Flag day. Yay for flags.

Today is Flag Day in Poland. As far as I can tell, this is because May Day is already a big holiday, the 3rd is Consitution Day and they felt sorry for the poor little 2nd, all alone and squished between two big holidays, forgotten by everyone. Either that, or they wanted three days off work.

Buildings have flags, buses and trams have flags, even people have flags. The best flag I've seen so far today though was one little old lady's. She was dragging a shopping trolley on wheels, which was mostly carrying her dog, rather than any visible shopping. Just by the dog's head, flapping by his ears, a little Polish flag was sticking out. They both looked very proud.

Sunday breathing

Yesterday we went for a walk in a new park. It's only new in the "I've lived in Warsaw for almost two years but rarely get this side of the river" sense, rather than actually being at all new.

It was interesting though. It's by the zoo, which may explain this giraffe sculpture/bird nesting area, and everyone was out, making the most of the sun.

We walked back across the river and it really is clear from the bridge how underused the river is as a potentially attractive site.

There are some little islands and sandy areas that could almost be called beaches on the praga side, then the neverending steps and cycle path on the old town side. Apart from the two boat cafes, there's nothing really set up by the river at all.

Once we got back to our side, we wandered through the old town, which is already heaving with tourists. I haven't been for ages, but one thing about the old town is that it never changes, except for the mini building sites that appear at regular intervals.

Thank God winter's over. The green levels in this city are being restored, and we can all start breathing again.

Spot the difference

One thing that makes me laugh in the local paper, other than the report on the piles of sand that have been blocking access to ulica Roża for a few days, are the photos announcing new babies.

They have a rows and rows of close-up shots of newborn babies' faces in black and white, and all it does is show how unbelievably similar newborn babies look. Sure, there's the odd one with an abnormally large head, or more hair than the others, or a little cap, but generally? Kind of the same.

Still, it is more entertaining looking for the odd ones out than spending time wondering how long those piles of sand are going to be left.

Wielkanoc

Easter Saturday was spent doing chorey things like cleaning cars, preparing enormous amounts of food and creating bouquets of flowers to be placed at various gravesides.

We also picked up random family members from the countryside and took our little basket full of eggs, sausage, bread and salt to church to be blessed. In ye oldene dayes they used to take ALL the food they were going to eat on Easter Sunday to church, but now they just take symbolic things. Much more sensible.

In the evening, as we celebrated the end of lent with a selection of beer and chocolate mini eggs at our temporary very large home, I told Marek about Easter in Britain; the Easter bunny and our Sunday morning Easter egg hunts.

The next morning, I saw the Easter bunny had followed me to Warsaw and I ran around like a little kid, gathering my eggs with glee. Bless the Easter bunny's cotton socks. He gave up after hiding a few in the kitchen, but maybe thatwas e due to the post-lent beer he'd been indulging in.

We went for Easter breakfast with Marek's family. After exchanging bits of a blessed egg with one another (you guys I'm not kidding, that's what they do) along with wishes, we sat down to a table piled with far too much food.

The family marveled at how I'd gone without chocolate for over 6 weeks (well, apart from that small failure on Ash Wednesday, first day of Lent, when it slipped my mind that chocoate biscuits had chocolate in them). I confessed to my dream the night before, where I'd had a huge slab of chocolate in front of me and was chopping it up with an enormous knife, ready to share around. I think the fact that I was willing to share proves this chocolate addiction is well under control.

Then, after we'd eaten breakfast, it was time for lunch. Unfortunately for me, lunch started with flaki, which in English is tripe. Otherwise known as nasty little bumpy bits of white chewy meat, in a soup that is infused with the stinky odour of that meat, which comes, interestingly enough, from a cow's stomach. Yum. It's not just the thought of where it comes from that makes me want to run away as fast as my feet can carry me, flailing my arms in the air and shouting 'bleurgh-eurgh-eurgh!' it's more the fetid, all-encompassing smell that accompanies the flaki. I asked for an extra small portion, managed to get a couple of mouthfuls down and then swapped plates with Marek, who had already downed his, bumpy bits of stomach skin and all.

Today, Easter Monday, it is tradition for boys to splash water on girls, in a primitive, playground-flirting kind of way. It's actually raining, so the boys will have part of the fun taken away, as all the girls will be soaking anyway, but if you're out and about in Warsaw today, be sure to take a brolly. The news yesterday had footage of the police from last year, confiscating buckets and water pistols from the 'hooligans' who have taken this tradition on with enthusiasm.
Luckily, Marek coming towards me with his hand in a glass of water doesn't quite fill me with the terror it would need to make me want for backup. Happy Easter!

International Women's Day

I walked briskly towards the tram stop, swerving to avoid the old ladies with shopping bags on wheels, and whistling young men going about their business.

As I waited for the lights to change, I noticed the makeshift stalls that had been set up on each corner, with their bunches of bright yellow tulips and single red roses tied up with ribbons. There was a small crowd of men by each stand, comparing prices, weighing up how much they were willing to spend on flowers for her, today.

At work, as I waited for translations, I skimmed the news. I read about women in Iran being detained for peaceful protests, I looked at pictures of a young Kenyan single mother and her fight to live life the way she wanted, I read the report of a policeman who has been relieved of his duties while an investigation into video of him repeatedly punching a woman is carried out.

I thought of the women I've met as part of my refugee project and their strength they've shown in the face of such odds. I thought of the women I know and admire, my friends, my mum and especially my Gran.

Then I went back to work. I edited a story about Polish business women, which was written by someone who seemed surprised that Polish women should be known for more than their 'outstanding beauty'. I tried to cut and correct a review of a corporate event where showgirls had 'added sex appeal' to the evening and a Miss Poland runner up had handed out prizes. I tried not to gag.

On the tram ride back, I pushed my way through groups of girls clutching flowers. A man got off a stop before mine and wished his female companion a happy women's day as he left. I walked back to my flat, past the men in suits, buying up the last of the tulips.

Women's day is about more than flowers and well wishing. Isn't it?

Because nobody wants scaled skin

It was a special day for the English language yesterday.

On my way back from the galleries, I went to our local 5 zloty shop. After picking up and swiftly rejecting some plastic bananas, some gold-sprayed fake roses and a 'magic' cloth (where does it all come from?), I spied some wire baskets.

Since we moved, I've been keeping potatoes and onions in bowls, or more likely in the bags they were bought in, and they've invariably gone rotton, or at least mouldy (fascinating I know). The point is that when I saw the wire baskets I realised they were exactly what I needed and got my purse out.

What I didn't realise until I got home was that now I can be someone who is leading a new feeling of luxury life.

Jealous? I know you are. But wait, it gets better.

These tags are true Engrish examples, from a 5 zloty wire basket bought in Warsaw...


So don't forget kids, cleaning grail will make you healthy, fruit in receiption rooms is luxury and, most importantly, if you put snails in my wire basket the water will be drained.

It's ahrt dahrling

To escape the paint fumes and mysterious knocking and hammering noises of our handyman's final final day's work in the flat, I went and did some research for my project (read: I went and sat in a cafe for a couple of hours surrounded by books and scribbled a lot in a notebook, then I went and bummed around some art galleries for the rest of the morning).

First I went to this place, which had some fancy art do on. The reception girls mistook my scruffy hoodie and jeans for arty chic and I almost got away with a goody bag, but my honesty won over my greed and I confessed that I was just there to have a look around. 'In that case' a snooty man who was obviously in charge of the Event said, 'please avoid the first floor.'

I had a look around the second and third floors, after peeking into the first floor and being quickly scared away by too many people in sharp suits and square glasses. There was quite an interesting thing on Russia, but the portrait series left me cold. I took in how they were framed and decided that for my exhibition I'll probably do them unframed, but on that photoboard material. (Making decisions like that allows me to justify visiting galleries when I'm supposed to be WORKING.)

I went to another gallery on Krakowskie Przedmiescie, which documented reactions to the demolition of the supersam supermarket, near our old Mokotów haunt. I went in there a couple of times when we lived in the neighbourhood, but never looked at it all misty eyed like the artists who are distraught about its demolition did. It was a 1960s building that was undoutedly exciting when it was first built, but I'm not totally convinced that they demolished a work of art...

Next up was the Zachęta gallery, which didn't impress me much, probably because most of it seemed to be closed and the surly elderly security men and women outnumbered the visitors. Still, there too there were examples of photography, some covered with glass, some even stuck straight on the wall like wallpaper. I liked some of the 1980s shots of Poland, but most of the rest was a little dull and uninspired. Also, the description of the collection was pure shite.

Sorry, but I studied art up until I went to university, and I have first hand experience of 'artists' coming up with the justifying blurb that accompanies the 'art'. This is classic:

Their productions are rooted in the topographic document tradition, but they mute the reality illusion, if only with their use of monochromatic material. But does this cause them to lose the credibility of probable images? The use of black-and-white photography seems to be a clear signal that we enter some kind of symbolic territory. Even though, reality is represented in all its detail, the selected fragment is clearly imparted a structure that does not exist autonomously.

Er, pardon? OK, let's just say the translation is a bad one... need a copy editor?

Lotto

I'm one of those snobs who holds the (inherited) opinion that lotteries are basically just extra ways of making the poor poorer, and a small minority richer. After all, the rich have no need to play the lottery, and the odds are such that the people who want to win so badly give out more than they can afford, with the firmly held belief that next time it could be them.

I very rarely play the Polish lotto, but Marek's a big fan. The very first time I came to Poland, he made me choose the numbers for him (at that point I was indulgent of all his little whims.) I picked them and of course we won. Not the full amount, but around 100zl, which we happily spent the next time I visited him in Poland.

When I moved over here, I started my regular ranting against the lottery and spread about my theory about making the poor poorer and nothing being for free in this world. Marek humoured me and carried on buying the odd ticket, usually getting me to pick the numbers, claiming I was his lucky charm and that I should make the most of it.

Marek's family told me about a distant relative who also had good luck and won thousands with various lotteries and gambling projects. Marek's mum looked at me earnestly and said I really should play more often. I smiled and told them my luck's all been used up and that now was the time to stop playing.

Over the last couple of years I've played maybe five times, and won another 15zl or so. Every time we get nothing, I smile a little smile and feel vindicated. Last saturday we went shopping with Marek's sister and she bought two tickets. She held them out, face down and told us to choose one. I picked one and thanked her, then forgot all about it.

Just now, I found the paper screwed up in my pocket and checked the numbers. We got four out of six - 233.30zl It's not a fortune but it's enough to buy Marek's sister a big present and keep all the talk of lucky charms coming for some time to come.

end of week round up

So we had Valentine's (a lovely bunch of deep pink tulips thank you very much) and 'fat thursday', which is the same idea as shrove tuesday, except with doughnuts, and the week before so you can really stuff yourself before lent. Then we had friday, which is always a good day, and THEN last night we got another Polish wedding.

It was the usual mixture of friends and family. The bride, her bump almost concealed under the huge traditional dress, smiled and blushed and the bridesgroom looked proud. There was the usual enormous amount of food and freely flowing vodka. The band led games and dances, and I danced with my fair share of drunken uncles and enthusiastic cousins. One in particular kept hurling his girlfriend in Marek's direction and dragging me onto the dancefloor, to whirl and twirl with an incredible amount of energy.

The end of carnival is as good a time as any to hold a wedding I guess, but if I ever get married it is not going to be in February in Poland. The church was freezing and the poor bridesmaids turned blue. Blue bridesmaids is not a good wedding look.

Never trust an old lady in a Polish post office

Although the post office had only been open for eight and a half minutes, as I pushed open the door I could see they were already in full battle.

I took a ticket, and eyed the woman in a ridiculous red bobble hat, who was waggling her finger at the woman behind the desk. It's a good thing they have those glass panels in front of the desk, or she might have had an eye out.

'It's just not acceptable!' the woman was protesting. 'Every time I come to do the same thing you give me a new form. What are all these forms for? I don't need a form, just do what I'm asking you to do!'

'Proszę Pani,' the lady in the booth said, slightly louder than was necessary, 'I don't make the rules, I'm just telling you. Fill in the form.'

'Why can't you do what I ASKED you to do?'

'Please don't SHOUT at me'

'I'M NOT SHOUTING!"

She went off muttering, to fill in the form. I noted the numbers going by quite fast, and soon there were just a couple of people in front of me.

An oldish lady came over to near where I was waiting, and did that thing they do. You know, that thing where they start talking, not aiming the chatter anywhere, just generally talking with the hope that someone will answer and they'll be able to latch on to that person and talk him or her to death.

I made the mistake of catching her eye.

'I have to go to work. Are you next? Would you mind if I just went ahead? It won't take long, I have to be there in ten minutes.'

I looked up wearily and protested feebly, 'I have to go to work too.' But she knew when she'd found a soft-hearted idiot and showed me what she was carrying. 'Look, I just need to get some money, and these small bits and pieces. I'll be ever so quick, and I really have to get to work.'

I sighed. My number came up and I showed the lady the way to the desk.

I stood behind her and immediately saw that this was not going to be a quick thing. She gave the post office girl a list of numbers and tasks, and I settled down to wait.

The bobble hatted woman was back, having filled in her form and was once again exchanging snarls and growls with the lady who insisted that she fill in the form. As they fought, the young man at the next desk rolled his eyes and smiled in disbelief at the older generation.

Another desk became free and I went over, abandoning the desk that was rightfully mine, and stepping out of the way as the bobblehatted lady finally exploded and walked out with a 'I'm NEVER coming back to this damn place.'

My letter was found quickly and I walked out before the 'I'll be ever so quick' lady had got through even half of what was on her list. I gave her a little smile on my way out.

I've learned my lesson.

Update: and now I have another little slip of paper that will take me to another post office tomorrow morning. It's a package, which is more promising than the tax return form I got this morning...