VI. Pre-Orientation Orienting

This is the fast-forward part of blogging. I have no doubt that anyone without the surname Zell or Wanger could care less about my apartment, unpacking, etc. However, if you are reading this for pure logistics, perhaps seeking guidance for living abroad in Poland, A) stop reading, and B) feel free to message me and I’ll write you a ramble-free list of guidepoints to navigating as a foreigner in Wrocław, as well as Poland in general (ewanger@gmail.com).

It’s always quite awkward keeping a “personal” blog, tracking one’s daily activities. Let’s be honest: 95% of one’s day is comprised of busy work and monotony. Get food. Use toilet. Argue with taxi driver. I’ll spare you dear readers and get to the highlights of my first two days in Wrocław:

1)   Graffiti: This city is saturated with images, words, colors, dreams and nightmares. Tracing the artwork through Wrocław is like reading the city’s palms, taking its pulse. You can see people’s innermost thoughts and outermost concerns unlike any other means of expression. People here really seem to take ownership of public space. They fill any empty surface remotely accessible with individuality and innovation. With every step I can feel my creativity getting juiced, filling my brain with fresh-squeezed inspiration. What a remarkable city.

2)   The Market Square: The joke of Wrocław, according to my Polish friends, is that it’s the most beautiful German city. While the vast majority of the city was floored in WWII, the vestiges of the market square could charm Hannibal Lector into singing his love’s praises with a technicolor bouquet. I spent a lovely hour sitting on a bench and watching friends and lovers circle around the fountain (or, rather square around), and ever since a smile has been plastered on my face. It’s also where the nicer (i.e. tourist) restaurants are located, including tapas, fine French cuisine, and German and Polish food (including a pierogarnia!). Not to mention the artsy, hipster coffeeshops I’ve already scoped out as my stomping grounds.

Not technically in the Market Square, but stunning nonetheless

Just beyond the Market Square, towards the more commercial district

3)   Meeting my flatmates: I planned to see five apartments my first full day in Wrocław, hoping that maybe—if the housing gods felt particularly munificent—I might be able to survive one of them with only a handful of nervous breakdowns. Yet the minute I stepped into the first apartment on my list, I knew I didn’t need to go anywhere else. I was home. My flatmates, Ola and Piotr, literally welcomed me with open arms. They made me tea and laughed effusively, often for no obvious reason, and seem unable to contain their smiles, even when they tried. Warm doesn’t do their personalities justice. They are straight up toasty. They are bundle-in-your-favorite-blanket-drinking-hot-cocoa-beside-the-burning-fireplace. They are outdoor-jacuzzi-in-the-midst-of-a-blizzard-with-a-six-pack. Best of all, they’re both lawyers, currently studying for the exam that will lead them to broken fantasies and self-delusion.  In other words, they’re as nerdy and studious as I am! They love to study. In the evenings, I can almost smell our overworked neurons firing, hear our collective brain fans humming in order to forestall an aneurysm. They also recycle and bring their own bags to the grocery store. And they’re both vegetarians. I mean, are you freaking kidding me?! Vegetarians. From Poland. Polish vegetarians. Our first night together, we made the most beautiful salad full of crunchy produce, with a side of whole grain bread. I thought I’d died and floated to hippie heaven. Vegetarians. In Wrocław. The housing gods have looked benevolently upon my unworthy soul.

I only spent one night in my new apartment before having to venture to the capital, but it was one of the happiest nights of my life. I can’t wait to repeat it for nine more months.

V. Off to Wrocław! No, no, not Warsaw, Wrocraw. Warclaw. Worclaw. Wroclaw. Shit. Nie, nie, wait. How do you pronounce it again? Breslau…Wait, what? Where the f#%k is Breslau?

I first realized Poland would be unlike anywhere else I’ve traveled while still grounded in Newark Airport. There I sat, breathing the New Jersey smut I’m convinced inspired fog machines at Springsteen concerts, and it hit me-- the realization. I couldn’t see any other Americans around me. I have had the privilege to fly to Europe multiple times in my life: to Paris (on route to Morocco), to London (where I worked at a publishing house in Southwark, inexplicably pronounced “Suh-thick”), and to Italy (to celebrate not spending all of college inebriated by, well, getting inebriated). Each time, I was surrounded by other Americans just like me. Together we collectively flipped through the in-flight entertainment to the Blockbuster flick, ordered our Sprites and non-carbonated waters, and loudly recited the first lines in our foreign language phrase books: Parsley voo frenchsay? Paisley view frensass? Pearly voo francy? (the linguists’ equivalent of having to watch Hitchcock’s shower scene on loop, I’m sure). Yet as I surveyed my fellow travellers, there was not a khaki short or sports team t-shirt in sight.  No one needlessly fiddled with an iPhone, popped their chewing gum or incessantly butchered a non-Anglican language (though to be fair, who would even try in Polish?). The only gum popping, language assassinating, t-shirt donning passenger was me.  It was incredible. I hadn’t felt this out of place since my first college Halloween party (synopsis: I went to the biggest frat party on campus dressed as a historically accurate suffragette. It was the most awkward six hours of my life. But it’s also a story for another blog, one that employs the other New Jersey variety of smut).

So, here I stood, the only American in a patchwork quilt of gradating blondes, each one more attractive than the next. “I really need to buy some new shoes,” was my first thought. “And shirts. And earrings. And underwear.”

The offending flip-flops

Okay, this is my last fun fact about the plane ride, and then I promise I’ll fast-forward to Poland. I promise it’s worth it, and, yes, I know: My ability to prolong the inevitable is truly dumbfounding. Just ask anyone with whom I’ve ever dated, worked, talked or slept. Actually pretty much anyone I’ve done anything with, except eat. (And apologies again for those of you in the “sleeping” category. And sorry mom if you’re reading this, which I’m assuming you’re not given that you don’t know how to google search yet. If you are, I’m saving myself for the educated Jewish man of your choosing). So, last fun fact: on the plane ride, I sat next to the cutest babcia in the world. In Poland, babcie, or grandmothers, sometimes acquire the snarky cognomen “moherowe berety,”  (mohair berets), on account of the fuzzy hats they seem to have in every color. I have a secret theory that they truly are small mammals, perhaps those newly identified primate species or a type of marmot, and that the old women are responsible for their protection and conservation. When the babcie return to their rooms, the “moherowe berety” jump off their fluffy white pillows where they sleep all day, and the old ladies feed them and groom them, and, in return, the moherowe berety pee on the carpet and poop little mothballs in the closets.

Examples of moherowe berety

This babcia, dutifully donning her furry beret and emitting that lovely eau de grandma, a nice mélange of too much perfume and medicine, did not speak a syllable of English. Yet this did not deter her from talking to me for two hours straight. Yes, as in 120 minutes. As in 7,200 seconds. (And, yes, I just used my calculator for that). At first, I tried responding with “Nie rozumiem po polsku” (I don’t understand Polish), “Nie wiem” (I don’t know), etc., but she just kept plowing onwards. So I tried English. “I’m sorry babcia, but as an American I have a patriotic obligation to be monolingual.” This didn’t phase her. So I said the same thing in demented French and finally ASL. Still no register. She poked at my stomach and spoke quickly in a perturbed tone. Then she poked my cheek, pointed at my breasts, and started laughing, exclaiming something with blatant joviality. Then she gestured for me to take off my button-down flannel, and subsequently started telling me something in a conspiratorial tone while examining the fabric and pulling at the buttons with concern. Since I had nothing better to do, I just started responding whenever I felt a slight gap between her sentences: “Pies jest duża!” “Czy jesteś kubek?” “Interesuję się kanapkami.” Sometimes she would give me a funny look after one of these sentences (Translations: The dog is big! Are you a coffee mug? I’m interested in sandwiches.), but usually she would just continue as if my answer was unquestionably appropriate and sensible. I really wish we’d exchanged numbers. I would genuinely like to talk to her again.

So, as promised, I got to Poland, Wrocław specifically. And the place was fucking gorgeous. Blue skies, charmingly outdated cottages, and greenery as far as the eye could see. I had no idea green could be so, well, green, for a lack of a better adjective. Seriously! So much green! So many overlapping, rich, decadent greens! I want a velvet dress dyed in these greens. I want to paint this green all over my body, like some Jolly Green Midget. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t be any happier, the most extraordinary sensation filled me from the inside out. It began with a subtle tremble coursing through my spine. Then an astonishing tingle circled the top of my head before diffusing into every limb and extremity. For a second, I think my soul levitated outside my body. What was this feeling? I could almost taste it, so crisp and light, and yet somehow distantly familiar. Was I getting possessed by the Holy Spirit, like the epilectics on Televangle? Was Madonna refering to Polish woods when she sang that she’d “made it through the wilderness,” leading her to feel like a virgin touched for the very first time? (I wouldn’t be shocked if the Catholic vapors in the Polish air have the ability to transform mature, cynical women into devoutly virginal handmaidens.) But no, this was something much more innate, perhaps even primitive. Finally I identified the source of such insurmountable pleasure: I was cold. After a summer in the Manhattan sauna, I didn’t recognize the sensation nor its glory. I put my flannel back on (the babcia returned it in Warsaw) and grabbed the bus into town.

Wroclaw: the garden city

IV. Witamy w Polsce!

I didn't sleep last night. I tried to fall asleep after finishing my blog entry, but kept popping out of bed with that gut feeling of missing something. Shit. Merde. Schieße. Gówno. My tummy twisted in knots that would made those Cirque de Soleil contortionists cry. I had nineteen hours left in the USA, and I was missing something I couldn't live without-- I just couldn't remember what. 
I looked at my phone. 3:43 AM. Thank God for New York City. Lord bless the wicked and depraved, the sinners and the 24/7 drugstore. I slipped on my white-pink-and-black fitflops (yes, I know what you’re thinking and I’m keeping them. In fact, they’re coming with me to Poland), and walked towards the fluorescent harbor in a sea of dumpster trucks, drunkards and masochistically self-motivated joggers. Walgreens. Times Square Walgreens, with red letters twenty feet tall and escalators between each floor. Yes, Lord bless New York City. I will sincerely miss the steamy smell of urine, the epileptic billboards and, most of all, the 24/7 drugstore, designed for neurotic Jews and bored homeless people to find solace in the twilight hours. My lighthouse. My sanctuary. My overly prepared mother away from home.

I gazed at the commercial bricolage. What did I forget again? Then it hit me. Saline solution. Of course! How could I have forgotten to pack saline solution?! Maybe they have saline solution in Poland. But what if they don’t? I should buy some. Just a few bottles. Wait a second.  Do I need saline solution? I’ve never used it. What if saline is addictive, and I become dependent on it? I should buy at least 10-12 bottles then. Do I need contacts to use it? Do I need contacts in general? What if I do? Will an optometrist see me within the next eighteen hours? I need to buy some saline. What if I rub my eye in cinnamon powder, or body glitter? Do they have body glitter in Poland? What if they don’t? I should buy some…*

Simultaneously manic and semiconscious, I paced through aisle 4A like a fashion-impaired psychopath. I wore white legging shorts, a gray t-shirt four times my size, a “bathroom tile” green headband, all-rubber white/pink/black fitflops (which I still defend), and crusty crescents of mascara beneath each eye as the final garnish. God bless impossibly apathetic check-out girls.

By 4:21 AM I had body glitter, saline solution, iodine salt, a “Get Well Soon” card (I don’t know anyone sick yet, but what if my sister gets bitten by a rabid Pomeranian while I’m in Poland? “Szybkiego powrotu do zdrowia” doesn’t carry the same sense of condolence), three nail files (I’ve never filed my nails, but what if they confiscate my nail clipper in my checked bag?), and a pack of gum. I finally felt prepared for Poland. I zombied my way home and attempted to sleep.

Rabid Pomeranian

By the time I reached my bed, however, I could already see the sun. My last sunrise in the USA, I thought. This continued throughout the day, turning my mundane activities into a monological melodrama. My last piece of chewing gum in the USA. My last burnt toast in the USA.  My last text message in the USA.  My last text message fight turned into sexting in the USA. Everything was my last, and thus everything felt just a bit more poignant, a tad sweeter. Maybe I liked my country after all.

After my last security frisk in the USA, boarded LOT flight 16 from Newark to Warsaw. The seats were smaller than any flight I’ve ever been on, including tiny domestic planes, and the only entertainment was a small screen at the front that haphazardly displayed the entire image in pink. But I was too nervous to watch anything anyway. And too tired to complain about the legroom, even to myself. And, most of all, I didn’t care about anything else because I was going to Poland. The place I’d been dreaming about for years. The place of my family, Jewish history, experimental theater and comfort food. I was about to be a Fulbright scholar. 


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*Thankfully, with my sanity temporarily restored after fake sausage and coffee, I chose to leave these items behind.