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.