Last night I went to the pub and watched Russia lose to Spain in the UEFA EURO semi-final in the pub. I don't usually do football, but enjoy keeping a loose eye on these big European tournaments. I go by the old adage that football is a game for gentleman played by thugs, whereas rugby is a game for thugs played by gentlemen. Watching the footie nowadays, not a minute goes by without the screech of the referee's whistle and a prima donna rolling around on the grass clutching his leg and moaning. The Italians have turned it into an art form. I don't remember it like that when I was a boy and those burly rugby blokes are certainly a lot more manly in a much rougher game.
Understandably, the locals were backing Spain and so had a good night as Spain gave Russia a 3-0 pasting. So the Spaniards will meet Germany in the final in Vienna on Sunday, and no guessing which way the Poles would like the game to go.
One of the Magnus's is driving to Vienna at the weekend with a couple of pals and invited me along. I can't imagine anything worse. They have no tickets for the game and will no doubt end up sleeping in their car. I told him it will be chaotic to which he replied... "Of course, that's the fun of it!" I must be getting old.
The next championship in four years time will be held jointly in Poland and the Ukraine. A few months back it was celebrations all round when the first 500 metres of the Gdansk-Warsaw A1 super-highway was completed. Less impressive was the fact that it had taken 10 years to achieve this feat of engineering - doesn't fill you with confidence for EURO 2012 does it?
Friday 27 June 2008
Thursday 26 June 2008
In Poland the law really is an ass.
I was saddened to hear that my daily jaunts to the park with Molly and Daisy will become even more difficult now that cycling in the parks is to be outlawed in Lodz. This is the latest in a long list of oppressive and senseless laws that we will have to deal with. As it is, it has been illegal for some time to have a dog - regardless of breed - roaming free... even in the country. There is nowhere in the whole city set aside for dogs to exercise without a lead. I have been fined several times in the park.
I have been fined in the past for washing my car on a public street, this is illegal. It was in my courtyard but one of the neighbours called the police. They arrived and charged me fifty pounds on the spot.
I have been fined for walking across a road when the red man was showing, despite the road being deserted. Cars are allowed to drive through even when the green man is showing, and will tear past you within inches.
The banning of bicycles from parks will come into effect in about six months. The people are never consulted and opinions are never sought. The greenest and most pleasurable form of transport is not encouraged. If I had a big gas guzzling SUV I would be highly regarded and the law would bow for me in every way. That's Poland for you.
I have been fined in the past for washing my car on a public street, this is illegal. It was in my courtyard but one of the neighbours called the police. They arrived and charged me fifty pounds on the spot.
I have been fined for walking across a road when the red man was showing, despite the road being deserted. Cars are allowed to drive through even when the green man is showing, and will tear past you within inches.
The banning of bicycles from parks will come into effect in about six months. The people are never consulted and opinions are never sought. The greenest and most pleasurable form of transport is not encouraged. If I had a big gas guzzling SUV I would be highly regarded and the law would bow for me in every way. That's Poland for you.
Tuesday 24 June 2008
The ding-a-ling man.
On the main street of the city, on the doorstep of an empty shop, stands a man in a tuxedo. Tall, thin and gaunt. His hair is almost white and his complexion ruddy. Back arched, heels in and toes out, his sad face gazes into the distance as though he were an awkward beginner in a ballet class. He stands as still and as stiff as a pole. Around his neck is a sign in Polish saying Throw Money and he holds a small brass bell in his hand. He has been in this position for years.
Every now and then, but not often, someone will put a few pence, but not more, into his box. At this he peps up, as though just plugged in, and swivels around on his small platform like a wooden puppet on a string. A series of jerky hand gestures and tinkles accompany him as he comes full circle only to then slump once more into the stillness that has become for him a way of life.
Sometimes in the winter, when it is particularly bitter, he is to be found in a nearby subway. A good set of thermals under his garments must ensure against hypothermia. It is likely that his back gives him trouble by now and he will undoubtedly suffer from arthritis. Unlike the colourfully costumed street acts that ply their trade in busy Covent Garden and other such places, this artist's services are rarely requested.
For a few months he did experiment with a different act. This enactment was centred on a golden picture frame which was held up and through which he peered as though he were a portrait on a wall. When a rare coin hit his box he would turn out a series of animated facial expressions. This diversion from his usual performance did not suit him, and it wasn't long before he reached once more for his trusty bell.
I once noticed a woman, persumably his wife, sitting opposite and watching intently. It was a dark early evening in the bleak mid-winter and the falling snow had settled on him, she was huddled under an umbrella. When I passed by again some hours later, he was packing up, and I watched them walk away through the snow arm in arm.
Every now and then, but not often, someone will put a few pence, but not more, into his box. At this he peps up, as though just plugged in, and swivels around on his small platform like a wooden puppet on a string. A series of jerky hand gestures and tinkles accompany him as he comes full circle only to then slump once more into the stillness that has become for him a way of life.
Sometimes in the winter, when it is particularly bitter, he is to be found in a nearby subway. A good set of thermals under his garments must ensure against hypothermia. It is likely that his back gives him trouble by now and he will undoubtedly suffer from arthritis. Unlike the colourfully costumed street acts that ply their trade in busy Covent Garden and other such places, this artist's services are rarely requested.
For a few months he did experiment with a different act. This enactment was centred on a golden picture frame which was held up and through which he peered as though he were a portrait on a wall. When a rare coin hit his box he would turn out a series of animated facial expressions. This diversion from his usual performance did not suit him, and it wasn't long before he reached once more for his trusty bell.
I once noticed a woman, persumably his wife, sitting opposite and watching intently. It was a dark early evening in the bleak mid-winter and the falling snow had settled on him, she was huddled under an umbrella. When I passed by again some hours later, he was packing up, and I watched them walk away through the snow arm in arm.
Sunday 22 June 2008
An Indian Prince, some Norwegians & a True Brit.
I was invited to a house-warming party by one of the film students. There is a famous film school in Lodz where such luminaries as Andrzej Wajda and Roman Polanski trained. Many of the cinematographers in Hollywood started off here. The party was fun and there were young and interesting people of many nationalities. One of the highlights was an Indian Prince who invited me to his palace back home, no doubt complete with boy attendants cooling the ornate rooms with giant palm leaves. Lots of scandinavians were dotted around, including my pals Magnus, Magnus, and Magnus. Plainly a popular name in Norway.
I took Luscious Lola along and my new friend, another Norwegian, whom I shall call Pin-up Girl. She has a liking for 1950's pinups and last night was kitted out in a tight-waisted red polka-dot dress with white heels and a silk butterfly in her hair. She has lived here for four years although she doesn't seem to have got out much, her recent split from her Polish boyfriend has now thrust her out onto the social circuit. She's just acquired her seventh tattoo and is proving a real hit with the boys.
As is often the case at student house parties, the alcohol was sparse and the Bison Grass Vodka that we brought dissappeared within seconds. In the early hours our quest for more booze demanded that we call a taxi and speed off to my favoured night club. On arrival we were greeted by the usual lunatics. The Bisexual from Belarus was very taken with Pin-up Girl (his motto being every hole's a goal) and the reptilian Doctor was circling us... tongue flicking. Yatsek In Khaki was dressed in... khaki and had his obligatory sunglasses on despite the club being very dark (there's always one). He is in his early fifties, sports dreadlocks and often has a dozy teenage nymphet on his arm. He's a musician, and plays the kind of music that no-one in their right mind would want to listen to. Everyone was drunk, including us, and there was much hugging and back-slapping. Too many vodka's were downed and too many fags smoked.
There are three floors to this den of iniquity, each with a different feel. I collared one of the Magnus's and we ascended the staircase to check out the other levels. The top floor is more disco based and has a small dance area which attracts the younger crowd and generally more testosterone. I spotted through the dark haze The Gentle Giant - one of the bouncers - and sat down with him. Built like a brick shithouse, he was sitting on his own gazing into some sort of pager which was propped up on the table in front of him. He could be alerted through this tiny computer of any trouble and off he would spring to the rescue, although maybe spring is not quite the right word, his great bulk requiring a little more time to shift itself.
Eventually, a friend pulled a man through the crowd towards me and introduced him, and when I enquired where he was from he announced proudly "I'm British". Of course we are all British by nationality and live in the British Isles, but to describe yourself as British seems to me most peculiar.
"You mean you're English?" I responded.
"No, I'm British," he retorted, almost hostile in his stance. Why are do so many of the English become such arseholes the moment they set foot on foreign soil?
"Try telling that to a Glaswegian, or someone from Port Talbot," I said, and having neither the energy or desire for further fatuous encounters, I rounded up my posse and we went back to mine for a nightcap.
I took Luscious Lola along and my new friend, another Norwegian, whom I shall call Pin-up Girl. She has a liking for 1950's pinups and last night was kitted out in a tight-waisted red polka-dot dress with white heels and a silk butterfly in her hair. She has lived here for four years although she doesn't seem to have got out much, her recent split from her Polish boyfriend has now thrust her out onto the social circuit. She's just acquired her seventh tattoo and is proving a real hit with the boys.
As is often the case at student house parties, the alcohol was sparse and the Bison Grass Vodka that we brought dissappeared within seconds. In the early hours our quest for more booze demanded that we call a taxi and speed off to my favoured night club. On arrival we were greeted by the usual lunatics. The Bisexual from Belarus was very taken with Pin-up Girl (his motto being every hole's a goal) and the reptilian Doctor was circling us... tongue flicking. Yatsek In Khaki was dressed in... khaki and had his obligatory sunglasses on despite the club being very dark (there's always one). He is in his early fifties, sports dreadlocks and often has a dozy teenage nymphet on his arm. He's a musician, and plays the kind of music that no-one in their right mind would want to listen to. Everyone was drunk, including us, and there was much hugging and back-slapping. Too many vodka's were downed and too many fags smoked.
There are three floors to this den of iniquity, each with a different feel. I collared one of the Magnus's and we ascended the staircase to check out the other levels. The top floor is more disco based and has a small dance area which attracts the younger crowd and generally more testosterone. I spotted through the dark haze The Gentle Giant - one of the bouncers - and sat down with him. Built like a brick shithouse, he was sitting on his own gazing into some sort of pager which was propped up on the table in front of him. He could be alerted through this tiny computer of any trouble and off he would spring to the rescue, although maybe spring is not quite the right word, his great bulk requiring a little more time to shift itself.
Eventually, a friend pulled a man through the crowd towards me and introduced him, and when I enquired where he was from he announced proudly "I'm British". Of course we are all British by nationality and live in the British Isles, but to describe yourself as British seems to me most peculiar.
"You mean you're English?" I responded.
"No, I'm British," he retorted, almost hostile in his stance. Why are do so many of the English become such arseholes the moment they set foot on foreign soil?
"Try telling that to a Glaswegian, or someone from Port Talbot," I said, and having neither the energy or desire for further fatuous encounters, I rounded up my posse and we went back to mine for a nightcap.
Friday 20 June 2008
No awareness of personal space.
I have a friend over for a few days from London. The first thing he commented on when I picked him up at the airport was how he'd been pushed and jostled either end of his flight. Whilst queueing at Stansted, Poles were standing virtually top of him. While lining up at passport control on arrival, one woman standing behind him, calmly but firmly, edged her way forward until she was in front of him. I explained that Polish people have no awareness of personal space. This is a legacy from Communism when it was the done thing to fight your way to the front of the queue, it's the same in Russia. I know a couple of newcomers to Lodz who refuse to go to Tesco as they just cannot bear the shoving that they are subjected to, I go as early as I can to avoid the abuse.
His first evening here, we sat at the bar in my local and gasped in despair as a young woman elbowed her way between us to order a drink. The pub was sparsely occupated and such an intrusion was unnecessary. She remained in position while waiting for her drinks, not even glancing at either of us as we stared incredulously at her rudeness. This is the usual protocol here and something that I will never get used to, but if I'd had a go at her she wouldn't have understood why. Although last week whilst in London I witnessed two shaven Polish 'potatoheads' get a telling off as they barged their way onto the tube, they don't get away with it in the UK.
Word of the week: Pchac sie meaning push.
His first evening here, we sat at the bar in my local and gasped in despair as a young woman elbowed her way between us to order a drink. The pub was sparsely occupated and such an intrusion was unnecessary. She remained in position while waiting for her drinks, not even glancing at either of us as we stared incredulously at her rudeness. This is the usual protocol here and something that I will never get used to, but if I'd had a go at her she wouldn't have understood why. Although last week whilst in London I witnessed two shaven Polish 'potatoheads' get a telling off as they barged their way onto the tube, they don't get away with it in the UK.
Word of the week: Pchac sie meaning push.
Tuesday 17 June 2008
Basha and Zygmunt.
Zygmunt is my 87 year old gay neighbour. He has lived on the floor below me with his sister since the Nazis left in 1945. I invited him upstairs for dinner as it was his birthday. He sat in a big armchair at the head of the table as always, with his little legs swinging underneath and his hands out flat on top, he looked like a small child anticipating a treat.
He perked up when I offered to take a few snaps of him which I could then frame and give him as a present. He has already presented me a few photographs of himself which I hurriedly pull out of the drawer and display when he phones that he's popping up for tea.
Zygmunt hardly speaks any English although this is a mystery to me as he lived in New York for 25 years. He flies back fairly often as he has a Polish doctor friend who gives him the once over and a full service.
I'd bought some delicious cabbage soup from the eaterie downstairs earlier, which I heated up and served with bread.
"I go the New York," Zygmunt said, as the soup ran down his chin.
"Again? You've only just come back."
"I must to go. I the very old grandfather," he giggled... "and the zoup this good!"
"Yes, it is good," I said.
"What?" he peered in at me.
"The soup, it's good," I repeated.
"Zoup? Yes, this the good zoup! What this zoup?"
"Cabbage."
"What?"
"Cabbage soup."
He screwed up his face in disagreement... "This not the garbage. This the good zoup."
"No, not garbage, this is C-A-B-B-A-G-E soup," I reiterated, glancing at the clock.
"What gabbage zoup? This the gabbage zoup? Yes, this the GOOD zoup!"
And so the conversation lurched from one word to the next. We usually speak Polish but sometimes he has a go in English. His sister is at the seaside in a sanatorium. She goes there once in a while to rest and recuperate. Her name is Basha and she's as mad as a hatter. A lot younger than Zygmunt, probably in her early sixties, she certainly stands out. Her hair is bleached black and unkempt, like Ken Dodd. She sports firey red lipstick, thick black eyeliner and mascara, plus a lot of rouge - all of which looks like it's been applied in an open top sports car at 120mph. I remember first meeting her on the staircase, at first glance I could see that she was obviously unhinged. She gawped at me and though amenable, her piercing stare and the odd punch to my stomach made me feel uneasy.
Sometimes, when passing their door below, I hear her screeching obcenities at her poor brother. Basha had a husband who died early on, Zygmunt returned from New York to be with her but he didn't intend to stay. Manacled together and dependent on one another, they have no family and I don't know what will happen to her when he goes.
Their flat is just as it was when they moved in sixty years ago. Ornate and antiquated furniture is spread around the large rooms. A dusty grand piano dominates the living room, with framed and faded sepia photographs sitting on top. Once, I popped down unexpectedly and saw hundreds of small white pills laid out in rows on the dining room table.
Saturday 14 June 2008
Molly and Daisy in action.
I was greeted with ecstatic jumping and yelping from Molly and Daisy on my return home. It was great to see them again, I had missed them and looked forward to the next morning when we would embark on our usual furious journey to the park. We set off early in the morning as the park is free of people and police, and it quickly gets too hot for them in these summer months. People stared at us as we hurtled down the high street, me on the bike with M&D pulling me like Ben Hur in his chariot... the fastest dogs in Eastern Europe!
Polish law states that all dogs must be on a lead when outside, this includes all parks and forest. An absurd and cruel law and one which I break daily. As soon as we get to the huge park I let them off the lead and they sprint off into the distance. I follow as fast as I can on the bike and we race round the great periphery a few times before heading to the ponds where they dive in. Then follows a session of robust stick throwing into the water which they bring back together, pulling at either end. Signs say that swimming is prohibited (man or beast) but fishing is allowed and common, fishermen discarding their hooks and line which frequently kill the birds. Daisy recently had a hook embedded in her foot. I often have arguments with these men (why do women not fish?) who sit all day staring at the water while their dogs are stuck at home, and demand that I chain up my two small mongrels. Homeless cats and dogs are plentiful as people in Poland do not want to pay to have their pets neutered, most tiny flats in each block will often house at least 1 dog and 1 cat. Needless to say, the streets are strewn with crap.
We usually take a short break and I might read while M&D do a spot of frenzied digging, indulging their hobby of locate-the-mole. Mighty chasms are created, the crazed hounds surfacing now and then for air with blackened faces and broad smiles. They soon bore of this and disappear into the shubbery only to return dragging a huge branch which I am expected to launch into the air.
The final phase of our daily outing consists of more manic bike riding until they show slight signs of sluggishness. Every so often they will shoot off in another direction after a squirrel, then when they are finally flagging it's on the lead and back home... at a much slower pace!
Polish law states that all dogs must be on a lead when outside, this includes all parks and forest. An absurd and cruel law and one which I break daily. As soon as we get to the huge park I let them off the lead and they sprint off into the distance. I follow as fast as I can on the bike and we race round the great periphery a few times before heading to the ponds where they dive in. Then follows a session of robust stick throwing into the water which they bring back together, pulling at either end. Signs say that swimming is prohibited (man or beast) but fishing is allowed and common, fishermen discarding their hooks and line which frequently kill the birds. Daisy recently had a hook embedded in her foot. I often have arguments with these men (why do women not fish?) who sit all day staring at the water while their dogs are stuck at home, and demand that I chain up my two small mongrels. Homeless cats and dogs are plentiful as people in Poland do not want to pay to have their pets neutered, most tiny flats in each block will often house at least 1 dog and 1 cat. Needless to say, the streets are strewn with crap.
We usually take a short break and I might read while M&D do a spot of frenzied digging, indulging their hobby of locate-the-mole. Mighty chasms are created, the crazed hounds surfacing now and then for air with blackened faces and broad smiles. They soon bore of this and disappear into the shubbery only to return dragging a huge branch which I am expected to launch into the air.
The final phase of our daily outing consists of more manic bike riding until they show slight signs of sluggishness. Every so often they will shoot off in another direction after a squirrel, then when they are finally flagging it's on the lead and back home... at a much slower pace!
Thursday 12 June 2008
Poles going home?
Having just got back from a few days in London it strikes me again just how many Poles are now in the capital. Everytime I get on a bus I am sitting next to Poles. When I get off the bus I am facing a Polski Sklep (Polish shop). When I go to a pub or restaurant I am served by Poles. I am greeted by them at hotel receptions and accosted by them at markets. They are renovating my friends houses and looking after them in hospitals. They are taking advantage of a plethora of free university courses (I would have to pay for any education in Poland). They are hearing Sunday Services from Polish priests and in their native language. For the first time in over 500 years England has now more Catholics than Anglicans, this being a direct result of the Polish invasion. Polish people in Great Britain far outnumber all other immigrants... they are everywhere.
After Germany beat Poland in Euro 2008 I phoned Big German Friend with congratulations. When England are playing even the most obscure of nations, Poles always support the opposite side. They never support England. They are resentful because of all the Poles in 'slave labour', but if things were that bad in the UK why don't they just go home? And why blame England? Millions of Poles having fled their homeland... surely it is Poland that is the problem?
The fact is that a young Polish architect or engineer can earn more money and have a better standard of living managing a shop or restaurant in Britain. Not only is the average income in Poland pathetic (less than 80 quid per week), but employees receive no tea breaks and only half an hour for lunch (if that). Working conditions are often horrendous and employees rights are non-existent. Health and Safety is an unknown concept and Poland still not having grasped capitalism, choice is little and prices inflated. When getting on planes to visit family back home, Polish people are invariably loaded down with carrier bags full of cheap goods (Polish shop owners buy much of their stock in Argos!).
Consequently they are happy to be living in Britain and are much more productive than their British counterparts who have had it so easy for so long. But why can't Poles be a little more gracious about their new adopted home? The Polish papers scream POLES EXPLOITED IN GREAT BRITAIN! and all you will here from Polish immigrants in the UK is about their "Beautiful" Poland and how wonderful things are back home. Yeah, right.
Word of the week: Niegrzeczny meaning rude.
After Germany beat Poland in Euro 2008 I phoned Big German Friend with congratulations. When England are playing even the most obscure of nations, Poles always support the opposite side. They never support England. They are resentful because of all the Poles in 'slave labour', but if things were that bad in the UK why don't they just go home? And why blame England? Millions of Poles having fled their homeland... surely it is Poland that is the problem?
The fact is that a young Polish architect or engineer can earn more money and have a better standard of living managing a shop or restaurant in Britain. Not only is the average income in Poland pathetic (less than 80 quid per week), but employees receive no tea breaks and only half an hour for lunch (if that). Working conditions are often horrendous and employees rights are non-existent. Health and Safety is an unknown concept and Poland still not having grasped capitalism, choice is little and prices inflated. When getting on planes to visit family back home, Polish people are invariably loaded down with carrier bags full of cheap goods (Polish shop owners buy much of their stock in Argos!).
Consequently they are happy to be living in Britain and are much more productive than their British counterparts who have had it so easy for so long. But why can't Poles be a little more gracious about their new adopted home? The Polish papers scream POLES EXPLOITED IN GREAT BRITAIN! and all you will here from Polish immigrants in the UK is about their "Beautiful" Poland and how wonderful things are back home. Yeah, right.
Word of the week: Niegrzeczny meaning rude.
Wednesday 11 June 2008
Return to a city in chaos.
The train back to Lodz took a while longer than the usual 2 hours as most of the line is being taken up and replaced. Much to my disappointment the old 'cold war' trains are being superseded by new stock. On leaving the train station I strolled the 15 minutes back to my flat on the main street. The whole country is being dug up and Lodz is in the middle of it. Great holes in the road cause generally angry drivers to become even angrier, although anything that slows these lunatics can only be a good thing. The death rate on Polish roads is 250% higher than in the UK. It came as no surprise to me that the Grand Prix last Sunday was won by a Pole.
No diversion signs are set up and the streets are filled with motorists searching for a clue as to where they are, if you do not know the concrete jungle you are lost. Another thing which I have always found infuriating is that there are no signs to the City Centre, so consequently you can drive around the suburbs for hours before finding your way into town. The only reason for this that I can think of is that, up until recently, most Poles just did not travel, even to other cities. And yet there must have been trade surely? Long stretches of pavement are closed off with no consideration for how pedestrians are to continue their journey. Traffic lights at major intersections do not work and warring drivers fight their way forward inch by inch with much honking and swearing, police do not bother to manage the traffic and it's every man for himself. This is how Lodz looks and has done for sometime.
Billions of Euros from the EU which is going towards 'revitalising' the country also seems to be providing big expensive cars for anyone with even a distant cousin working in the government. I can understand that a lot of road needs widening and clear markings have to be put down (a rarity!), but miles of perfectly good pavement elsewhere in the city is being needessly destroyed. Charming old trams are disappearing and new and characterless state-of-the-art vehicles now wait for the new rails being laid (no extra buses were laid on for commuters who for months have had a hellish journey to work). So much money wasted. And it's all taking forever as there is a chronic shortage of workers, all of them having emigrated to Great Britain. Even the President of Poland Lech Kaczynski recently joked that he could not find a plumber. There is much talk in the press of Poles returning home but I don't see any evidence of it, no-one I know has come back - they are all settling in the UK and having children. Ryanair and Easyjet etc make it easy for them to visit family in Poland regularly, booking their tickets way in advance for 3 quid.
The 2012 European Football Championships will take place in Poland and Ukraine. There is much doubt that the necessary infrastructure will be put in place in order to host the event and the hundreds of thousands of fans that are expected. As yet no world class stadium exists in Poland and extensive recruitment of labour from Russia and China is a strong possibility. Lodz, mercifully, is not one of the cities that will be hosting the tournament.
No diversion signs are set up and the streets are filled with motorists searching for a clue as to where they are, if you do not know the concrete jungle you are lost. Another thing which I have always found infuriating is that there are no signs to the City Centre, so consequently you can drive around the suburbs for hours before finding your way into town. The only reason for this that I can think of is that, up until recently, most Poles just did not travel, even to other cities. And yet there must have been trade surely? Long stretches of pavement are closed off with no consideration for how pedestrians are to continue their journey. Traffic lights at major intersections do not work and warring drivers fight their way forward inch by inch with much honking and swearing, police do not bother to manage the traffic and it's every man for himself. This is how Lodz looks and has done for sometime.
Billions of Euros from the EU which is going towards 'revitalising' the country also seems to be providing big expensive cars for anyone with even a distant cousin working in the government. I can understand that a lot of road needs widening and clear markings have to be put down (a rarity!), but miles of perfectly good pavement elsewhere in the city is being needessly destroyed. Charming old trams are disappearing and new and characterless state-of-the-art vehicles now wait for the new rails being laid (no extra buses were laid on for commuters who for months have had a hellish journey to work). So much money wasted. And it's all taking forever as there is a chronic shortage of workers, all of them having emigrated to Great Britain. Even the President of Poland Lech Kaczynski recently joked that he could not find a plumber. There is much talk in the press of Poles returning home but I don't see any evidence of it, no-one I know has come back - they are all settling in the UK and having children. Ryanair and Easyjet etc make it easy for them to visit family in Poland regularly, booking their tickets way in advance for 3 quid.
The 2012 European Football Championships will take place in Poland and Ukraine. There is much doubt that the necessary infrastructure will be put in place in order to host the event and the hundreds of thousands of fans that are expected. As yet no world class stadium exists in Poland and extensive recruitment of labour from Russia and China is a strong possibility. Lodz, mercifully, is not one of the cities that will be hosting the tournament.
Thursday 5 June 2008
Smile please!
Having to pass through Warsaw on my way back to Lodz, I took the opportunity to spend an evening with Big Eggs. Unbeknown to me he'd booked me in at the Marriot, the tallest building and probably the most expensive hotel in town. He met me on the platform and despite my protestations grabbed my suitcase and marched off... "But you are my the best friend and my flat is so dirty!" As we were leaving the station a street seller offered us some cheap pens at which we shook our heads, the seller shouted after Big Eggs "I'm not going to watch any more of your films!" We were still chuckling when, on entering the hotel a well dressed man said hello. "Who was that?" I enquired, to which Big Eggs replied "I don't know, I think I fucked him once."
We dumped my stuff and I showered while Bigs Eggs updated me on his latest castings. We took the lift to the bar on the top floor which has the best views of the Ugly City. We met another actor friend of his who was about to leave for St. Petersburg. He had been involved in one of those dancing talent shows (Polish television is saturated with them) and fell in love with his Russian partner. When the programme came to a close she was a few days late in returning to her hometown of St. Petersburg and now the Russian authorities have forbid her from leaving again... fucking Communists. So this chap is going to drop everything here, including a promising career, to be with her in Russia. He intends to study the language and search for work. Romance at it's finest. He told us about the nightmarish bureauracracy and the amount of documentation needed in order to get to St. Petersburg (if you go as a tourist it's easier).
The next day Big Eggs had a photo session lined up. Showbusiness in Poland is backward to say the least (there is no Polish word for showbusiness so this is another one of many English words they use). Obviously concerned that he doesn't have a regular squeeze, his agent organised a girl with whom he could be snapped. This is what they were doing to bachelors Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift in the 1950's. They usually pose the actor sat at outdoor cafes reading worthy tomes or his latest script. The girl would normally be pictured in a rose garden sniffing at the blooms or playing with a cocker spaniel. Then they will often include some 'candid' shots of him and his 'new love' strolling through the park, the wind flying through her hair while he signs autographs or feeds the ducks. I met Big Eggs afterwards and asked how it went but he couldn't even remember his 'girlfriend's name.
We dumped my stuff and I showered while Bigs Eggs updated me on his latest castings. We took the lift to the bar on the top floor which has the best views of the Ugly City. We met another actor friend of his who was about to leave for St. Petersburg. He had been involved in one of those dancing talent shows (Polish television is saturated with them) and fell in love with his Russian partner. When the programme came to a close she was a few days late in returning to her hometown of St. Petersburg and now the Russian authorities have forbid her from leaving again... fucking Communists. So this chap is going to drop everything here, including a promising career, to be with her in Russia. He intends to study the language and search for work. Romance at it's finest. He told us about the nightmarish bureauracracy and the amount of documentation needed in order to get to St. Petersburg (if you go as a tourist it's easier).
The next day Big Eggs had a photo session lined up. Showbusiness in Poland is backward to say the least (there is no Polish word for showbusiness so this is another one of many English words they use). Obviously concerned that he doesn't have a regular squeeze, his agent organised a girl with whom he could be snapped. This is what they were doing to bachelors Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift in the 1950's. They usually pose the actor sat at outdoor cafes reading worthy tomes or his latest script. The girl would normally be pictured in a rose garden sniffing at the blooms or playing with a cocker spaniel. Then they will often include some 'candid' shots of him and his 'new love' strolling through the park, the wind flying through her hair while he signs autographs or feeds the ducks. I met Big Eggs afterwards and asked how it went but he couldn't even remember his 'girlfriend's name.
Tuesday 3 June 2008
Every boy's wet dream.
I stopped off in Lviv to break up the journey and pick up some stuff I had left, which meant spending another night in the flat waist high in Christian reading. My landlady Nadya and her poor husband Borys invited me round for a cuppa that evening. We sat in front of a cinema sized television and I attempted to converse while they watched a loud and kitschy talent show. Allowing a suitable time to pass and having consumed enough tea for the month, I made to leave but it was not so easy...
"YOU WANT MORE TEA? TEA? BORYS! YOU NO LIKE TEA?" Nadya bellowed at me. Many Eastern Europeans who are not used to talking to foreigners automatically raise their voices and repeat the same words over and over again. I may have trouble understanding other languages but I'm not deaf or stupid!
"No, thank you." I said.
"YOU NO LIKE TEA?
"Yes, it's very nice, but I don't want another one."
"YOU WANT EAT? WHY YOU NO HUNGRY? BORYS WILL TO MAKE WATER TO TEA... BORYS!!"
The next morning with a couple of hours to kill, I took a walk around the old town before my train was due. I said hello to a girl just too pretty to ignore. I was glad to be back in Lviv where they speak Ukrainian which is similar to Polish. We strolled to the main thoroughfare together as she was looking for a t-shirt. Her make-up had been somewhat enthusiastically applied and reminded me of Liz Taylor's Cleopatra. She told me of her ambition to work in Human Resources and her aim to move to Moscow, I imagined Chekov giving me a wry smile.
We stopped at a Country Fair which had come to town. Smiley people presided over stalls galore offering such produce as cheese, wine, glass and peasant jewelry, pottery, local art and wooden carvings. Sooty blacksmiths manipulated red hot iron and traditionally attired babuszkas sold shawls and blouses. There were colourfully costumed 'cossacks' dancing and frequent firing of antique muskets.
It being time for me to leave the Ukraine, we bid each other farewell and with a womanly wiggle my companion walked away without looking back. A ravishing combination of wild black hair, a tiny waist and low cut hipsters which were met with red stilletto's on which she glided around effortlessly... she was every boy's wet dream. She turned down a side street, stopped to look in a shop window, and stepped inside.
Word of the week: Laska meaning sexy girl.
"YOU WANT MORE TEA? TEA? BORYS! YOU NO LIKE TEA?" Nadya bellowed at me. Many Eastern Europeans who are not used to talking to foreigners automatically raise their voices and repeat the same words over and over again. I may have trouble understanding other languages but I'm not deaf or stupid!
"No, thank you." I said.
"YOU NO LIKE TEA?
"Yes, it's very nice, but I don't want another one."
"YOU WANT EAT? WHY YOU NO HUNGRY? BORYS WILL TO MAKE WATER TO TEA... BORYS!!"
The next morning with a couple of hours to kill, I took a walk around the old town before my train was due. I said hello to a girl just too pretty to ignore. I was glad to be back in Lviv where they speak Ukrainian which is similar to Polish. We strolled to the main thoroughfare together as she was looking for a t-shirt. Her make-up had been somewhat enthusiastically applied and reminded me of Liz Taylor's Cleopatra. She told me of her ambition to work in Human Resources and her aim to move to Moscow, I imagined Chekov giving me a wry smile.
We stopped at a Country Fair which had come to town. Smiley people presided over stalls galore offering such produce as cheese, wine, glass and peasant jewelry, pottery, local art and wooden carvings. Sooty blacksmiths manipulated red hot iron and traditionally attired babuszkas sold shawls and blouses. There were colourfully costumed 'cossacks' dancing and frequent firing of antique muskets.
It being time for me to leave the Ukraine, we bid each other farewell and with a womanly wiggle my companion walked away without looking back. A ravishing combination of wild black hair, a tiny waist and low cut hipsters which were met with red stilletto's on which she glided around effortlessly... she was every boy's wet dream. She turned down a side street, stopped to look in a shop window, and stepped inside.
Word of the week: Laska meaning sexy girl.
Sunday 1 June 2008
Time to get back.
Odesa calls to mind those boomtowns of the Wild West; deep in debauchery, gold, wine, women and song. It's one big funfair, but if you are not organised then the intense heat - like anywhere - can be quite unpleasant.
I remember arriving on the Greek Islands one summer with a few friends who assured me that there was no need to arrange accommodation beforehand as there "will be lots of Greeks waiting when we alight from the boats." Ha! The ship docked in the fierce midday sun with not a soul to be seen... and tons of roudy English descending. We spent the first two days trapsing round the islands searching - me Atlas like under the great weight of my girlfriends massive rucksack - and the nights sleeping on the beach. On the third day I waded into the water for a paddle and stepped on a porcupine-type sea urchin which left me with over 50 spines in my foot. Yeah, that was a great holiday. I found a doctor to whom I paid about 30 quid to help me, all he did was attack me with a needle. The islanders swore that the best way to remove the spines was to pour human urine over them, so my friends all pissed into a bottle and poured it slowly over the base of my aching foot. It didn't do any good and I've never known if this is really part of Greek folklore or just the locals having a laugh.
Odesa was certainly lively but I have decided to head back westwards to Poland, to go any further east from here on my own would be foolhardy especially as I don't speak Russian. Knowing that it would probably take some time and not a little effort to buy my train ticket, I made a point of going to the railway station the day before I wanted to leave. I was right. I queued for a good 30 minutes and when I got to the window I was told tersely that I had to go to another place. I queued again elsewhere for an hour and when I got to the front she pulled down the blind. It is disconcerting the way they speak to each other, like in Poland, without any courtesy or cordiality. Then a miracle! I recognised Vitaly and Alexej in yet another queue, they had been in Odesa for a few days and had had the same idea as me. So I joined them and we took pictures of ourselves while fending off others pushing in.
At the next window an argument seemed to have broken out. The battleaxe behind the glass was shrieking at a man who was in turn gesticulating wildly... "What going on?" I asked my comrades. Vitaly calmly replied... "He's buying a ticket." At the end of another long wait we purchased our return journeys home, the boys going north to Moscow and me west to Lviv where I would spend one last night before the final leg back across the Polish border to Lodz.
I remember arriving on the Greek Islands one summer with a few friends who assured me that there was no need to arrange accommodation beforehand as there "will be lots of Greeks waiting when we alight from the boats." Ha! The ship docked in the fierce midday sun with not a soul to be seen... and tons of roudy English descending. We spent the first two days trapsing round the islands searching - me Atlas like under the great weight of my girlfriends massive rucksack - and the nights sleeping on the beach. On the third day I waded into the water for a paddle and stepped on a porcupine-type sea urchin which left me with over 50 spines in my foot. Yeah, that was a great holiday. I found a doctor to whom I paid about 30 quid to help me, all he did was attack me with a needle. The islanders swore that the best way to remove the spines was to pour human urine over them, so my friends all pissed into a bottle and poured it slowly over the base of my aching foot. It didn't do any good and I've never known if this is really part of Greek folklore or just the locals having a laugh.
Odesa was certainly lively but I have decided to head back westwards to Poland, to go any further east from here on my own would be foolhardy especially as I don't speak Russian. Knowing that it would probably take some time and not a little effort to buy my train ticket, I made a point of going to the railway station the day before I wanted to leave. I was right. I queued for a good 30 minutes and when I got to the window I was told tersely that I had to go to another place. I queued again elsewhere for an hour and when I got to the front she pulled down the blind. It is disconcerting the way they speak to each other, like in Poland, without any courtesy or cordiality. Then a miracle! I recognised Vitaly and Alexej in yet another queue, they had been in Odesa for a few days and had had the same idea as me. So I joined them and we took pictures of ourselves while fending off others pushing in.
At the next window an argument seemed to have broken out. The battleaxe behind the glass was shrieking at a man who was in turn gesticulating wildly... "What going on?" I asked my comrades. Vitaly calmly replied... "He's buying a ticket." At the end of another long wait we purchased our return journeys home, the boys going north to Moscow and me west to Lviv where I would spend one last night before the final leg back across the Polish border to Lodz.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)