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.

The Origins of French Toast

It was all because of a conversation held with Elena at my very first Meetup of the Szczecin English Language Club.

In my ongoing quest to identify and experience authentically Polish... everything, from stores to foods, I had asked her which grocery stores are in fact Polish in origin.

I knew Auchan and Carrefour were French, and Lidl and Metro (Makro, here) were German, but I thought that Netto, Biedronka and other ubiquitous food outlets were genuine Polish commercial ventures.

“Netto is Danish” Elena averred, “and Biedronka is Portuguese.”

“Which stores are authentically Polish, then?” I queried.

Without hesitation, she uttered a word that sounded like ‘spoem’ and another name: Lewiatan.

I remembered seeing the latter brand, mostly in the outskirts of town, in smaller neighborhoods.

The first time I’d seen the sign, I chuckled because my dear friend Marjorie used to work for the east coast food distributor Giant and I wondered if their reach extended all the way to this little burg.

Leviathan, Giant... get it?

I have yet to tread into a Lewiatan; that will be a venture for another day.

The other store Elena mentioned, the one whose name sounded like ‘poem’ with an S in front of it, brought on far more questions: “What is a s-poem? Where can I find one?”

She was rather vague in her answers, stating that those stores’ sign script was weird and loopy and hard to read. As to where I could find such a store:

“They’re all over the place! Have you been to Manhattan?” she asked.

“The one in New York?” I rejoined – to which the group burst out laughing.

Clearly, I had exhausted that line of questioning and it was time to move on to other subjects. I tucked all of this new information in the back of my brain, to be researched in the morrow.

The meeting broke up shortly after 9PM. It was a delightful time except for having to counter the assertion that women simply aren’t fit for certain tasks.

The man making that claim had a lot of nerve broaching that subject to two independent females! It was difficult not to get heated about the whole subject; after all, it was only my first encounter with this group. I didn’t want to start an equality war right off the bat!

Seated next to me, I could sense Elena getting equally incensed... She and I did our best to refute his assertion without having to get ugly; thus a kinship was born.

The next morning, on the computer...

First, verify that Netto and Biedronka indeed belong to non-Polish entities. Next, find Manhattan and plan an excursion.      

Finding a web page under the search string ‘Manhattan Szczecin’ yielded a Facebook page that I couldn’t look at because I persistently refuse to Facebook. However, I lucked out: there was a map with Manhattan pinpointed and, in the image gallery, loads of pictures!

Come to find out, I had been to Manhattan before. Once, days after my arrival here in my fruitless search for Ikea, another time to catch bus 57 to where my insurance agent’s office is.

I just didn’t know what it was called Manhattan.

Manhattan Szczecin is a large, open-air mall. Traders barter anything from toothpaste and deodorant to freshly baked goods. Filled doughnuts being the local speciality, there were several stalls boasting those ooey-gooey treats. 

One vendor was selling Nutella-filled doughnuts that were as big as a plate! How I wanted one... but the line was too long. I ‘settled’ for two marmalade-filled treats from a smaller, less populated stand.

Moving on: clothes and produce, tobacconists; several empty stalls and a few being refurbished, no doubt in anticipation of the busy summer season ahead.

My circuitous path was meant to lead me to ‘s-poem’, which I had since learned was Społem (the L with the line through it makes the English W sound).  

When the name became clear during my computer detective work, I had to laugh: Społem was the very first grocery store I shopped at, the day I arrived here! Indeed, Elena was right: the script is very loopy and hard to read if you don’t know what you’re reading.

Because she had specifically mentioned this particular outlet – the Społem behind Manhattan, I thought that perhaps there must be something extraordinary at this store that one couldn’t find at any other outlet.

On my way there, I was accosted by exactly one beggar; she would not accept the fact that I couldn’t understand her. Continuously gesturing to her mouth – equipped with no more than 4 teeth, she aptly conveyed the impression that she wanted food.

A throwback to my China and America days, where beggars are much thicker on the ground: I offered to buy her something to eat rather than give her money (all of this was communicated through sign language). Most often, beggars want money, not food, no matter how long they say it’s been since they’ve eaten!

Offering to buy food usually gets me cussed out or left alone. I don’t mind helping the hungry to secure food – that’s why I offer to do so. I do resent handing over money to someone who may just have more money than I do, though, which was often the case in China.

After a bit of head shaking and finally relenting to come with me, this woman who looked authentically Gypsy plunged back into the mall at my heels.

Only then did I realize that the food stalls were in the opposite direction I wanted to travel, so I ‘found’ a 2 złoty coin in my pocket and handed it over. She went her way and I went mine.

A bit of a disappointment, that Społem. Not only was it smaller and more cramped than the one I had shopped at, but there was none of the charming disarray of special-offer products heaped in bins in the middle of the store.

That’s because there was Społem II: right next door, a store full of household goods (of dubious quality, I might add).

From fake flowers to bedding and everything in between, one might outfit an entire household and then some, from this store alone! In fact, it was in that store that I took the picture of the Hades grave polish.

I did buy a couple of things: Nivea hair milk – my hair continues to give me fits because I’ve not found the right shampoo for it. My hair insists on laying on my head like a dead thing and tangling worse than a pit of snakes!

I also bought a serrated knife to cut a loaf of bread I’ve had since last October.

The day after I had broken my arm, in pain and in fear of falling again, I eased myself down the five flights of stairs and shuffled to the nearest store, Biedronka, to buy a few staples that would last me at least a week – long enough to get over the worst of the pain in my arm.

Among the few things I picked up was a loaf of bread, unsliced. I didn’t think of how I would slice it at that time, I focused on the projection that that loaf would surely last me a week; ten days on the outside.

It was only after I got home that I realized, with one arm completely incapacitated and the other’s function reduced, I would have no way of slicing bread or anything else. I chucked the loaf into the freezer and there it remained until three weeks ago.

I now have full use of my arms but did not have a bread knife to cut this most resilient loaf. Hence the Społem purchase of a knife.

While that bread’s freshness is certainly out of the question, I thought it would do nicely for French toast, and that was the brunch I have afforded myself for the past three weekends, courtesy of a knife bought in an authentically Polish store.  

I have a thing about food being thrown out and do my best to never waste any food, hence my determination to eat this bread in spite of its age and hardness.

So, this entry concludes with the revelation of a remarkable, 7-month-old loaf of bread which, even though I pulled it from the freezer three weeks ago, has not moldered; only gotten harder.

Luckily, the serrated blade worked just like a saw, chewing its way through fossilized dough and crust, which sprang most deliciously back to life when soaked in a froth of beaten eggs and milk.

Bathed in a glow of satisfaction that I’ve not wasted any food, I popped the last bite of that bread in my mouth less than an hour ago.

That makes the origins of this French toast – what Britons call ‘eggy bread’ and what the French call ‘lost bread (pain perdu)’ October 2018, although the eggs and milk to make it with have much more recent dates.

You didn’t think I would be so arrogant as to believe you don’t know the true origins of French toast, did you?

Finding a Place in Poland

You may all be aware that, as far as American slang is concerned, I have long found my place here, in that I rented an apartment within weeks of setting foot in this city – in that case, a place refers to somewhere to live.

You might say: “Come back to my place to watch the game” or “Do you have any beer at your place?”.

Seems I just can’t stop being a teacher, can I?

The place referred to in the title deals with something much deeper than the fundamental human need for shelter. What I’m talking about is another basic human need: identifying with one’s environment. 

A long time ago, when my first grandson was barely out of diapers, he recognized the road to my house, even after having been away for a few months. Not biased at all (haha!), I gloated over his demonstrated intellectual capability.

That incident speaks to the heart of today’s topic.

As a toddler, this child of not yet three years showed signs of animation when we turned into my neighborhood, babbled upon turning onto the street my house was on and, even before turning into the driveway, indicated that he knew exactly which house was mine.

Was he precocious? Maybe, but that’s hardly the point.

What matters is that he consciously expressed what all of us do on a subconscious level: he identified his known environment, step by step. We all do that, whether we’re aware of it or not. These mostly unconscious processes give our lives a sense of safety, structure and stability.  

How, then, must a traveller feel; someone whose environment constantly or frequently changes?

One might think that, for me, living in Szczecin would not be a great adjustment because I grew up in an assortment of European cities, with Berlin having been my longest sojourn.

In fact, I often think of Szczecin as Berlin-lite; not quite the size or pace but certainly with a history to rival Germany’s capital city!

So, in a sense, for me, living here is resuming the familiar. However, there have been many cities and a couple of different countries between my defining years (adolescence/young adulthood) and now.

And, while I never could quite meld with American culture or mores – I always felt like an outsider in spite of friends’ efforts at including me, I did identify with the Chinese culture, even for all of the paradoxes it presented.

This topic came to light, actually crystallized after an hours-long conversation with Gary, my bestest travelling buddy in China, during which he averred he planned on retiring in a few years and I should quit breaking bones so that we may gallivant around together.

As he cannot leave China without abandoning his filial responsibilities, that would imply my moving back to China; a feat that is becoming increasingly difficult for all of the current political fracas, to say nothing of my advancement in years: the Chinese are less inclined to welcome foreigners after they reach a certain age.

A prospective return to China is really what brought this train of thought into the station.

Between my leaving that country and relocating here, there was an 18-month stay in the states that did little to repeal what I had gotten used to in China. While stateside, navigating live-in relationships and grieving for the life I had built for myself in Wuhan took all that I had. 

Now that I am on my own again – and thanks to Gary’s promise of succor in my sunset years, it is time to reflect on what’s missing in Poland that was so abundant in Wuhan.

For one, visible air. At times, especially in the summer, one could actually see dirt and pollutive particles suspended in the air in Wuhan. What made it worse is that nearly every bit of greenery was covered in dust, dirt, soot or... who knows what!

By contrast, here, there are blue skies and lush avenues of green and trees line every road. Each major boulevard is dotted with roundabouts, landscaped for maximum aesthetic effect.

Planting gardens

While the Chinese are prone to planting a vegetable garden in any untended piece of land – once, most notably, in a highway median; the people of Szczecin and surrounding areas maintain garden plots outside of city limits, in sanctioned gardening zones.

While on a long bus ride to a satellite community, I had occasion to observe such a grouping of mini-farms, replete with tiny dwellings meant for a weekend stay. Such installations are not unusual to me; people in Berlin also followed this practice.    

I think the Chinese would have a field day with all of the open spaces and greenery here!

Massive crowds

One could hardly compare China’s megalopoli with any city in Poland; population-wise they are not even on the same scale.

To give you an idea: Warsaw is Poland’s most populated city, housing over 1.7 million people as of their last census.

By contrast, Wuhan is home to more than 10.6 million people, and it’s not even the most populous city in China. Shanghai, the country’s most populous city, boasts 23 million inhabitants, making Wuhan look downright provincial!

Another factor that impacts the crowding issue is the Chinese propensity for large groups going places together and their culture’s lack of regard for personal space, which might make those crowds seem denser than they are.

Here,  it appears that three people could make up a crowd; even upon school dismissals I’ve seldom seen large gatherings.

One instance of note was a rally for inclusion, held just a few weeks ago in a public square. If you watch the video, you’ll notice that it was, by some standards, dismally attended. For Szczecin, that was a wild horde of people!

Going along with the crowding issue which some might consider rude are a host of seemingly ill-mannered behaviors the Chinese routinely practice that, here, would be considered absolutely uncivilized!

Other differences:

·         There are no double-decker buses here but there are accordion buses, as in the bigger Chinese cities

◦  In that same vein, there are no underground trains here; however, there are trams

·         Regardless of bus or tram, they are never as crowded as those trundling around Chinese cities!

·         Respectful drivers! Nobody here jockeys for position and I’ve yet to see a traffic jam or hear a horn, angrily pounded.

·         Food stalls here consist of some sort of bread offering, paninis or krokies of the deep-fried varieties; in China you would find mainly noodles – besides eclectic street food offerings

·         As a rule, no dancing in the street by anyone, let alone old ladies!

·         No unregulated produce stands; here all of the farmer’s markets are in designated spaces

·         As opposed to China’s banks and post offices (and everything else) that open seven days a week, here, even the shops remain closed on Sundays!

·         Here, I am about the same size and skin tone as everyone else; there, I stuck out like a sore thumb!

On reflection, maybe Szczecin could be thought of a film negative of China: most everything is inverse.

So, are there any similarities? Of course!      

I’ve already told you about the sparseness of kitchenware I discovered here... although, admittedly, there is more to be had here than in China.  

While visiting Manhattan (stay tuned for that story!), along the pedestrian skyway, vendors hawked their wares: knitted booties or other hand-made items; some of their stock seems to have come from their attic – pitiful, discarded relics such as plastic wallets and rusty scissors.

While there, for the first time, I was accosted by a beggar. A single beggar, I might add, as opposed to the cloud of mendicants that always seemed to converge on any foreigner, everywhere I’d been in China.

And, oddly enough...

Here, I find the same brands of fast food as in China: KFC, McDonalds’ and Pizza Hut; even the occasional Burger King! 

Yesterday, walking around Poland’s version of Metro, that store in China that was my go-to outlet for all things western that I craved.

Would a few fast food outlets, a Metro card and a good friend to travel with be enough to entice me to live in China again, if such a possibility even exists?

I am not sure. I believe I would resent reduced Internet access and restrictions on movement almost as much as I would revel in once again gallivanting around with my travelling companion and partaking of a culture I felt at home in – even though it was made clear to me that I would never, ever truly belong.

But then, would I recognize a sense of belonging if it slapped me in the face?  

Code-shifting has been a way of life for me. Flowing between languages and cultures, perhaps under ever-changing circumstances is really the only place I feel truly at home.