and return sharing a stick. We have travelled far and wide and had many adventures.
The next day the vet reckoned that she was about six months old, he said she wouldn't have lasted long on her own. Underweight with worms, and frightened, but otherwise alright. She'd obviously had an owner but it looked like she'd been dumped. Nevertheless, I placed several ads in the local papers, online, and on lamposts to say she'd been found. I was elated when no-one claimed her.
A year later she had six pups, parting with them was difficult but I found good homes and held on to the last one which nobody wanted whom I called Daisy. They are both an absolute joy, we have a lot of fun and are inseparable.
They often draw spectators as they run beside me while I'm cycling (the fastest dogs in Lodz!), plunge down pits or into lakes together and return sharing a stick. We have travelled far and wide and had many adventures.
Molly has been hit twice by cars driven by maniacs that slowed to look at her lying in the road then sped off, but she was lucky to escape with just a broken leg. Daisy is anaemic and so I have to be particularly careful to steer her away from broken bottles which are all over the place.
Until Molly arrived I never really noticed dogs. I didn't see them. Rather like babies, which to me all look the same, until I suppose, you have one and then it connects you to baby world. I am now a 'dog person'. M&D sleep with me, they accompany me on all visits out of town, we run daily in the forest. I'm buying my country retreat with them in mind, without whom I wouldn't have bothered.
Wednesday 19 March 2008
The Polish President "The Disgrace of Europe".
The Polish President Lech Kaczynski is again in the news this week for his out-dated, nationalistic and deeply offensive opinions. Last August, as on quite a few occasions, at a meeting in Dublin in front of the Irish Prime Minister Bertie Ahern, the Polish President Lech Kaczynski shocked a large audience with his homophobic remarks. This ignorant little man and his party are no surprise as Poland is well known for its appalling record in terms of human rights. They still have anti-semitic broadcasts on some of their radio stations and they are virulently xenophobic and homophobic. In 2006, Poland's Prime Minister Jaroslaw Kaczynski (the President's twin brother) was summoned to Brussels and reprimanded strongly by the European Union for his homophobic attitudes and extreme right-wing views. While he was Major of Warsaw all Gay Parades were banned and homosexual 'encouragement' was illegal with teachers and other professionals facing prison.
The 60 year old Kaczynski twins have obstinately vowed to fight for "national interests" and have blocked foreign takeovers of Polish companies. Speaking to reporters in Paris lately, Lech Kaczynski said "Certain things that are fashionable elsewhere in Europe are just not acceptable to the majority of Poles." And he might have added, vice versa.
According to one Western journalist who has met them, the identical twins are "both small, not very bright, mean-minded and resemble provincial solicitors - which Lech used to be." Jaroslaw has never married and lives with his formidable mother and her cats. Recently he revealed that he had no bank account and deposited his money with his mother. "I don't want a situation in which someone pays some money into my account without my knowledge," he said bizarrely. Mercifully, this great visionary was replaced last October by the more liberal Donald Tusk who will hopefully inch Poland slightly nearer to the 21st Century. But the President, Lech Kaczynski remains.
All this despite the fact that Poland is the largest recipient of EU aid, receiving 40 billion pounds over a six year period. It begs the question - was Poland fit to enter the EU? Was there an adequate test of its human rights provisions? I am very aware of the fear under which Polish gay people live and the abuse that they suffer daily. I also have several foreign friends who have been very seriously beaten up simply because they were not Polish. One Canadian friend, a student at the film school here, nearly lost his sight from being so violently attacked, and spent three months in hospital being straw fed with his whole head and neck wired up. Another English friend lost half his teeth and suffered a broken nose and burst ear-drum for just dressing a little different. As the graffiti everywhere proclaims... POLAND FOR POLES! Paradoxically, close to three million Poles are now living and working abroad with hundreds still leaving every single day in search of a better life. A lot of them proudly proclaim that they will return but that remains to be seen. Somehow I doubt it.
The 60 year old Kaczynski twins have obstinately vowed to fight for "national interests" and have blocked foreign takeovers of Polish companies. Speaking to reporters in Paris lately, Lech Kaczynski said "Certain things that are fashionable elsewhere in Europe are just not acceptable to the majority of Poles." And he might have added, vice versa.
According to one Western journalist who has met them, the identical twins are "both small, not very bright, mean-minded and resemble provincial solicitors - which Lech used to be." Jaroslaw has never married and lives with his formidable mother and her cats. Recently he revealed that he had no bank account and deposited his money with his mother. "I don't want a situation in which someone pays some money into my account without my knowledge," he said bizarrely. Mercifully, this great visionary was replaced last October by the more liberal Donald Tusk who will hopefully inch Poland slightly nearer to the 21st Century. But the President, Lech Kaczynski remains.
All this despite the fact that Poland is the largest recipient of EU aid, receiving 40 billion pounds over a six year period. It begs the question - was Poland fit to enter the EU? Was there an adequate test of its human rights provisions? I am very aware of the fear under which Polish gay people live and the abuse that they suffer daily. I also have several foreign friends who have been very seriously beaten up simply because they were not Polish. One Canadian friend, a student at the film school here, nearly lost his sight from being so violently attacked, and spent three months in hospital being straw fed with his whole head and neck wired up. Another English friend lost half his teeth and suffered a broken nose and burst ear-drum for just dressing a little different. As the graffiti everywhere proclaims... POLAND FOR POLES! Paradoxically, close to three million Poles are now living and working abroad with hundreds still leaving every single day in search of a better life. A lot of them proudly proclaim that they will return but that remains to be seen. Somehow I doubt it.
Thursday 13 March 2008
The longest hour of my life.
Having promised to watch Big Eggs compete in a tv singing talent show, I arranged to spend the evening at some friends as I don't receive that particular channel on my tele. They live in a tiny flat with three dogs and two cats which were all over me all night long. Hell.
The contestants, all well known Polish actors, are given a song by a famous artist to sing every week, with a three person jury to criticise and the tv audience deciding by text. One person gets thrown out each week. Sound familiar? It's one of many shows on Polish tv which is based on British programmes. With 14 participants lined up and the first launching into Barry Manilow's Copacabana - the original is painful enough - I knew it was going to be a long evening.
The vodka was almost immediately brought out (thankfully) and the various acts became more blurred as the evening progressed. Small shot glasses were efficiently refilled within seconds of being downed. My hosts thought the programme wonderful and were singing along while I fought the dogs off.
What makes this production much worse than the original UK version is that they mostly choose English or American songs and their spoken (or sung) English is dreadful. The women fared slightly better with some Polish pop, although there isn't much to choose from on the Polish music scene.
After an eternity of absolute drivel culminating with an excruciating performance of the Bee Gees Staying Alive (a sure winner for the Eurovision song contest), I gave Big Eggs time to get back to his dressing room and then like a true friend phoned him with glowing congratulations. It wasn't so difficult as he had done very well doing Ricky Martin... in Spanish! And he's a great mover which helps.
My heart sinks with the realisation that I will have to sit through this torture every week, unless Big Eggs gets kicked off early. Some hope.
The contestants, all well known Polish actors, are given a song by a famous artist to sing every week, with a three person jury to criticise and the tv audience deciding by text. One person gets thrown out each week. Sound familiar? It's one of many shows on Polish tv which is based on British programmes. With 14 participants lined up and the first launching into Barry Manilow's Copacabana - the original is painful enough - I knew it was going to be a long evening.
The vodka was almost immediately brought out (thankfully) and the various acts became more blurred as the evening progressed. Small shot glasses were efficiently refilled within seconds of being downed. My hosts thought the programme wonderful and were singing along while I fought the dogs off.
What makes this production much worse than the original UK version is that they mostly choose English or American songs and their spoken (or sung) English is dreadful. The women fared slightly better with some Polish pop, although there isn't much to choose from on the Polish music scene.
After an eternity of absolute drivel culminating with an excruciating performance of the Bee Gees Staying Alive (a sure winner for the Eurovision song contest), I gave Big Eggs time to get back to his dressing room and then like a true friend phoned him with glowing congratulations. It wasn't so difficult as he had done very well doing Ricky Martin... in Spanish! And he's a great mover which helps.
My heart sinks with the realisation that I will have to sit through this torture every week, unless Big Eggs gets kicked off early. Some hope.
Tuesday 11 March 2008
A driving lesson.
I've recently bought a 26 year old Volkswagen Beetle whom I have named Esmeralda. I'm yet to take the helm, it was Luscious Lola who delivered her to me. Having never driven in Poland, and seeing as they drive on the wrong side of the road, I thought it would be wise to arrange a driving lesson to familiarize myself with the lay of the land before seizing the reigns.
I made an appointment at a nearby driving school for 9am and had to wait 15 minutes for my instructor to turn up, being late is the norm in these parts. She turned out to be a tightly wrapped temptress of about 40 with spray-on jeans and silver eyelashes. Once I had grasped the fact that the gearstick is on the right-hand side we set off for a circuit of the city.
Road signs are sparse to say the least and car wreckage is a common sight. Adding to the carnage is the fact that Poles drive like lunatics with no respect or consideration for anyone, least of all pedestrians. Even when people on foot get the 'green man' to cross the road, cars are allowed to weave in between them. In Eastern Europe, the bigger and more expensive your car, the more important you are. Pedestrians are worthless.
After a spell of being honked and screamed at by scores of aggressive drivers for not mowing down more old ladies, my instructor, who had spent most of the time on her mobile, directed me to a busy street and got me to pull over as she had to meet her children. After conversing for 10 minutes with three grubby urchins outside a shop, and then popping into another for some fags, she bounded back and we set off again.
Her husband called from home as he was having trouble finding his glasses, so I had to listen as she went through the endless possibilities of where they might be while he turned the house upside down.
Yet another call on her trusty mobile brought the news that we had to pick up her colleague to take her with us back to the driving school. So we drove into a maze of massive concrete blocks and waited for a while until a foxy female emerged from the greyness and slid onto the back seat. With the two of them now talking gibberish I suddenly felt as if I was intruding, so I sped back to base a good 5 minutes early and they hardly seemed to notice as I said goodbye.
I now feel ready to embrace the Polish roads. I shall choose a quiet morning maybe at the weekend and take Esmeralda for a spin... I'm chomping at the bit.
Word of the week: Ukierunkowywac meaning direct.
I made an appointment at a nearby driving school for 9am and had to wait 15 minutes for my instructor to turn up, being late is the norm in these parts. She turned out to be a tightly wrapped temptress of about 40 with spray-on jeans and silver eyelashes. Once I had grasped the fact that the gearstick is on the right-hand side we set off for a circuit of the city.
Road signs are sparse to say the least and car wreckage is a common sight. Adding to the carnage is the fact that Poles drive like lunatics with no respect or consideration for anyone, least of all pedestrians. Even when people on foot get the 'green man' to cross the road, cars are allowed to weave in between them. In Eastern Europe, the bigger and more expensive your car, the more important you are. Pedestrians are worthless.
After a spell of being honked and screamed at by scores of aggressive drivers for not mowing down more old ladies, my instructor, who had spent most of the time on her mobile, directed me to a busy street and got me to pull over as she had to meet her children. After conversing for 10 minutes with three grubby urchins outside a shop, and then popping into another for some fags, she bounded back and we set off again.
Her husband called from home as he was having trouble finding his glasses, so I had to listen as she went through the endless possibilities of where they might be while he turned the house upside down.
Yet another call on her trusty mobile brought the news that we had to pick up her colleague to take her with us back to the driving school. So we drove into a maze of massive concrete blocks and waited for a while until a foxy female emerged from the greyness and slid onto the back seat. With the two of them now talking gibberish I suddenly felt as if I was intruding, so I sped back to base a good 5 minutes early and they hardly seemed to notice as I said goodbye.
I now feel ready to embrace the Polish roads. I shall choose a quiet morning maybe at the weekend and take Esmeralda for a spin... I'm chomping at the bit.
Word of the week: Ukierunkowywac meaning direct.
Saturday 8 March 2008
Lunch with Lola.
I met Luscious Lola for lunch - she was late as usual. While waiting I strolled into a mobile phone shop (not that I need one) on the high street. They are all over the place and staffed mainly by skinny 19 year old goateed nerds sat in front of computers. Annexed to this particular orifice, oddly, is an outlet selling fur coats which I couldn't help but step into. Two large women by the till arose immediately and sailed towards me like stately galleons. I pretended not to notice and in an attempt to act natural stretched an arm out to stroke a particularly ghastly garment next to me...
"Don't touch this! Are you serious buyer?"
"Oh, well, erm... why yes, of coooouurrrse" I lied.
They looked me up and down and stood defiantly, daring me to venture further. I noticed the hefty price tags and was tempted to tell them that I could pick up a similar coat in any charity shop on Kentish Town Rd for a fiver, but thought better of it. I spotted Lola through the window and made my excuses - promising to return sometime in the next decade. Back in Blighty I always live by the rule never to buy from a rude shopkeeper. If I applied that rule here I'd starve. We cosied up in a favourite little eatery of ours serving traditional Polish food.
Lola squinted at me... "Why you have bird?" she began.
"What? I don't have a bird. I presume you're talking about the winged variety?"
"Why you say you no have bird?" She leaned in... "Yes you have bird. Why you no cut this?"
"What? Oh... my BEARD. It's just a little stubble."
"You look like you run away from prison."
We ordered and within seconds she was yabbering away about some Italian bloke she'd met who had - surprise surprise - charmed the pants off her in the pub.
"But he was short. So shame." Of course they would adore Lola who is platinum blonde (courtesy of L'Oreal). Its true that Italians are often vertically challenged so she'll have to leave the heels at home, no doubt he'll want her to put them on later in the bedroom.
"Don't touch this! Are you serious buyer?"
"Oh, well, erm... why yes, of coooouurrrse" I lied.
They looked me up and down and stood defiantly, daring me to venture further. I noticed the hefty price tags and was tempted to tell them that I could pick up a similar coat in any charity shop on Kentish Town Rd for a fiver, but thought better of it. I spotted Lola through the window and made my excuses - promising to return sometime in the next decade. Back in Blighty I always live by the rule never to buy from a rude shopkeeper. If I applied that rule here I'd starve. We cosied up in a favourite little eatery of ours serving traditional Polish food.
Lola squinted at me... "Why you have bird?" she began.
"What? I don't have a bird. I presume you're talking about the winged variety?"
"Why you say you no have bird?" She leaned in... "Yes you have bird. Why you no cut this?"
"What? Oh... my BEARD. It's just a little stubble."
"You look like you run away from prison."
We ordered and within seconds she was yabbering away about some Italian bloke she'd met who had - surprise surprise - charmed the pants off her in the pub.
"But he was short. So shame." Of course they would adore Lola who is platinum blonde (courtesy of L'Oreal). Its true that Italians are often vertically challenged so she'll have to leave the heels at home, no doubt he'll want her to put them on later in the bedroom.
Thursday 6 March 2008
Keeping the wolves from my door.
Last night I attended the bi-annual meeting of all the flat owners in the building here where I live. It kicked off at 6pm and they were still going strong at 11pm. So much hot air. Poles take 10 minutes to say what the English would say in 2, going round in circles with endless repetition and tedious detail.
I live in what was once a beautiful Art Nouveau apartment block on the main street. Like most older property in this city no money has been spent on this building in a hundred years. But it has been consistently 'patched up' causing immeasurable damage. The owners do not want to fork out and only if work is absolutely necessary then will they employ the cheapest method possible, and only enough to sort it temporarily, nothing more. Hours are spent discussing the price of a door knob. They prefer to spend their money on cars and millions of TV channels.
Among the issues being hotly debated last night were the main street doors to each of the three staircases. We are lucky to still have the original wooden portals although they are in a bad state and hanging loosely from their antique hinges. Like Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men I wrangled valiantly with my neighbours all night on why the doors should stay, that they could and should be renovated. Like General Custer I stood alone while they shot arrows at me. They are all up for replacing the splendid wooden structures with prison-like metal gates, an act of pure vandalism, they think only in terms of cost and security. I told them that my bank in London has beautiful old wooden doors along with many other important institutions but that did not impress them. I told them that such a building as this is rare in Poland, a thing of value and irreplaceable, but that did not impress them. I told them that this street is one of the most famous in Poland and renowned for its Art Nouveau architecture. That did not impress them. So, finding myself with no other option I have offered to pay for the restoration of the original portals and hope that this will keep the wolves from my...er, doors so to speak.
Every time workmen come to 'fix' something here they create shocking acts of destruction, everything from ornate Victorian fireplaces and tiling to stunning parquet flooring is at risk. They have no sensitivity or aesthetic awareness and never even clear up afterwards, leaving their empty beer cans amongst the rubble. With 90% of polish property consisting of communist concrete crap, and the new plastic lego-like constructions appearing all over the place just as bad, you'd think that they would want to preserve the older stuff... but sadly no. In Krakow they realise that historic and interesting architecture attracts tourists and the locals there are more in tune with their city, but the Old Town of Krakow is completely removed from the rest of Poland. Here in Lodz they just don't care.
I live in what was once a beautiful Art Nouveau apartment block on the main street. Like most older property in this city no money has been spent on this building in a hundred years. But it has been consistently 'patched up' causing immeasurable damage. The owners do not want to fork out and only if work is absolutely necessary then will they employ the cheapest method possible, and only enough to sort it temporarily, nothing more. Hours are spent discussing the price of a door knob. They prefer to spend their money on cars and millions of TV channels.
Among the issues being hotly debated last night were the main street doors to each of the three staircases. We are lucky to still have the original wooden portals although they are in a bad state and hanging loosely from their antique hinges. Like Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men I wrangled valiantly with my neighbours all night on why the doors should stay, that they could and should be renovated. Like General Custer I stood alone while they shot arrows at me. They are all up for replacing the splendid wooden structures with prison-like metal gates, an act of pure vandalism, they think only in terms of cost and security. I told them that my bank in London has beautiful old wooden doors along with many other important institutions but that did not impress them. I told them that such a building as this is rare in Poland, a thing of value and irreplaceable, but that did not impress them. I told them that this street is one of the most famous in Poland and renowned for its Art Nouveau architecture. That did not impress them. So, finding myself with no other option I have offered to pay for the restoration of the original portals and hope that this will keep the wolves from my...er, doors so to speak.
Every time workmen come to 'fix' something here they create shocking acts of destruction, everything from ornate Victorian fireplaces and tiling to stunning parquet flooring is at risk. They have no sensitivity or aesthetic awareness and never even clear up afterwards, leaving their empty beer cans amongst the rubble. With 90% of polish property consisting of communist concrete crap, and the new plastic lego-like constructions appearing all over the place just as bad, you'd think that they would want to preserve the older stuff... but sadly no. In Krakow they realise that historic and interesting architecture attracts tourists and the locals there are more in tune with their city, but the Old Town of Krakow is completely removed from the rest of Poland. Here in Lodz they just don't care.
Tuesday 4 March 2008
A trip to Tesco.
I popped across to my local shop to get some bread. The young shopkeeper never smiles and complains if I buy more than one loaf. If I'm short even just a few pence I have to leave my shopping until I come back with the cash, despite the fact that I've frequented that place almost daily for six years. I've suggested that she could order more bread etc as there is obviously demand (after 11am the bread shelf is usually bare) but she does not understand this concept. So I am restricted to one loaf per visit.
Tesco is here in Poland, although it stocks much the same as all the local shops. If you're looking for something not typically Polish then you're wasting your time. Cheddar cheese? Forget it. Fresh orange juice? No way. HP? Never heard of it. Tasteless rubber-like processed cheese? Loads. Frozen food? No problem. Vodka. Anytime!
I have foreign friends here who refuse to go to the supermarkets because they cannot bear the pushing and shoving. But, needing slightly more than my local shop would allow me, I bravely set off with dread in my heart and knuckle-dusters in my pockets. It must be said at this point that having lived all my life in London, in a relatively small space crammed with millions of people, I've never had my personal space violated as I have had since I arrived here in Poland six years ago. For foreigners living here it is probably the hardest thing to deal with.
On arrival at Tesco it is obligatory to leave any bags you may be carrying at the main counter. You are treated as a thief until proven otherwise. Security guards with ear-pieces stand by to ensure that no-one enters with any sort of receptacle.
Having flitted round generally unscathed and collected various boil-in-the-bag and long-life delights I eventually found myself at the checkout manned by a terrifying over-madeup woman in her fifties, hair black and brittle from a thousand bleachings. Carrier bags are given out one at a time only as required to prevent them from being stolen en masse. Even the plastic shopping baskets have security tags bolted on. While virtually throwing my shopping at me I noticed her put two items aside unscanned. She informed me of the total and I asked about the two items she had neglected.
"You no can buy this."
"I can't buy them? Why not?" I enquired.
She scowled at me whilst raising her voice "You no can buy this. This no has price, no label, see???" She waved the items at me.
The customer behind me was pushing his trolley into the back of my knees and the queue were huffing and puffing at the 'stupid foreigner'.
"Right," I said, fighting an impulse to lunge across the conveyer belt and strangle her... "but surely you can ask one of the countless assistants in here to find out the price?"
A security guard had closed in and was standing just a yard away staring hard at me in an attempt to intimidate. This is a normal situation here and easy to understand when you remember that in Poland the customer is always WRONG.
I pointed to the phone beside her and asked why she couldn't just phone someone who could check the price.
"This no your business! You pay! You pay now!"
I turned round to ask the moron behind me to move back a little and let me stand up properly, at which point the the security guard demanded that I pay and leave. My heart was racing and I could feel the sweat beads forming. I paid and left, realising later that I had forgotten my gym bag at the reception.
Word of the week: przestepczosc meaning criminality.
Tesco is here in Poland, although it stocks much the same as all the local shops. If you're looking for something not typically Polish then you're wasting your time. Cheddar cheese? Forget it. Fresh orange juice? No way. HP? Never heard of it. Tasteless rubber-like processed cheese? Loads. Frozen food? No problem. Vodka. Anytime!
I have foreign friends here who refuse to go to the supermarkets because they cannot bear the pushing and shoving. But, needing slightly more than my local shop would allow me, I bravely set off with dread in my heart and knuckle-dusters in my pockets. It must be said at this point that having lived all my life in London, in a relatively small space crammed with millions of people, I've never had my personal space violated as I have had since I arrived here in Poland six years ago. For foreigners living here it is probably the hardest thing to deal with.
On arrival at Tesco it is obligatory to leave any bags you may be carrying at the main counter. You are treated as a thief until proven otherwise. Security guards with ear-pieces stand by to ensure that no-one enters with any sort of receptacle.
Having flitted round generally unscathed and collected various boil-in-the-bag and long-life delights I eventually found myself at the checkout manned by a terrifying over-madeup woman in her fifties, hair black and brittle from a thousand bleachings. Carrier bags are given out one at a time only as required to prevent them from being stolen en masse. Even the plastic shopping baskets have security tags bolted on. While virtually throwing my shopping at me I noticed her put two items aside unscanned. She informed me of the total and I asked about the two items she had neglected.
"You no can buy this."
"I can't buy them? Why not?" I enquired.
She scowled at me whilst raising her voice "You no can buy this. This no has price, no label, see???" She waved the items at me.
The customer behind me was pushing his trolley into the back of my knees and the queue were huffing and puffing at the 'stupid foreigner'.
"Right," I said, fighting an impulse to lunge across the conveyer belt and strangle her... "but surely you can ask one of the countless assistants in here to find out the price?"
A security guard had closed in and was standing just a yard away staring hard at me in an attempt to intimidate. This is a normal situation here and easy to understand when you remember that in Poland the customer is always WRONG.
I pointed to the phone beside her and asked why she couldn't just phone someone who could check the price.
"This no your business! You pay! You pay now!"
I turned round to ask the moron behind me to move back a little and let me stand up properly, at which point the the security guard demanded that I pay and leave. My heart was racing and I could feel the sweat beads forming. I paid and left, realising later that I had forgotten my gym bag at the reception.
Word of the week: przestepczosc meaning criminality.
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