Boo

Becca Boo Beckity

2010-03-28T21:54:00.002+02:00

I've moved!

Come, take a look around. Update your bookmarks, feed readers, links...

Snow

2009-12-23T17:07:00.004+01:00

A woman and her son walk towards me. The mother comes first, stooped, watching her step on the slippery path. She places each foot on the icy snow, one after the other, steady, careful.
As I get closer I hear the son chattering away. Around eight years old, a constant stream of exclamations and observations. The mother is tired and answers with short, monotonous sounds. She is neither excited nor interested. She looks up briefly, at the path ahead, and I catch her sad gaze for a short moment. She lowers her head again and I pass, noticing her young face, despite its lines and her hunched shoulders.
The son is behind and as I approach, is patting something in his hand, speaking all the while, telling his mother about his day. His arm lifts just as I pass, and propels the snowball in its arc through the air.
I don't turn to see but hear the snowball thwack into the mother's coat.
She doesn't say a word.

Marty

2009-11-22T07:52:00.002+01:00

I'm not the superstitious type... ok I avoid walking under ladders but that's just sensible. In Brussels, we have a lot of ladders and laddery-type things that tend to pop up leaning on houses of people whose roof needs fixing, or who are moving out via an upstairs window (that's how it works here - with tall narrow houses and winding staircases it's the easiest way, believe me). These sometimes have big boxes, heavy tiles and/or slippery fingered exhausted men up them, so crossing the road is the only way of making sure you stay out of the danger zone.

Anyway, apart from ladders I may notice the odd magpie and search for its pair (one for sorrow, two for joy...) but I blame my father entirely for that one, passing on his stupid superstitions, and make sure to laugh at myself when I catch myself doing it.

I was in Bucharest recently, in a traffic jam on my way to the airport, thinking about babies. It seemed like everyone I knew was pregnant or had just given birth. One friend had just had a son, a family member had had a son and another was expecting, and three more friends were a month away from giving birth - one little boy, one little girl and one unknown.

We rounded a bend and crawled along the road, and there they were. Four magpies pecking away at something, in a huddle together. That's weird I thought I never see such big groups. I caught myself being grateful to them that they were a group and not just a single bird so following my tradition of laughing at myself I sent a text message to my pregnant friend who didn't already know the sex of her baby. You're having a boy by the way. The Romanian magpies told me.

He was born last night.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy

Ta-Dah! November!

2009-11-02T21:40:00.004+01:00

And just like that two months flash by.

Work has taken over with its trips and events: the kind of 'travelling' where you don't see a country, just the hotels and meeting rooms it has to offer. Weekends offer more of the substantial travelling with friends and family spread across Europe, but they go so fast they almost don't exist. I snap away, trying to capture the experience in a package of data that will then sit in my laptop, slowing it down with bulky memories.

We snatch the odd newlywed moment; he turns his wedding ring round and round as we talk; I sneak into the spare room and twirl in my veil while he watches on, giggling at his giddy wife.

This weekend we kicked our way though fallen autumn leaves, the park's fiery trees beaming brighter than the weak sun filtering through the clouds. We returned from the market laden with mangoes, kiwis and figs; cooked hearty Polish bean soup and made plans for the future. Our future to shape as we please. Our future to discover together.

That's the kind of travelling I like - the exploration of possibilities; discovering more than just another three star bedroom with BBC World and dodgy wifi.

Come back August; all is forgiven

2009-09-01T19:31:00.001+02:00

The switch from August to September was brutal in Brussels.

One day I was sauntering along, bare legs and yearnings for icecream, a summer breeze relieving the sun's glare; the next day a gale was whipping round my hunched shoulders and I wrapped my arms around my chest, hugged my bag to me and tried to ignore the drizzle making its steady way down the back of my neck.

On Monday the 31st the roads were clear, children were playing in the park and it felt wrong turning the key in my office door. On Tuesday the 1st though, there were crowds at the school gates of crying children clinging to their parents, who tried to disentangle themselves, brush down their suits and walk away. Cars were beeping, screeching around corners to be first to the office, back to work. It felt sadly inevitable when I turned that key, shook my umbrella and knuckled down to a full day in the office.

ślub

2009-08-31T22:03:00.004+02:00

It's not that I don't want to; I can't. I won't find the words that do it justice. I couldn't possibly describe the flood of emotions at seeing so many of the important people in my life turning round towards me, looking, smiling as I entered the church. I wouldn't know how to put down in words the church service's touches, the bursting flowers arranged by Marek's Uncle Marek, the pews heaving with smart suits and grinning hats. I couldn't adequately represent those moments in another way: the vows we'd forgotten to practice coming out smoother than expected, the wonderous music surrounding us throughout, the tears and laughs around us as we left the church, down the steps and into the throng of well-wishers. I just wouldn't be able to recreate those magical moments. So I won't.

five sixes

2009-08-29T21:57:00.003+02:00

Marek's 30th was an afternoon off work, floury handprints and broken eggshells on the counter. A busy preparation for a special cake, brightly coloured sugar hearts and big cheery candles.

Marek's 30th was opening the door to a beaming boy, er man, amazed by the pile of pretty packages, thrilled once the paper had been ripped off and contents spilled onto the table. Warm smiles and tight hugs.

Marek's 30th was the short walk to the market, hand in hand, wedding bands clinking. An armful of sunflowers for the vase that had stood empty since it was taken off the wedding table. Oh, the wedding tables.

The wedding was an indescribable rush of emotion that both disappeared in a moment and left behind a long stretch of happy memories and warm feelings: Amazement that so many made the long trip; gratitude for the sweet wishes and generous compliments; bursting love for my new husband and extended group of family and friends.

But then, two weeks later, Marek's 30th was the fizz of leftover wedding champagne and newly baked carrot cake. The carrot cupcakes at the wedding disappeared long before we got to them, but we had the whole birthday cake to ourselves.

Marek's 30th was a restaurant meal, grinning photos taken by a friendly pair at the neighbouring table. A couple married for 50 years. The wife who clapped her hands with delight and wiped tears from her eyes as we told her how long we'd been married and wished us success and happiness and love.

Marek's 30th was a rained off film showing in the park. A grateful turn of the key, tumbling into the flat, sinking into the sofa for a quiet night in. Happy 30th, happy life.

Les Belges

2009-05-30T15:39:00.002+02:00

This is just excellent.

It immediately conjures up images of serious looking joggers, heading for the little tents that are dotted around the park, and then emerging with numbers pinned to their t-shirts and a cornet of frites in one hand. Genius.

public speaking, ah the joy

2009-05-08T13:07:00.002+02:00

I've done another toastmaster's speech, and got another best speaker award. This is what I intended to say, although I went off script somewhere along the way and came up with a completely different ending somehow. Ah well, my knees didn't knock this time, and I even found myself almost, but only almost, enjoying it. Weird.

European Elections 2009: Why WE should be promoting them

Living in Brussels, the administrative centre of the European Union, I suspect a lot of you know that the European elections are taking place in June. They are the only transnational elections in the world, they take place every five years, and this year is the first in which citizens of all 27 current EU member countries will vote over a few days for people to represent them at the European level.

Turnout for the European elections is notoriously low - less than 45% in the 2004 elections, and people suspect that this year's turnout will be even lower, thanks to the current crises and peoples' discouragement and mistrust of politicians.

I would like to explain why I think we all have a role to play in promoting the elections and making sure that those in our home countries, who do not have the benefit of seeing Brussels and experiencing the work of the European institutions right here every day, get out and vote in June.

The first reason I would like to explore in favour of voting in the elections is that it is your opportunity to influence not only what happens in your country, but in your region of the world. It is about seeing the bigger picture, finding solutions that benefit not only those in your street, your town, your country, but Europe as a whole. The EP is the only directly elected institution in the European Union. It is your opportunity to shape the way Europe develops in the next five years.

The second reason some might decide it is important to vote, is to ensure that they are not highjacked by Euro-sceptics, who are trying to destroy what has been built up over the past fifty years. In England this weekend I saw this poster. It is clearly against the European elections, and comes from a party intending to use the EU system in a negative and destructive manner. There is no information about the positive effects felt in the UK as a result of being part of this European Union. No complex argumentation about what the benefits might be, just a focus on the perceived costs. Populists and Eurosceptics are forecast to take a bigger proportion of the vote than ever before. If you are unhappy about this, then this is your chance to ensure they are not given more power than they deserve.

The third reason might be that it is not only your democratic right, a right that people all over the world have fought for, but your responsibility to take an active part in shaping Europe. The parliamentarians have a role to play in shaping European law, which affects national legislation in many areas so has a direct impact on European citizens' daily lives. It also monitors the work of the other European institutions - the Council and the Commission. It is our chance to ensure the right people are making sure the right decisions are taken.

Other reasons might be that you want to boost the number of female MEPs, you don't like the current MEP representing you, you think tax payers' money should be spent more carefully... You might want the EU to show more leadership on climate change, to play a more responsible role in the world, to fight against discrimination and injustice... Each individual will have a different reason that makes it meaningful for them to vote.

Look at the candidates, read the parties' manifestos, find out the date of the elections in the country where you are registered to vote. The European Parliament website has loads of resources and has been set up to help make it easier for you to take part in this election. Check it out and make your choice. Then tell your friends.

Whatever your reason for finding the European Union important - and I hope you all have at least one - I hope I have managed to convince you of the necessity to get out there and vote, and to convince all your friends, relatives and colleagues to do the same.

identity cards

2009-05-05T19:35:00.000+02:00

I turned the corner and spotted door number 8. The door I'd been directed to, to pick up my shiny new electronic Belgian carte de sejour. There was a ticket machine so I took one. 724. I looked up at the screen. 728. Oh Belgium.

A lady was standing with her young child and I pointed at the door. 'Vous allez ici aussi Madame?' I asked. She looked at me, blankly, and a man I hadn't noticed sitting behind me cut in 'it's chaos in there.' he said. 'they're all in foul moods.' I sighed and a newly arrived older woman went up to the ticket machine and took a useless ticket.

'I don't know whether we shouldn't just go in' she said to me. 'This lady was here first' I said, pointing at the lady with her baby daughter. The seated man nodded. 'Go in!' the new arrival advised the mother. The screen flicked to the next number - 729. 'Go ahead' we said to the mother and child. She looked at us wide-eyed and pushed open the door. When she didn't come out immediately we took it as a good sign.

A woman walked down the corridor and towards the door purposefully. It was clear she was an employee and as the number system was helping nobody, I decide to tell her about it. 'Pardon Madame...' I started as she opened the door. 'There's a little wait' she announced, loudly, and shut the door firmly. I turned around, mouth open, to the older lady who had sat next to the man. 'They're a miserable lot these people' she said 'don't even try.' 'What a shame' I said. 'You work with people every day and you can't even be pleasant. It would make the day pass more more agreeably.'

The screen buzzed and the next number was shown. I indicated for the man to go, but he waved me away 'no, I'm a complicated case. They'll come for me. You go ahead.'

I opened the door to find the mother and child sat in front of a desk, and three employees standing across the desk from her, looking at the screen with concerned expressions. One looked up as I entered, and asked me to wait. I stod awkwardly by the door, wth no option but to eavesdrop on their conversation.

'She's got a Belgian passport.' one said
'But she speaks no French?' another asked
'No French, English, Spanish, Portuguese or German' the third explained. I couldn't help but be impressed. Usually the workers in administration buildings speak French and Dutch and look at you with scorn if you try any other language.

The first employee turned to the mother, sat quietly and patiently as they fussed around her. 'Tu veux quoi?' she asked loudly, flapping the passport in her face. I contained the urge to explain that if someone doesn't speak a language, it is generally not a question of upping the volume and being obnoxious before she understands.

'Well I don't know what she wants' the shouter said, 'let's move her and wait for Claire to come back from lunch. She might be able to speak to her.' She turned again to the lady. 'Viens avec moi.' The lady looked up at her, still not understanding. 'Toi!' the lady shouted, pointing at her 'viens!'

It never ceases to amaze me how officials turn to the familiar form of you 'tu' to try and show someone their place, even if they don't understand. Something in my face must have shown my contempt for the way she was treating the lady, because the employee looked at me briefly, turned back to the woman and pulled her up gently by her arm. 'Venez madame. Il faut attendre ici.'

The second employee went back to her seat and waved me over. The third employee buzzed the number screen and the older woman who'd joined us in the corridor came in and took a seat where the incomprehending mother had sat.

I handed over my papers, and as the employee was looking for my card, I heard the conversation at the desk next to me.

'What's your first language Madame?' the shouty employee asked the older woman.
I could almost hear her bristle. 'French!'
'Yes, but your native language. You see we can't understand this lady. Maybe you could speak to her.'
'Well where's she from? Africa's four times the size of Euope you know.'

My papers were put down on the table in front and the emplyee dealing with me joined in the conversation next to us 'Ghana, she's from Ghana.'

'Huh, well, I'm from Ethiopia. A long way from Ghana. They speak English, didn't you try with English?'

The employees confirmed that they had tried with English, and listed again the other languages she did not speak. 'She only speaks her dialect. How she got a Belgian passport I don't know...' the first employee said.

I was handed my card, told to keep my PIN safe and that was that. As I let the room, the lady from Ethiopia was trying to talk to the lady from Ghana. She was just looking at her, not understanding a word, her daughter hanging on her arm.

I looked down at my card, and tried to imagine it. In a foreign land, trying to do a task you can't explain, people shouting at you in a language you can't make sense of. I wondered who she was, and how she came to be in Belgium with its grey skies and rude officials.

In Bruges

2009-04-04T18:21:00.005+02:00

Last weekend we went to Bruges with some visitors, and it was as quaint and beautiful as I remembered, despite the Belgian rain and a hopeless Polish football match, watched in an Irish pub with excellent cider.

As we're in the countdown to Easter, all the chocolate shops were full of eggs and chicks and bunnies. We came to one and took pictures of this:

and this:

and then, then we spotted this:

How, erm, Eastery.

Anyway, then we came home and watch 'In Bruges' with lots of 'we went there!' and 'remember that bit?' in between the hilarious dialogue. Fun times.

No sister of mine

2009-04-02T18:57:00.001+02:00

So, back to this nun...

We took our seats, nearer the front than usual, and waited expectantly as the group settled down and the nun walked briskly to the front of the room. She put down her pile of folders and extracted a paper, which she laid down in front of her.

Looking back every so often at her notes, she proceeded to summarise the last meeting (which, if you remember, we missed) and lay the foundations for this one.

'A marriage provides the right context to bring a child into. Some of you though, may not feel quite ready for a child, or wish to maximise your time together before having children [snort from me] and in this case, there are certain precautions you can take that makes it unlikely you will have children.'

She drew out a transparent sheet, covered in graphs, and, apologising for the lack of equipment, held it up against a backdrop of white paper. I recognised the hormone path of a woman's monthly cycle, and tried to stifle a groan. After all, I'd known it was coming.

The next half hour was devoted to explaining the different hormones, their roles, why their levels change throughout the month, why the tempertaure of a woman changes throughout this cycle and so on.

'Didn't you do all this when you were 11?' I whispered to Marek 'Are you kidding?' he replied. 'We had no sex eduation at all.' I tried to control my 'WHAT?' and he shot me a warning look. 'We didn't do this when we were 11' he replied. As I looked around the room, at the faces of the other couples - there were looks of concentration, giggly embarassment and interest. I was the only one who was bored.

Next, the nun told us how us wives could measure our hormone levels, by taking our temperature every day. She explained when you should measure it and what to do if your husband wakes you at 5am to go mushrooming (her example, not mine) and you miss your 7am temperature measurement appointment (you add 0.2 of a degree per hour, which is a clearly flawed method if you take your temperature 10 hours late for example. I stopped myself mentioning this to Marek).

Of course she could not pretend this was the ONLY form of contraception (sorry, family planning, I mean family planning. Contraception is a naughty word.)

We covered condoms, which are highly ineffective according to her, and do little to stop the transmission of sexual diseases, including HIV. I could hardly contain myself, especially after what the Pope had come out with the same month 'That's NOT true' I hissed at Marek. 'What she's saying is just NOT true.' He patted my arm and whispered back 'just contain yourself for another half an hour and you can tell me why what she's saying is rubbish afterwards. OK?'

We covered the pill, which gives you cancer, she said. Again, I leaned over towards Marek 'Remind me to tell you all about the difference between breast cancer and cancer of the uterus, and why the risk of one is increased and the risk of the other is decreased by the pill.' He nodded, resigned. She then said the levels of hormones in rivers had resulted in funny mutations of fish, and that this was the fault of the pill. Marek looked at me. 'Ok, that bit's true' I admitted.

Then she got to the coil, which is clearly just another form of abortion, since it stops an embyo implanting, and that embryo is already A NEW LIFE. 'Oh don't get started on that' I thought. 'I won't make it.'

After a few more lenthy explanations of why we should avoid modern forms of family planning at all costs and stick to the only one the church condones, she turned to us with a big smile. 'So that's that' she said brightly, having just misinformed a group of 50 (minus two or three) about several reliable and literally life-saving methods of family planning. 'Well done, good job' I thought bitterly.

She finished by using her figures to SHOW how tempertaure tracking was the most effective birth control method. I almost laughed out loud. Afterwards she told us all that we should not be scared of having children. That it is a wonderful opportunity we should embrace. That children are small and harmless and are after all the point of marriage. I got out as quick as I could, before I could point at her habit and splutter 'and YOU would know!'

Marriage according to the Catholic church.

2009-03-31T21:33:00.000+02:00

On my mission to become a good Catholic Polish wife (Hmm. Take out the Polish and Catholic parts then and we'll try again... ok) On my mission to become a good wife, I tried Really Hard during our marriage lessons. Marriage lessons are lessons kindly provided by the church to prepare you for married life. They are given by a series of priests and nuns. Priests and nuns clearly being the best people to teach others about married life. Sorry, I'll try to limit those kinds of comments. Ahem.

Before each session (there were ten. TEN!), I reminded myself why we were there and tried to put myself in an open, receptive, uncritical frame of mind. This does not come easily. I was expecting to strongly disagree with some of the statements throughout the course, and was also expecting some good fodder for the debating part of my brain. I was prepared not to be happy, but hoping to be challenged.

At the beginning, we had an older priest, the kind who repeats himself (good if Polish is not your first language and you feel a little sleepy on a Wednesday evening) and sticks to the Pope's every word (not so good if you are me).

Typical statement from old priest: 'When a young man comes to me and asks what he needs to do before he can get married, I ususally tell him... [pause for effect]... find a GIRL! [stop for laughter... which never comes... ok, continue, adopting serious face] Because there are some people nowadays who are suggesting ridiculous things about boys and boys and girls and girls [show audience appalled face].' Deep sigh from me.

He repeated himself through a few sessions and covered thrilling information like the cases in which it is acceptable for a Catholic to marry a Muslim (I looked around the fifty faces in the room. Nope, all Polish Catholics, bar me and a Spaniard, also not Muslim I suspect); the legal papers you need for a church wedding and why (again) marriage is for one man and one woman (another sigh).

The second priest was younger and jollier, with an impressive round belly. He actually got a bit deeper into the juicier parts of love, faith and marriage. All of which he took great joy in telling us we know nothing about.

Typical statements from round priest: 'You may think you love each other but you don't...marriage is all about the triangle between a husband, a wife and God...sex is not the be all and end all, after all I can tell you where to go to find sex. There are plenty of willing girls walking about by Place Stephanie.' Oh yes he did.

The last couple of sessions were covered by a nun. We missed the first, as we arrived 7 minutes late and found ourselves locked out. The second time though, I was rather glad we only made one. I think I would have been thrown out if made to sit through another...

Typical statement from nun: 'So you see, monitoring your temperature every day to follow your hormone path is THE MOST RELIABLE form of family planning... contraceptive pills give you cancer... condoms do not protect you from HIV.' GRRRRRRRR.

At the moment I cannot think of that last experience without a little knot of anger forming, so I'll keep that story for another day. Suffice it to say I learned far more in biology aged 11, and have never had false 'facts' presented to me in such a frustrating and self-righteous way.

God save my soul.

Blah-zay

2009-03-08T18:20:00.003+01:00

Four out of five days last week I was in an airport. Actually two airports each time, and a plane. This is wrong. And bad.

It is bad for the environment.
It is bad for my health.
And most worryingly, it is turning me into a pompous snob, blase and dismissive of exciting, new places because I know all I'll see is an airport, a train or bus, a meeting room and then the same all over again, in reverse order.

I used to love travelling. Actually, I still do, but for pleasure, when I have time to read about and really experience the place, taking millions of pictures and properly exploring. Travelling for work is rubbish.

Three of the four flights were delayed; I went to Stockholm for the first time and saw absolutely nothing of the city; and I've been in Vienna so many times over the last year that it doesn't feel like abroad anymore.

In 2008 I went to 8 countries. That doesn't sound too unmanageable but I went to Austria 6 times for work, and the UK the same number, not to mention the ten trips to Poland - the sad necessity of a long-distance relationship.

I know I am a privileged person and that these opportunities may not last forever, so I should cherish them. But when you spend hour after hour in some lifeless departure hall, trying not to spend your hard-earned cash on overpriced souvenirs just for something to do, it doesn't feel like much of a privilege.

Father Christmas

2009-03-01T08:43:00.001+01:00

When I was out and about, going to the post office in my lunch break, or buying some fruit from the corner shop by my work, I often used to see him. A sturdy old man, long white beard and friendly manner, he used to stop and talk to dog-walking ladies, the endless lines of construction men working on the roads, the young mothers pushing their babies. Usually with a smile on his face, I noticed him too because he walked around with the kind of fat bellied ease that implied he owned it all, this was his home. He talked to the people who strayed into his territory and tolerated them, humoured them even, by offering them a kind word here and there. He watched them all as if he was somehow responsible, and wandered his lands with the air of someone with all the time in the world. Someone who had as little fear of dying as Father Christmas.

One morning, on my way to work, I saw him emerge from a shop doorway. Except it was no shop, he was putting plant pots out and looking around at his new surroundings. Over the weeks, the shop windows were clothed in mismatched blue and white blinds, put up in a way that covered the large expanse of glass, but had no order or charm. The plant pots multiplied, and were joined by a small table and garden chair. Some mornings he'd be out, in an old dressing gown, watering his plants, or chatting with a neighbour. When the blinds were open, the front room, with its clutter of furniture and boxes was exposed, and sometimes he was sitting, just staring, not taking anything in, just being.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to work mentally preparing for a meeting that day. I spotted the police car from a distance and felt a tightening in my throat. As I approached, I saw there was an unmarked van alongside the police car and a group of hefty men, gathering the old man's belongings. He was nowhere to be seen. 'This shouldn't take you too long' said the policewoman, leaning against her car and puffing on a cigarette. A man with a clipboard nodded at her and laughed 'yeah, there's not much stuff.'

I walked past, resisting the urge to ask what had happened to this man I had never even exchanged a word with. Never met. Observed from afar. The door was wide open, blinds pulled back to reveal the jumble within. Was he being evicted? The old man himself was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he'd been caught squatting in the unoccupied shop, furnished by friendly donations from dog-walking ladies. Or maybe he'd moved somewhere else - won the lottery and moved to a warm location by the sea, donating his old home and its belongings to a local charity... but then why the police car? Father Christmas couldn't just disappear, there had to be an explanation I'd not yet come to.

I walk past the shop every day on my way to work. It is still empty, devoid of clutter and boxes. The terrace at the front has no plant pots or garden furniture. I never see the old bearded, fat bellied man anywhere.

Brussels Mussels

2009-02-28T00:01:00.002+01:00

Moules frites has long been a favourite of mine, and one of the bonuses of living in Belgium is the regular supply of fresh mussels that you can order from almost every restaurant. Especially recommended are a few select venues in the old port of St Catherine and one or two of the dining places that can be found in the tourist trap of rue des bouchers. I always felt bad for my mum, another mussels fan who ate a bad one, one unforgettable summer in her twenties and spent the night throwing up on a darkened beach, the poison from the mussel twisting up her insides for twenty four hours of misery.

Through our childhood, when we were on family holidays, we would tuck into our glistening mounds of black shells, scooping out the bodies and slurping the white wine they were cooked in. Mum would have some other fish, hopefully glad that we were at least enjoying what she could not. A couple of times, after that initial violent reaction, she tried again to eat mussels, just a couple to begin with. Each ended in the same day-long suffering and in the end she decided it wasn't worth it. No more mussels.

Last weekend we went with friends to our regular mussels chomping ground. A good night was had by all, and we left stuffed and satisfied. When I woke up at 5am, stomach growling and queasiness making my head light, I didn't know what was happening straight away. I went into the bathroom and mentally went over the previous meal, the careful sorting through and rejecting the closed and broken-shelled mussels, the happy fullness I felt once my plate was clear, the blissful ignorance of the poison that was already working its way into my system. I was soon bent over the toilet bowl, last night's dinner being ejected from my body, the violence of the sickness actually making me black out at the worst point and crack my head against the bathroom wall.

Marek was standing over me as I came to, panic marking his face and uncertainty over what to do evident in his questioning. I reassured him and curled up by the radiator, waiting for the end to come.

After a couple more uncomfortable hours, my stomach had calmed down enough to sleep. When I woke, the sickness had subsided into a general background nausea and I gave in again to my sleepiness, vaguely considering the possibility of concussion and dismissing it as an abstract concern. By the evening I no longer felt the need to retch at every thought of food, and I began to come to terms with the fact that I was not going to die.

I thought of mum, and how we alway joked about her friends' comments that I was more like her than she was. I'm doing my bit to get there.

Edited to add: The night after I wrote this, on a plane to Vienna, I had a dream that I found a white hair, in among the regular brown ones, and that it stretched longer than any others. As I pulled on it, I saw the ones surrounding it were white too; that in fact I had a thick stripe of white hair, high on my head. I showed my mum, but as I showed her it became not a white stripe on my dark head, but a white stretch of spider's web, just above my jaw line. Mum pulled at it, and it came away to reveal an angry red boil, where I knew the web's spider had buried her eggs. I asked mum what I should do, resisted the urge to scratch at the boil, in case it made it worse, and waited for advice. Mum said nothing but brushed the boil away as if it was a loose hair. It fell off, leaving clean bare skin, and I felt the immense relief of knowing I would not absent-mindedly scratch my face and pull my hand away to find it covered with tens of tiny scrambling baby spiders. Analysts? I say the spider is the mussel, invading my body; the baby spiders are the potential impact of the poison and my mum features as herself, telling me to get a grip, and stop being silly and pretending its more disgusting than it really is.

Speech number 2

2009-02-11T22:23:00.002+01:00

Yes, I made myself do it again, and they rewarded me with another 'best speaker' award. If I do the third and don't get the award I think I might cry. Spoilt brat. This is how it went, more or less. I actually managed to unclench myself part of the way through, and deviated from the script somewhat, but I'm taking that as a good sign.

Ahem.

Good evening fellow toastmasters and very welcome guests.

Tonight I would like to talk you about something that is

- something I'd never experienced as recently as five years ago
- something I experienced rather a lot of over the three years while I lived in Warsaw
- and something that will greatly influence one particularly important day for me this year

I'm going to talk to you about Polish weddings.

Five years ago I had never set foot in Poland. Well actually, that's a bit of an exaggeration, I had stepped over the border from Germany once, but I knew little of the history of Gdansk, I had only vaguely heard of the beauty of Krakow and I didn't have a clue about the buzz of Warsaw.

As you may remember, I moved to Poland to work with asylum seekers and refugees through the European Voluntary Service. I worked with Poles and foreigners and spent my free time learning the language and exploring the culture. The best introduction to Polish culture came during the first few months with an invitation to a wedding.

In England weddings are generally held at grand places with no expense spared - a short ceremony to get the serious business out the way and then a loud party, with flowers and champagne followed by speeches and your Dad dancing round the dancefloor in an uncoordinated fashion.

This wedding was different. The differences started at the church. There were all the familiar trappings of a wedding - rings, misty eyed relatives, music... but then after the service all the guests lined up and presented the happy couple with bunches of flowers and their best wishes one by one. I had only been in Poland for a few months and as Polish for best wishes is 'wszystkiego najlepszego', I think I just smiled.

Then came the reception. For starters it was held in a fire station. OK, the party room of the fire station, but a fire station all the same. There were flowers, but mainly the ones presented by the guests, spread around the room. There were no champagne glasses and no speeches, but there was vodka - lots of vodka - and games, led by a traditional band with an accordian, a saxophone and several guitars.

As the newlyweds arrive at the wedding reception they are greeted by their parents and then there are a couple of traditional rituals before the party starts. The bride's mother shows the couple a plate with bread and salt on it and asks her daughter whether she wants the bread, the salt, or her new husband. She takes all three. Then they drink a shot of vodka and throw the glasses behind them to break on the floor for good luck. Finally, the groom carries his new bride into the building and the fun really begins.

The first thing I noticed as I came into the room were the tables. In England there is usually a three course meal and then the tables are cleared to make way for the dancing. In Poland the tables stay, and are groaning with food from the beginning of the party until the early morning. Waiters come and serve food at regular intervals and you are free to choose between the salads, cold meat and cakes set out on the table whenever it takes your fancy, in between dances and games.

Between the hot courses the band played and the people danced, but this was no shuffling of feet and clumsy hand clapping as you might see in England, here everyone was ballroom dancing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I tried my best waltz, but mainly watched the others - old ladies twirling around in the strong arms of their steady old husbands; young kids with their arms shyly around one another; the newly married couple gliding round the dancefloor with large smiles plastered to their faces.

The games were also new to me in this setting, although some of them - like musical chairs - I'd played as a child. Do you know that one? A number of chairs are set out, one more than the number of people playing. The band plays and everyone dances around the chairs, then when they stop, everyone sits. There is always one person left without a seat, or on someone else's lap or slipped off onto the floor. Let me tell you, if you thought these games were fun when you were six, you should try them as an adult after a few shots of vodka. Great fun. In England the bride throws her bouquet and the girl who catches it will be the next to marry. In Poland it is a little more complex. The bride throws her veil out to the unmarried women and one of the unmarried men gets the bridegroom's tie. The new couple then has to dance and do a series of dares... it is very entertaining to watch although I am always quietly relieved when some other girl catches the veil.

The vodka was a challenge to be honest. The most important man at a Polish wedding is the one who goes round the tables replacing the empty vodka bottles with new ones. I was amazed at the speed with which this man had to do his job, and had to refuse a couple of times when a friendly hand tried to replenish my shot glass. Then I learned the trick to a successful Polish wedding. When everyone downs a shot, take a sip. You'll last much longer.

After that first wedding, I was happy to receive several more invitations. Some were in grander locations than the fire station, some were smaller groups or had louder bands, but all had the basic elements - people genuinely enjoying themselves and really celebrating with the newlyweds.

So when my Polish boyfriend proposed last June, not only did I know I wanted to marry him, but I had a pretty good idea about where we should take those vows. Forget all that stuff about weddings taking place at the bride's birthplace, I'd like a Polish wedding please.

Thank you.

tombe la neige

2009-01-05T18:16:00.005+01:00

'Get up! It's all white outside!'

I lifted my head from the pillow, eyes screwed up against the light, and made a sort of 'whuh?' noise.

'It's been snowing! It almost looks like Poland out there' Marek continued, his morning cheer cutting through the fog in my sleep filled mind.

I lay my head down again, and pulled the covers around me. This sounded suspiciously like one of Marek's little jokes and it was going to take more than that to make me leave my warm bed, especially so early. Marek's work starts an hour before mine, which means I generally wake up an hour before I need to. This hurts even more after two weeks of blissful holiday.

I pulled my dressing gown around me and yawned my way into the kitchen. Glancing out the window I saw that Marek had, in fact, not been joking. The gardens were covered in a thick satisfying layer of powdery white, and everything looked spectacularly clean and beautiful.

I poured tea into my mug and brought it into the bathroom where Marek was brushing his teeth.
'Looks nice huh?' His eyes glistened and I thought about Poland's guaranteed weeks of snow each year. I thought he'd miss it, but clearly Belgium is making an effort this time to do justice to the word winter.

On the walk to work my steps crunched and left indented prints. The sounds around me were muffled by the snow that continued to fall softly, and the hood I had pulled down low. I took a deep breath of icy air and decided that this felt like a new year, finally.

It was as if the snow had wiped the slate clean, and cleared the way for 2009 to really begin. A year that promises to be pretty significant in plenty of ways, but then isn't each year? I'm ready.

A bit of Christmas cheer

2008-12-07T21:47:00.005+01:00

We were in Germany this weekend to make the most of the Christmas markets, get some presents bought, and fully overindulge in mulled wine and bratwurst and reibekuchen and and and...

Yeah yeah yeah, you've heard this all before. But wait. One step ahead, old thing. Here's a new treat. Singing reindeer.

Behold.

Seriously.

toasty

2008-12-02T17:07:00.004+01:00

When I was in Poland, I discovered that writing was something I really enjoyed. I could go off in my own little world; exaggerate, play around with words, see what happened. When I got to Belgium I (re)discovered that public speaking was something I really. did. not. enjoy.

Despite the theatre courses, the singing performances, the drama classes, the choir concerts, all the times I had shamelessly shown off in public when I was young, something had changed. Standing up to make a speech showed me what 'fight or flight' really meant. I seriously considered fleeing rooms, hands flailing in the air, screaming 'no! don't make me!' on more than one occasion.

So, this really started pissing me off and I decided to get my act together. It was time to sort myself out. I joined toastmasters. I could pretend it was easy - I sauntered in each fortnight and took it all in my stride, but no. It was a challenge each and every time just to walk through the door. Still, gradually it got less terrifying and now, after a few months I don't feel sick just thinking about it... small steps my friend, small steps.

Last week I made my first speech. I didn't tremble too badly, the audience laughed in all the places they were supposed to, and the fools even voted me the evening's best speaker. The light at the end of the tunnel is shining bright.

So, here it is. Speech number one: The Icebreaker

Fellow toastmasters and very welcome guests,

I would like to talk to you this evening about a very simple question that does not always have a very simple answer. 'Where is home?' By telling you my answer to the question, I hope to share something of my life and myself.

For some, answering 'where is home?' gives the same answer as 'where were you born?' I was born in London, right here [there were props - this is when I placed a heart sticker on a map of Europe, on London]. I lived in a nice area, with pleasant neighbours and good friends. Some of my other London-born friends have never left and tell me London is the only place they would consider living. Nothing else lives up to the bustling excitement of London life. I might have continued living in London, except that when I was three, we moved to Paris, here [another heart sticker on map - home is where the heart is, gettit?].

Living in Paris meant a new place, new people and most importantly a new language. When I started in my ecole maternelle, the teacher had to explain my silent presence to the other children: 'This is Rebecca. She's not stupid, she's just English.' My little brother was born, I soon spoke fluent three-year old French, and then we went back. Back to London.

For ten years, London was home. I grew up, I made friends, I learned German at school. Just after a school trip to Germany, where I decided I didn't like the language at all, and was very confused by the 'imbiss' sign that was shown on all snack stands, I was told we were moving. To Bonn, in Germany. I realised I would have to learn what imbiss meant. [another heart sticker on the map]

The biggest culture shock to hit me in Germany was swapping a strict girls' school with good exam results for a mixed international school with great parties. I had a seriously good time. After finishing school though, my German had not improved to a level that made me want to try out the German university system, so I went back 'home' to England, to university in Leeds.

I decided to study psychology and philosophy, based on my deep interest in people. The most interesting discovery I made about people though was probably the one that I did not have much in common with the English people I met. 'You're no London girl' someone once told me at a party. She was right.

After a masters in European Law, I looked for somewhere that would give me work experience and get me back into a more international environment. That place was Brussels. When I first arrived I did an internship with an NGO working on human rights, then moved to another in the European Commission. There I bumped into people from nearly every step of my life that far. I met girls from both primary and secondary schools in London; proper London girls. I ran into a guy from my school in Germany. I met people with different nationalities and accents, and I felt right at home.

I met one Polish guy in particular, and he led me to the next place I call home. Warsaw [another heart sticker on the map] The official Warsaw assignment was first one, and then two projects working with refugees. Here was work I could really get into - talking with people who had been forced to leave their homes and were trying to adapt to a new culture and language. We bought a flat in Warsaw, something that usually grounds people in one place. But not me. I left Poland and returned to Brussels exactly a year ago.

So for the second time, I find myself in this Belgian city. This time I am accompanied by a Polish fiance who, until this year, called one place home. I do meet plenty of people though who answer the simple question 'where is home' with a similarly, or more, complicated answer to mine. When people respond to my 'oh I don't have one home' with pity, I see they have not understood. Having no fixed home needn't be a disadvantage - to me, home is a feeling you can have anywhere.

Thank you.

hanging on

2008-11-23T22:38:00.017+01:00

When I think of the last six weeks, I see a Becca-shaped blur; running breathlessly from point to point, dragging a wheelie suitcase behind her, papers flying everywhere. There was Ljubljana, Paris, Vienna and then Strasbourg with endless meetings and an ever increasing task list, but we don't blog about work now, do we?

The wedding, now there's a thing. I finally gathered a group of giggling bridesmaids together in London and went off to a shop full of dresses with big rustling skirts and flowing veils. Walking out of the changing room in the first one was strange - like I was trying a costume for a new part to play. By the third though, I was hooked. Now, with another trying-on session behind me I've found at least 3 dresses I could happily get married in, but something tells me I haven't found IT yet. Look at me, bride in training. I'm quite getting into the whole thing.

My Pole has been wrestling with Belgian bureaucracy all this time. He found a job in six weeks, but to start work he needed a work permit and to get a work permit he needed a residence permit, and to get a residence permit he had to spend hours filling in forms, waiting for visits from the police and staring at the wall in the town hall waiting for appointments that never seem to move anything along. Such a threat to national security. I can completely see why they are trying to limit the numbers of dangerous Poles in Brussels. Christ. Anyway, a couple of extra forms were filled in by his new company and they hurried it along a bit. He'll start work on Wednesday (yay!) a few days short of one year since I started my Brussels job.

Somewhere along the way I turned 28, with an accompanying flurry of well wishing cards and facebook messages. I didn't really have a chance to take it in, but I think the few weeks will calm down a bit. OK, we have a weekend in Warsaw with a few weddingy things to sort out and another weekend looking at German Christmas markets with friends, but the end of the year is in sight, and sweet Jesus it looks good.

I've become a rubbish blogger. It was fine in Warsaw with my refugee projects and English language work, but since this 'proper job' of mine came along blogging has fizzled and poof! all gone. Here are some pretty pictures to distract you from that sad fact.

Brussels in October:
London in October:

Ljubljana in October:

Paris in October:

Vienna in November:

The Grand' Place on my birthday:

Strasbourg in November:

And finally... the journey from Bonn to Brussels last night:

Can you believe I told Marek it never snows this far West...?

where do we live again?

2008-09-28T14:36:00.005+02:00

As we stepped down from the bus, the guy behind pulled his son along ('chodz chodz!') and lifted him down to the pavement. We crossed the road, and joined the group of people walking towards the large church. A girl finished her phone call ('no dobra, pa pa') and slipped in ahead of us.

Inside, we pushed through the crowd at the back ('przepraszam') and walked down the central aisle. Marek crossed himself and we moved along a row to two empty places. The place was full, really full. A group of children at the front were singing, accompanied by a jolly nun with a guitar, and the place was buzzing - children crying, their parents whispering, buggies creaking as they were pushed closer to the front and adults murmuring prayers, getting their private business dealt with before the main show.

Soon, the singing stopped, the crowd settled down and the priest took the microphone, welcoming everyone in his booming voice, and encouraging everyone to join in with the familiar words.

If I'd been in any doubt about the number of Poles in Brussels before, I was certain now. The place is full of them. I looked around at the hundreds of people - old men with white hair and creased skin; young women with brash stripey highlights and strong makeup, tall fathers with children in their arms, on their shoulders, by their side; grandmothers with sensible shoes and vibrantly coloured hair... and it felt more like Warsaw than Warsaw did the last time I was there.

We discovered the Polish church by accident, last month when Marek's father and sister were in town. As we drove around looking for a parking space, the doors of the church had burst open, and crowds of people had streamed out. 'Must be Polish' I pronounced, as the others looked on sceptically. Don't all churches look like that on a Sunday? We went in, and found the sign with details about the services.

Six services on a Sunday. One in French, the rest in Polish. Enough said.

As someone who only ever went to church because of the music, it was refreshing to hear a nun singing her heart out, leading the congregation with her strumming. The priest spoke mainly about love and good things, which is always pleasant for a protestant who has been taught to think of Catholics as haunted by guilt and obsessed by hell. The place had a warm friendly vibe, and nobody batted an eyelid when I failed to cross myself, pray with the rest of them or sing along to the hymns.

We have a venue for the wedding, and a traditional Polish band. The major thing we still need to sort is the church. It's a shame this one is so far from Warsaw.

I'd just like to say...

2008-08-21T16:17:00.003+02:00

WOO HOO!

I've been on holiday for a full week, my shoulders are less hunched and my natural expression has returned to a relaxed half-smile rather than a serious face all scrunched up in concentration.

Warsaw is managing to be cloudy yet sunny and is full of free internet.

We're going to the seaside for the weekend, even though its going to rain and be cold enough to make bare arms and legs goose pimply.

Marek is in his last week at work, and from the middle of next week will be a resident of a certain Brussels flat, which may or may not have his name on the doorbell in readiness.

Life is good. When things are good you should recognise their goodness. Take this as recognition.

Oh Belgium

2008-08-18T10:30:00.006+02:00

Belgium is weird. Everyone knows that. There are the parties celebrating streets' birthdays, the carnivals with strangely dressed figures from myths, the giant omelettes...
Then there's this.

It's a carpet, made of begonias, on the Grand Place. I know. It only happens once every other year, and lasts just one weekend. It is an extravagent, labour intensive, and staggeringly impressive thing. But why? No idea.

You can queue to walk through the town hall, and up onto the balcony overlooking the carpet. From there you see the detail and impressive size. If you're lucky, you meet an old lady who was married in the town hall in 1939, comes to see the flower carpet each time and is celebrating her 90th birthday in South Africa in a couple of months. She will impress you even more than the flowers laid out over the cobbles, with her steady walking and straight forward chatter. You'll hope you are that fit when you're 60, let alone 90.

When you've taken hundreds of pictures of flowers laid out to look like a carpet, you'll suddenly have had enough, and when you look down at the people, you'll get carried away by the power of your zoom, and start taking sneaky shots of people eating frites and crepes rather than flowers.

Then the man with the security badge will ask you to leave in three languages, and you will go home, shaking your head at the mystery of it all.

My name is Becca and I am [gasp] a bridezilla

2008-08-05T20:11:00.003+02:00

We've been engaged under two months and a part of my brain has already fenced itself off, put up signs holding that space clear for all things wedding. It started with the mags. Now I was warned about wedding magazines, so I stood back, stopping myself from buying one with thoughts of 'it's so far off! There's no need to obsess!' for all of, oh I don't know, five minutes?

I was in Austria you see for work; thought it might be interesting to see what they include in their wedding magazines there. Then Poland, then Belgium, England... I now have too many to mention without blushing, from an impressive number of countries (not all of which I've been to in the last couple of months... Brussels has some very international newsagents).

To be honest the British mag is winning. The French one is ok and the one from the States is a mix of atrocious and surprisingly cute. The Austrian is the most disappointing, with barely a reaction to be had and the Polish ones are plain scary (yes, I've been given a couple of extra Polish ones,can't think why...)

I blame the magazines for my recent dreams. It is over a year away and we haven't even set a date, but I've already had several wedding nightmares.

They've mainly been set on the wedding day, apart from one where I was trying on absolutely disgusting pouffy dresses and everyone around was saying I had to have one like that. All the other dreams have been related to me forgetting something vitally important, and not realising until the very. last. minute. In one, I was wearing a foul flouncy dress (knee length, black and white, not very weddingy at all) and I suddenly realised I'd forgotten to wash my hair (not to mention getting someone to style it for me, or applying some kind of make-up). It is absolutely pathetic.

If I were to analyse the dreams, I think I'd decide they are based on me not living up to this classic bride fantasy - hair! makeup! pretty pretty things! but I'm not sure this pop-psychology will kill them. Perhaps when we do make the first big organisational arrangements (er, I'm thinking venue and date are kind of basic) this will slow down or even stop until the standard couple of months beforehand.

Or, I could just turn this blog into a wedding nightmare all of its own, where I take my (surprisingly persistant- what are you all doing here still?) readers through each flower choice and bridesmaid's hairband.

As if I'll have the energy for that.

Looking on the bright side, at least I'm not having nightmares about my husband to be. Either that means I have no doubts about that side of the wedding, the part that actually means something and will affect the rest of my life, oooorrr I'm a horrible superficial product of the hateful (I first typed that 'hatful', which it also is, in England anyway) wedding industry.

I'll have option 1 please. Shh.

summer daze

2008-08-04T18:42:00.000+02:00

I'm at work, but the emails are dripping through slowly, as if through a fine internet-based sieve, and the phone is quiet. I lift it, to check it still works, and the dull tone assures me it does. I tick things off my list quickly, uninterrupted and left to work at my own speed. I quite like the quiet, but know the pace will drive me mad in a few days. I'll have to concoct a big project to focus on. Or I could plan this wedding... no, that can't count as work.

My water bottle is standing by my monitor. I glance at it, and my eyes rest there, not focusing but allowing my thoughts to wander. Then I focus. The Belgian water bottle is telling me, in three languages, that the water is natural and mineral, and that it is fizzy. Sparkling. Bubbly. Thirst quenching.

Eau Minérale Naturelle: pétillante

The words in their back to front order and spattered with accents suggest that French is just mainly English words mixed around with fancy bits. Then they spring a surprise with pétillante. What's that then clever clogs? Petulant? I don't think you have petulant water now do you?

Natuurlijk Mineraal Water: bruisend

I don't speak Dutch, but the additional j and double vowels make it instantly recognisable as Dutch don't they? The bruising quality of the bubbles is a little worrying, but I always find Dutch sounds worse than it really is. Empty threats.

Natürliches Mineralwasser mit kohlensäure versetzt

Now this is classic. The -es ending matching the wasser, the umlauts, the detailed explanation of why the bubbles are there (they added kohlensäure) - they're all so very German.

Who knew you could get such a stereotypical impression of three languages just from a water bottle?

The bottle in question suddenly pops, expanding against the way I left it, slightly squeezed in. I jump and look at the time.

Home time.

4

2008-07-10T21:11:00.006+02:00

Four years ago today I was in a new group, oblivious to him and all he'd change.

Four years ago today I was at the beginning of a short holiday, unaware of the long journey I was starting.

Four years ago today I'd only been across the border to Poland once, knew nothing of the culture, never consciously heard the language.

Four years ago today I was happy living in Belgium, collecting experiences and friends, with no desire to start again, no need to discover another world.

Four years ago today I thought it was a normal day, not realising the days that followed would be different. Transformed.

Four years ago today if you'd told me I'd just met my future husband, I'd have laughed in your face.

Now I can only smile.

podatki

2008-07-01T21:45:00.005+02:00

I was all prepared. I had the form they'd so kindly sent me, my pay slip for the one month that was applicable, my contract, my ID card, plus my health card just in case (this is Belgium. You Never Know) and a bag full of magazines for the waiting room. I was ready.

The building was almost completely unmarked, but I only had to pass it twice, with a short detour into the carpark and a hasty check in my bag for the number before I found the front door. Simple.

As I emerged from the lift on the fourth floor and into the corridor, I found it full of people, as I'd been warned. What I hadn't been told about was the new system they'd introduced. 'Prenez un ticket Madame' a kindly soul advised me from the mass. 'Mais ou ca?' I asked (stopping myself just in time from sending her an outraged glare and spluttering 'Mademoiselle! Not Madame!'), expecting one of those machines you find in all good post offices nowadays. Even in Poland. 'Dehors' the lady continued, woefully. I went back towards the lift and found a pile of bright orange cards, with large wobbly hand-written numbers on them. Mine said 106. Oh Belgium, I thought, and went back into the throng.

A young man in a t-shirt and gelled hair came out of the office and shouted a number. It sounded suspiciously like 20. I decided to blame that on missing the first bit of what he said and him, with his Flemmish accent, actually saying 80 (vingt and quatre-vingts are easily mistakeable, especially to someone with a ticket that says 106). When he came out and said 21, I almost walked out. Then I realised if I didn't do this now, I would miss the deadline and they would never give me all that tax back. I had to be patient and get through the magazines.

A seat was vacated and for some reason nobody wanted to take it. After leaving a respectable pause, I wandered over, and plonked myself down, between Mr 35 and Mr 72. Mr 35 was reading a book in French, and Mr 72 was one of those heavy smokers who speaks through a film of phlegm and gravel, and smells like an old pub's unwashed carpet. Hence the reluctance to take the seat maybe? Maybe.

A larger, older man emerged from the office next, and asked us to kindly take our documents out of their envelopes and unfold them, ready for inspection. Well that really set the crowd off. 'Unfold them! They make us wait hours and then get us to do half their work!' cried an older lady in a headscarf. 'As if folded papers are the probem here' snorted a young father with his daughter. 'Ridicule,' muttered Mr 72. I opened my magazine and tried to lose myself in last week's news.

Soon an old man shuffled in, took one look at the crowd and shouted 'ah, NON!' A lady sitting on a bench near the entrance stood right up, offered him her seat and told him the queue was moving very quickly. 'No, but I can't wait' the old man explained, slowly, carefully. 'I am diabetic and have to take my medication.' Mr 72 snorted next to me in disbelief. The woman told the old diabetic to go straight to the front. Tell them, they'll see you next.' He shuffled to the front, past the scowls and odd sympathetic glances, and told the man at the front his predicament. He was quickly ushered in, amid a few grumbles from old men and women seated around the corridor.

The queue kept moving, and eventually I had shuffled up to near the door. Finally, I was shown to a neat man sitting behind a desk and he took all of 2 minutes to type in all my details. The computer froze twice, and even so, I could hardly believe the speed with which it was done.

'That's it?' I asked. 'All that waiting, for that?' 'Oui madame,' said the old patient tax man, 'c'est tout.'

Seeing the money arrive into my account though, now that might require a bit of a wait.

Memories of Cyprus in June

2008-06-28T13:24:00.004+02:00

I follow the man to the taxi, a little annoyed as I've missed the bus by minutes, and the cheaper shared taxi has stopped running too. A normal taxi from the capital to the coast is not as cheap as I'd like. 'Where you go?' the driver asks, a cigarette butt dangling from his mouth. 'Larnaca,' I reply. 'Sandbeach castle hotel, between the town centre and the airport.' 'You sure?' He asks, puzzled. 'I think I know all hotels, but this I not know.' I describe the location again, and add 'not far from the fishing port' for effect. 'We see.' He replies, revving the engine.

We drive through the outskirts of Nicosia in silence, him giving me the odd curious glance in the rear view mirror. He is measuring me up. 'You smoke?' he asks, and then adds 'I think no', before I have a chance to respond. 'No,' I agree, 'I don't.' I wonder why he is asking, then notice the sticker on the window, laying out the dos and don'ts of taxi driving in Cyprus. The things a taxi driver is obliged to do includes 'load and upload passengers' luggage'; 'always look neat and well-groomed' and, 'not smoke while passengers are in the vehicle.' I think I understand that he is testing the water to see if he can smoke, but too much time has passed to bring it up again easily, and anyway, I think as he lets out a throaty cough, it'll do him good. 'Ah, you mind when I smoke?' he asks, and I smile. 'No, that's fine' I tell him, deciding it is not up to me to feel bad for his health. 'You know, in Cyprus is not allowed.' he adds, slightly sadly. 'If you say no, I must say ok.' 'Honestly, I don't mind,' I insist. He smiles a toothy grin and lights up.

We continue a little way in silence then he asks me about my stay in Cyprus. 'Jus' work?' he asks, incredulously. 'But you see Nicosia? You see beach?' I explain about my one free day sandwiched between meetings and assure him I'm willing to return, next time for a little longer. 'If situation better, Cyprus is paradise,' he assures me. Unsure whether it is wise to get into politics, I just nod, but this encourages him to continue. 'You know? Before invasion, everyone live everywhere. Turkey Cypriot marry Greek, Greek marry Turkey. No problem. Then, army come, two thousand hundred people must to leave the North and come here. Before, lots of Turkey Cypriot live in South. They exchange with Greek in North. No more here.' I make a noise which I hope expresses my dismay and comprehension of his frustration. 'But we all the same!' he adds emphatically. 'We all Cypriots.' Trying not to be waylaid by an interest in why he should have mastered Cyprus-Cypriot, but not Turkey-Turkish, I nod my agreement.

Tiring of politics, he points out landmarks. 'Here is big new buildings. You see? IKEA, Carrefour, Zara. They all building building building.' Then he looks at the bright side. 'But we have good road now. To Larnaca, to Pafos. Everywhere we drive safety and no traffic.' His idea of driving 'safety' is to chundle along in the fast lane of the dual carriageway (the A2, but not as we know it) until someone comes up fast behind him. He then takes his time moving over to let them pass, and gets right back in the fast lane. If he is lighting a cigarette at the same time, it can take him an extra couple of nerve-wracking seconds to get out of the way.

Nearing the exit to Larnaca, the driver remembers he doesn't know where we're going. 'What is called hotel?' 'Sandbeach castle' I repeat, then take out my guidebook, to check that is the hotel's exact name. It is. He spots the book and asks, 'you have phone?' I nod. 'Yes, you give phone and I ask how we get there.' I read out the number and he dials, one hand on the steering wheel. 'Hello?... hello? ....HELLO!' he starts, and then he lets out a torrent of Greek, gesticulating wildly and shouting into the phone. The tone is aggressive, but not angry and he finishes with a chuckle. 'Is fine!' he says, catching my worried glance in the rearview mirror. 'You right, between centre and airport. But I take you show pretty street. You not visit Larnaca yes?' I shake my head, explaining my time in Larnaca so far has amounted to half an hour on the beach, the sun setting behind me.

The road gets smaller, and we are stopped by traffic lights. he lights a third cigarette. 'This main Larnaca street.' It is unremarkable. The sea is visible in the distance and we trail slowly behind a long procession of cars, all taking the scenic route. We meander past stalls selling cheap toys and clothing, the sea on our left, rows of palm trees trying their best to hide the ugly blocks of hotels on our right. The driver sighs with impatience and looks back to me. 'I sorry, you see is not my fault.' He shrugs. 'Is ok? Is no problem?' 'Don't worry' I say, genuinely appreciating the rare chance to gawp at the burned flabby tourists buying cheap plastic crap. 'It's nice to see this.'

We pass groups of stragglers, returning from the beach, dressed in swimming costumes and towels, arms full of buckets and spades, loungers and blow-up floats. The beach still looks inviting, with its umbrellas and palm trees. The sea is glistening blue. The driver notes my approval. 'You know? Cyprus beaches all clean. All blue. You know? The EU? They give all beaches blue flag.' He is triumphant about his beaches. Then he is slightly sheepish. 'Well, not hundred percent, but 95 I think. Nearly every beach clean. Is not like this in Greece. Greece beaches only 70. Turkey beaches 50. Not clean like Cyprus.' I smile and he sits back in his seat happily. 'You come back. Two weeks in sea, you understand how clean is beach.'

We are almost at the end of the promenade, and the palm trees have petered out. There is now a clear view of the restaurants displaying photos of the food they have on offer. I find that very off-putting, along with the gangs of bald beer-bellied Brits that are generally frequenting the joints, but try to stop being such a snob and make appreciative noises, for the driver's sake.

'Here they start fish taverns' he says, after pointing out McDonalds and then a couple of restaurants he has tried and liked. 'Your hotel is close. We go now.' We drive past more blocks, some housing cafes and restaurants, others over estate agents. I point out the hotel and he pulls up beside the front gate. The meter has been ticking away, but it is still only as much as I had budgeted for. I hand over the cash and ask for a receipt. 'Sure! Sure! I always have receipt. The others, no. But I always have. You need another? I give this but I can give two! You want?' After assuring him one was all I needed, I thank him and he wishes me a nice evening.

I'm glad I missed the bus.

the beauty of modern living

2008-06-16T20:28:00.000+02:00

From: Facebook

To: Me

Subject: Marek said that you two are engaged...

Marek said on facebook that you two are engaged. We need to confirm that you two are, in fact, engaged to Marek.

To confirm this relationship request follow the link below.

the proposal

2008-06-15T19:08:00.000+02:00

I don't know whether it was the eternally romantic atmosphere of Paris; or the emotions tied up with going to a wedding; or the ring burning a hole in his pocket.

Maybe it was simply that he had become sure, as I am, that we are happiest when together; that nothing feels quite right without that sharing, talking and laughing each day; and that if we are linked forever and keep managing to make each other smile and feel that happiness, work through the tough bits and hold on to each other, then life might just turn out alright.

I'd noticed the nervous fidgeting, laughed off the mumbled excuses about important football matches, and followed when led to the bench under the tour. The ring made me gasp, his tender words drew the tears and I realised that nothing could have prepared me for it. It was perfect.

How to miss the night train from Prague, made easy

2008-05-22T13:24:00.003+02:00

The last meeting surrounding the last day of the Important International Conference that had been preoccupying the time of many many people came to an end, as even Important Events tend to do. The whistlestop tour of the beautiful city over, I went back to the hotel to collect my luggage and get myself to the night train to Warsaw.

I set out from the hotel, wheelie suitcase pulled behind me, in the direction I was fairly sure I'd find the tram. Sure enough, there was the tram stop, and the number 22 was approaching slowly down the road. I had so much time, it seemed silly to go straight to the station, but then again, I could stock up on some rations for the journey, and grab a bite to eat along the way.

The tram driver stopped unhelpfully far down the stop, so I walked fast to make sure he knew I was headed his way. As I lifted my suitcase onto the tram, a man sitting in the second row looked at me and my case, and slowly stretched out a hand, pointing to a large red sign hanging over the place that usually shows the destination. I nodded and smiled my appreciation, then set about trying to figure out what the hell the sign said. There were four words. Four Czech words. None were close enough to Polish to be helpful, and as we set off along the track, I decided it must mean it was not going as far as usual, naming the stop it would end. I'm not altogether sure why I came to this decision, and I still have no idea what the sign actually said, but the most helpful comment at that stage would have been TURN BACK NOW! You have NO idea what awaits you. Benefit of hindsight huh. There was no such sign. Just the incomprehensible Czech one.

The tram tracks split, and we went the wrong way. Hmm, I thought. I think I'd better get off this tram. We'd only gone 3 of the 5 stops I was supposed to go before changing trams, but I knew the other tracks were parallel so I'd just walk down here... no maybe down here... and find them right away, get on a tram going the route it is supposed to, and be right back on track.

I pulled the suitcase, noting the annoying noise the wheels were creating, and kept walking. I passed street after street and failed to come across any more tram tracks. Oh well, I thought. I'm basically heading for the centre and that must be this way. This road seems to lead downhill so it'll probably end up at the river, then I'll know where I am and I can check the best route to the station. Sweet. I set off down the street, which got ominously quiet, but then a man passed me and I saw the bent figure of an old lady walking very slowly ahead of me. As I came up behind her, the old lady made way for me and my noisy case, smiling briefly, then halting in her tracks and spouting a whole load of Czech. I made an apologetic face and said I didn't speak Czech. For some reason I said this in Polish, although I'm sure the message would have been just as clear in any other language. Still, she said 'aah' and shook her head sadly, saying in Czech what I assumed to mean 'you don't speak Czech.' I should have learned that phrase from her for the next time.

At the end of the road was a crossing, and I chose the route past the antique car showroom and towards promising twisty cobbled streets, one of which, I was sure, would lead to the river. I turned down the second one, noting the dog walkers and joggers. Good indicators for rivers, I thought.

Or parks, was my next reflection, as I came round the corner and saw the park gates. Before I got there though, a jogger jogged his way over to me and started asking me about 'autobusy'. That much I understood. Sorry, I said, again in Polish. I don't speak Czech. He said 'oh right,' or something of the sort, and jogged off up the hill. Why people do this when they see me I don't know, but my very first day in Warsaw was the same. I got stopped by old ladies, young ladies, old men, young men, even [Polish-speaking] tourists had something to ask me that day. I seemed to be wearing the same Questions? Just ask me! sign on my forehead. This time in Czech.

Entering the park, I saw a map. I like a good map. Of course I had one in my bag, but it only covered the very centre, and I'd lent someone else the more comprehensive one we'd got in our conference packs. I looked for and found the river on the map and decided to follow the most direct path around the park. I still had an hour an a half before the train, but I decide there was no point in taking too much of a detour. Ha.

The sight of me, slightly bedraggled and pulling an awkward suitcase behind me, was presumably not what the people on scooters usually saw on their exhausting-looking repeated circuits of the park. They seemed a little surprised. I just returned their smiles. The path twisted and split. I followed the route that led out of the park towards the river. Except. No, this was not the river. This was a canal. I walked a little further and passed a hotel, the gate padlockd shut.

Even further on was a sports centre and a crowd of footballing men. I seemed to be in a residential area miles from the centre of Prague. A brief moment of panic was followed by a pull yourself together! thought and then I went back into the park, heading for what was shown on the map as an area likely to have people I could ask for directions without interrupting the game.

As I continued down the path, curious glances came my way. Families out walking, cyclists enjoying the sunny weather, and me. With my scratchy old case. Then I saw the train tracks and I was sure I was nearly there. No evidence, but a train passed. It would stop soon and I'd come out of the trees, straight into the station. It was all going to be ok!

I saw another map, and went over to see whether the station was marked. No such luck. A couple on bikes went past, and exchanged surprised glances. They cycled up an incline and the man shouted out that they'd found the bridge. I looked behind me but he was definitely talking to me. In German. 'The bridge is over here.' he repeated. There's this one over the canal, and then another.' It barely seemed odd that a complete stranger had gone to the trouble of telling me there was a bridge, without even knowing where I was headed. I took it as a sign 'Uh, ok.' I said, 'um, thanks.'

I set off over the bridge, and it slowly registered that the train was going to leave in 45 minutes, I was in the middle of nowhere, on a bridge over a canal I didn't even know existed and if I didn't do something, I was going to miss my train.

A large family, made up of large mother, large father and extra large young daughter came my way. I approached the woman with my least threatening, most pitiable expression. I asked if she spoke English. She shot me a horrified look and shook her head violently. I tried Polish and her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. A little. I showed her the map, pointed at the name of the station and asked if it was far. He eyebrows were now right up by her hairline. 'Far! It's far!' she repeated. She told me to continue to the main road on the other side and that there'd be a bus. I thanked her and walked a little faster.

Almost at the main road, I decided two opinions were better than one and stopped a man, approaching me with his dog. 'The station! Oh, but that's this way,' he said pointing back in the direction I'd come. 'It's very close!' He took my bag and led me back down the hill. 'But this station?' I asked again, pointing at the ticket. 'Oh!' he said, his face darkening, 'but that's a different station.' A woman passed at this time and joined the discussion. 'You must take the bus! Up here!' she pointed back up the hill. It was ridiculous and I almost let out a burst of hysterical cackling, but managed to hold it in. The man shrugged, apologised, gave me back my bag and carried on his way. The woman took over. She chattered on in Czech, me getting the gist of every fifteenth word. I kept asking about how long it would take, conscious I had half an hour or so to get there. 'Forty minutes,' she said. Shit. I thanked her, she wished me luck and disappeared and I checked the timetable. The bus wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes. I needed a taxi. I rummaged in my bag and miraculously found the piece of paper the conference organisers had provided a taxi number on.

I called and squirmed inside as it rang and rang. A smooth voice told me I was first in the queue, in English. Good sign. When the operator picked up, the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello? hello, do you speak English?
Her: Yes of course.
Me: Great, I need a taxi, urgently, I'm... oh shit where am I? I'm a bit lost and I've been walking around and I need to get my train. I'm in a bus stop. The, er, number 112. I think I'm near the zoo.
Her: [snorts of laughter] I need an address. Can you see the street name?
Me: No, there's no... wait, yes, it's Trojska. [triumphant] Trojska!
Her: [openly laughing at me now] OK, what is your name please?
Me: Becca
Her: OK, Mrs Becca you wait and taxi comes in ten minutes.
Me: But I need to catch a train, could you please ask them to hurry
Her: [still laughing] Ten minutes.

I stood by the roadside, forlorn and convinced it would be too late. A taxi sped past and I waved my arms like a madman, but he didn't stop. When the next came, I didn't even try to stop him, but he stopped anyway.

He leaned over from the driver's seat and asked, first in Czech, then in English, whether I needed a cab. 'But I just called one,' I said, checking the sign on the car, which didn't match that of the company I'd called. He shrugged. Seizing the opportunity, I showed him my train ticket. 'Can I make it?' I asked, the anxiety clear in my voice. He looked at his car clock. 'Ooh,' he said, shaking his head. 'I don't know. It's 21.02 and your train leaves at 21.24.' 'But is it possible?' I pleaded. 'I would say you must leave now,' he said. 'Right then, will you take me?' He laughed. 'Sure!' I got in, pulled the case in on top of me and he revved the engine. Then I remembered my wallet, empty of Czech Crowns but surprisingly padded with euros. 'How much will it cost?' I asked, as he worked his way through the gears. '200, 250 crowns.' 'Can I pay in euro?' 'Um, ok, ten euro.' 'I'll give you fifteen if you get me there.' He laughed again. I seemed to be amusing a lot of people.

We moved slickly through the traffic, onto overpasses, weaving past slower moving vehicles. He turned up the radio and the bass pumped in my ears, drowning out my heartbeat, which was thumping with the adrenaline. I kept my eye on the clock. Fifteen minutes until it leaves. Twelve. Nine. Suddenly we were there. I handed him the money, thanking him continuously for getting me there. Still laughing he wished me bon voyage and I ran to the departure board, to the platform and onto the train.

It was 21.22.

I stood in the corridor outside my compartment, leaning out of the window into the cool night air like the other passengers. I was grinning and sweaty and surprisingly muddy, but it was the best feeling in the world. I slept like a log.

radfahren

2008-05-12T13:37:00.006+02:00

Dear tiny furious cycling man,

I just wanted to thank you for the insight you gave me when our paths crossed so briefly, but so memorably yesterday. Just two short words, but they conveyed so much.

Mum had just discovered a puncture you see, and the reason I was swiveled round in my seat was to ask her whether she had enough change for the tram to get home. It's true I was on the wrong side of the cycle lane, and I can understand your reluctance to cross that strong white line, onto the wide empty path saved for pedestrians, surprisingly empty at that point. The better solution was surely to shout an indignant 'HEY!' as you approached us over the hill. Catching our attention like that was a smart move. It gave us a chance to admire your shiny cycling shorts and serious way of hunching over your racing bike's handlebars. It even allowed us a fairly good look at your screwed up anger, boiling up inside your shiny red face.

I duly steered over to the right, but that wasn't enough for you, was it? You had to rub it in, make my unforgiveable lack of adherence to road regulations really clear. Make it sting.

'Traum nicht!'

That was paired with an impressively indignant hurrumph.

Traum nicht? Don't dream? Jesus, absolutely! Why would anybody dream. On a bike! I mean, it was Sunday, and the bicycle path by the river was full of weaving cyclists that all needed to be told not to dream. But you were right to pick me out, defiantly ignoring the rules and casting around for a way to wreak havoc on other cyclists. You, with your racing tyres and need for speed. I bet you weren't distracted by the sun shining off the river, making it sparkle and twinkle so invitingly it was all I could do not to jump right in. I bet the families of happy campers passed you by, the kids on unsteady rollers and speedy little scooters, parents walking contentedly hand in hand under the shade of the riverside trees. Perhaps you missed the old folk too, wheeled along by carers to they too could benefit from the glinting water. If only I could have been as concentrated as you, not led off track by other people, or events unfolding around me.

That was all insignificant to you, and so it should be. All these irritating people getting in the way. All those annoyances walking blithely into your path, taking their eyes off the purpose, the point of a bicycle ride, Sunday afternoon or not. Dreamers, the lot of them. Don't dream! Focus on the goals, stick to the paths so carefully drawn out for you, pump your legs up and down, up and down and race! Race! Race!

Prick.

Yours sincerely,

Becca

wie bitte?

2008-05-06T18:47:00.004+02:00

Marek dropped my hand and pushed open the door for me. I smiled at his Polish manners and walked into the half-full pub, loud groups of older Germans scattered about eating and drinking.

We chose an empty table near the back and helped ourselves to a menu. After a while, the waitress came over, apologising for having forgotten us and advising us to shout her over next time she abandoned us for too long. 'Dobrze,' I said loudly and instinctively. My hand shot to my mouth and I felt my cheeks burning. 'Um, gut, sehr gut,' I mumbled, catching the startled waitress' eye and hoping she'd think I was foreign rather than just plain weird.

'Ein koelsch und ein hefeweizen bitte,' I annunciated clearly and slowly, checking each word was in the right language before I went on to the next. She smiled and went off to get our drinks.

Every conversation with the waitress after that was conducted with a serious expression and high levels of concentration. She clearly thought we were crazy foreign beings, with our staring eyes and yelps of success as the right vocabulary was located, but our approach worked. The meal was delicious - bratkartoffeln fried with just the right amount of onion and bacon; thick chunks of steak cooked to perfection and salads with that creamy herby dressing the Germans do so well. It all took me back to the last few years of school, when we'd been based in Bonn and I relied on my school-German to get me about and keep me and my friends supplied with beer and entertainment.

It still feels like home - familiar and comforting, with good old memories and plenty of freshly made new ones. The ordered systems of pfand and recycling are still pleasantly satisfying and the slow pace of life, where cycling along the river seems like the most natural way to pass a day is a welcome break from working life in Brussels.

No matter how much like home it feels though, my automatic response to a question I haven't quite heard is still 'slucham?'

in need of a break

2008-05-05T22:25:00.002+02:00

You see I get it now, this Grown Up life with its proper jobs and responsibilities and organised entertainment.

I understand that adult life is just an extension of childhood, except you perform social rituals with colleagues as well as friends, you learn the rules and choose to follow them or break them depending on the kind of person you are. You make mistakes and learn how to be accepted. You fulfill your tasks and get some kind of pleasure from Doing Your Job Well. I can see that. I understand how it works.

Can I get off now?

green parrots and sunshine

2008-04-13T13:42:00.006+02:00

I shut the fridge, pick up my plate and head through the door into the sunshine. As I take my seat, I instinctively tilt my head upwards, towards the rays, and pause a moment before starting my lunch. I take my first crunchy bite into the baguette, sit back and listen to the birds, serenading me invisibly from their branches.

The gardens below differ in style, but add together to create an orderly patchwork of trees and shrubs. Some lawns are patchy, others impeccable deep green. Some trees have new branches growing straight up towards the light, others have been hacked back, tweaked into unnaturally neat shapes, or chopped right down, just their stumps reaching blindly into the air.

I close my eyes again, and notice the happy hum of children's voices coming from the left, a few gardens along. My eyes snap open at a loud buzzing by my left ear. A bee bumbles along, flower to flower, sucking and slurping on his lunch as I pick saucisson from my teeth.

Two men emerge from the house opposite, one handing the other his cigarette pack. As they light up, their voices float over, the relaxed Sunday voices of friends. They lean over their balcony, one pointing and explaining while the other asks questions. I can't hear individual words but they form the easy conversation of people in no hurry to go anywhere. I am in no hurry either.

A flash of squawking green catches my eye, and I turn my head to watch two parrots, inhabitants of the nearby park whose ancestors escaped from zoo transport, or so the story goes. They wheel up into the sky, circling once before coming to rest a few gardens to my right. I wonder vaguely where they nest, how they dealt with the snow a few weeks back.

My plate cleared, I head inside again and put it in the sink. The sun goes behind a cloud and my neighbours return indoors. I think about blogging and for once think I might have something to write. It's not so bad this Brussels life.

The best thing about the flat I rent in Brussels is the balcony. It's big, it's quiet, and it looks over gardens as far as you can see in either direction. It's great.

The balcony was the one thing we were never so thrilled about in the otherwise perfect Warsaw flat. Internal, no trees swaying in the background, no birdsong or buzzing insects.

Now I'm hoping the Brussels balcony will do its bit to draw my Pole over here. Job? pah. Who needs money when you have green parrots and sunshine?

ahem

2008-04-06T22:58:00.004+02:00

Well, April blogging would have got off to a better start if I hadn't woken up on April 1st with eyes swollen shut, itchy blotchy red marks all over my face and neck and having almost lost the will to live. Still, it did its best to make me slow the hell down and The Great Allergic Reaction of 2008 will surely feature in the book of Becca right after The Neverending Glandular Fever of 1994 and The Freakishly Swollen Knee of 1988.

Since my face went back to normal and people stopped giving me the kind of staring looks that showed they were desperately trying not to dart glances all over my puffy bizarre-looking face, life has got much sweeter. Work took me to Slovenia, to a useful conference and to everyone-always-told-me-it-was-beautiful-and-damn-they-were-right Ljubljana. I got a macbook (yay!) which should have multiplied my blogging potential, as I can do it from right here between the covers.

This weekend had me and my Pole together again, trying to cram it all in before the Sunday night flight took him back to Warszawa. The time jeered us as it flew by, the sinking feeling getting stronger as our weekend disappeared. We walked, talked, and even snuck a peek at the village where we first met but all too soon it was time for him to vanish through the gate at Charleroi and be wizzaired away until next time.

new month's resolutions

2008-03-29T18:16:00.005+01:00

When you get into the habit of rushing around all the time, barely pausing between the essentials of work-eat-sleep, days merge into one long blur, punctuated by the odd visit, event, holiday (Easter anyone?).

You hardly have a chance to register the beauty of days that change from this...

into this...
...in the space of a few hours.

You don't make time for friends, you don't pay proper attention to the world - skimming the news and leaving snatches of overheard discussions floating in the breeze, not followed up and never completed. You don't visit all the sites you used to follow, missing the words of bloggers whose thoughts would resonate with your own, if you only let them.

I don't anyway. In April I will. April will be different.

Belgium: must try harder

2008-02-24T12:12:00.004+01:00

Marek pulled in to the shiny new petrol station outside Auchan. Apparently, some rule recently came in about opening times for supermarkets. There is a clause about the rule not applying to petrol stations, so the supermarket promptly built a petrol station to get out of whatever it was that it didn't want to do. (Sorry, I don't know any more details and someone may well have made that story up, I can't remember where I heard it. So if you work for Auchan don't sue me, but it's something along those lines. Ta.)

I was just musing over how new builds like the petrol station showed how far Poland has embraced the modern world - the bright lights and slick machinery showing off the latest in petrol technology - when a man came up to the window. He was bundled up in puffy layers, with a reflective coat over the top and his breath left traces in the -5 air. After writing something on a post-it note, he handed it over. I was confused. I looked at note, saw a number and noticed it corresponded to the number on the pump. OK. Then I looked at the exit barrier, just past little huts where you paid for the petrol. It was all clear.

In this shiny new petrol station, with its modern system of filling your car and drive-thru paying on the way out, the managers had stumbled on a worry. What if people forgot the number of their pump? What if they tried to cheat the system and pay for someone else's petrol who'd taken less? The solution, according to the people in charge? A man in bright clothing standing in the freezing cold, handing out numbers on post-it notes. Genius.

Poland: top of the class.

Pijemy Po Polsku

2008-02-24T11:59:00.002+01:00

This blog is struggling on. Like a plant short of water and straggling yellow-leaved up towards the light, it's still here. Not happy, not living its full potential, but surviving.

I remember the days of Polish classes, visits to refugee centres around Warsaw and empty afternoons in our cosy flat, when my projects kept me busy and my blog ate up all my spare time. Spare time! I remember that!

Surprisingly people still come here and read the few notes I manage to jot down in between my Proper Job, work trips to places I can't pronounce and meetings I am actually expected to contribute to. It's another world.

One thing I was happy to discover last week was a newish collaborative blog about Poland. We had such fun with P3 (remember that?) Ah, the memories... [by the way, the old site is still up but the newer one, which was slicker because it was wordpress and paid for, has died. People left, others had babies and everyone got very busy.]

So, basically what I'm trying to say, is thanks for continuing to come here, even though I'm a bit rubbish at the moment. And when there's nothing to read here, there's bound to be something interesting going on over there at Polandian.

Bruksela

2008-02-16T09:06:00.004+01:00

I turn my head as a mother tells her child to 'chodź tu!' and smile as two girls enter a shop in front of me, discussing last night's 'dyskoteka'.

A group of men standing around a removals van break their conversation as I wander past, but I get snatches of 'strasznie zimne' and 'jutro zobaczymy' as they resume their chat.

Two boys crossing the road in the opposite direction fight over a bag and I hear 'oh! widzisz!' as they drop it.

The one thing I wasn't quite prepared for about Brussels life was the Polishness of it all.

Meme. Meh.

2008-02-09T13:55:00.000+01:00

I may have been tagged in memes before, in fact I know I have, but I have this sneaky suspicion (read: crystal clear memory) that I've never actually followed through and completed the assignment. It's still early enough in the year for me to feel guilty about not having made any new year's resolutions, so with my vague aim of Doing Better at Everything, I am going to do what was asked of me, by Pani Pinolona...

Here's my list of seven random facts about me that are strange but most definitely true.

1. Jobs
It's taken me 27 years to get a Proper Job. Although that in itself isn't particularly strange, the jobs I had beforehand mostly were. Oh I've been a waitress, translator, proofreader, art gallery assistant, UN conference assistant, volunteer and intern... but the strangest thing I did was probably the gig driving around Lytham St Annes, interviewing kids in playgrounds for a local government project redesigning them according to users' needs. Interesting, sure, but definitely Odd.

2. Celebrities
Salman Rushdie once trod on my foot as I passed wine around the guests at a poet's party. He didn't say sorry either. My admiration for him was dinted somewhat. Then there was the time my friend Jo got me and her tickets to a kids programme on the bbc when we were about 8. We sat behind Liza Minelli as she was interviewed and marvelled at her large bum. I was awestruck by her super long fake eyelashes. My third near-celebrity experience was when I wrote a poem about peace for Terry Waite when he was released from Beirut. I sent it to him and received a very nice letter back.

3.Bands in Bonn
One thing that makes a fifteen year old who has been ripped from her friends/home/school/life in her own country and dragged kicking and screaming to foreign lands more open to her new environment is the prospect of seeing Indie bands that give huge concerts back home, in intimate smokey bars. Crispin Mills' knee bumped mine once as we sat on a sofa backstage; the Stereophonics got us smashed on their tour bus another time and the Dodgy boys used to wave as soon as they saw us, we went to so many of their gigs. The climax of that great time was the evening we waited in a hotel bar, after pleading phone calls to parents asking for another couple of hours... the hotel staff told us there was no guarantee they'd appear, and for a while we sat, despondent and convinced it was a waste of time. Then. Then, they appeared. We finally plucked up the courage to approach them and soon we were sitting on a table with them, filling in a questionnaire on their behalf for a French magazine and having pseudo-philosophical conversations. Dave was sweet, Alex was drunk and swaying and Graham was very chatty. Damon however stayed in his room.

4. Hollywood
I thought I was going to grow up to be an actress for quite a long time. I realise lots of little girls think this, but I had good reason for such ambitions as I'm sure you'll agree when you see the roles that came my way, at even an early age. My starring roles have included (but are not limited to): a cow in animal farm (I think I was Daisy, but that could be a false memory. Gertrude rings a bell too); the Angel Gabriel in the nativity (yes, my costume was made entirely of a white sheet and tinsel); a cockerel in Noah's flood (actually that was a damn good mask. I kept it for quite a while); and a maid in dracula (a vampire too I seem to remember. Think the cast was a bit smaller in that production).

5. Music
As well as being an accomplished actress, I have been known to make the odd feeble attempt to make music. Ha. I "play" the piano and recorder. Not strange enough? OK then, I play the harp too. I joined an orchestra once, which went on tour. I advise against the harp if you are playing concerts on tour in halls that are up hills. My lasting memory of that trip is one long neverending mountain and me at the back of the group pulling the harp on its trolley.

6. Appearance
I hate my right foot. It's really ugly.

7. Embarassment
My Dad has always been very proud of being a good Dad. In his book that means embarassing his kids as much as is humanly possible. He takes great joy in it. Just one example (of hundreds):
I have come to the end of school. As our school is an international school that used to be an American school, certain traditions (like prom) have persisted. The year book comes out and all my friends are standing about looking at the back page. There, parents have written loving messages to their graduating kids - 'we're so proud of you son!' 'you have been the best daughter we could have wished for!' and 'we know you will succeed in anything you decide to do!' Then, my mouth falls open and I gasp involuntarily as I spot a picture of 3-year old Becca in a fairy outfit gleefully waving a wand next to this heartfelt dedication from my own father:

The space is short to put a thought in just a doodle;
No one's poodle, cock-a-doodle, Becksy Boodle!

I'm not tagging anyone. So there.

Look! I'm blogging!

2008-01-30T18:39:00.000+01:00

I know, it's very annoying.

There's nothing more annoying than a blogger who never blogs.

Well, bloggers who never blog except for the odd post to say they are too busy to blog are even more annoying I suppose.

And if I'm really honest, I find those people who stand *right* in front of the conveyer belt in the baggage reclaim place in airports, leaning over to see where their bag is, blocking everyone else's view, most annoying of all. But you get the picture.

The truth is I haven't quite got into the rhythm of Brussels life yet. And whereas Poland always gave me something to nit pick over, or laugh at, or find touching, Brussels is not being very consistently inspiring.

The nearest thing I have found to the inspiration of Warsaw's post offices, is Brussels' metro. Or more specifically the people who produce the signs for the Brussels metro

There were the suppressed bins first - they got me started. But since then, I've seen another giggle-inducing sign.

I saw it yesterday and promptly forgot what it said, just remembering it was mildly entertaining. So today I went armed with a camera...

It's not the beginning bit - all that English is uncharacteristically normal (apart from 'the customers' but we'll let them off that one). No, what got me were the inspired final lines.

A thousand apologies today. A thousand advantages tomorrow.

It's like the sign designer was sitting at her desk, twirling her pencil and dreaming about her unfulfilled dreams of being a poet. I'll show them! she thought I'll show them the beauty of my underused talents. These phrases will bring them to tears. Then they'll rue the day they didn't take my budding promise seriously. This will be the start of GREAT THINGS!

Then she came into work the next day to find the others giving her funny looks, and sniggering behind her back.

To: customerrelations@wizzair.com

2008-01-20T10:33:00.000+01:00

Last weekend I was all set for a couple of days in Warsaw, arriving Friday evening at 11pm, and leaving Sunday afternoon. I have recently moved from Warsaw to Brussels, and as a faithful wizzair customer, had thought it was one of many future flights on this route at these times.

On arrival at Charleroi, at 7.30pm, I checked in and was told there was a delay 'of two hours' by the check-in staff. This was unfortunate, because a couple of hours delay would mean arriving in Warsaw in the middle of the night, but at that point I was just thankful it hadn't been cancelled.

After getting through security, I looked at the departure screen and was rather surprised to see the estimated departure time was 2.05 on Saturday morning. It was around 8pm by this time. I and a planeload of other passengers, had the prospect of waiting 6 hours before leaving for Warsaw.

I tried to find a member of staff to ask, but the only members of staff were the security staff, and they had no information at all. There were no announcements and nobody was available to provide information about why the departure had been delayed so long.

At around 10.30 or 11pm, we were told to proceed to the gate to start 'boarding'. This prompted a cheer from some passengers, who obviously thought we were about to board a plane. Unfortunately, we were just to board a bus, bound for Liege airport. The staff checking tickets told us we were headed to another airport because Charleroi closed earlier than Liege. No further explanation was offered.

Upon arrival at Liege, the busloads of passengers were dumped, along with our bags, and nobody was at the airport to greet us, or tell us what was going on. Indeed, when we found staff members, they denied any knowledge that we were coming. Apparently nobody had bothered to tell them about the change of plan.

The departure board only told us that we would have to wait an extra hour: departure was now at 3.05am.

We all collected our bags, most people headed for the one cafe that was still open, as it was nearing midnight, and prepared to wait. The seats were uncomfortable, the glass-fronted airport was cold and everybody was getting very tired. Again, no announcements, no staff to explain our delay, no information.

Just before 2am, we had to check in once again. The man checking us in told us how he had had to ask for a passenger list to be faxed, as staff at Charleroi had not even called to explain the situation. We boarded and finally left Liege at 3.05am. Instead of arriving in Warsaw on Friday evening, with the prospect of a relaxing weekend, I arrived at 5 am on Saturday, with the prospect of sleeping for most of Saturday morning and a return journey the following day.

I find it unacceptable, even with 'low-cost' airlines, for there to be nobody to explain such a lengthy delay. The 'two hours' delay at the check-in stage was plainly mis-information given to me by somebody who did not want to have to explain to passenger after passenger that they would be expected to wait 6 extra hours before departure.

Not only were we not given any information, but we were not offered so much as a glass of water.

Does wizzair find this acceptable?? It is not the first time I have heard of such experiences, but having gone through it myself, I am weighing up the advantages of low-cost vs. more reliable services.

I look forward to receiving your response and explanation.

oh dear...

2008-01-17T19:55:00.002+01:00

... it has been a little quiet round here hasn't it? Well, here's a pretty picture to look at.

What? I'm busy...

acronyms r us

2008-01-08T18:50:00.001+01:00

Something I actually said to someone at work today:

'Where was the last FDR meeting held? I'm looking for a place for EPAN. Oh, and is it ok if I come to your PCD meeting next week?'

The weird thing is, he understood exactly what I was talking about.

Happy New Year

2008-01-02T18:31:00.000+01:00

The man who sells waffles in Schuman metro station, in the heart of Brussels' Euroland, was not at work today. I tend to think that if he wasn't at work, having presumably decided that too few people wanted his waffles today, then nobody else should have been at work either.

I, for one, was relatively happy to be at work today. It's the beginning of a new year, the sun was shining for once and the empty Schuman metro station was boasting a new sign that made me laugh. The bins had all been covered with metal sheets, presumably because of New Year fireworks and terrorist threats not mixing well with big important Eurobuildings, and each had an accompanying explanation in several languages. The English version was best: for our own protection, the bins had been 'temporarily suppressed'. It conjured images of bins running wild with raised fists, and brave metromen nailing them down with their sheets of metal, protecting all the waffleless people of Brussels from this terrible scourge.

HNY 08

2007-12-27T09:29:00.000+01:00

Christmas has been reassuringly Christmassy, although it sprung up out of nowhere, and caught me unprepared and still focused on The New Job.

As I am all too aware that you are at risk of being savaged by rabid monkeys if you blog about work, I'll contain myself. I'm pretty smug though. Having a Proper Job is mighty fine. A bit knackering, working full time, but exactly what I was hoping for after all my never-ending internships and voluntary projects.

Back to Christmas.

There was turkey, and crackers may have made a prominent appearance, and the Queen was watched. Walks were brief because of the cold and glasses were always full.

New Year's up next and I'm not hiding my excitement about being back in Warsaw for it. Szczesliwego nowego roku!

the recurring goodbye

2007-12-17T18:49:00.001+01:00

I suppose it would have been worse if that first goodbye had been brief and breezy. But seeing a face you love crumple in grief is like someone taking a grater to raw skin. All the rational decisions we took together, all the reasoning and discussing and agreeing, it all fades and we grab at each other, unseeing through smeary eyes, wanting to stop it now. Enough. Let's go back to the simple, steady life of before.

The second time, another Sunday, another week gone, we expect it to be better. We've been fine, kept talking, kept reassuring. We've caught up, chewed over it all, and are still on track. We are strong enough for this so let's do it. Both our coats of armour disintegrate as the time approaches. The gate clicks behind me, I turn and he waves. The lump in my throat rises and only subsides as the tears flow.

By the third week, it should be routine. Until the last minute we are positive and smiley. We talk of the next time, the things we'll do, the extra days we'll have. His arms are pulled tight around me and I want just a few more seconds. Not yet. One last press of his warm lips and he's gone.

How many more of these do we have to get through?

week one

2007-12-15T18:39:00.000+01:00

Monday was full of smiles and hands tired from shaking others. First contacts and introductions.

Tuesday was lists of lists, with side lists and roughly sketched plans.

Wednesday was the first test, a group of kids needing me to present what my new challenge is all about. Evening exhaustion more complete and overwhelming than I remember from recent life.

Thursday was heightened energy levels and a wash of happiness as I realised I was finding my feet.

Friday was anticipation of the weekend, back with my missing and missed person. A complete weekend to talk and feel and be.

yeah yeah I was away

2007-12-08T20:11:00.000+01:00

Spending a full week in Vienna, getting to know new colleagues and getting to grips with new responsibilities may be the best way to prepare for a new job, but it may not be the best way to prepare for a 3-hour long Polish exam.

Despite the brain-killing properties of mulled wine and the confusion factor introduced by dredging up long-forgotten German phrases, I managed to untangle my language threads enough to get through the exam without too much bother.

So yeah, that's why it's been a bit quiet around here, and if I were you I'd get a feed reader sorted rather than popping back on the off-chance that I've posted something new, because things may be a little intermittent for a while.

I'm leaving for Brussels tomorrow, and before then I need to decide which of my possessions, up to 20kg, I would like to take with me.

Luck isn't even close to what I need to get me though this process. Do you have the faintest idea how many pairs of shoes I have?

So! er... no. well whatever.

2007-11-27T10:38:00.001+01:00

I was going to write about the fantasticness of Polish 'milk bars' as demonstrated by this photo:

and then I thought I'd tell you about my musings on how great dogs have it, as demonstrated by this series:

but I seem to have a cold, and no energy for such excitement.

Plus, the snowflakes that I wish were falling softly to the ground outside my window, are actually zig-zagging all over the place, with just as many floating up as floating down, and it's having a strangely hypnotic effect on me.

oh and while we're on the subject of advice...

2007-11-26T11:26:00.000+01:00

I actually have some for you.

If you're washing a winter coat, it's probably best to check all the pockets. Twice even - those pockets can be quite deep, and you wouldn't want to miss anything.

Like your mobile phone for example. If that's in the pocket, and it goes through the wash, it might not work later. And you might feel stupid.

Just saying.

And if anyone is trying to get in touch with me in the next day or so, maybe best to email.

Just saying.

...and breathe

2007-11-26T09:26:00.000+01:00

Now I'm into my last week here, I'm getting a little panicked. My schedule is packed with goodbye meetings, and I'm winding down the work I have to finish before I go. Packing will come later, but the little anxious knot in my stomach tightens every time I think of how little time is left.

If there's one thing I will NOT miss about this place (the only one I have thought of so far) it's the way complete strangers feel free to give you plenty of advice. Thank you for your suggestions, but I'M OK.

I walk to the bins, my arms full of cardboard and plastic that we have dutifully collected to be recycled. A neighbour opens the door and I thank him.

'That all wants to go in the yellow bin, the one for recycling.' he points out helpfully. No, really?? Did you think I'd go to the trouble of seperating my waste, only to throw it in with the rest of the rubbish? Do I really look that simple?

I take little Atom for a walk in the park across the road. He jumps about, thrilled to be out in the middle of so much excitement. As he whizzes back and forth, sniffing, looking about, refusing to pee, an old lady approaches. His back end contorting with the strength of his wagging tail, he goes up to greet her and she strokes his little head, commenting on how much energy he has. She then moves on to telling him that he has nothing to be so excited about, as it's cold and miserable outside. Then, giving me a critical glance, she suggests I buy him a little dog sweater to keep him warm. I smile and move on.

On the next walk, as Atom is growling at a dog in the distance, barking as if he wouldn't curl up in a whimpering heap if the dog were to get within 100m, an old man approaches. I look at him warily, as he is definitely going out of his way to come close.

'Dogs that small should have sweaters' he says, as Atom runs up to him, and jumps at his shin. I sigh, and nod half-heartedly. 'It's too cold for them and they get pneumonia very quickly.' I explain that the dog isn't mine, that I think he's probably ok for a few minutes running about in the fresh air, and that I'll pass on his message to the owner. 'OK, but just bear in mind that they get used to nice warm apartments and then the cold outside comes as a shock.'

I will bear it in mind.

This weekend, I am taking a large (sweaterless) labrador for a short walk around the block of a wealthy neighbourhood. As he is sniffing a patch of grass in front of a big house, the owners pull into the drive in a large SUV. A young woman gets out and glances in my direction.
'Would Pani mind terribly clearing up after her dog?' a shrill, indignant voice issues in my direction. As the dog hasn't done anything, I'm not sure she is talking to me, but I look around anyway and she walks towards me, her husband standing behind her like some kind of mute bodyguard.

'I'm sorry, did he do something?' I ask, confused.

'He was sniffing around here, and I really think people should clear up their dogs' crap!' she says, a little less shrill, but still indignant.

'Of course I will clear up after him,' I say, showing her the bag I have in my pocket. 'But until he gives me something to clear up, there's little I can do.'

'Oh. Thank you.' she says, deflated. What did she want me to do, run around crouched behind him, bag held up to his butt?

I suppose it's quite touching that so many people care enough about so many issues to confront me, and present their opinions, but to be honest, I'd rather they didn't.

I don't tell you, Mr Neighbour, that your incompetence at reporting accurately from house meetings has resulted in a lot of trouble and misunderstandings between the residents.

I don't tell you, Ms Dogsweater, that your fur coat is not only ugly, but probably saw the unnecessary and possibly painful death of several beautiful animals, which is a little ironic really as you think I am not doing enough to protect one little animal that already has everything his little heart could desire.

And I certainly don't tell you, Mrs SUV, that heating your ridiculous mansion and powering your excessive car is doing more damage to the environment than any number of dogs crapping on your lawn.

It's probably good that I'm leaving, or I may be tempted to start answering back.

a warning to us all

2007-11-22T09:34:00.000+01:00

This is Tusia, a calm, brown, slightly overweight dog. And that black blur is her 5 month old son Atom. As in the bomb.

That's not just a bad shot, he always looks like that. A fuzzy blur with a wildly wagging back end.
Oh, ok he does stay still occasionally. On those rare occassions he looks likes this.

Don't let that sweet face fool you. He is Marek's sister's dog and as she is in China for 3 weeks and Marek's parents were asking Marek to sell the little bugger on the internet before she gets back, we decided it was time to do a good deed. Atom came to Warsaw on holiday for a couple of days. Oh yeah.

The first evening was a laugh. He explored, played with a nut (beats a stuffed doggy toy every time) and fought with us. Oh yes, there was a little 'naughty puppy!' moment too. But the real fun began when we went to bed.

Atom usually sleeps in the kitchen with his mum. This was the first time in his short life that he had ever been left alone. We waited for the crying to begin. He whined and scratched at the door. Leave him a little longer, he'll settle down we told ourselves. He whined some more, and after long long minutes of this gave a couple of tenative little barks. I'll put him back in his bed and see if he settles down I said, worried about what the neighbours would think about a barking dog at 1am.

As I loomed out of the darkness towards him, he was so terrified he let out the most godawful noise I have ever heard from a creature that small. A mixture between a continuous bark and a repeated howl, mixed up with a splash of raw pure fear. Marek rushed in and picked him up, trying to calm him down, while avoiding the puddle on the kitchen floor.

If he were our dog we'd have made him stick it out, but for a couple of days, it was just not worth the sleepless nights. Or the evil looks from equally sleep-deprived neighbours.

We ended up sleeping on the sofa-bed, with him curled at our feet. Worse than a baby I tell you.

broodiness is just not helpful at this point

2007-11-20T09:16:00.000+01:00

We were just trying to decide whether Marek's parents should buy exactly the same lamp as we have for the kitchen, or one slightly different but for the same price, when a familiar face appeared out of the crowds.

'Oh hi!' we said, as the people we bought our flat from came closer, the man holding his infant daughter and the woman pushing a laden trolley. While Marek filled them in on recent events, I made silly faces at the baby and smiled back when I got a giggle.

We chatted about the flat next door, which has come on the market at an extortionate price, and they tried to discourage any thoughts of buying it. As I was telling them we were thinking of getting in contact with the owner anyway just to chat even if nothing came of it, I caught the baby's eye again and smiled. She beamed at me, and leaning out of her father's arms, held her little pudgy ones out to me. I tried not show how touched I was, balanced her on my hip and told her what a big girl she was. We chatted for a few more minutes and then went back to Sunday afternoon ikea, the little girl waving bye bye until she was out of sight.

That lovely feeling of someone reaching out to be closer kept me warm all afternoon.

Polska 2 - Belgia 0

2007-11-18T08:16:00.000+01:00

I'm not a huge football fan. I can easily sit through a football match , and even enjoy it at times, but it's not something that really gets my pulse racing. For obvious reasons though, the Poland-Belgium match on Saturday night held a particular attraction.

Marek was exhausted after partyi- I mean training, with his colleagues the day before and mainly kept quiet as I sang along to the Polish national anthem (thank you university choir for teaching me the words) and then provided a very unfocused commentary along the lines of,

'That Artur Boruc goalie looks a little bit like that actor in the film I watched last night, Maciek Kochan-something what's his name? He's in Kriminalni as well, not that I've ever watched it. Did he just say Giraffe-ski? Is that someone's actual name? Look how the shadows of the players change as they move betwen the lights. That one has four shadows but that other one has three. Have you seen that snow all around the pitch? The supporters must be freezing. Do you think faulować (to foul) is a proper verb?'

The match wasn't the most exciting I've ever seen and the Poles waited until just before half time to score the first goal.

'Oooh, it's Żurawski! Not Giraffe-ski after all. Is that related to Żurawina? Cranberries?'

Marek came back to life. 'No, more likely Żuraw, crane.'

'The machine or the bird?'

'Both.'

'How weird that the same word in English stands for both objects and the same word in Polish stands for both objects. I wonder why.'

'It's like German schloss and Polish zamek. They both mean castle and lock.'

'Wow. [thoughtful silence] Do you think these are the kinds of discussions other people have during football matches.'

'Possibly not.'

'I'm glad we're both word geeks. Maybe that's why we never watch football with other people.'

The second goal came just five minutes into the second half and then nothing really happened. I continued giggling every time the commentators mentioned Bąk (pronounced 'bonk', for those of you who still haven't got the hang of Polish letters) and half expected them to carry on in the same vein, shouting 'kapow' and 'wheee' as the ball bounced around the pitch.

I also noticed how they mentioned Polish players much more than the Belgians. Marek's theory was that the Poles had the ball more often, but I think they just wanted to avoid trying to pronounce the Belgian players' names. I wonder how the poor Belgian commentators got on with Blaszczykowski.

Poland deserved to win, and they did. They will now play in the Euro matches for the first time ever. I won't pretend I'm not a little bit chuffed for them, although perhaps the fireworks, tears and claims they were champions of the world (at least that's what that bloody Queen song they always play over and over says) were a little exaggerated. Or premature at least.

I also noticed that...

2007-11-16T10:05:00.000+01:00

Romanian sounds like the kind of language you should understand. Hello is something similar to salut and good evening is something like bueno sera. It's quite melodic and it is possible to listen to someone speaking it for a good few minutes, believing you are just about to understand exactly what is being spoken about, before realising uh, actually? you're not.

On the drive between the beautiful Romanian mountains and the crazy eclectic Romanian capitol there were a lot of pointy haystacks (which look like this) and people walking cows like they were dogs, or waving sticks at little groups of goats. That was all quite exotic.

The adverts lining the main road tended to have little semi-circular holes cut into them at regular intervals. So the wind doesn't push them over? So they don't totally obscure the view? So people can climb up them with mountaineering ropes? Who knows.

I love going to new countries and seeing what they include as part of their day to day life. Diverse doesn't even begin to describe the EU really does it?

2007-11-15T10:15:00.000+01:00

I was in Romania for three nights, each at a different hotel.

The bleak view from the airport hotel

The stunning view from the conference hotel in the mountains

The city view from the hotel in the centre of Bucharest

It's a country I haven't got to grips with. The horses and carts were familiar from rural Poland, as were the women in headscarves. The younger generation with fast cars and flash clothes was understandable and the boards explaining EU investments heartening. The ancient crumbling buildings of Bucharest were in more extreme need of care than anything in Warsaw and the enormity of the communist blocks was far more crushing. Ceauşescu's palace was ridiculous but the mountains were beautiful. It was a very interesting way to spend a couple of days.

or, 'sorry, I don't understand. I'm English'?

2007-11-10T20:02:00.000+01:00

I've had birthdays in England, and France, and Germany and Belgium and Poland.

This year, though. This year will be something new. This year I'll be in Romania.

What's Romanian for 'I feel old'?

this doesn't bode well for being taken seriously in my new job

2007-11-07T17:06:00.000+01:00

A pack of schoolkids had got to the interval queue before me, and I prepared to wait patiently while they ordered their cokes and chocolate bars.

The woman behind the counter was serving them one by one.

'Dla Ciebie?' she'd say ('for you?'), before handing over a can, 'a dla Ciebie?'

Ciebie is the familiar form, and Pan/Pani is polite. It's the worst part of other languages, this, and I have become the queen of creating sentences that avoid all mentions of 'you'.

Soon, there were just a couple of kids in front of me.

'Dla Ciebie?' I heard, directed at the girl directly in front of me. She wanted a sprite, and some crisps.

'A dla Ciebie?' I heard again, and realised, as I met her eyes, that it was directed at me.

'Oh, ah two coffees please,' I ordered, wondering if she was always this familiar. 'I only have 100, will that be a problem?'

Now in Poland, not having change is a sin that can get you booed out of a shop. As a customer, you are expected to have worked out the exact total of your purchases and have it ready, down to the grosz. I expected a sigh, a raised eyebrow at least, and maybe some light swearing if she was really low on change.

'Should be fine!' she smiled, as I steadied myself on the counter from the shock. She must just be a friendly, over-familiar pleasant person, I thought to myself, marvelling at the astonishingness of it all. I wish I could just call people Ciebie, without caring, without worrying about the consequences.

I moved to the side to put milk in the coffees and let the girl behind me order.

'Dla Pani?' I heard, and almost spilled the drinks.

The girl behind me in the queue must have been my age.

The girl behind the counter must have thought I was still at school.

the windows are shut and the heating is on

2007-11-05T11:30:00.000+01:00

It's cold today.

The thermometer told me '1' at 8 o'clock this morning. Now it's saying '2.5' but I think exaggerating so it doesn't scare me. It's bloody freezing.

There are going to be some distinct advantages to finding myself in Western Europe this winter.

A friendly word of advice

2007-11-03T13:17:00.000+01:00

When the buttons on your favourite pyjamas do this...

...it may be time to start thinking about getting new ones.

spreading the happiness

2007-11-02T07:52:00.000+01:00

The thing about All Saints' Day in Poland is that it's a tradition that should be all holy and deep, but too often turns tragic and cheap. (I really didn't mean that to rhyme. But now it's there I kind of like it. Will. Not. Delete.)

Anyway. Everyone heads for the graveyards and spends crazymoney on candles and big impressive displays of flowers. They meet relatives, pray, then get a bit chilly standing around for hours while priests circulate, taking money for prayers.

What do Poles do when they get chilly? Break out the vodka! No, of course not everyone. I am very sure there are plenty of teetotal households where the 1 November is vodka-free, but an awful lot of Poles have a couple of shots, if not at the graveyard itself (although that does happen), then with the family at someone's home.

That in itself is not a problem - hey, who doesn't like to celebrate a holiday with a couple of drinks? The problem is when too many of these people then decide to drive home. In a car. Behind the steering wheel. Drunk.

Every year the police stop hundreds of drunk drivers, and every year people are killed on the roads. Lots of them. No, I don't have numbers to hand, this is not a science report, but lots. Trust me.

From the bus last night we saw ambulance men tending to a body lying in the middle of a busy main road. I'd be pretty thrilled never to see another body lying in the road ever again. This week's been full of them. The news showed the wreckages of cars wrapped around lamp posts and enormous lorries lying on their sides after collisions. I can do without that too.

People are killed on the roads, they are buried and people pray at their graves on November 1 before getting drunk and being killed on the roads.

What a neat cycle.

Our Halloween...

2007-11-01T08:15:00.000+01:00

...was all candles,

...cookies,

...and collapsed heaps of shrieks, arms and legs thanks to the scary spin game...

oh yes we did.

remembering to count blessings

2007-10-30T11:05:00.000+01:00

"Look at all the tourists!" I said, peering through the car window as we passed the entrance to Lazienki park. They were looking through the railings into the President's garden, which was being half-heartedly guarded by a bored-looking guy with a big gun.

We continued down the road, past the embassies and grand ministries. They have begun replacing the old functional street lights with elegant cast iron ones.

"Warsaw's going to be unrecognisable once all these renovations are complete.' I remarked, noting all the scaffolding and freshly painted exteriors. 'The twirls will rival Vienna's soon."

Marek smiled. "You won't recognise it when you come back to visit' he agreed. 'Has Armani always been there?"

I looked out at it all in silence, thinking about how I would miss seeing the city change over time from up close. Of all the cities I've lived in, Warsaw may not be the most beautiful, but it's the one I've come to care most about. Stupid really, to be so attached to a load of bricks, mortar and tarmac.

As we approached the roundabout with its comical palm tree, Marek pointed to the other side where a group of police cars had gathered. "What's all that?" he asked, "why are there so many flashing lights?"

The traffic moved slowly around the roundabout and I noticed the huge rubbish collection lorry that was surrounded by the police cars. "That's weird," I said. "What's the rubbish lorry done?"

As we came closer and turned, I saw the body. Half-covered by a plastic sheet and lying between the wheels of the lorry, he was definitely not moving. I looked away.

There is nothing quite like a dead body to put piddling little worries right into perspective.

countdown

2007-10-26T11:29:00.000+02:00

We crunched through the leaves, fingers intertwined, collars up against the cold.

'That one?' he asked, pointing.

'Sure, it'll do.'

Multicoloured leaves scattered as we made our way over to the bench and sat, Marek brushing a space clear for us with his coat sleeve.

I brought the box out of my bag and opened it. When I handed him an overstuffed sandwich, his eyes lit up and I laughed as he tried to get his mouth around it. We chatted about our mornings and watched the people walking past.

Warmed by the food and office gossip, we continued on our way, still chattering and laughing at the stories. We got to the theatre just as the surly box office lady was about to go for her lunch, but she sighed and sold us tickets anyway.

I walked him back to the office, waving him off with a smile, and picked up some groceries on my way back to the flat.

It was just an ordinary lunchtime but it felt different. Everything feels different.

Now we know our time is limited, no day is standard. We don't say, but it's there. A feeling that reminds us to make the most of what time we've got together. To soak it all in and be grateful for what we have.

Soon, it will be what we used to have.

Who knew a psychology degree would be so useful?

2007-10-23T18:59:00.000+02:00

This new future has temporarily (I hope) brought out the manic depressive in me. Except that rather than months of mania followed by months of depression, my mood swings happen after just a few minutes.

It's such an opportunity! This is mine despite all the odds! A real job with responsibility and a salary! I have waited for this moment for years!

But to leave everything I have in Warsaw... Living in a rented property when we have such beautiful place of our own... Paying mortgage and rent every month... Not to mention how I will cope so far from the Pole...

Luckily I'm wearing myself out. This emotional rollercoaster can't last long. I foresee my next psychological state as a little more stable.

Next stage: planning stage. Practical solutions. Lists.

the future starts soon

2007-10-22T16:26:00.000+02:00

I lay there in the half-light, wide awake. I should have just turned over, emptied my mind and gone back to sleep, but something was nagging.

Someone could change my life today.

I lay on my side, watching him breathing slowly and steadily. Fast asleep and free from the anxiety I was feeling, the uncertainty of whether our lives were going to change direction or stay on this path.

Two options, both with their attractions, no longer in my control.

I imagined the first, with its excitement and opportunity. In my heart of hearts this was what I wanted. It would come with responsibility, and shape everything that followed. But it would mean separation, even if only temporarily. Uncertainty, hostility from some people and tears for sure. Would I be strong enough to break away from this secure home we have created and start again?

Thinking of the second, a lump hardened in my throat. To be passed over again. So close but sent home without the prize. In many ways the outcome I was expecting, trying to prepare myself for. But not what I wanted, if I was brutally honest.

I just had to wait.

And then I had to wait some more.

The call didn't come.

The weekend came.

I waited.

The elections brought hope for change in the country and the voters came out in the sunshine. Job done, a different party took over and pointed Poland in a new direction.

I waited and realised I didn't mind the waiting so much. In fact, I was even half hoping for a different outcome now. We had a new plan for the future. I had convinced myself I already knew which option the call would present me with. I cushioned the disappointment I would feel. It would all be for the best. I was ready.

The call finally came.

My life is going to change after all.

Wienerschnitzel und Weizen

2007-10-18T08:36:00.001+02:00

I left the hotel, smiling goodbye to the man on reception. I was grateful to him for humouring my attempts at German so well, without once resorting to English. The Viennese accent is pretty much incomprehensible to me, so I was impressed that everyone was dealing with my Bonn-learned German so well.

Turning left down the side street the hotel was on, I immediately dismissed the bar opposite. The dark smokey interior was visible through the open door, and the bare-armed waitress was wiping the bar in long, bored strokes. No, I needed somewhere with a bit of life. And food.

Turning left again, I scanned the street ahead for restaurant signs. I wasn't very hungry but it was dinner time, and I needed to distract my mind with something other than the hotel tv. I spotted some golden arches beckoning up ahead, but refused to take the easy option, and turned instead to an authentic-looking restaurant-bar type place. A quick look at the menu and I decided it would do.

Walking in, I didn't get too much of the silent staring I hate so much when walking into a new place alone. I chose a corner seat and soon the waitress handed me the menu. Wiener Schnitzel (pork not veal) and a salad. Yeah, I could manage that. And a weissbier. Definitely.

I took a look around, and wished I'd bought a book. Eating out alone just feels weird. There was a lone guy a couple of tables away reading a newspaper and putting his head up occasionally to shovel food in. There was also a table with a couple of business men, talking in hushed tones and drinking wine. Nothing to look at while I waited.

Then a man entered and without looking around, headed to what I assume must have been his regular table. He was old and disheveled, thick glasses magnifying his staring eyes. The waitress brought him a beer and he handed over the cash, a transaction that had the ease of one that takes place daily.

A rose-seller came in next, offering his bucket around with smiles and winks. He spotted Old Guy and went over to shake his hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. Then his demeanour changed and he brought his face close to Old Guy's, to talk directly into his ear. After a couple of words Old Guy exploded, throwing his arms up and spouting a load of incomprehensible shrieks. Rose-Seller retreated, smiling in a more sinister fashion and repeating aloud that he was owed two euro. While he weaved between tables, offering his roses to all the customers with no success, Old Guy shouted and cursed, denying the debt.

Sipping my beer and no longer feeling the lack of a book to keep my mind busy, I watched as Old Guy's friend arrived. He greeted the waitresses, and listened patiently as Old Guy spluttered out the story of roses and euros. Laughing it off, he scanned the room, a wide smile on his face complementing the jolly orange jumper he was wearing.

At this point my food arrived. A schnitzel the size of a large dinner plate, and a mixed salad. I thanked the waitress and tucked in.

'Guten Appetit!' Jolly Guy said, causing Old Guy to twist round in his seat and look back at me. 'Guten Appetit!' Old Guy added, giving me a toothy grin. 'Um, Danke.' I smiled weakly, unwilling to interact with the table I had assigned as my evening entertainment.

I ate quickly, the Guys' conversation creating a backdrop of sound, and tried not to think about the next morning. The waitress cleared my plate and I paid my bill. I felt the Guys watching me as I put on my coat, and heard 'Auf Wiedersehen' and 'Schoen Abend noch' as I walked towards the door.

'Auf Wiedersehen' I replied, and thought sadly that they were probably going to enjoy the rest of their evening more than I was.

Grüß Gott

2007-10-17T09:40:00.000+02:00

I'd been to Vienna before, but not for years, and it all looked new to me. New and fancy.

Vienna is grand. Not the faded grandeur you might expect from the ex-capital of an enormous empire that no longer exists, but the rich grandeur of a long established and extremely wealthy European capital that thinks very highly of itself. It is grand and twirly and very over the top.

After Warsaw's sparce architectural beauty, Vienna is a bit of a shock to the system. If you walk down a perfectly standard Viennese street and look up, you will generally see this:

Big old highly decorated buildings. With additional twirls.

These additional twirls are very often paired with a couple of expressive little statues for good measure.

For a while I just wandered about, looking up, snapping away at the twirls and sculptures, amazed by the detail in the faces, and the height of the curly bits at the top of buildings.

Then I got dizzy.

Then I decided, if I was going to see anything of Vienna I'd have to stop taking pictures of twirls. And statues.

But that just got me fixed on the ironwork. Sweet Jesus. Why make a straight metal line if you can make it twirly.

Gates can be so dull.

Not in Vienna!

So, after a couple of days of this - being in these flouncy, rich, curly, intricate, twirly, whirly surroundings, I didn't stop noticing, but it stopped being such a big deal. It was the same kind of deal you get with rich Belgian chocolates. The first couple are amazing, you start wondering how you can ensure a daily supply. The next couple are ok, still undoubtedly good quality chocolate, but getting a little cloying and sweet. And after that, you start feeling a bit sick.

This was my favourite statue. Far from any buildings, no flounce, and lots of feeling.

strazak

2007-10-11T09:41:00.000+02:00

As I walked past the fire station this morning, I was met by what looked like all the neighbourhood firemen. Not a situation to complain about, I agree, but a little confusing and out of the ordinary.

They were standing about by their fire engines a little way down the road from the station. All had an air of quiet resignation, as if they were prepared to wait as long as it took.

Although they weren't exactly lined up, it reminded me of school practice fire alarms.

Surely not though eh?

pociag

2007-10-10T12:00:00.000+02:00

The short walk to the train station reminded me how much I like living so close to the centre. The bustle of office workers heading to their shiny glass offices; the sun breaking through the hazy but crisp air; even the hoots and shouts of annoyed drivers just added to the sense of a normal weekday morning in a normal working city.

As I know all too well though, Warsaw isn't completely normal. The station didn't fill me with the same kind of apprehensive dread as the post office might, but I still expected at least one unforeseen obstacle. Would the train be fully booked? Would they refuse to sell me a ticket on my credit card? I tried to imagine all the barriers I might face, in the desperate belief I have held since childhood that if you imagine the worst thing that could happen in theory, it is less likely to happen in practice.

We'd already called to reserve the ticket. We'd got the number from the official, impressively professional-looking, also-available-in-English website. Unfortunately, this veneer of professionalism was destroyed when the lady at the other end indignantly refused to make a reservation, demanded to know where we had got the number, and denied that she could do anything to help us. At all.

So, I had decided that a trip to the station was unavoidable. The station looks pretty normal, if ugly in a 70s kind of way, from the outside. Inside the main hall it is also pretty self-explanatory. The real danger though is being sucked into the rabbit run of kebab stands and newspaper kiosks that create a dark and dingy underground city on the way to the platforms. I was determined not to venture down there.

After scanning the hall for a sign indicating that someone might sell me a ticket to Vienna, I spotted a PKP intercity sign over a door. Victory number 1. So far so good.

I checked my watch against the opening times and found them open (victory number 2!) Going through the door, I came into a large open area, several desks lining the walls, each manned by a person in a smart PKP uniform. Nobody was doing a thing. They all turned to look at me.

I took a ticket.

My ticket said 8.

A man dinged his bell and a big 8 flashed above his desk.

No queue? No shouting? The efficiency I was experiencing was scaring me.

I went over, told him what I wanted and he started tapping away on his (new) computer. Emboldened by my dizzy success so far, I told him I was 26 and asked if there were any reductions. He asked when my birthday was, I told him next month and he told me I'd get a 25% reduction. I stared at him in shock. Not only were they going to sell me a ticket, they were going to give it to me cheap. Woah.

After admittedly a rather long time while he brought up details, checked times, wrote numbers down from my passport, told me it would cost 380 zlotys and took my card, he suddenly looked up at me.

'But Pani is 26 already!'

I nodded. Yes, that's what I'd said.

'No, but the ticket is only cheap until 26.' So much for my excellent communication skills in Polish.

Embarrassed, but determined not to over-apologise as I tend to do, I said I had misunderstood. He sniffed, shook his head and went about the business of annulling the card payment and recalculating my ticket price.

Suddenly something came to mind. 'I had a look on the internet and there was a promotion for Vienna tickets.'

The indignant attitude he had been displaying suddenly disappeared. He went slightly pink. 'Pani is right, I'll check availability.'

Tap tap tap.

'Yes. I can give Pani the promotional price on one of the tickets. The return is full price'

Tap tap tap.

'350 zlotys please.' He was red. I had managed to wangle an even cheaper price.

I tried not to grin too widely as I took my tickets and thanked him for his help. Victory number 3.

or maybe I just have flu

2007-10-09T08:34:00.000+02:00

The only downside of a sailing weekend is its crazy unstablising, unbalancing effect.

You know, all those boats on the water bobbing about, and the fast turning to make sure the wind is in the sail, and the tilting so you feel you might just fall off any minute into the cold cold water, and the clenching of various muscles to persuade yourself you're not going to fall in...

Well, all that makes you feel a little unstable even when you're back on dry land, and have been for, oh, say, at least 24 hours. You, ok I, I still feel a bit tilty.

I've been walking around the flat steadying myself on door frames since we got back.

what shall we do with the drunken sailor?

2007-10-08T11:55:00.000+02:00

The first time I came to Poland, when I barely knew Marek and we were living hundreds of miles apart, we went to the Polish lake district for a weekend. We had a fantastic time, kayaking around the rivers and going on long romantic boat trips across the wide lakes, the stunning scenery lit by a low autumnal sun.

Ever since, we have tried to return to Mazury as often as possible. And failed miserably. This year, we have spent a grand total of one afternoon in the lakes, that weekend with the fancy car. Until this weekend that is. This weekend, we made use of another perk of Marek's job, the fancy company yacht.

There are many worse ways of spending a weekend than in a whopping great yacht in Mazury with a couple of good sailors who expect little more of you than the effort it takes to pull on a rope every so often.

We sailed, we partied with the rest of the port and there were surprise bonuses, like these jolly folk who just sat in the middle of the water, strumming their guitars and belting out shanties...

It's not that I have nothing to write about...

2007-10-05T10:45:00.000+02:00

...it's just that every time I start writing, the words are wrong. I write, re-write, edit, delete and start again. Then, when I've finally finished a post, I re-read it, hate it and delete it.

I think it's a phase. I hope it's a short one.

Pictures will have to do for now. These are my favourite from this morning's walk...

a leaf

a snail

a flower

a dog

yeah, I'm house-sitting again

2007-10-02T11:57:00.000+02:00

Jack's an old guy, steady and calm, who brings to mind words like stout, jolly and fellow. Daydreaming next to him conjures associations with old England, country walks and game hunting.

Open and friendly to all, he makes no unnecessary noise, just catching his breath and reminding you he's there when there's a chance some of that food could be for him. Gentle nudges with his head show you he expects a bit of effort on your part, and when he gets a stroke and a pat, the pleasure shows through his eyes, and the enthusiastic stump that waves back and forward, as a puppy's might.

Mornings, we tramp through the long damp grass, him running ahead with newly discovered youth. His excitement at bushes and lamposts only fades as we near the house again. His breathing becomes more laboured and his gait more restrained.

A grateful glance up from his lopsided face as I open the gate and we're back. A quick drink and then a heavy slump onto his cushion. Deep sighs slowing his breathing until he's asleep, with another day to dream away.

autumn

2007-09-26T19:10:00.000+02:00

All spring and all summer, the branches left our balcony and climbed the walls. The bright new leaves seemed to grow as we watched, twisted green tendrils stretching out and exploring. Soon, they were invading the neighbours so we turned them back and suggested other directions. Before we went looking for foreign sun, our space was almost full.

When we returned, the leaves had changed. The bushy green was now red and orange, fading into yellowed green.

Over the last week the reds have dulled, dried, sighed and fallen. They piled up into dusty mounds and crumbled as they were swept away by the wind and my broom.

lots + lots = nothing

2007-09-24T17:03:00.001+02:00

I guess I could blog about the summer. The weddings, the countries, the people.

I could tell you about the girl who became my best friend when we were twelve, and her Tuscan wedding. The delicious Italian food and local wine we feasted on surrounded by olive groves.

I could tell you about the boy who has known me my whole life, and the way he looked at his new wife. The hats their guests wore and the ceremony in little English church that moved them both to tears. The rattling cans and wide grins as they drove off.

I could tell you about my high school friend who used to sit on a sofa most of the school day, dressed in black, watching other students trundle between classes. The American flags that waved as they said their vows and the table of old friends who haven't changed.

I could compare and contrast - confetti vs. rose petals vs. bubbles - Italy vs. England vs. America - bridesmaids, party games, drinks, dancing, people.

Or I could forget all that and fill in the gaps between the weddings. I could tell you about the day at the Italian beach with my Pole. The ease with which he slipped into the various groups he was thrust. The dinner that marked three years together.

I could. But I won't.

Sometimes there's just too much to say. Sometimes you just have to turn away and start something completely new.

Now taking requests for Levis, marshmallows and reeses pieces

2007-09-09T14:45:00.001+02:00

I've barely scratched the surface of the Italian experiences, nevermind Belgium and England, but you'll just have to be patient for another ten days or so, while I jet off to the States to visit old friends and, what the hell, go to another wedding...

If you're bored, check out this nifty little guide site (oh look! they've used two of my pictures!) or decide who I should give these awards to (thanks Kinuk!)

Otherwise, you can brush up on your Polish, do the ironing and find someone who wants to adopt these gorgeous little things (no, the puppy pictures aren't quite done with yet, but there are only four left)

If this were a foodie blog

2007-09-08T16:57:00.000+02:00

I might tell you about how these tomatoes (lovingly grown on the balcony)

were made into of this meal (inspired by my dad's fave Jamie Oliver recipe)

It might make you hungry. Or you might not like shrimps, and not fancy it at all. We could get into a discussion about the best seafood, or whether fresh pasta actually tastes any different from the dried kind. We could all marvel at Marek's disdain for herbs.

But as it's not a foodie blog, I guess I won't.

rossa rosa

2007-09-05T08:21:00.000+02:00

Our little group walked in slowly, no one wanting to be the first to speak. The man was looking at us expectantly so a couple of us said buongiorno. There was a pause.

The man smiled, and encouraged, I asked parla inglese? but he shook his head, and stopped smiling.

Marek was pushed to the front of our little gaggle, and producing his Italian phrasebook with a flourish asked something that apparently meant Do you have a romantic bouquet?

Slightly impressed, but a little worried that a romantic bouquet was not exactly what we wanted, I told him to look up wedding. There was another pause.

Matrimonio!

Ah! Matrimonio!

Si! Si! Matrimonio!

The florist had been looking a little disconcerted at being faced with a group of foreigners who seemed intent on communicating with him one way or another, but after he heard the magic word, he got his order book out and positioned his pen expectantly.

The questions were more or less what you'd expect: What? when? and how many?

I tried, using a mixture of French, flourish and the odd annoying Polish word that insisted on leaving my mouth (Tak! I mean, Si!) to convey that we needed one large, two medium and six, yes six, small bouquets of red roses for Saturday. Plus two buttonholes.

Grande per Ruth, she's the bride, er, what's bride, yes, sposa, si si. Er, due medio, si, e seis, shit that's Spanish, er sei? tak, si, sei piccolo. Who's got a buttonhole? Point at it. Mime a flower in it. I don't know, just mime.

Is fiore flower? Oh, he's asking which flower. How do you say rose? Ros-eh? Rosi? Rosa? Rosa!

The florist was looking quite jolly by now, buoyed by his large order. He asked if we wanted to see the roses, and we trundled after him through the back room and into the cold store.

Bella we all cooed. Bellissima he corrected.

Back in the front of the shop, we ran through the order again. The florist hauled in the ice-cream lady from next door, who (it turned out, well after we needed her) spoke English. She'd been reading, but looked pleased to help. She put a finger to mark her spot in Mein Kampf and repeated the details of the order. Saturday at 1pm we would be collecting a whole load of flowers.

Everyone beamed, cheered by our success. Recalling the sale signs we'd seen in Lucca's shops though, Marek went for gold and called out sconti!

We were given the buttonholes on the house.

they say it's good luck

2007-09-04T10:29:00.000+02:00

Top right: THE pigeon

We stood, facing the map, the chatter of tourists all around and one hand each on a wheely suitcase.

'Well,' I said confidently, 'we're here.' I pointed to the large piazza in the centre of the map and Marek tilted his head.

'Right, so we need to go along the road that leads off that corner.'

'No, that one surely.'

We looked to opposite sides of the square, squinting to see the road names.

'Didn't we come from this road?' I asked, pointing again at the map.

There was a loud 'thwump' and a slightly sticky lump landed on my outstretched forearm. I looked, and wished I hadn't, as Marek started laughing. Next I turned my attention up, past the prettily crumbling brickwork and old Italian ironwork. Above me, a pigeon's beady eye was fixed firmly on me, as if he were inspecting his target, cooing a smug 'nice shot' in pigeon tongue.

'Wet wipe!' I demanded, and Marek stifled his chuckles as he rooted about in my bag.

It was an auspicious start to the wedding season.

Did ya miss me?

2007-09-03T14:02:00.000+02:00

I'm back. Over two weeks of irregular internet and beautiful distractions like friends, family and foreign food have put this blog firmly in its place, at the bottom of the priority list.

I'm only in Warsaw briefly, having seen two sets of friends married and starting their happy ever afters, and taking a breather before another two weddings in September and a fresh start on the job hunt.

Just dealt with Flickr and Facebook for now. The blogging will start up again as soon as the intertwined threads of stories are untangled and sort themselves out in my head.

Frites vs Pierogi

2007-08-15T21:57:00.000+02:00

Today was the Assumption of Mary (those of you not in countries as Catholic as Poland may have to follow that link). On top of that, it was some army festival too, linked to Piłsudski's lot defeating the Russians a while back, and this miracle being attributed to the Virgin Mary.

So, there was much celebrating (and another day off work for those with Proper Jobs) and things to see and do in Warsaw that are not always there. There was a parade and market type thing where you could eat army soup (er, no thanks...), and soldiers wandering about. You could clamber on a tank or two as well, which some people were very excited about (mentioning no names) and there was a fly-past which we may have missed most of. There were a couple of helicopters that flew past the end of our road though...

It reminded me a little of the Belgian National Day in Brussels last month, except for the fact that the Belgian National Day in Brussels was tinged with the same kind of Crazy that affects all Brussels fetes.

Let me fill you in. Skypeing my parents in Brussels often goes something like this:

Me: So, what have you been up to?
Parent 1: Well there was the unveiling of the pissing dog statue
Me:...
Parent 2: It got stolen, remember?
Me: Um...
Parent 1: Yes, they reinstated it and unveiled it today.
Me: Er...
Parent 2: They gave us salmon mousse and champagne after the speeches.

Or this:

Me: Any, er, statue unveilings recently?
Parent 1: No, it's been very quiet actually.
Parent 2: Well, there was the giant omelet of course.
Me:...
Parent 1: 10,000 eggs they used and big wooden stirrers.
Parent 2: They did it with lardons and chives, very tasty it was too. We got a bit.
Me:...but...why?
Parent 1: Well it was the road's birthday...

Brussels is just one of those places where they take an extreme amount of pleasure in putting on weird and wonderful shows, inventing celebrations, or dreaming up outrageous events, just for the hell of it. Presumably, the city council has a very large 'random and strangely disturbing events' budget. They do everything bigger and better.

This was the park in Warsaw today

People milling about, looking at tents with games for kids and historical information for adults, stately fountain in the background

This was the park in Brussels

Brightly Coloured! balloon and Brightly Coloured! games with masses of kids getting fully involved, crazy splashing fountain in the background

This was the queue for the lumpy-looking (but I didn't taste it for all I know it was delicious) army pea soup

This is just one of the 649 food places that were scattered around offering hot dogs, frites, waffles and other tasty unhealthy fare

These were the Polish flags by the edge of the main square that saw all the action

Quite big, it's true, but not overwhelming in their magnificence

These were the Belgian flags on a side street

You think this is all of them, but they went on and on, down the road and on into the distance

I realise Belgian National Day is not exactly the equivalent of Warsaw's Assumption of Mary and Army Day celebrations, but if you know anything about the Poles' religious fervour and national pride in their armed services, you would be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

Poland must do better. Next year, we need something that beats these blow-up flag-coloured Belgian crowns...

Get thinking.

what a whiner

2007-08-14T10:59:00.000+02:00

It's a damn good job my holidays are coming up, otherwise (WARNING! Over-sized whingey sentence coming up) I might start dwelling on the fact that despite a degree in Psychology and Philosophy, a masters in European law, the experience I got from an internship at an international NGO in Brussels and a second at the European Commission, two EU-financed year-long projects, all the brownie points from volunteering with disabled people, refugees, homeless people and poor communities in various countries, four languages (and a tiny bit of Spanish from evening classes) all my fan-bloody-tastic people skills, not to mention all the writing and editing and the bloody great smile on my face, NOBODY has given me a Proper Job yet.

What's a girl to do?

nothing, really.

2007-08-13T11:12:00.000+02:00

The last three weeks have been about luxury houses, barking dogs, automatic gates and other people's food.

It was fun while it lasted but Sweet Jesus it's good to be home. Every time I walk into our high pink corridor the happiness washes over me. We've been here a year but our flat still makes me smile.

I have four full days before the madness begins. The madness involves London, parties, Brussels, parties, Lucca, wedding, holiday, parties, Brussels, Staffordshire, wedding, parties, Warsaw.

Then, when I get back, how about a trip to Detroit? Sure. It'll be about time for a wedding by then. And maybe a party or two.

This weekend I have mostly...

2007-08-06T11:18:00.001+02:00

...been driving around in this luxury advert for Marek's work.

We went to Mazury for lunch yesterday, flying over Poland's pathetic pitted roads and overtaking the others with ease.

I've driven an automatic car before, but never such a leather-filled, brightly coloured, exclusive feeling one with a big fat merc sign on the front.

It was kinda nice.

friday fluff

2007-08-03T08:36:00.000+02:00

you know what?
The puppies
are
still
cute.
Actually, maybe even more so.
Posers.

Huh

2007-08-02T18:12:00.000+02:00

Today was strange. People kept acting really weird.

I mean first there was that old lady. She was more than strange. I was walking the dogs along the street, minding my own business, enjoying the sun on my face and suddenly this wild-haired shouty woman came from nowhere.

'Don't you know where to WALK YOUR DOGS?' she yelled. I was so surprised, I just looked at her mouth half-open, a 'whaa?' expression on my face. After quickly checking the dogs weren't doing anything like peeing on her fence (or worse), which they weren't, I just decided she was crazy. 'I'LL SHOW YOU WHERE TO WALK YOUR DOGS, OH YEAH' she carried on. 'YOU HAVE NO IDEA!' A little concerned she may start throwing things, or chase after me with a spade, I pulled the dogs along faster and got the hell out of there.

Then there was that other weird lady. I was 'researching' (read wandering around in the sunshine checking something for some work someone gave me) and thinking (because of the work) about the Ghetto Uprising (no, not the Warsaw Uprising of yesterday, another, earlier one). Anyway, this old lady appeared from a dustbin shed and stopped me. 'What is today?' she asked, looking genuinely perplexed. 'Er...' I had to think quickly. Did she mean the anniversary? Was she getting mixed up with yesterday? Did she want me to tell her whose birthday it was?
'Is it Thursday or Friday?' she asked, clarifying what her question had been. 'Ooh,' I replied. 'Thursday. It's Thursday.' 'Thank you so much, I just wasn't sure. But I'm glad it's Thursday.' I nodded and carried on my way. It's just not a question a stranger has ever asked me before.

THEN I was escaping all the mad people and going home, sitting plugged into my music on the bus. It all seemed like a normal tedious bus ride, when a fight exploded. Really. Just like that a grown man was clawing at another grown man's face. The other passengers all surged forward to escape the battle scene, and the men just kept at it. Hitting and punching and above all clawing. It was ugly. They got off at the next stop and just carried on. Fighting in the sunshine. Bizarre.

Weird weird people. Is there something in the air today? Can we go back to normal tomorrow please?

01.08.44

2007-08-01T16:01:00.000+02:00

63 years ago, a small group of brave Poles rose up against the occupying Nazis in Warsaw. They expected help they didn't get and fought an enemy that had better weapons and more men. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and the city was razed to the ground as further punishment.

In just under an hour, at 5pm, cars will stop in the streets and hoot their horns, people will stand still and bow their heads, sirens will wail and the few left who experienced the uprising will salute the memory of their friends who didn't survive it.

I just saw a white-haired old guy crossing the road, dressed in his uniform and walking stiffly, proudly, to the place he will commemorate the anniversary. Real heart-breaking stuff.

Holiday Snapshot: The Graduate

2007-07-31T09:44:00.000+02:00

'It's a bit sinister this music' Dad whispered, as the choir got going and the procession filed in, caps and gowns a mass of rich fabrics and mismatched colours.

'Very Harry Potter' I said, almost seeing the wizards flying past and trying to picture the chancellor in a pointy hat.

The ceremony was long, but not as yawn-inducing as I remembered from my graduation. All the speeches were kept short and sweet, and included an entertaining over-excited alumnus from Hong Kong, who talked about his university days with unconcealed nostalgia.

When the long bit came, the reading out of those who'd managed to get to the end of their courses despite the parties and other distractions of student life, it wasn't as lifeless as expected.

The girls were all long hair and interesting shoes. I was grateful to the one whose mortarboard fell to the ground on stage, prompting a red face and slight pause while she waited to see if the vice chancellor was going to pick it up for her.

The boys from the geek department (ok, computer science then) were for the most part satisfyingly dorky. There was lots of uncropped hair and thick specs. Edd, of course, was the exception to the rule. He looked like he'd been born to wear an academic gown. It fanned out behind him as he climbed the stairs, strode forward to collect his first - generously ignoring the mispronunciation of his second name - and cheerfully shook hands with the degree-hander-outer.

I watched him as he made his way back to his seat, nonchalant and good humoured as the ceremony continued. He looked older and more at ease with who he is, in his ridiculous black cape, than I've ever seen him.

He's not a little boy in a temper anymore, trying to make himself heard above everyone else's chatter. He's not even a teenager in a band, moderately successful and surrounded by people convinced they will make it big. He's a sensible, sensitive young professional who is, nevertheless, still my little brother dammit.

pies (pea-ess, Polish for dog, not pies as in steak and kidney)

2007-07-27T14:26:00.000+02:00

The dogs pulled me gently along, stopping every few paces to get a good sniff of some patch of grass. As the old lady approached, I had a hunch she would say something. Most old Polish ladies have something to say, and are not afraid to start long conversations with complete strangers.

'Oh look,' she started, as we drew level, 'aren't those lovely dogs.' I smiled briefly, not really knowing the appropriate answer. 'What kind are they?'

'Um, well,' I said, wondering. 'Some kind of collie. They're not actually mine,' I confessed. 'I'm just looking after them.'

'I don't think I've seen that kind before' she said.

'Well, they're owned by an American family, so maybe there aren't many in Poland.'

'American?' the lady's eyes widened and she took a step back from the dogs, who were waiting patiently while I tried to get away from this chit chat. 'But Pani is Polish?' she asked me, hopefully.

'Oh no,' I said cheerfully, 'I'm English.'

Whether it was surprise, confusion or horror she was feeling, the lady covered her emotions well, giving me a thin smile and half waving us goodbye.

It wasn't long before we neared a bus stop, a little crowd waiting near the shelter. I spied the most likely chatterer from way off. She followed us with her eyes as we approached, smiling indulgently at the dogs.

'Excuse me,' she said. 'Are those sczyminitultoffs?' Ok, she didn't say that, but she said some breed name that came in one ear and out the other.

'I'm afraid I'm not sure' I said. 'I'm just looking after them for a friend.'

'Well they look like it,' she continued 'collies, but the small kind.'

'Yes, more than likely,' I agreed, 'that's probably what they are.'

Who knew dog-walking involved so much Polish conversation practice? I need to find a dog breed book before our next outing though.

Holiday Snapshots: Where did the baby go?

2007-07-25T08:30:00.000+02:00

'Buh! Tuh!' Her baby blue eyes were wide with delight and she brought her palm up to her cheek, as if to emphasise her happiness. My cousin passed her daughter a small piece of buttered toast, which was greeted with the same happy chant. 'Buh-tuh!'
'She loves butter,' my cousin smiled. I guess that's what you expect from the offspring of dairy farm kids.

For a few minutes, my cousin and I chatted and sipped at our coffees. Soon though, our plates, with their appetising fried eggs and bacon became the focus of attention. I was flashed a wide, brilliant grin. 'Am?' she wondered aloud. 'Well, yeah, I guess bacon is almost ham' I confirmed. 'Am pees' she said, grinning again, and I rewarded her good manners with a little piece of bacon.

For a few days, all our attention went to this little bundle of blond curls and happy chatter. Each brightly coloured bracelet I wore was slipped off by little fingers, pulled over a tiny fist and pushed as far up a chubby little arm as it would go. 'Mine!' she would usually add, looking up from under long lashes to see if she had got away with it. Each morning I looked forward to the 'Beh-Kah!' that would greet me. We read stories of other families and other farms. She could name all the animals in the farmyard and imitate their noises. 'What's that?' I'd ask, pointing. 'Cow!' she'd declare. 'What does a cow do?' I'd continue. 'Mmmmmmmmmhhhh' she'd go, laughing up at me with her cleverness. With songs, she usually joined in the last word, as if for emphasis. 'Baa baa black sheep have you any wooool, yes sir, yes sir, three bags fuuuuuull.'

It was a sad day when we left.

It's tough seeing family members so rarely, but at least they stay more or less the same. This little being though has changed from a drooling baby to a bright, talkative little girl in very few visits. She'll be a stomping teenager before we know it.

Holiday Snapshots: Turbulence

2007-07-23T15:10:00.000+02:00

The wobbling stopped and I loosened my fingers from the seat rest, surprised at the strength of my own grip. What's wrong? I scolded myself, never been in a plane before?

The plane was almost at cruising height now, and the engines weren't working as hard as they had been. It's meant to sound like that, I told myself, pulling my magazine from the seat pocket in front. That tinny whine is normal. I flicked through, my eyes not finding anything to distract my ears, which were straining to hear any sign of engine trouble, approaching storms or wings coming unattached.

The cabin dropped suddenly. My stomach lept up to my throat and the girl in front let out an involountary whoop. I giggled. Nervous laughter bubbled up and threatened to spill over my bottom lip, but the next hit came before it could; an uneven tumble, this time accompanied by several gasps.

I focused on the young family across the aisle, keeping their baby son entertained by greeting each terrifying drop with smiles and the clapping of hands. They were doing an amazing job and I almost envied the boy, oblivious to the alarm building up around him.

I eavesdropped the conversation behind, but finding them talking about near-death plane experiences in the Caribbean, switched off again.

After taking out a book and abandoning it, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. At each jump and shudder I concentrated on my breathing. Slow. Calm. It's nothing.

Soon, the flight evened out, and I almost forgot about all that air underneath us. I wondered what could have changed this attitude to flying. Especially at the beginning of a summer full of air journeys.

Then it hit me.

Damn National Geographic and their plane crash investigation series.

Puppy Post No.3

2007-07-08T18:02:00.000+02:00

Yeah ok, I hear you. Enough puppies.

But how can you be so heartless? They are uber-cute and you should count yourself lucky I'm posting so few photos.

I took about 100 of them over just a couple of hours today.

OK, I exaggerate.

94. I took 94.

Who's in charge of censoring in this country?

2007-07-06T16:09:00.001+02:00

I don't get it.

That Paul Coelho book with a cover that shows a baby's finger pointing at a nipple (sorry, couldn't find a picture aaaaaaanywhere) has a big black box over the nipple on all the posters around Warsaw.

But, the magazine that has the terrible twins suckling, one on each of Merkel's breasts (nipples just visible) has been left alone.

I mean, clearly a normal country would have both uncensored, but which rule has this bizarre govenment introduced that sees an artistic book cover (which looks plainly stupid with a black box over it) as not for public viewing, while a magazine cover that makes me (and I suspect i'm not the only one) want to gag, as perfectly acceptable. It's witty, and provocative sure, but totally gross.

*Shudders*

As requested...

2007-07-05T13:45:00.000+02:00

For you out-of-Warsaw readers, this is what I was talking about here:
He did say some nice stuff as well as the chewed shoe thing I suppose. See for yourselves if you must.

And all this is copyright WiK English Edition I guess, so no funny stuff. Although it's in the process of closing down, so um, whatever.

call an expert you say? nah

2007-07-04T09:16:00.000+02:00

My mum has always wanted me to be a plumber. It's a useful profession, and you always have work. I got sidetracked with a law masters and endless voluntary projects, but maybe one day I'll make her proud and do a plumbing course. Maybe that's why I went for a Pole, to cover my plumbing needs... (We all know that Poles are natural plumbers. Knowledge of pipes and waterworks comes with the nationality.)

Our bath had a plug that wouldn't plug. You'd turn the knob that was supposed to close the plug, and nothing would happen. You'd turn some more, nothing... more, nothing... more, it would make a creaking sound and fall off. So, what with my intended profession and Marek's natural ability, we decide to buy the part and fit it ourselves.

Ha.

On Friday night, after a couple of G&Ts, we decided that NOW was the time to do the plumbing. Obviously. We assembled our tools, our pipes and the bottle of gin. Things started off well. We got the old pipes out, fixed the new pipes and siliconed everywhere, to stop the water even thinking of leaking.

We turned the tap, ran the water and saw the leak.

It was ok though because Marek had a theory. He'd noticed that the waste water pipe had been wobbly, and thought it may have come out of the hole it had been pushed into. In the wall. On the far side of the bath. The bath that is slightly sunk into the ground and obstructs any access to any wall whatsoever.

To check the status of the suspect pipe, I stuck my hand into the hole and photographed the far wall, under the bath.

Exhibit 1: Pipe not in hole. Damn. Dirty under our bath innit?

Yup. Pipe out of hole.

Faffing around blind, trying to poke the pipe back in and taking occasional photos to check progress didn't work.

We poured ourselves another drink.

'What we need' Marek mused, swirling the ice around his glass, 'is a way of seeing that hole. We need some way of looking at it. Using mirrors. Or a screen.'

'Oh yes!' I said, totally getting where he was coming from 'like doctors have for keyhole surgery!'

'Do you have a cable for that camera to connect it to the tv?' he asked, getting up, and going to get the tv in question.

I brought the cable through, and connected it to the tv, lowering the camera into the hole under the bath, next to the light Marek had already positioned there.

Exhibit 2: The tv, connected to the camera, showing the operation area, lit by the lamp.

I couldn't look.

'Is it working?' I asked, and the beam on Marek's face was enough.

In a flash, the pipe was in the hole, the leak had gone and we were sitting there laughing at ourselves. Surrounded by pipes and cables, we couldn't help but be a bit proud of our high-tech solution to a very basic problem though.

We're not available for call-outs just yet.

I'll take my outrageous swimwear

2007-07-03T11:15:00.000+02:00

As we're going to a Tuscany wedding at the height of the tourist season, I've been spending a fair amount of time trawling through websites that offer travel, accommodation and information about the area we'll be in.

There's masses out there. Cheap flights and expensive cruises, hostels and luxury hotels, museums and galleries, little cafes on Italian piazzas, bars and restaurants promising the best wine, the crispiest pizzas and tastiest pasta.

I recently came across this little gem.

'The sandy beach of Viareggio falls gently into the sea, ideal for children, is spacious, clean and outrageous.'

An outrageous beach eh? That is definitely going on my itinerary. What do you think it means? Do you think it wears pink feather boas and sings loud show tunes? Do you think it plays practical jokes on the sunbathers, nicking their underwear and swapping their sunscreen for shampoo? Do you think it tells eleborate lies, swearing it is telling the truth?

Whatever it means, I will find out.