Call It What You WIll

I think it’s safe to say that this blog’s title is a bit of a misnomer. It’s called Global Business Leadership because I had this crazy idea that it’s what I would be writing about when I started the blog. Then, I found that I simply enjoyed posting my sometimes snarky travel stores so much more. The blog got more and more global but had almost nothing to do with business and even less to do with leadership. Its name should have been changed long ago. And it probably would’ve been. If not for the pesky problem of what to call it now.

To take it one step further, this post isn’t even that global. It has to do with where I’m from – The San Gabriel Valley.  It was the place where I grew up, went to school, and hung out with friends.  Life was just that: plain, normal, life.

I first heard about the 626 Night Market  last year in Poland. It was new. But it didn’t seem like it was especially out of the ordinary. I thought of it as a local phenomenon. For that reason – That, and two tiny obstacles called The Atlantic Ocean and North America—I’ve been aware of it for over a year without attending.

I went last weekend. I’ve been to night markets in Maldives and Thailand. You learn to force your way through the crowds. Admire strange new snacks. And that its usually best to try said delicacies before asking what they are. So that was nothing new. I noticed something that did surprise as I happily munched my way through octopus balls and chicken harts: Other white people. Most of my friends from the area are Asian. I’m used to being the only round eye at most of the locales we frequent. This was no longer the case. I felt slightly weirded-out. Something had changed.

Apparently what I thought of as normal became a ‘thing’ while I was gone. The great expanse between LA and the Inland Empire is now referred to as ‘The 626’.I’ve heard what goes on here has a name:  the ‘boba life’ (Seriously?). So, I guess I’ve been living on the periphery of it as much as possible to without even liking tea or tapioca.

Whatever you decide to call it, people are curious. And that’s what has changed. Asians remain the clear majority at the night market. Yet, It’s one of the few markets anywhere where you can see people of every race brought together by a common love of food.

It’s changed things at home too. For better or worse, my parents want to know about it. We’ve lived here for years. But, I had no idea how much they didn’t know about our surroundings.  Now I’m getting questions like “What is boba?” and “Have you eaten this Korean barbecue?” mixed in with “What were you guys up to yesterday?” Well, umm…let’s see here…

Whatever people don’t know, they’re learning. Some are shocked a la ‘You seriously want me to eat cow’s tongue?!’But I think most are also impressed by the uniqueness of it. Some are starting to come in numbers. Like I saw at 626 night market, that changes it. Blends with it. Globalizes it. Dumbs it down? I don’t know. But, maybe in that sense this post is global after all.

You can call it whatever you like. You can give it a name. Make it a phenomenon.  Call it something new and unique. But to me it will always be just the way things are. The experiences I’ve had.  The label doesn’t matter. The content counts. Whatever it may become.

Suspended Shoes. And A Dive Fin.

Not exactly the ghetto

 South Hills area is a pretty stable place. I grew up there. My upbringing afforded a background of education and culture. To say it provided a limited sense of street life is a gross understatement. I haven’t seen most other areas of Los Angles. But, I’ve been to countries that most US citizens will never experience.  To say it plainly, my life’s produced a person of sheltered bombast when it comes to some things. One who wouldn’t have it any other way. Look no further than this post for evidence.

Now, I’m going to talk about Belize. You could think that the above paragraph has nothing to do with this. Or that it served merely as an excuse to pontificate about my favorite subject. And you’d be right. At least in part. Belize isn’t South Hills. Nor is it Poland, Luxembourg, or Europe in general for that matter. It does happen to be located in Central America. That was about the extent of my expectations as I boarded the plane.   

Observing the cayes of Belize 

Upon arrival in Caye Caulker what I found reflected my concept of Caribbean island culture. This isn’t surprising. The place happens to be a Caribbean island.  Still, I found some aspects a bit novel. Caye Caulker attracts tourists. However, it remains relatively undeveloped.  The island has three dirt roads. There’s one stop sign and a few stores and street vendors. Pools are a rarity. The standard of living didn’t shock me. The way of life stood out.

It’s impossible to spend any time at all on Caye Caulker without noticing the prevalence of deadlocked bohemians who live there. ts also hard to ignore the presence of what can go along with them: marijuana.  I’ve spent time in countries where a third of the population is addicted to opiates. This was my first experience being anywhere near drug culture.

An island thoroughfare

 Drugs are illegal in Belize. Caye Caulker’s local constabulary expends great effort making this abundantly clear to anyone who visits by posting a sign on their office. We noticed the effectiveness of police measures from our fist day.

My mother worked as a reporter for many years. She’s been to some of the downtrodden neighborhoods that I’ve never seen. After our arrival she pointed out a pair of sneakers hanging form an electrical line. “That means you can buy drugs there” she educated. I looked around and noticed 6 other pairs suspended in front of various establishments. The practice seems so obviously unusual as to draw law enforcement attention. I’d still find in implausible if I could think of any other ostensible reason why one would wish to hang shoes from a utilities line.

The in-your-face-ness of it doesn’t stop there. After 8 at night it’s difficult to walk down the street without being propositioned to purchase some ganja. It’s so blatant that we thought it must be a police setup. Then we saw the substance changing hands between a dealer and a boy of about 10 years. If you want it. You can get it.      

Heading to the Blue Hole

I ended up getting high before my time in Belize was up. No drugs involved. The diving is noteworthy. It can act like a drug. To produce aforementioned effect, take one Great Blue Hole and a dive tank. Descend past sharks to 135 ft. (40 meters). Remain submerged amid stalactites for roughly 6 minutes or until the nitrogen in your blood starts making this underwater world seem really slow and awesome. You can even add the Belizean booby reserve as a bonus afterword!  Minor side note: this process could possibly be incredibly dangerous and may include negligible side effects such as death. In fact, it would probably be a lot safer to just go back to Caye Caulker and smoke some weed.  Its not like the cops appear to care anyway.

View from the balcony

Don’t get me wrong. The ‘herbs’ aren’t the be all of Belize. The coast is beautiful and the diving amazing. The street vendors too relaxed to be pushy. The cuisine served seaside in front of peoples’ homes.  These aspects seem to coexist with the shoes hanging above it all. And yet, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. This life is positively unique; what I saw seemed real. Almost too real in a way. Unbelizeable, if you prefer the pun that’s used all over the island. I’ll always remember Belize’s teaming reefs and the tropical view from our 3^rd floor apartment. But, what will always make Belize different in my mind is the bohemianness going on in the street below.  Its nice for a change. Especially when viewed by this sheltered know-it-all.   

Pitfalls of Reputation

Guidebooks are notoriously inaccurate. That’s one of many things I’ve learned throughout my travels. They incorrectly state the opening hours of main attractions. They give many sights an undeserved build-up.  They unjustly decry others as not worth visiting. Guidebooks also make or break reputations.  

Countries have reputations as well. As I researched my long weekend in Ireland, one travel guide conceded that Ireland is one country which evokes high expectations. The travel manual was correct in this supposition. After five months in Wroclaw I was ready for a change. My vision of the Emerald Isle certainly qualified.

A friend and I decided to spend a few days in the country. The shock began shortly after arrival in Dublin. The reception at our hotel was a pub’s bar. This was convenient. However, it was also the beginning of sticker shock.  I enjoyed a couple of ales as I waited for my friend’s arrival. Each was almost 5 Euros.  

 You don’t get more for your money either. One is expected to pay through the nose for services of medieval quality. On buses you’re expected to have exact change. The fare depends on your destination. Bus drivers are far from patient. Attractions and food are also far from cheep.

Ireland has a reputation for friendly locals. We had a mixed experience. On the street, many will offer to give you directions.  The natives can be downright abrasive when acting in a professional capacity. We got lost on our way to Kirkham Jail. Some off-shift construction workers offered to help us find our way. We tried again to board public transport. Company employees yelled at us when we failed unwittingly to join an unnecessarily single-file line.

Our guidebook highly recommended the Guinness ‘Storehouse’ as a top attraction. It was one of the stupidest sights I’d ever seen. I’ve visited actual breweries before. This exhibit displayed computer generated models of the beer’s elaboration. The company attempted to sell you something at every step of the process.  

That evening I returned to the hotel’s reception-bar. Some Brits asked if they could join me as they polished off a bottle of wine. We discussed pubs and culture in Ireland and UK. Prices have generally skyrocketed in Ireland since it joined the Eurozone.  My British acquaintances informed me that UK is now less expensive in many cases.  I also asked them why so many pubs are going out of business. They pointed to a generational divide.  My parent’s generation went to the local pub to see friends. ‘You have your Ipads’ one of them told me. They mentioned the economic situation as well. The era of easy credit is over. Going to a pub is an unimportant luxury.

We headed for Cork after two days. The guidebook asserted that the city was of interest.  It turned out to be a boring version of Pasadena. After ringing the bells at the ‘Four Faced Liar’ clock tower  there was nothing left to do. The guidebook negatively described Ireland’s famous Blarney Castle.We decided to go anyway for lack of a better idea.

It turned out to be the best sight we saw on the entire trip. For some reason, the day was light on tour groups.  It isn’t just a castle with a famous stone.  We enjoyed walking its extensive grounds. I’ve read that there are more impressive sights in Ireland’s country side.

Maybe the guide books were partially correct.  Perhaps we saw the wrong parts of Ireland.  Its reputation may be defined by the countryside. But, that is not the Ireland I saw.

My flight back to Poland was full. Mostly with emigrants returning to visit their families. A middle-aged Polish lady joined me as I looked up the night bus schedule near the airport.  She explained that she could barely speak English as she bought her ticket from an automat. She’d worked in an Irish factory for 8 years.  We spoke Polish as the communist-era ‘Jelcz’ bus lumbered through early morning Wroclaw. It was so normal. Almost relaxing. I didn’t need a guidebook.  I was home.  

The Living Death

There’s a club which is somewhat famous among international students in Wroclaw. Many of my classmates habitually go there during the week. I’ve never been; I have no regrets.

Where I have been is the opera house. Possibly more often than most people on my program go to their aforementioned evening venue.  I’ve attended 16 operas since September. Some I’ve seen before. Yet, I still go. The art form often transports one to another world. Sometimes I’m convinced that it acts on the mind as a drug.

I first took in an opera 8 years ago. It was during my first trip to Poland.  A sojourn which defined my future interests, and aspirations. My captivation by the art awoke in the world’s smallest opera house.

 What began as a casual interest in the old-world novelty of opera transformed over the years. Most opera companies rely on popular classical operas to fill seats. They’re often popular for a reason; you find yourself attending titles you’ve seen before. Instead of novelty, you relish hearing your favorite operatic moments preformed live. Few new works are written or preformed.

Opera is far from popular in the larger sense. In LA, I went to the opera relatively rarely. I attended most-all operas in Romania, Hungary and Poland by myself. Who else would want to go every other week?  After a while it became like a quasi-religious ritual. The experience became internalized. I only began attending shows with someone who shared my passion for high culture during the second half of my time in Wroclaw. At first, it felt odd discussing with another person between acts.  I found that a night at the opera can be a shared experience.

 Wroclaw also maintains some mystique of times gone by. I started going to the opera while traveling. In LA, company directors pride themselves on importing performers from far corners of the world. In Wroclaw, I came to understand the concept of yesteryear’s opera star. Wroclaw is Poland’s opera Mecca. This may sound banal. But, the city stages more productions than any city in Italy. The company does so with a tight cast of talented performers. You come to know the singers after a time. You develop your favorites.  

Yesterday I saw Rigoletto for the third time. I found Opera Wroclawska’s modern staging a compelling metaphor for the sympathetically tragic intransigence of the title character. I used to decry modern scenery. Now the staging has become almost as important as the singing.  

My friend had trouble understanding the story. There’s no tradition of opera in her country. She’d never seen Rigoletto before. The staging confused her.  I was surprised at first. Then I remembered similar frustrations. I wouldn’t have understood the staging had I not seen two traditional interpretations before.  I explained the plot to her. It dawned on me how much I’d changed.

The world’s changed too. Though commissioned by kings, dukes and aristocrats opera had a wide appeal. Now it holds a cult following. La Scala recently reduced its upcoming season from 13 operas to 10.

I recently read an article in which a prominent soprano calls opera a ‘dying art form’. She maintains that we largely re-stage works of the past and eschew modern alternatives.  Indeed, I can’t name any regularly preformed modern opera aside from Nixon in China (one of my favorites).  

 A group of young people attended Wroclawska’s Rigoleto. They applauded the Count’s famous solo with wordless shouts of approval.  Some claim we’ve made opera into something it isn’t.  That it’s become un-egalitarian. No longer a place to let your proverbial hair down.  The opera of times gone by isn’t the opera I know. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The most tragic character in opera isn’t the one who dies.  It’s the person that must go on living. Many opera’s lay bare the living tragedies of individuals. It’s somehow fitting that this should reflect the art itself. If opera must die. Let it live on nobly in death.    

On The Stress of Travel and Being

 Everything has an end point. An apex.  A rock bottom. That place where the only direction you can go is down or up. Or maybe nowhere at all.

One of my many nicknames is The Prize Winning Travel Pig named Andrew. The etymology of this in-joke is lengthy. Suffice it to say that it refers to an ability to win competitions: admissions and awards which are conducive to continued travels.

When I arrived for grad school in Wroclaw, I expected to settle well into local life. My summer internship in Thailand and Cambodia had been one of my more trying positions. My home-stay in Pakistan was an eye opening but uncertain adventure.  It was time to head back down. I know and love Poland. Travel there would be like coming home to a different world.

Then I got called away to Slovenia for citizenship matters. Twice to Ukraine for scholarship reasons. And back to South Hills for Christmas break.  Professors complained regarding my absences. I made a comeback to earn the equivalent of straight A’s that January. Even as Poland’s winter took its toll.  I still felt like I needed a vacation after I returned from February’s family trip through Italy, Malta and Tunisia.
That wasn’t an option. One of my closest friends contacted me while I was in Valletta  She wanted to know if she could visit in Poland. I knew the country and language. So, she asked if I’d show her the major cities. Of course I agreed. I immensely enjoyed my friend's company. The exercise of the trip drove me into the ground. I’d hit rock bottom. It was time to rest.

My USC Marshall international studies coordinator always encouraged students to develop a connection with were one studies abroad, instead of compulsively traveling to neighboring countries. I agree with him. During this semester I was finally able to take his advice.

It was liberating.  For the first time in a while, I lived at a slower pace for an extended time period. I attended class and cooked my meals. I dealt with reading of my utility meters. As corny as it sounds, I had time to contemplate my existence.

The liberation became oppressive after a few months. Attending class and going to the store became an outing. The squeal of a neighbor’s door bell began to spike my nerves.  My refuge became contemplation of my past through novels and childhood escapades.  There was no promise in the future. No reason to look forward.

 I enjoyed my time in Wroclaw. But after a few months, everyday activities became strenuous. I’ll have been here basically 4 months by June. I haven’t stayed in any city that long since I was 16. Stress is a masochistic alcohol. The less one habitually intakes, the more it’s effect.

I’ve contacted the same friend who visited me in Poland. We’re going to Ireland this June. The next family trip is in the works. It will be in some tropical local. I’ll be interning in Luxembourg this summer too. Hopefully, it will lead to farther opportunities.  The only place to go is up. The only way out is through. It’s time to reach for a new apex. 

The Land of A-thousand Suprises

I hate surprises. They almost always end up being something bad.  That bombshell in your inbox. A negative or no longer wanted response to a forgotten query. The shock of an unsolicited phone call.

Travel was always a refuge for me. A place to escape from life’s reality.  Even after days of logistical set-backs, belligerent drunks, or sleepless nights on university sponsored excursions.  At least, I’d left everyday life’s problems behind.    

There are also places that make an impression. Those I thought would be lackluster.  A well-known monument may disappoint. But, the unsuspected sometimes leaves its  mark.  Despite the up’s and down’s, I thought that I’d never tire of traveling

And then I did. The beginning of May in Poland is called ‘Majówka’.  It’s a de facto holiday season. Many on my program traveled to Italy or other locations. I stayed in Wrocław despite the risk of boredom. It was better than facing more stress of the unknown.

Stress I’ve known here is different from what I’d experienced in the past.  The unknown comes to you. Surprises call at your front door; they’re never good.  They don’t stop after a two week excursion. I’ve long wanted to tour to the Baltic states.  I have a few weeks free this June. Yet, I lack the energy.

I used to long for travel to new lands. In the past year I’ve noticed a change.  Travel options are relatively limited from Wrocław’s airport. It’s still easy to reach unexplored western European cities. After my travel-bloated fall semester it just means another trip to the airport. Another hotel I may not be able to find.
Next year, I’m studying in Vienna. Many flight’s go to western and eastern Europe. I can easily fly to northern Italy or Latvia. But, locations I’ve already been to now hold more attraction. A discount airline flies from Budapest to Skopje. I’ve spent months in Hungary’s capital. I can get to its airport. Macedonia’s western lakes are impressive. I know what to expect.   

There’s also a certain fear.  What if the places I’ve visited don’t measure up to the memory?  The circumstances under which I see them will be different.  I haven’t been back to Maldives in five years. During Iftari at Karachi’s boat club, I vowed to return to Pakistan during February of this year.  I visited a friend’s family in Tunisia instead. Macedonia’s Lake Ochrid may not measure up.  Unexpected hazards may present themselves. Time differentiates the known and the newly  discovered.       

This afternoon, I received a rare surprise. After a year of grad school and a summer internship with the European Investment Bank’s Finance Directorate in Luxembourg , I’d planned to return home for a few weeks rest. My parents had informed me we’d be going on a tropical vacation. I wouldn’t know where until I saw our connecting flight’s destination.

 It could be to Mexico, Miami, to French Polynesia, the BVI, or back to Nicaragua for all I know. It’s the first time in a while that I can live with the surprise.

I ordinarily would have inquired about our destination. For better or worse I didn’t. Not knowing in this case would mean something.  I’m reminded of trips to Russia, Spain, and my first travel to Poland.  When the focus was not on the stresses I’d encounter - but on the wonders I’d find.

I appear to be doing fine in the short-term.  Yet, I’ve come to fear the future. It’s the perpetual surprise; many pundits predict it negatively for my generation.

the respite of my parents’ undiscovered country awaits me.  Before what may ever be after it:  The final frontier where none of us want to cross. 

The Promised Land. An Undiscovered Country. And A-List Problems.

I thought my life would be better when my parents moved back to California. I’d spent my childhood there. We lived five years in Florida.  I thought things would go back to the way they were. They didn’t. Family members I’d known as nurturing accused me of being a spoiled traitor for enjoying travels to Poland, Russia and other foreign countries. During those past five years Walnut, CA had become a promised land. It didn’t measure up. I felt betrayed.

After that I never stopped traveling. My first home abroad was a dorm room in Beijing’s no.4 High School. I only had a roommate for a few days. He dropped out of our program. I was able to experience life abroad. The cafeteria’s bad food set me on a hunger strike after a couple of weeks. For the first time, I had my own friends; my own space.

Come to think of it, I’ve never had a roommate for an extended period of time.  I shared an apartment with family and acquaintances in Maldives. I took the multiple balconies and maid service for granted at the time. The interpersonal drama drove me up the walls. It also motivated me to journalistic success.

 I lived by myself in Bucharest too.  The apartment had an ionic view of the Palace of Parliament. I often reveled in it while cooking meals of my creation, or enjoying Moldovan wine. I dutifully cleaned the floors, and sprayed for cockroaches at midnight.  It took a visit from my mother to remind me that the place was a shit hole. No hot water. The balcony filled with standing water. Broken window panes.  Still, it was mine.  

During the latter half of that summer I lived in another dorm.  The impossible happened. My roommates were my best friends on the program.  We had some minor disagreements. But, our Polish courses finished after 6 weeks. As one of them put it: “it’s after two months that the drama starts to happen.” I’ve had the experience. I’m done with it.

At USC, I was forced to share an apartment for a year and a half. I had my own room. Yet, the situation was insufferable. Returning South Hills became a boon. My high school friends grew closer. I eventually moved back.  College became a necessary evil.

I’ve lived in other locales since then. There is something new you learn to appreciate in each city. Some more desirable than others.  In Budapest, I reveled in my flat’s grand piano, chandlers and short walk to the opera. In Bangkok, I lived on my balcony. I was forced to cook pizza with a hot plate.

Right now, I’m living in Poland. In a one bedroom apartment for what couldn’t buy a studio in the West.  I’ve never seen a roach. Everything works according to its Ikea design. I don’t need my mother to tell me that it’s not a shit hole. I dutifully vacuum my own floors.  I keep from my balcony for fear of unwanted solicitors.

Next year I’ll study in Vienna.  The best I can hope for is one room with no balcony. But, I know I'll live alone. Pursuing an uncompromising future. The rent will be more than for my Polish flat. The standard of accommodation will be less. I’ll learn to live with it. Yet, I now  realize what I’m embarking on.

I recently saw Verdi’s La Traviata.  In it, the protagonist’s father attempts to remind him of the pleasures his family’s home offers.          

 Our house is near Walnut. We call it The Village. I miss its multiple verandas. The effluent privacy;. its effortless cleanliness. Its manicured yards.  I hope its balconies shall always exist. That the friends I’ve made since Florida will be eternal.  I can’t help but long for the respite my summer return will bring. But what awaits beyond its premises?  

Once I leave my family’s home, my future can only be global.   

I must move ahead. Despite the difficulty. To improve my accommodations . To create The Village again in a new land. On my own terms.

Even if it’s impossible.          

A Search for The Best of Both Worlds

Today was one of those days.  I woke up to an email I’d both been anticipating and dreading.  It was the response to a query I'd sent to the European Investment Bank, regarding the status of my internship application.

I didn’t want to open it. It might contain yet another rejection. I waited for my water heater's serviceman to show up  for the better part of a day in mental agony. This was either an end or a beginning.

When I applied to my graduate program, it was due to its connection with Poland. I thought it would launch my career here.  Many international firms operate in Poland.  I applied to most of them. The only response was silence.

Polish water heater regulations are crazy. The gas company has to inspect it. Then the company that sold you it has to service the damn thing. Then the commissar’s office has to take a look.

I headed for the store afterwards.  I picked up five liters of water, bread, a couple bottles of wine for the equivalent of 8 Euros.

By the time I returned to my apartment, I was choking on dust. Psie Pole is one giant construction site these days.  You have to pick your way through torn up side-walks , foul smelling water , and piles of dirt. The experience reminds me more of Albania than Poland. I finally clicked on the EIB’s file. I’d been accepted to intern in Luxembourg for three weeks.

But in Poland, the construction is a symbol of modernization. The economy continues growing. The country moves toward the future. I’m happy with my one-bedroom apartment in a newly constructed blok.  Wroclaw’s restored old town is indicative of a synergy between Slavic and western culture.  

In addition to my accommodations, I don’t skimp on the wine,  the cheese or opera tickets. The pay for this month long internship is more than Poland’s median urban salary. It would last me for two months on Europe’s historical chess board. Of course I’m going to accept it.

My parents have told me repeatedly that I’m ‘living the dream’ during my most recent stint in Poland.  This dream’s brought me closer to reality than I ever anticipated. I’ve had to deal with everything from bank accounts to senseless government regulation.  It drives me up the walls.   And now it’s coming to a close.

Yet, don’t want to leave Poland behind.  These problems would be facts of life in any country. I never had to deal with them in the US.  Where I’m headed next may be even be worse. According to the EIB’s website my comfortable Polish life is mere ‘spending money’ in Luxembourg.

This isn’t the end. I may have to venture west to go east. I came to Poland expecting to find an arbitrage of living standards. It exists. But not necessarily on a global scale for those who start here.

My road to Poland will be longer than I expected.  It may lead to the rest of Europe and back again. But, one day I hope to find myself standing on the smoothly paved roads of Psie Pole -- on a western salary. Living the dream in the best of both worlds.           

Epitaph

If anyone reads this blog, they know I’m kind of obsessed with Sienkiewicz’s novel ‘In Desert and In Wilderness’. I first read the tome when I was seventeen and have recently read it again in the original. I found the humor of the novel to be appealing.

 The main characters - ages 14 and 8 – perform tasks that would be unbelievable for most adults. They start their own adventure after being kidnapped from their families. The boy and girl free themselves from captivity. Avoid plagues and sickness. Acquire state-of-the-art arms. Convert modern-day Kenya to Christianity.  Raise an army, and return home despite their fathers’ fears.  The protagonists do so with hilariously awesome naivety.  They try to act like adults while not getting it quite right.

I was shocked to find that this novel was originally penned as a tale for youth.  I could see that it might be appealing to a younger person to ride atop an elephant, and be followed by a faithful dog that seems to understand spoken language. But, it’s hard to believe that any child would imagine himself giving the Last Rites to a hoard of 60 dying Africans.  The 2001 film of the work was made 90 years after the book’s publication. It isn’t faithful to the original.

Still, the novel sticks with me.  It says something about the audacity of youth. The belief in endless possibilities. I tend to be rather cynical. Yet, this fantastic story hits close to home.

Today I had a revelation. When I was 13 I wrote a full length screen play called ‘Budgie Goes to New York’. In it, a trumpet playing teenager and his talking female yorkie take off for New York.  The two thwart a kidnapping by a blue-collar crook. They win the Westminster dog show and become the talk of New York’s jazz clubs. The duo returns home with thousands of dollars. Looking back, my characters talk as if attempting to be grown-ups.  This story sounds somewhat familiar.

I’ve had the idea to take a second look at Sienkiewicz’s characters. To update their story.  The Polish nationalist protagonists would have fought in the resistance during World War II. They most likely would have lost their grandchildren. Only to have Poland placed under Soviet rule. His Kenyan disciples would likely be reviled for collaborating with the occupiers during the era of decolonization. Their still-alive grandchildren would find them, after a similarly unbelievable adventure. And restore their hope for the future.

The screenplay has sat in a drawer for a decade.  My life has moved on. No one returns to restore thoughts of its revival. I haven’t  even thought of ‘Budgie’ for a long time. Ten years ago, I might have sat down and put my newest vision into words. But the audacity of youth has left me. I’m a business student.  I can only marvel at the character of my past.

 There was a real Budgie. She died two years ago. Her makeshift tombstone stands in my grandmother’s backyard.

The future still lies ahead of me. The possibilities are uncertain. 

Budgie is dead.  

A Grim Preface to the Memoirs of a Twenty-Something-Year Old

I feel silly. Only 22 years old and I feel like calling it a day. Settling down and writing my memoirs. It’s so wrong. Yet it makes a kind of elegant sense. I’ve done more in 10 years than many do in a lifetime. ‘Yet, what have I gained?’ I ask myself. ‘What’s the point’? 

What will the future bring?

I’m currently reading a retrospective si-fi book about an alien society. Its promising youth are sent for nine years of brutal training in preparation for leadership. Every three years a review is conducted. Those found unworthy are relegated to the service ranks.   All true identities are forbidden. The students become know to each other through codename – a façade of birthright and cunning. Success is not solely determined by marks in course subjects. Ability to lead deviously is part of the unofficial curriculum.

The book’s protagonist excels in scholastic and tactical matters. But, he fails to successfully define this last criterion as his own.  He comes into the fold of a prestigiously designated upperclassman, One Charaban, who embodies the latter ideal. Later, he betrays the protagonist, who is recruited into covert services. One Charaban continues to rise in the traditional manner. They become deadly enemies.  

I can remember being egged on from middle school. I had to perform well to get into the state’s top magnet school for academics.  And I did. Rising above small town pettiness. I was better than that.  After my family moved, I did even better. In an Asian community, I became respected as the ‘white kid’ who achieved top grades in advanced classes where oriental students dominated. I graduated nominally 13 in a class of over 750. The top 7 were ties for valedictorian. We’d all be attending the same university.

I’d always been told that I’d have it made if I got into a good collage. USC prepared me for the next round. I excelled in my studies and graduated with great honors a year early to pursue graduate school in Europe. Some of my Marshall classmates are now receiving jobs with the multi-national companies in LA. But, I spent little time thinking about those few with higher honors or more public gregariousness. I’d picked my goal. I had held my space.

Now I’m in the third phase of my education; nothing is more uncertain. For the first time, I’m around those who what I want. A career in Europe. Like collage applications, we still apply to multi-national companies on impersonalized websites. We hope to get noticed. Or to have someone pick us out of the pile. For the first time it galls me when anyone else gets accepted to anything.

My program is composed universities including LSE, and the University of Vienna. My second year will be at the latter. That’s not a bad thing. Yet, I am haunted by the question: What went to the former?

The ‘One Charabans’ of our existence will always haunt us.  They’re a reminder which belittles our efforts.  

I’m reminded of the Polish novel I recently read. In it, I learned a word that describes this situation better than any: Rozżalenie. It’s often mentioned after the main character’s most tragically heroic efforts.  It translates as ‘resentment’. But, literally refers to the portioning out of one’s own regret toward others. Of one’s own fears that they haven’t done enough.

Maybe I’ve gained nothing. But after so long, I grimly can’t stop. I’ll repress the ‘One Charabans’ that threaten. Achieve my goal at all costs.  After all, I've nothing else to fight for.    

Desert and Wilderness

I got off the bus. One of my colleges noticed me. We were both in the Diplomatic Protocol course I’m taking in Polish this semester. She asked me how long I’d been learning the language. “About six years” I replied.

How much I’d changed since that time. Yet, my situation was similar.

Six years ago, I was a junior in high school. Many students prepare for university admissions during these months.  The stress is incredible. To gain acceptance at an elite U.S. university, you must be the star of your class. Now, I’m applying for summer internships during my first year of graduate school. I’ve done so much, but the standards are higher. You still have to get picked out of the pile. All you have is the audacity of hope. Your constant companion is the specter of failure.

 I pushed myself hard during my third year of high school. In class, I forced myself to study collage level chemistry, history and Spanish. I began learning Polish over the weekends. My mother left for 2 months during spring semester. It was her first trip to Maldives. While she was there, I shouldered many burdens at home. I cooked the meals, handled the shopping and just about everything else except my father’s wash and feeding the dogs.

During that time, my Polish teacher gave me a book. An English translation of Sienkiewicz’s 19^th century work ‘In Desert and in Wilderness.' It’s a nakedly nationalist work which details the account of a teenage Pole and his young British friend’s abduction. The tome recounted their self-deliverance from captivity. It lauded the children’s victorious return to their families as leaders of a sub-Saharan army. The shockingly humorous certainty of the story sustained me through that time.

That summer I went to Maldives. Working in the capital as a reporter was the best experience of my life. Still, the point was to get noticed on college applications.  I applied after my return. During the afterthought known as senior year. I thought the impossible happened when I got accepted to USC-Marshall. I’d made it.

But that wasn’t the end. I recently downloaded the same Sienkiewicz novel. Only this time in Polish. The story’s the same. It’s still a narrative of audacious purpose. Yet, it’s also a first encounter with matters of unquestioning devotion, resentment and fear of failure.

Tomorrow I’m due to take yet another standardized test. Hoping to get picked from the pile. It’s as if past risks and accomplishments never even happened. All that matters is the next trial of survival. Four internships and a bachelor’s degree later; I’m still reading the same book.

 At least books have an end. The Polish protagonist returned to his family atop an elephant.  During this time, Poland was erased from the world map. He made his credo what is today the Polish national anthem’s first line.

 And I am still waiting to begin my career in Europe.  Still applying for yet more internships. Striving to affirm my place in international society.

Until then, I shall wander in desert and wilderness. My dreams have not yet perished. I hope they shall not. As long as I live. 

A Vacation From The Beach

This post begins in Rhodes. I found that stone-built dwellings evoked a noticeable connection with the history of this Greek island. I’d heard that Malta was similar. It was founded centuries later by the same knights who created the Hellenistic city-state. I assumed that Malta would be their crowning achievement.

About a month ago I made it to the island nation. It was carnival. My family was looking forward to attending the event in one of the world’s first Catholic countries  The show seemed like a small-time version of the Rose Parade. Still, this might be natural. We stayed in the pint-sized capital of Valletta  How could the celebration have exceeded the dimensions of its historic streets?

I’m not exaggerating when I mention that Valletta is small. You can see the whole city in less than a day. The sights that are there will astound you. The Co-basilica of Valletta was one of the most amazing churches I’ve ever seen. Even after setting foot in St. Peter’s. Walking the main streets of the capital is a memorable experience. Yet, once you venture a few streets from the main thoroughfares the place becomes a ghost town. Valletta is famous for crowds during the day. It’s deserted at night.

Our family trip was in February. This was not the best time to take advantage of beach resort attractions. It didn’t matter. We could go to the beach elsewhere.  What we didn’t count on was that there’s less to do during low season than the guidebook might suggest.

We toured the Three Cities on our second day. These are Malta’s port-towns across the narrow bay from Valletta  They are supposed to be quite charming. During the winter they reminded us of any modern sea faring city. But, with more historic (and closed) buildings.

 Of all Malta’s attractions, the Hypogeum is not to be missed. It’s small like most other things in Malta. Yet, its significance is immense. Other ruins I saw on this trip alone were more impressive. This tomb is thousands of years older. It provides insight into an ancient culture.

My family and I had some trouble finding that archaic tomb in the first place. A local Maltese woman helped us. Not only did she give us directions. She insisted on showing us the way, while recommending her favorite local eateries. She also informed us that she’d pray for our trip in church. It’s hard to meet the locals in countries with a history of tourism. In Malta, they approach you just to converse.

Of the countries I visited on this trip, Malta is the least impressive. It’s like the dog named after it. Small, but regal. Quirky, yet dignified. Somehow it leaves a big impression. Its a crossroads. The canon is Catholic. The language derived from Arabic. Its culture influenced by Italy. English is one of the country’s official languages.  

The nation is small. It’s history unlikely. It’s existence significant. 

In Transit

It was time for my friend to leave Poland. After buying some mint-apple juice from a nearby convenience store she mentioned that she had to use the facilities. My friend returned three minutes before her train left. I was exasperated, but didn’t want to ruin our goodbyes by ranting. It’d been amazing to tour the major sites of Poland with a friend of many years. Yet, I was ready for a brake. For the past week, I’d been Travel agent, Translator and Tour guide in-one. This is travel. But, not the way I’d grown up understanding it.    

About a month ago I embarked on the most recent family trip.  I was looking forward to the three week experience. After January in Wroclaw it would be heaven. The trip was planed mostly by my parents. The money would be their problem. The biggest thing I had to worry about was what to order for lunch!

I’ve traveled on my own before too. The experience is enlightening. You really get a feel for how people treat foreigners. Alone with your own thoughts, you develop an understanding of a peoples’ history -- Their way of thinking and living.

But, it’s anything but relaxing. You’re free to do as you please. Yet, there’s no one to share the experience with. The burden is all yours. I remember days in Albania when I thought I’d be kidnapped. Making a Belgrade train reservation is only possible with helpful locals. Avoiding drunks in Lwow is practically impossible.

Avoiding the drunks in Wroclaw was impossible with my Asian-American friend. It was as if we had a sign on our backs that said ‘give us crap’ at every street corner and tramwaj stop.  We had fun laughing at in-jokes and trying to ascend centuries old battlements. Still, when she lost her cell phone I was the one who had to deal with the national railways’ unhelpful blue-collar workers.

My mother voiced a similar complaint in Tunisia. There, she was the itinerary planner and translator for the entire family. “When will I be on vacation?” she vented one day. I felt relived of all concerns. My father just seemed proud that he was responsible for getting us on the plane to the country in the first place.  

When we arrived in Sicily, my mother began to relax. My father shouldered the driving. I handled the navigation. Mom provided the itinerary.

I felt life’s weight returning in Malta. After visiting Rhodes, I’d expected the country to be the knights’ crowning achievement. Even during Carnival, it turned out to be a Disneyland for old British people. For most of the trip, no expectations had been placed on me. Now, I realized that the trip would end. Reality is inescapable.

We got lost on our way back from Amalfi. My father, known for being needlessly cautious about travel plans, complained strenuously. It was a mere inconvenience for me and my mother.   

 Back in Poland, I’d misread the train schedules. The express my friend and I were planning to take wasn’t running. Only one other train departed to Wroclaw that day.  After a quick dinner, I informed her that we needed to head to the platform: now.  It was strange how much I sounded like my father as I sternly told her why she could not use the lieu at this critical juncture.     

Travel comes in many forms. With family, you defend against onslaught of reality. With friends, you hide from it as best you can. With solo travel, you immerse yourself with no life lines. Each holds a new type of knowledge; its own type of stress.

  As Ayn Rand opined in the Fountainhead: travel “is not for going places, but for getting away from them.” It’s an attempted escape from reality. A futile flight from that which is. No matter where one goes.    

Democracy, Security, and Bodyguards

It was time to leave Tunis. We checked out of the hotel as our driver waited. The receptionist addressed us when we handed over our room keys. “When you go home,” she implored “tell people our country is safe!”
When I first heard her say these words I knew they would be the end of my blog post about Tunisia. We’d had an amazing experience.
The situation deteriorated the day after we’d left. Thousands protested in the streets. The prime minister resigned.
We were in Tunisia as the guests of my friend’s family.  Upon arrival they made sure we had an itinerary planned. They also saw to it that we were set up with a car and driver.
The first day we set out to see the ruins of Carthage, which is spread out through modern day Tunis.  The second involved a long car trip to the ancient city of Dougga. Then onward to the bi-level town of Bulla. On the third, we went to El Jem.  We all agreed that being able to walk the various levels of the amphitheater unrestricted made the experience superior to visiting the Coliseum.
 During the entire trip our driver, Ali, saw to it that we got admitted to archaeological sites without a problem. He made sure that we sample the local flavors of each town, market and roadside fruit stand. And he made very sure that we never had any trouble from street irritants.  Even on the warmest of days he never took off his heavy trench coat. We began to wonder if he was packing.
On the way back from El Jem, Ali got a phone call. He sounded agitated; we realized something was up.  Finally, my mother asked in French if there was a problem. He replied that one of their opposition leaders had just been shot by extremists.i
That evening we took dinner in our hosts’ home. They were unsure about what the immediate future would hold. “We are in transition” my friend’s father opined.
Indeed, conditions in Tunis seem to have worsened since the dawn of the Arab Spring. My family inquired about the trash in the streets, and the barbed wire near the old city. We were told it had become a fact of life since the revolution.  We also asked about our driver. It turned out he knew my friend’s father.  He didn’t have a gun. Yet, he’d been specially instructed to protect us.
The following day was our last in Tunisia. My friend’s father took us on a tour of the Marsa. He seemed cordial as we ate at his favorite restaurants and toured his friends’ shops . But, the atmosphere was tense.  Our driver seemed truly on edge for the first time. He parked below ground as we arrived.  At the end of the tour our driver and host’s father had an animated discussion. Then, we were driven directly to the seaport where we’d planned to depart late that evening.
While the protests in Tunis broke out, we visited Greek ruins in Sicily. Had we been in Tunisia on that day, I’m sure we would have been protected by our host family.
Can I honor the request of the hotel receptionist? Made even after the assassination?
I’m home. I’d like to say that I can.
But I can’t.

The Cold Reality

Winter in Poland can be tough. In a lot of ways it reminds me of Pakistan during Ramazan. The traffic sucks. Your days start before dawn and end after dusk. People seem to lose their cool for no reason whatsoever. You don’t even have to fast. The weather does it all for you. And, it lasts for more than a month!

I spent Christmas break at my family’s house in South Hills near LA. During that time, I never drove on a freeway or went to the store. I only ventured from my suburban community for our normal ski resort hegira. My life was a blur of old friends, new restaurants and timeless traditions.

Life seems harder after returning to Poland. Little things such as the going to the grocery store became arduous. Trudging through a mixture of snow and sand (why can’t they just use salt?) became almost unjust. I was ready to jump out of my skin after a third day of exam study in the same apartment.

The weather is part of it. The days are short; the temperature is well below freezing. This year is apparently heavy on snow. A simple errand involves freezing feet and fingers. Snow can turn bus schedules into a numerical farce.  I’ve heard that this climate affects one’s mood for the worse.

My family has often quoted an expression about life being ‘gray, sad and hard’ in Poland ten months out of the year. Indeed, on my last visit to LA life there seemed much more manageable.   In  Wroclaw, The view from my windows appears to be in grey scale. The snow and cold makes getting around a chore.

But how much of it is the weather?  January/February is exam period at the university. I can remember feeling the same annoyance in LA at having to study.  While in the U.S. during break, I didn’t have to attend class, pay rent, or stray far from home. Our usual ski resort was colder than Wroclaw at the time. The temperature wasn’t an issue. I was on vacation.

About a week ago, one of my friends was thinking about going home for the inter-semester break. A second-year colleague encouraged her. ‘Everyone will be so happy to see you’ she said. ‘They will ask you what you want to do, and take you to restaurants’.

Looking back, I remember that the reality of living in LA was different from visiting for a few weeks.  Commuting to collage for two hours each way drove me up the walls. Professional working conditions precluded any other lifestyle. The traffic sucked. No fasting or snow required.

 The regulatory environment was also stifling.  As one local student put it, at least ‘there are rules for getting around the rules’ in Poland.  Salaries are lower, but you get months of vacation. It’s a trade off.

There’s an eastern European expression: ‘Each day is worse than the day before, but better than the day after’.  In response, I can’t help but think of the Anglo phrase ‘that’s life’. And maybe that’s why we look forward to vacation so much. It’s better than life anywhere ever could be. An escape from the tests, the traffic, and the choices we’d rather not make.

In a week I leave for Rome, and the annual European family vacation. It’s only been 3 weeks since I’ve last had time off. Yet, I welcome the respite.   

No, it’s not just the weather.  No matter where you are, reality bears down; you long for a permanent way to escape. Even though one may not exist.

I stare out into the endless gray of night.  And think of the future.