A Whole Heap o’ Happenings

Now that I am back in discovery mode – seeing new sights and doing new things, I ty to keep our blog current by writing at least one post every week. That entails me doing/discovering something new on a regular basis which, to me, is manna from the heavens.

On the other hand...

Sometimes there is simply no apt way for me to describe something without resorting to another language to do so. Apparently, this phenomenon is not at all uncommon; the BBC routinely features articles on the topic.

Ich bin nicht belastbar (ish bin nish-t buh-lahst-bah) is a phrase in German that essentially means ‘I am not one to be taxed’, meaning that I don’t necessarily function well when over-burdened.

That is not quite the correct meaning but then, that is the whole point of this thesis, isn’t it?

In a sense, that is why I walked away from the high-pressure world of middle management and sailed off to China. And, when things started to get intense there – I was the only foreign teacher for 3 years, compelled to teach every oral English class as well as attend every function and activity, again I was eager to decamp.

Of course, that’s not the only reason, or even the main reason. And it’s not even that I am lazy and resented the workload.

The main reason I left was the increasing pressure and restrictions placed on foreigners which were tantamount to legalized discrimination.

So now I find myself in Poland, where I look like everyone else and the only way anyone would know I am a foreigner is if they speak to me expecting an answer. Here I have a perfect set-up to fly under the radar; to not be overly taxed, as it were.

I do my writing for Superprof, I do a little shopping, I take long walks and I ride trams: exactly the low-key life that I crave.

However, last week was more like a revolving door of happenings; so much so that each instance was considered blog-worthy but, before I could gather my thoughts and commit them to print, something else was happening!

Ich bin nicht belastbar: I can either experience things or write about them, but I can’t do both at the same time.

Last week saw a stew of events; this week sees their narration. Ready? 

Sunday

Poland celebrates 100 years of independence. The entire city is bedecked with flags and people seem to walk taller, reveling in their country’s centenary.

Happy 100^th birthday, Poland!

Monday

Over here, people tend to shop for just a couple of days at a time; that is why stores tend to be so crowded on Friday evenings and, presumably on Saturday – I wouldn’t know about that because I have yet to venture out on Saturday mornings while the shops are still open.

They close around mid-day on Saturday and are closed all day on Sunday so, if you plan on having a nice Sunday dinner, you’d best get to shopping for it early.

Having depleted my weekend stores, I had my shopping list ready and thank goodness for my new shopping cart! I won’t have to carry everything; just wheel it home!

My first clue that there would be no shopping today was the lack of people milling about in front of the shopping center. My second clue was the extinguished lights and my third clue was the security gates, locked firmly in place.

Too bad I hadn’t thought to check my new home’s national holiday schedule!

If I had done so, I would have known that, although the centennial celebration was on Sunday, it was officially observed on Monday. As it was, I essentially took my new shopping cart for a walk.

I joked as I walked: maybe I’ll take my toaster walking next time...

Tuesday

Evelina, Luisa and I had plans to meet for dinner. Their goal is to introduce me to all the hip, happening places around town; a plan I am completely on board with.

Soon, I will write an entire entry about these two wonderful women and how they go above and beyond to help me get established.

For now we must counter Evelina’s dismay at my swollen hand and limp arm. She insisted I should see a doctor and I agreed. And then, she found me a doctor and both of my companions declared they would meet me at that office, bright and early the next morning.

We also agreed I would help them improve their English in weekly lessons while they would teach me Polish.

Wednesday

One X-ray and one consultation later, I discovered my elbow is so severely impacted that I will need surgery to straighten it out. There is also a fracture of the radius that will need to be reset and stabilized.

That is not the best news I could have gotten...

My two young friends having had to leave before I saw the doctor were now blowing up my phone, eager for the official diagnosis. When I told them, their immediate concern was my lack of health insurance.  

Arriving at their office with my order to report to the hospital in hand, I found them calling every contact they had, trying to find a way to score me some insurance.

See what I mean about going above and beyond?

Incidentally, while we were at the clinic, I made the observation that everything – signs, posters, ect. are all written only in Polish.

Generally, I agree with this principle: if one wishes to live in Poland, they should learn the language. However, some concession should be made to tourists and new arrivals, don’t you think?

I have to say I find this ‘Polish only’ stance rather unusual seeing as every other country I have been to puts up signs in the native language and in English. At least in English, and sometime a host of other languages.

Nevertheless, everywhere I’ve been so far, including the foreign affairs office where one should apply for a residency permit, there is absolutely no other language to read save Polish.

Thursday

It’s up early (again!) and off to the hospital. I am anticipating getting frowned upon because of my lack of language ability and the fact that I did not show up yesterday, as ordered. Nothing of the sort happened: everybody was helpful and kind, and the doctor screening my case even spoke very good English!

Unfortunately, while the clinic visit the day before was affordable, the surgery is... also affordable, if I were allowed to make payments. However, they wanted the entire fee up front and I simply could not get my hands on that much all at once.

We temporized: he made a plaster splint to keep my arm at 90 degrees and I promised to return for a follow-up appointment in 2 weeks, when I would presumably have insurance to cover the surgery.

As I was leaving the hospital, Luisa texted me the address of an insurance agent who is prepared to write me a policy!

Fortunately, the bus connections all worked out and, as a bonus, I got to ride a bus line I had never ridden before – it goes all the way out in the country!

When I finally made it home I realized that, instead of taking my toaster for a walk, I had taken my pajamas and toiletries – everything I thought I would need for a hospital stay.

Oh, well... next time, the toaster!

Friday

Time for the weekend shopping, and I wanted to buy a printer: between the English lesson worksheets and my residence application, I certainly have use for one!

Also, I have received another post office summons. It looks different than the last one; not quite so official. As I am in fact expecting a package, I trotted off eagerly, pulling my shopping cart behind me.

This outing left me twice-disappointed. The printer I bought required a printer cable that needed to be bought separately and the postal notification was once again a registered letter from the post office.

All went well in scoring food, though...

Resolving that I could do nothing about either the lack of cable or post office wranglings until Monday, I found a nice movie to watch and tried to de-stress from this action-packed week.  

Saturday and Sunday brought a nice beef stew and catching up on my Superprof writing; something that desperately needed to be done.

Was this an action-packed week or what?

The Scary Week

I tried to approach this living adventure with as few preconceived notions as possible.

Notions about the people, the culture, the politics and mechanics of how a society and its bureaucracy function.

Having already been caught short due to something I had read or heard prior to landing in China only to find that the opposite of what I had misinformed myself was true, I did my best to not read too much into the dire warnings about Polish people and Polish bureaucracy.

In fact, right off the bat, after only a few days here I found that Poles are neither rude nor taciturn, as online forums report; in general they seem to enjoy a smile and a wave as much as Americans do... not that I walk around, grinning maniacally and flitting my fingers all the time.

There have been several times, at the bus stop, on a tram or in a shop that people just start talking with me...

I have no idea what they’re saying but I can state, with some veracity, that they are not asking me where I come from or if I would teach them English, as happened so maddeningly often in China.

I think that, here, the phenomenon of total strangers talking to me is due to the fact that I look like everyone else, so it would be feasible that I would also speak the language.

So... people talking to you and apparently accepting you: that’s... scary?

No, we haven’t got to the scary parts yet. I just wanted to illustrate that I made an effort to not believe everything I read about Polish people and my experiences so far have validated that point.

So, how are you? How was your Halloween – see many ghouls? Or, in other parts of the world: did you spend a portion of time with your ancestors on All Saints Day? 

Here, it was a quiet weekend; a lot of writing, a bit of walking and a couple of movies.

I was really looking forward to Monday because I had gotten a notice in the mail that there was a parcel waiting for me at the post office; a parcel I was eagerly anticipating!

It was my prescription refill. If you take maintenance medications and start running low, you too would tend to hover around the mailbox... right?

And so it was, that bright Monday morning, notification in hand, I sauntered into the post office – which actually resembles a small shop with its magazines, books, toys and snacks on display.

The impression was reinforced by it being located in a shopping mall, but the poczta (Polish word for post) it was, because the signs pointing to it said so. 

My turn at the counter yielded... not the anticipated meds refill but a registered letter that I had to show my passport to claim – it’s ok; I had anticipated needing identification and, for that reason, had brought it along.

Who could have sent me a registered letter?

Well, the post office did – and I am not being facetious in saying that.

Apparently unsatisfied with the customs declaration attached to the parcel, they wanted me to prove how much I had paid for those goods in order to levy the proper customs duty.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that when, overcome by curiosity, I opened the letter immediately after leaving the post office.

All I saw was a formal letter that looked very much like an official summons, complete with case number and stamped several times in conspicuous places, apparently in an effort to maximize its official appearance.

I couldn’t read much of it. Dni means day and there were two instances of it: 7 dni and 14 dni...

In my mind they turned into ‘you have 7 days to turn yourself in for your 14 days of detention.’

There were a couple more words I could pick out but...

This is it! Barely here a month and already in trouble with the law! Now they won’t grant me a visa; in fact, based on this summons, they’re getting ready to throw me out of the country...

And how am I going to pull my suitcase with my arm still busted up???

It was a valiant fight, keeping panic at bay, and imagine the wellspring of patience I had to tap into in order to type that entire letter into a translator to find out what it’s actually saying? 

Much relief ensued after discovering that I only needed to email, fax or present my purchase receipt so they can verify the proper customs duty to be paid.

I chose to email it. No way was I going to present in person!

That was scare #1.

Before moving on to scare #2, let me give you an update on my arm; the one I busted up a couple of weeks back.

It is doing better. I now have limited use of it, but there will be some time before it is 100%. To wit, I am typing this one-handed.

Because small manual tasks requiring the use of two hands are now unreasonably difficult, I’ve taken steps to make things a bit easier, such as putting bus fare and phone in my right coat pocket so I don’t have to grapple with my purse’s zipper.

Or, if I’m going shopping, I’ll slide my card in that pocket for the simple reason that, if I can’t grapple with my purse’s zippers, fumbling with the wallet would be completely out of the question!    

This evening, after being hard at work all day, I decided to walk a bit, just to the corner store, to pick up a few things before the weekend shutdown.

Stores here generally close on Saturday afternoon and don’t reopen until Monday morning. That’s one preconceived notion that has been borne out.

Tonight, I would wear my parka. The light wind breaker I wore on my last venture out would not do in this chilly, foggy weather, so clean out the right pocket. Oh, yeah, and grab some...

WAIT... WHERE’S MY BANK CARD???*

The last time I had used it was when I bought my microwave, a couple of days ago. I had also bought a shopping cart to pull it home and up the stairs with and, as is now my habit, stuffed everything – bank card, sales receipt and the money I had pulled out of the ATM, into my coat pocket.

And then, the memory: coming back into the store hoping the cashier overseeing the self-checkouts had a pair of scissors (to cut the wire ties the wheel assemblies were attached to the frame of my new cart with), and she gestured toward the main service desk...

She must have thought I had returned to ask about my card that I didn’t even know was missing yet.

Instant change of destination for tonight’s walk, but no departure before typing a vital phrase into my phone’s translator.

And then, hotfoot it over to Carrefour! Finally, it is my turn at the crowded service desk and I hold out my phone, its desperate message plainly visible: ‘I left my bank card here 2 dni ago.’

This helpful clerk called the manager, who went through the log and, after verifying my identity, hurried to the back of the store to retrieve my card...

… and all’s well that ends well, and even better than if I had tried to reclaim my card on the day I lost it because I would not have had my passport with me. (I made sure I had it tonight!)

All of this just goes to prove that you cannot believe everything you read online.

From my experience, Polish people are no more rude than any other population; in fact, my dealings with people here so far have been overwhelmingly positive.

As for the dire warnings about rigid bureaucracy and other intolerance?

I’ve yet to see any evidence of such. Of course, so far my dealings have been only peripheral: opening a bank account, finding a place to live and other steps one must take in establishing oneself.   

Next week, when I start the residence permit application, I may sing a different tune.

But for now, I am just glad that this scary week is over!

* I have 2 bank cards: one for the account I opened here and one for my stateside account, where the bulk of my money is. It was that card that I had inadvertently left at the store, hence the massive panic!