A typical day in my life here, it’s ruled by confusion, slight terror, and a cloud of unknowing, which I do not feel is bringing me any closer to the mystery of God. [then again, doesn’t everything?] What I know is that I’m going from point A, the apartment, to point B, some business where I’ll teach. Then, if I need to accomplish more things, I will go to those other points, but already, I’m getting complicated and thinking about it tires me and that miniature Lindsey in my brain has kicked up its feet, opened a beer and said fuck it.
Getting to point B usually starts in the morning. General rule of thumb for me is leave at least 40 minutes before hand, however, this is only enough time if everything goes as planned, which is how things go roughly 30 percent of the time. The rest, well, I have to put down the beer and figure that out. Let me tell you, I don’t much like setting down my beer, so, instead of pulling out a map and finding out where I am and what streets I should take and where I should turn and what bus I want to be on the lookout for, instead of doing that, my brain sips on the beer and I stroll. If I’m late, I might walk at a swift pace, swift enough to pass by old women and men pulling along their carts of groceries and other miscellaneous items. I try not to look back at them, not to look straight at their face and into their eyes. It’s not Polish, and I’m not sure if it's considered civil in any country. But I do. Their neon pink lipstick caked on, they could suck on a baby’s bottle, eat a birthday cake and make out with Justin Timberlake and they’d still have half a tube of lipstick on. Perhaps this, the tendency to stare at so many people and be utterly shocked by the lives I imagine they live, is whyI miss turns, get on the wrong trams and busses. Of course the reason could be that I'm in Poland. Either reason, I pass by these women, and walk, stroll, try to find something I recognize. I walk and hop on buses and trams until this happens. I try to avoid older men that mumble as they walk. They'll walk up to me and ask something, "nie, nie," I say, not knowing what I said no to. Then I stare away like a grade-A jack ass. I swear, one of these days one of these old men is going to shiv me.
On Thursday, I got up, dressed, put on my huge green jacket – which I’ve been informed is not as cool, attractive and rockin’ as I think – and walked out the door. The apartment building is cement, a long, upright rectangle of cement, like just about every other apartment building in the cities of Poland. Way to go Stalin, Putin, Yeltsin, you assholes. The stairwells are narrow, the elevator is shoved-to-the-corner crowded with only four people. There’s no handle on the door at this floor, so you can ride it up, not down. No need, I consider this run down my everyday workout. Sometimes I outdo myself and complete this exercise a couple times a day.
I walk out into the normally gray day. The asphalt and cracked sidewalks have puddles of grey and brown water, flyers for hookers and strip joints wet and stuck to them. There’s a play ground, bright crayola colored poles holding up a miniature house painted to look brick. It’s tilted, falling into a big bush. There are never kids playing when I walk by, too early or too late. I seem to never pass during play time. Either this Thursday or Friday, there were two men smoking outside the apartment. They were talking loud, I understand the following words – very, fuck, good, thank you, she, he, day, yes and no. The past time of listening to other people’s conversations is not a possibility here. I tried with a group of three Americans when I first came. They spoke about money, the exchange rate, like they were stealing from the country of Poland and their genius was behind it all. I walked on. The one conversation I get, it’s business school students.
I walk to the stoplight. I like to pretend that I am listening to headphones– which I am not because I have no media device for that – I pretend this so no one will try to talk to me. I wait at the street light, the market across from me. Old woman, young women, boys and men with knitted hats and gloves will try to sale me garlic and dried mushrooms. If I’m walking to the bus stop on Bitwy Warwasaw past 8 am, there will be the man with no legs sitting inside a Warsaw Uprising statue/monument. I’ll pass him by, pretending to be listening to music, hoping he doesn’t try to say anything to me. I wouldn’t mind talking to him, but I’m embarrassed I can’t speak their language. I feel bad, and it’d be useless. In general, no one wants to talk to me. For as close and snug as people get in public transportation, sometimes I can’t move my arms, people all pretend that no one around them exists. The exception – being with a friend. Isn’t that always the exception? It should be. Everything is acceptable when friendship is involved. So people don’t want to start conversations with me; no one is interested in complimenting my French braid or shepherd’s coat – also, not a fashionable garment in the Poles’ opinion.
However, several times while I’m waiting for a tram, the subway, or most commonly a bus, someone who, surprisingly, looks much more confused than me taps my shoulder, stresses their face, and says something very quickly. Their eyes look so rushed and concerned, it seems to me they’re asking something about whether this particular bus stop is where they wait to escape the end of the world. What they’re actually saying, that will remain a mystery. I say “nie” or “nie rozumium” or my favorite, I shrug my shoulders and wag my head. At this point, they wave their hands at me, as if throwing me away, saying to some god watching the interaction Next, please, and this time, not an idiot.
That didn’t happen on Thursday, though. I waited at the bus stop, leaning against a waist-high pole. People, of all ages, while waiting, like to walk to the curb and look in the direction of oncoming traffic. Normally, when one person does this, something is invisibly triggered, and almost everyone waiting walks forward to the edge of the curb. After waiting there 2 minutes and no bus coming, a few walk back to their former waiting spot. Sometimes I join the herd at the curb, just to feel like I’m part of the herd. But I move with the herd at a risk. One, I will ended up waiting in a line that might be for nothing, and two, someone might mistakenly think I know what the hell I am doing and ask a question.
On this Thursday, the bus came, and I got on, there was a seat available. Taking a seat is chancy. If after you are seated, an older woman gets on the bus, if you don’t get up, she’ll make you. But I sat down, there always seems to be enough seats on this bus. There were a few businessmen, several elderly and a strong, pungent smell of shat pants. As my brother and his former construction colleagues would say Cago! – that’s I shit my pants! From what I smelled Thursday, it must have been a couple days with that load riding in their pants. After dropping some students off, the buss puttered, jerked, stopped, was turned on, then off, and then the doors opened. Nothing was said, but it was clear Everyone, get the hell off the bus, this puppy won’t be getting you anywhere. So I walked. The streets didn’t look to familiar, the sun was beginning to shine and since this is such a rarity, I have no idea where I am in the sunshine, it's like I took some drugs. The bus might have taken me to Russia and I wouldn’t have been anymore confused. But this is Poland, so there is always a herd of some type to follow, so I followed. I waited at the tram, but the herd had broken off. The businessman who I had liked the looks of on the bus had taken off. His pace was too quick, business too important, I would have had to break into a trot to follow. Even if your brain’s the only part of you drinking a beer, it's hard to maintain a trot while your brain’s sippin’ on anything. Thus, I followed the shat pants group who were going a little more at my speed. I followed to the tram and waited. After a bit, I did an about face, and began to walk. A tram wouldn’t get me anywhere. The bus, I wasn’t holding my breath for that either. I had my feet, so I looked for anything familiar. I saw a church I recognized and headed straight for it. I was apart from the herd, walking the bus path alone. I walked for 40 minutes and arrived at the advertising agency late.
“That’s alright,” the woman said. “I don’t think I’ll read it out loud today,” she later said of the article I gave her. It was on a spa in Israel that puts snakes on people for massages. I didn’t care, so I said that that was fine. She understood most of it, and in my opinion, has no need of me.
I am the chatty-cathy doll for people learning English. Pull my string and I’ll speak in native, 100% U.S.A. English. I’m pretty sure my students are starting to pick up I’d prefer they stay the fuck away from string.
At this class, with one girl who I found out is 33 years old, she ended up giving me life advice. “If I could do anything over, if I could be 23 again, I’d have kids first.” This is the only time I’ve heard this. Most, tell me, “Do it [meaning anything and everything some asshole like a boss, loan shark or spouse will try to stop] while you’re young.” This woman, Magda – one of the four female names in this country – was telling me, “do it while you’re young.” But by it, she meant have babies. “I could have 2 kids right now, and they’d be old enough, I could go back to studies and a job. At my age, at this point, I’m never going to have it.” It seems that my appearance automatically brings to people’s minds their regrets of their past, the romantic tales they could have lived. Her tale, traveling and beginning a family, then worrying about a career. She was honest with herself, she would never have it. She had chosen her path, become content with it, and the only liking she had of the other path was a romantic nostalgia of what could have been.
I don’t know what I taught her, but it must be more than my Monday lesson. The class which is supposed to be 9 students, only one showed up. “I can’t stay all class and no one else is here.” Konrad couldn’t stay because of a doctor’s appointment. “I got very sick earlier this year…I got cancer…of the testicles…they are just like your breasts, you have to check them.” My response, you’re just like Lance Armstrong, congratulations Mr. Celebrity. If he can say testicles correctly, don’t think my services are that necessary. However, my services are pretty much only talking - because I couldn’t give a shit about this job or lesson plans or if my students walk away knowing any new words. They know what wacky means now, thank God. Up next week – bag of dicks.
What happens on the way back – oh boy, that’s an entirely new load of confusion I’ll get into later. I’ll give you this little hint – the confusion has to do with pretending to have a made up world of my own by reading and missing my stop. Sounds like fun doesn’t it? It’s everything romantic and green that your life could have been if you had just taken the jump. Boy, did you mess up and miss out...sucker.
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