Old Men, Fussing with their Cars

From my lofty perspective at the top of a tall building, I glance down onto a ramshackle collection of sheds and lean-tos, haphazardly scattered around the yard. Each one contains a prized vehicle.  

There are a total of 9 sheds in this picture. Can you count them all?

Those makeshift garages were most likely not included on the original building plans, nor were they designed with any idea toward aesthetic beauty. Their very irregularity decries any forethought to symmetry or timelessness.

Although not an authority on the matter, I suspect that, as lucky apartment owners acquired their vehicle, they were beset with a desire to see it protected from the elements and the feral cats that occupy our yard.

To say nothing of the many pigeons who roost in the trees above that green space.

As though to lend credence to that notion, every Monday, two of my neighbors – both elderly gentlemen, meet in the courtyard to wash their cars.

Carefully, they back out of their hand-built garages, fill their buckets and hose down the vehicles, and then proceed to scrub and rinse and vacuum, talking all the while.

I’m generally clued in to their exercise by their loud chatter, which echoes off the walls in this horseshoe-shaped enclosure.

As far as I can tell, they seldom drive anywhere. Leaving the yard entails opening both double doors, one at each end of the foyer, and easing their car through the building and onto the street.

Obviously, such a sequence would be audible and, in fact, it is. When they do drive out, I can hear them very well, even though I am so high up.

~~~~~~

On the other side of the fence, a man who lives in the building across from ours opens the doors to his lean-to and backs his car out. Once assured he has left enough room for the doors to swing shut without hitting his car, he gets out and secures his enclosure before carefully driving out of the parking lot.

At the time he performs his routine, 8 AM, I am usually seated at the kitchen table. Watching his short ballet has become routine. I am not always there when he returns, generally five hours later.

I don’t know his status but I do know the two gentlemen in my building are retirees. Their daily routine – opening the garage doors, fussing around, and then smoking and talking together, and their once-per-week car wash seems to provide them with a sense of purpose.

A long time ago – well, eight years ago, I wrote an article about leading a purposeful life. In it, I averred that people need to have a purpose, something to do every day or most every day.

This gives one a sense of personal value that goes a long way toward maintaining mental health and emotional perspective.

~~~~~~

Early in my China adventure, I made a case for the elderly – specifically elderly women.

Often illiterate (no time for education when there are entire fields of crops to tend, said Chairman Mao!), women in China who are 60+ have very few leisure and enrichment activities available to them.

They might gather to dance in the evening or, if that particular community is close-knit, gather to play mahjong during the day. Some will tend their garden plot, often illicitly planted, in the morning and evening, prior to gathering for the dance.

If there are small children to care for in the household, that too will be one of their tasks, as will be cleaning and cooking.

However, for women who have no babies to take care of and whose daughters or daughters-in-law insist they may not clean or cook, there is little to nothing for them to occupy their hours with.

Trapped in a highrise community, far from everything that is known and familiar to them including people, they can be seen ambling around their living complex with a terrible absence of purpose.

Oddly enough, I find that elderly women here suffer the same fate.

Returning home one day, I found a woman who lives one floor down from me standing on the landing in her house dress, fuzzy slippers on her feet and silver hair askew. She held a pill dispenser in her hand and, bewildered, asked me if today was Friday or Saturday.

At least I think that’s what she asked; her gestures and the pill box made things clear enough.

Unfortunately, I did not have the words to calm and comfort her. Fortunately, my neighbor was rushing up the stairs and he cleared things up for her... rather rudely, I thought, he shouted at her over his shoulder, never breaking stride as he climbed, as though the least contact might commit him to talking with her for hours.

In the park, at shopping centers or just walking around town: old dears, alone, leaning on their canes with varying degrees of heaviness... how is it I see far fewer old men in that same situation?

To my knowledge, there is very little here for seniors. No activity centers, no support organisations... not even the opportunity to plant an illicit garden! However, pet ownership is rampant and quite a few elderly women have a dog for company on their walks. 

But not the old men who, daily, fuss with their cars.

A New Perspective

Remember, a few posts back, how I groused about this city’s magnificent and not so magnificent edifices being marred by seemingly nonsensical graffiti?

I often wonder, in the case of this particular type of vandalism, where the perpretrators get the money to buy the paints and where they find the time to put their mark on buildings all over the city.

Would it be reasonable to think that those vandals must be adolescents or young adults? Or could gainfully employed citizens, possibly with a family to support, lead a double life: contributing member of society by day and ruffian by night?

Because surely, these acts are perpetrated at night. I have a hard time imagining, with all the people out and about during daylight hours, and the wailing sirens that proclaim an abundant police presence, that any paintbrush wielding miscreant could possibly dare practice his ‘art’ in front of an audience.

Unless marking buildings up is not illegal, here. More on that in a minute.

On the other hand...

The other day, I was getting ready for my daily walk when I heard a ruckus in the stairwell. I held off on leaving the house because I have a weird propensity for crabbing down the stairs backwards and don’t care to be seen doing so.

Why go down the stairs backwards? For one, it is easier on your skeleton: your knees and lower legs don’t suffer such an impact because the ball of your foot absorbs the shock.

For two, it’s safer – at least, for me, it is. As the bannister is on the left and my left arm is somewhat compromised, should I miss a stair for whatever reason, I would be unable to catch myself with my left arm. My right arm, on the other hand, is plenty strong, ensuring that, should I misstep when crabbing backwards, I would be able to catch myself.

Besides, you are less likely to misstep when going down the stairs backwards because that method is a more natural body movement. And your ankle giving way is less likely, too, because there is less tension on it.

Back to the story, now...

The stairwell noise continued unabated for several minutes. Clearly, this was not a case of rowdy neighbors coming home or leaving.

Remember that dog I told you about, the one that howls all day and wears a muzzle when out? I had not heard that dog for a couple of weeks already, nor had I seen those neighbors.

Assuming the persistent noise in the stairwell was them moving out or even someone else moving in, and that the stairwell would be occupied for a while, I decided to go, whether anyone would see me crab or not.

Turns out, the hoopla was generated by a couple of youths carrying takeout boxes and drink cups. I met them on the landing one floor below me, whereupon the boy that had rushed up the stairs past me asked which number apartment was next to mine.

Assuming (again!) that he was a university student and knowing that my next door neighbor is also a student, I presumed the boy on the stairs was looking for his classmate.

I had no qualms telling him which apartment number that door represented and continued down the stairs to discover upturned boxes on one landing, spilled soda on the next and the window hanging wide open on the lowest landing.

Making my way down the last treacherous set of stairs, those boys again rushed past me and, instead of going out the main door to the street, went out the back door, through the courtyard.

Their behavior being so strange, I pursued them and observed them leaping the fence encircling our little patch of green. They then took off running through the next building’s parking lot.

I thought ‘exhuberant youths’ and idled no more about it, instead enjoying my bit of exercise and fresh air. When I returned home, though...

As noted before, there was evidence of mischief on every landing: the spilt drink, the upturned boxes and, on my apartment’s landing, the roof access ladder had been taken off of its storage brackets and placed so that it blocked our landing’s third apartment door (not my door or the student’s door).

What else could I conclude other than vandals at work, in broad daylight?

~~~~~~~~~

Thursday night, the Szczecin English Language group met at the Venice Cafe.

Shortly after moving here, I started looking for groups I could join on Meetup and found two that welcome English speakers. That is how I met the lovely Emilia, who told me about Manhattan and Społem, and Jerzy, a worthy debate opponent.

Unfortunately, the former could not attend this get-together so it ended up being only Jerzy and I. The coversation rambled over a variety of topics including my frustration with my Polish language teacher and the global economy.

Somewhere in there, probably right after I insisted that learning a language and understanding a culture go hand in hand, we got on the subject of the local problem with graffiti.

“Really? There’s graffiti? I hadn’t noticed!” said Jerzy, much to my amazement.

I whipped out my phone and showed him the various images I had captured of such. Upon my expression of disbelief that one could hardly not notice it for its prevalence, he said:

“This is not bad. Twenty years ago, immediately after the fall of communism, there was such social unrest! People had nothing: no money, no job, no prospects and little chance at a higher education. At that time, graffiti was everywhere!”

That assertion begs the obvious question: if no one had any money, how could they buy paint?

“People would steal it: from factory yards, from building sites... even from stores.” he returned.

Through his descriptions, I got a vivid picture of what this city must have looked like at the time and how charged the atmosphere must have been. Coupling those visions with assertions I had read of organized crime and gang warfare, so rife in this city back then...

Seen from that perspective, but for a few untalented squiggles painted on building walls, the Szczecin of today barely resembles its past. Through Jerzy’s descriptions, I got a more realistic perspective on what I perceive as this city’s pervasive graffiti problem.

And those boys rampaging up and down our stairwell – clean-cut, well-dressed and polite when they asked me the question of apartment numbers, gave a new face, neither loutish nor brutish, to those who eagerly contribute to ordinary citizens’ discomfort.

Considering this city’s recent past – indeed the unrest and evolution that beset this entire country a mere 20 years ago, could one postulate that certain minor acts of vandalism are tolerated in order to stave off larger crime?

My quest is clear: find what there is to find on the social condition of this city 20 years ago.

~~~~~

Looking at the Polish language Wikipedia page, I found a list of festivals and social events that take place in Lodz.

My search for past photos and news articles led me to the Polish language Wikipedia site; the page  about festivals in Lodz came up because of a certain keyword. Let’s thank Google Translate that I was able to read it!

The International Graffiti Festival takes place every July.

First held in 2002 and annually since then, participating graffiti artists swap techniques and clue each other to the best paints for their favorite means of expression. The event culminates in a massive cooperation to create ‘a huge graffiti’.

That might indicate that city’s tolerance for that form of expression; indeed it might reflect the wider country’s attitude towards blowing off steam by marking up a few buildings with nonsensical doodles.

However, further scanning that list of festivals we find that, a few months later, that same city hosts the Colorful Tolerance campaign, whose main purpose is to expose, confront and oppose xenophobia and vandalism.

Now I’m torn: would I attend the Graffiti Festival for a chance to meet artists like Banksy and Robbo, or should I stand firm in confronting xenophobia and vandalism in general?

That question notwithstanding, the bigger issue is: would graffiti be considered vandalism?

If so, the two festivals are at cross-purposes. If not, I can now understand why lifelong dwellers of this city turn a blind eye to... what to me, are noisome scrawls.

I would like to discuss this idea with more Szczecin natives. However, our English club turnout is generally very small, in spite of the group boasting 50 members online, Jerzy has no intention of promoting any activities that would ensure greater turnout.

I guess I will have to work harder to learn this language so that I can ask others their thoughts on the topic of what I persist in seeing as petty vandalism.  

         

Happy Holiday!

Today, I woke up to an eerie calm.

Well, that’s not exactly true; I woke up to the whirring of a small fan, as I do every morning. It serves as a white noise generator, ensuring my deep slumber amidst bottle clinkings, dog barkings and other assorted noises.

Today, after turning off my noise generator, my ears tuned in to an eerie calm. There! That’s much more accurate!

The normal traffic of daily life here – the rumble of trams, the chatter of students heading to classes in the nearby university; even the particular growl of well-maintained tires rolling on cobblestoned roads... all were absent.

Under the cloud cover, silence reigned: today is the 1^st of May.

Countries all over the world celebrate this day for a variety of reasons. Some ascribe their observances to International Workers’ Day and may even consider it their nations’ Labour Day.

Others follow more traditional roots: the Greek festival Anthesteria signalled the start of the Spring season; a time of rebirth and fertility. All across Europe and in the UK, typical activities include gathering flowers, wearing traditional costumes and perhaps even conducting special church activities.

Of course, May celebrations feature heavily in South American countries and even in Africa.

In Poland, May 1^st is known as Cursed Soldiers’ Day.

Even if you are only remotely familiar with 20^th Century history, you are most likely aware that Poland and her people suffered greatly at the hands of the Soviets on one side and the Germans on the other.

What is less well-known is that the Poles did not take all of that lying down.

Toward the end of the Second World War, staunch souls subverted Soviet and Nazi rule by forming an ‘underground’: a network of communications and sabotage units working against the communist and Soviet regimes that lasted well into the 1950s.

They launched military-style attacks against Soviet state security offices, detention centers (read: prisons) and concentration camps while being hunted down by Soviets determined to bring them to their end.

Not the end of the organizations; the end of those individuals’ lives.

The NKVD agents had their work cut out for them. At the height of Polish resistance to communist rule, there were no fewer than 8 major groups operating across the country. There is no exact tally of the actual number of such groups, large or small; suffice to say that the people native to this country did their very best to retard or outright thwart any Soviet progress.

So, as select towns in Great Britain hoist their maypole and dance around it, as western Europeans pick flowers and conduct rites to celebrate the arrival of Spring, in Poland, people commemorate that day by taking the day off.

Cursed Soldiers’ Day is the unofficial designation. Officially, May 1^st in Poland is Labor Day and, like so many other countries, the working public enjoys either an abbreviated work day or the entire day free from official labor.

Plenty of people here labor inofficially – with no wages being paid, not undocumented workers.

For example, the buzz of lawn mowers echoes across the city. Our early spring brought out carpets of dandelions; looking down on our yard from my lofty position 75 feet off the ground (yes, I measured it!), our lawn looked gold rather than green.

The two elderly gentlemen that maintain our building spent their Labor Day mowing and raking, much to the dismay of the feral cats that prowl our yard, and much to my amusement.

Isn’t lawn mowing the traditional activity of homeowners everywhere across America on Labor Day?

The more important celebration here, the one that caused every building to be adorned with a flag, is Constitution Day, which takes place on May 3^rd.

The Polish Constitution, the first of its kind in all of Europe, is the second-oldest in the world. It was drafted on May 3^rd, 1791 – a mere 15 years after the American document was ratified.

The remarkable fact is that Polish Enlightenment lagged behind Europe because its commonwealth was in crisis and its upper class was not firmly cemented in the socio-political arena.

Philosophers and scientists in Poland had no time to make great, intuitive leaps like Descartes and Newton did; they were too busy trying to survive!

So how did Poland manage a feat that other, more forward-thinking nations couldn’t get their heads around?

Whereas western European monarchies’ rule was absolute, the Polish king had very little power; the country was governed by a parliament that, oddly enough, advocated for what amounted to anarchy – the near-total elimination of the rule of law.

Seeking a balance between the excesses of French and Spanish monarchs and the ineffectiveness of the commonwealth’s king, Poland strove to establish itself as a constitutional monarchy. Those efforts came to naught: civil war erupted and Lithuania, its commonwealth neighbor, rose up in arms as well.

Nevertheless, in the course of these doings, Poland did draft the world’s second-oldest constitution and managed another remarkable feat: they established the world’s first ministry of education that, ultimately, other nations would strive to emulate.

So, how to the people here celebrate Constitution Day besides hanging flags everywhere?    

Warsaw likely saw greater patriotic displays than this burg I dwell in. A parade, surely; concerts and other public events, naturally.

Picnics in the park and outdoors activities in general feature prominently, all across the country. Having strolled around the parks in my neighborhood, I can attest to the fact that those green spaces were well-attended indeed!

This year, the celebration known as Majówka (pronounced my-oof-ka) – the Labor Day / Constitution Day combo coincides with the weekend, making the occasion stretch to a full five days. Thus, some have taken to the roads.  

Sadly, high winds yanked our building’s flag off of its pole; we are left with a bare stick protruding from the façade.

Those same winds kept me off of a bike, too. That’s almost as sad as losing our flag.

The Szczecin Underside

Reading over past entries while pondering what I might write about today, it seems that I may have given the inaccurate impression that this is an orderly society populated with only law-abiding folks.

That statement is true, for the most part. As yet I have no reason to fear for my safety here; unless someone wants to ask me something, people generally leave me alone no matter what time of the day or night I stroll around.

Recently, on a warm day, an elderly lady outside the nearby shopping center asked me to open a bottle of juice for her. I was oddly touched.

This town was not always so safe; at least certain parts of it. By all accounts, there was organized crime here and thugs would protect their ‘territory’ at all costs. Fortunately, those days are reportedly long gone and people can travel to just about any corner of this city and live to tell about it.

Yet, there are signs... signs that all is not right, here.

Sirens: police sirens bleat and blare with startling frequency. My sojourn in the states notwithstanding, I had gotten used to not hearing sirens in China.

I had also gotten used to seeing emergency vehicles, lights flashing, hopelessly stuck in traffic because the cars blocking the road had literally nowhere to go to get out of the way. Here, people will drive onto the curb to make way for those priority vehicles

But they do so carefully, unlike Chinese drivers who seemed to think the sidewalk was just another traffic lane!

Broken glass: while quite common to see empty bottles standing on sidewalks and ledges at tram stops, there is also a fair amount of smashed glass bottles to watch out for.

Is it because warmer weather is here and more people are lingering out of doors? Is it because I am becoming more aware of my surroundings? Maybe it is because I am now riding a bike around town; seeing more of what there is to see than I could from a tram or bus window.

Whatever the reason, or even if it is a combination of reasons, there seems to be much more broken glass than there was in my first few months here.

This is especially concerning because of dogs. Pet owners must carefully scan their path and steer their pet away from a potentially nasty cut on their paws.

Graffiti

In the article summarizing our trip to Gdansk, I had commented on the amount of graffiti there, making a comparison to the quality and amount found there versus here, in Szczecin.

The topic of graffiti has surfaced again, thanks both to an article about a judge in Virginia meting out an unusual punishment to graffiti writers who had defaced an historic building and whether a piece of street art could be an original Banksy.

You might know that Banksy is the UK’s massively talented street artist who nevertheless is treading on the wrong side of the law and thus, conceals his identity.

Here, we have no Banksy. Here, we have what seems to be barely talented (if talented at all!) vandals who will appropriate any surface to make their mark or tag, in the language of graffiti writing.

There seems to be neither rhyme, reason or sense behind these doodlings. To my critical eye, they do not even seem artistic!

It doesn’t seem to matter whether the buildings are historic – in the heart of the city, or tucked away in some neighborhood not likely to be seen by

many.

This unfortunate store – a Społem, if you must know,  got it from both sides. 

It is in a quiet neighborhood and seems to suffer particular insult. Please note the recently painted building next door, in the second picture; not even its fresh color prevented it’s attack from the vandal’s spray can!

These ‘artists’ are not even particularly daring; they don’t go to ‘heaven’ to make their mark, their modus operandi is sheer convenience and opportunity.

‘Heaven’, in the lexicon of graffiti writers, is a dangerous spot in which to practice one’s art, such as an overpass or rooftop.

Not all graffiti lurks in alleyways.

This instance happens to face

a busy thoroughfare – on a building nearly 100 years old.

At least this writer took his time and used two colors.

There might be potential for art at his hand, but not by those who subsequently tagged it.

Note: ‘tagging’ can also mean signing your work.

You may ‘tag’ a rival artist’s work, as King Robbo and Banksy often do.

What is all of this graffiti about? One could hardly call it artistic expression but it is certainly an expression of something.

Unrest? Unease? Is it mere boredom that drives these vandals?

This shot, captured near my house, seems to indicate a particular rivalry is afoot... a gang rivalry?

Internet searches yielded nothing about ZŁO or DZC but SPZ could be taken to mean Spetsnaz, indicating Russian Special Forces. Of course, that might not be what is represented here.

However, one thing is clear: there is an obvious struggle for dominance going on and at least one side proclaims itself to be a vandal.

So... maybe not all is as well as it seems, here...

If I Didn’t Know Better...

Now able to use both my intact arm and my damaged one – whoa! Talk about typing speeds!, I think it is high time to tell you exactly what happened during those days when, by necessity, I was forced to become a permanent right hander.

Note: as a result of a series of bone breaks in my childhood, I had the privilege of operating among the 1% of the world’s population who is ambidextrous. These days, while I can use my left hand to type and perform certain manual tasks – handwriting among them, I can no longer wash my hair with both hands or even feed myself with that hand.

That makes it danged hard to eat a burger or any other food that requires two hands... but that’s another story!

When I’d gone a few days beyond the fall that so severely jammed my elbow and discolored my skin in that area, I should have realized that my arm was broken rather than severely bruised, swallowed my lumps and gone to a doctor.

I might have, if I had known where to find one.

It was not until a dinner with friends Luisa and Ewelina, both of whom expressed such deep concern for the state of my swollen arm – and with them cutting up my food so I could eat (with my clumsy right hand) that I discovered a private medical clinic.

You might be wondering why I didn’t search such a facility out online... I did, actually.

The trouble is that Poland in general and Szczecin in particular is not exactly a mecca for expats seeking a new place to hang their hats. I believe I’ve commented on the fact that, as opposed to other countries, very little – from traffic signs to government offices, is in any other language than Polish.

It could be because this country is just starting to welcome expats. Or it could be that expats aren’t warmly welcome. The jury is still out on that subject.

Searching online, I found cosmetic surgery clinics and cosmetic dentistry clinics but no health clinics. If hospitals here have websites, I was not able to locate them – probably because I was searching in English.

Hospitals here do have websites, incidentally, but they do require you to know their names and type in Polish. I learned this the next day, when Luisa and Ewelina accompanied me to the private clinic, Medicus, to get my arm X-rayed.

Interpreting that film, the doctor prescribed immediate surgery to correct the jammed elbow and set the broken radius.

And here is where the tale really takes off.

Reporting for surgery, the intake physician’s first question was: “Can you go back to your country for this operation?”

When I assured him I couldn’t and asked how much this arm repair would cost, he hedged: “Oh, about 20,000 Złoty”.

That being a bit steep – and 10 times more than the initial doctor quoted, the intake doc temporized: “We’ll put a splint on to stablilize it and I’ll schedule you for an appointment for 2 weeks hence. If you can get insurance by that time...”

My ultra-helpful friends swung into action, soon finding me a most reasonable insurance policy that would cover the surgery.

I reported to the hospital on the scheduled date with my insurance, only to be informed I needed insurance to cover the surgery. When I proferred my insurance policy, I was told that was the wrong kind of insurance... but I really need the surgery, so I should get busy getting insurance.

The insurance in question is no doubt the National Insurance which is denied me until I gain the residence status I am still waiting for.

And that’s how I came to lose membership in the elite club of ambidexterity. Still, I have usage of my arm and that’s better than it hanging, limp and useless... right?

I count myself among the fortunate to have four appendages that work.

I am also a member of another, less exclusive club: hypothyroidism. It is not a fun club but it is manageable as long as I take my meds.

Thyroid disease is not necessarily deadly but if such patients don’t take their medicine, they are likely to suffer a host of symptoms that can lead to fatal conditions.

As I have no desire to feel crappy all the time, continuously fall down, have a heart attack due to high cholesterol, suffer thin hair and a thick waistline, I prefer to take my meds. In fact, those meds were a great source of concern upon my getting established here.

Such tablets are not an over-the-counter purchase; one must have a prescription and endure periodic blood tests to assure the prescribed dosage remains the same.

Discovering Medicus was a boon to my thyroid management: they have doctors for everything!

Shortly after my disastrous attempt to get my arm fixed, I visited an endocrinologist to get a supply of thyroid meds. There was no problem in doing so.

Naturally, I had to show my passport to get registered but then, it was a simple matter of explaining that I have been a thryroid patient for more than two decades, this is my dosage and, voila! A prescription was promptly printed out and I had meds for 6 months.

That time is nearly up.

Two weeks ago, again at Medicus, I discovered that they have changed their services to an appointment regimen. Whereas I had anticipated seeing the doctor that day, I ended up being scheduled for a week out.

Yesterday was my appointment. I showed up on time and was promptly ushered into the doctor’s office.

This was a different doctor than the last time. No problem, though, the record of my last visit should be in their computer system; he should be able to see my dosage, ect., and dash off a prescription.

Instead, upon learning that I speak very little Polish, he averred he could speak neither English nor German and terminated the appointment.

Through sign language, I offered to call a friend and use the phone’s speaker feature so that she may translate the consultation. He refused, wrote something on my appointment card and dismissed me.

Back in the lobby, I returned to the receptionist, who read what he had written and started to refund the fee I had paid for the visit.

Wait a minute! NO!!! I need these meds!!!

Quickly I called my friend and explained the situation. She asked that I hand the phone to the receptionist, who left her desk to talk with the doctor and, lo and behold! I will get treated... tomorrow.

If I didn’t know better, I would think that my inability to speak more than rudimentary Polish is keeping me from obtaining needed medical care.

Fortunately, I do know better. Here, everyone is at risk of disregard by the medical community.

Reeling from the implications of this treatment – would that doctor seriously withhold treatment from someone with a chronic disease?, I went on to language class but was unable to concentrate.

I told my teacher about the situation; she averred that she, too, had suffered such neglectful handling.

Stricken with the flu while in college, she reported to the campus medical unit only to be told that, because her health card is registered in her home town, she should return there for treatment.

Traveling over 100 km on public transportation while raging with influenza! Did that nurse know the potential health hazard she was setting up?

It’s not uncommon, in some parts of the world, to be denied medical treatment if you don’t have the money to pay for it.

It is downright shocking to discover that medical treatment can (and will!) be refused for such flimsy reasons as language and registration.

Indeed, my teacher was registered in her home town, as were all of the other students at that college, but universities in Poland provide their students with supplemental health insurance and an on-site clinic in the event that they fall ill while on campus.

I find it hard to believe that the doctor who turned me away, unlike other doctors I’ve seen since I’ve been here, did not speak any English, especially considering the fact that studying English from primary school on is mandatory in this country – whether you intend to be a doctor or not.     

What does all of this mean for Poland’s ageing population? What if they have nobody to advocate for them?

Update:

The next morning I reported to the lab. The phlebotomist, who spoke English, told me I could collect the results of my blood test after 1500.

After getting off work, Luisa rushed to meet me at the clinic. There, she did double duty as an interpreter and a great source of comfort to me.

The same doctor that turned me away was saddled with me again.

Impressively, he did a throrough intake interview and an abbreviated physical, where he discovered my blood pressure was sky high!

After a dosing of some meds to bring my heart rate down and receiving  a prescription for an elevated dose of thyroid meds, we were free to leave.

There is much more to be said about healthcare in Szczecin but that will have to be the subject of a future article.

Peeling the Cultural Leek

I know that that saying is supposed to be ‘peel the cultural onion’: the visual suggests layer upon layer of social mores as applied to any culture, and it is quite apt.

However, a few years into my China adventure I wrote an article titled Peeling the Cultural Onion, and I can’t have two articles with the same title, can I?

Besides, leeks are so tasty, feature heavily in Polish cuisine and happen to be in season right now.

Thus, we peel the cultural leek.

I was quite fortunate to land here in time to experience two of the more significant Polish holidays: National Day – the celebration of this country’s independence observed on the 11^th of November, and Christmas, this country’s second-most important holiday.

Polish society is overwhelmingly Catholic; thus Easter, the day that Christ arose, is more significant than the celebration of His birth and considered the most important religious holiday of the year.

Independence Day is the most important secular holiday but, as far as culture goes, it lags behind both Easter and Christmas.

About a week ago, I started seeing placards on shop windows announcing operating hours for the Easter weekend. Not even Christmas commanded such advance warning!

As this observance is so culturally relevant, you might want to know how they celebrate it.

Easter in Poland

Even as I write this, Easter observances are going on: Poland considers the Easter celebration to start on Palm Sunday and last through Wet Monday – what English speakers know as Easter Monday.

Very unimaginative, that appellation, when compared to Poland’s Śmigus-dyngus (pronounced sh-meegus-dingus)

All week long, church bells have chimed at noon, again at 1500 and finally at 2100. On Good Friday, there will be a Midnight Mass that well and truly kicks off the religious aspects of this celebration.

On Saturday, baskets of food will be taken to the church so that the contents can be blessed; those ingredients will make up the next day’s Easter feast.

Traditional fare includes:

• White sausage – a bit like a bratwurst, it is sometimes an ingredient of the żurek.
• Żurek: a rye-flour soup garnished with egg and white sausage (more on this soup in a minute!)
• Herring: marinated in vinegar and oil, it is topped with loads of chopped onions.
  • The Easter celebration demands hand-prepared herring; store-bought won’t do!
• Grated horseradish root: a fine complement to the vegetables
• Cakes: mazurek – a throwback to the Ottoman Empire’s occupation, Sernik, a type of cheesecake made with a super-dense cheese, and babka: a light poundcake.

Interesting note on the żurek:

It is considered a staple dish of the Lent fast. You might know that Lent is the 40-day period leading up to Easter during which people give up... something.

This soup is not consumed in the course of the Easter Sunday celebration; rather, it is poured out – symbolizing how sick people are of it. During the rest of the year, people have no problem eating it; the dumping of it is just a part of Easter Sunday ritual.

Naturally, as in the west, eggs feature heavily in Easter celebrations in Poland.

Prior to going to church on Easter morning, Poles will enjoy a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, cold cuts and breads, and possibly a slice of my favorite cake, the babka.

Most critically, a devout family’s table should be adorned with a cake or some sort of confection shaped like a lamb, to symbolize Christ’s place at the table. Even the butter may be sculpted into a lamb for the occasion.

Easter festivities end with a bang!

On Easter Monday, males will douse females with water; hence the appellation Wet Monday.

The reasons for this escapes me completely and every avenue of research I pursued, including asking friends and my Polish language teacher, yielded no answers.

Note: in these days of gender equality, females also douse males.

The weather is supposed to be spectacular on that day; nevertheless, I have no intention of leaving my house, lest I too get doused.

Sto Lat – the Birthday Celebration

Sto lat translates to ‘100 years’. In Poland, whether you are 1 or 100 years old, you are wished ‘sto lat’.

As it turns out, Luisa’s birthday was coming up and Ewelina and I were planning a blowout surprise.

In order to effectively participate, I had to hound the poor lady with questions: I had no idea what is and isn’t acceptable, culture-wise, for a birthday celebration in Poland.

In China, you mustn’t ever gift someone a watch, a knife – even if s/he is a collector of such, or a fancy lighter (if s/he is a smoker). All of these gifts symbolize ‘the end’: the watch counts down to the recipient’s death, the knife will surely sever the friendship and the lighter will render all to ash.

Polish superstition holds that one mustn’t gift shoes because the wearer will walk away from you, in case you were curious.

After having made that terrible gaffe of gifting Ewelina shoes for Christmas, albeit house shoes, I didn’t want to send the wrong message by getting Luisa a gift off the taboo list for her birthday.

Fortunately, the instructions were straightforward: a gift card from Sephora which my partner in crime and I went halfsies on, a card, some flowers and a cake.

That last was my own decision. Ewelina had asked, a while back, if I knew how to bake. Here, at last, an opportunity to prove my skills!

Heading to my local market in search of a birthday card....

Such greetings are a relatively new phenomenon in this country, as are Easter egg hunts and chocolate bunnies.

Whereas any store in America would have an aisle or two dedicated to a selection of cards for every occasion, here, such offerings might be found on a spinning rack similar to what you might find post cards on.

A lone spinning rack; not a row of them.

I found birthday cards for children easily enough; they were pastel-colored and generally identified with a number: 1, 2, 5... Luisa may be young at heart but I think it would have been insulting to label her a 3-year-old!

My friend is in fact quite beautiful and possessed of a strong sense of romance, so I wanted to find a card to complement her beauty. There were a bunch of cards with flowers, glitter and gauzy imagery, topped by the word Słub. Maybe one of those would do?

I had no idea what a słub was but the card were quite beautiful; almost worthy of my friend. However, aware of the risk of making another cultural gaffe, I was so grateful to find a card that actually said ‘Happy Birthday!’!

Plus, it had a sassy green envelope. Green is my favorite color; I felt the find was meant to be!

How glad I am that I did not buy any card that said Słub! Turns out, that unattractive-sounding word (swoob) means ‘wedding’. As Luisa is fervently hoping to get married at some point in her life; I might have conveyed the wrong message!

All in all, we had a fine time at the Irish Pub (which, incidentally, was playing American songs!)

I fought the impulse to sing along with Glen Campbell and Helen Reddy but could not resist launching into the Polish birthday song I worked so hard to learn:

Sto lat! Sto lat!                                         Hundred years! Hundred years!

Niech żeje, żeje nam!                               Let us have exactly that!

Sto lat! Sto lat!                                         Hundred years! Hundred years!

Niech żeje, żeje nam!                               Let us have exactly that!

Jeszcze teraz, jeszcze teraz:                     Once again, once again:

Niech żeje, żeje nam!                               Let us have exactly that!

Niech! żeje! Nam!                                     We’ll! Have! That!

A kto? A Luisa!                                          For who? For Luisa!

Here, Easter egg hunts, chocolate bunnies and greeting cards are all imports from a culture revered the world over. Surely you can guess which one!

And, in China, the Birthday Song, sung in Chinese, nevertheless follows the melody of the American birthday tune.

But not Poland.

This country has her own songs and her own traditions that, at least as of now, coexist with more popular, fashionable imports. How I hope that will continue!

The more I experience the culture of this country, the more I see that these people are not so much followers looking for the next big thing; they are unique on the global stage.

Their traditions and values, while arguably similar to other societies’, are expressed in a singular fashion that makes the privilege of living among such a people thought-provoking, engaging and humbling.