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.  

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. 

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.           

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.    

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.     

Out In The Cold

I stepped off the train.  Masses of people waited to greet their arriving family and friends. My host was not among them.  I headed down the stairs to the train station’s main hall. My host was waiting there. His first comment was about my clothing.

 When I left Wroclaw, I put on long pants and brought a sweater along with me. According to my host this was woefully inadequate. Yet, I wasn’t cold. I found the mild chill of the 10 degree weather invigorating.  My host couldn’t believe this. He insisted that I take a spare coat when we arrived at his car.

We arrived at his apartment. He commented on my manner of dress. “You are wearing summer pants and shoes” he admonished.   I was raised in southern California. I’d never heard of clothes being designated for summer or winter.  He informed me about the differences. Apparently, winter clothes have thicker materials.

After a quick dinner, I met with younger representatives from the organization which gave me my scholarship.  Some of them were exchange students.  Others were Polish.  Overcoats were an absolute necessity. When one student forgot her gloves it was a major crisis.  I only had a sweater.  Over the course of the evening, many asked me if I was cold. They seemed not to believe when I told them I was not.

I returned to my hosts’ flat.  We discussed the cold over Lithuanian vodka. Speaking Polish, my host and his wife insisted that they help me buy some winter clothes. I told them that I had warmer clothing. It just wasn’t cold enough to use it.  They also didn’t believe me. How could anyone want to subject themselves to any lack of heat?

Whatever climate you are raised in determines your attitude toward winter.  In warmer ones heat is the enemy. Upon entering any building you immediately feel a blast of cold air. The opposite is true in cooler regions. The heat is stifling. I felt like I was in a desert when in my hosts’ apartment.

My host gave me a sweater when I left Lodz. He insisted that I could not possibly be warm enough. I boarded the train; blast of heat hit me. I was down to a t-shirt within five minutes.

 I haven’t turned on the radiators in my own flat. The heating began on about a month ago at my university.

 I was on my way to class last week. Two of my fellow students met me as I entered the campus. One was from Brazil. The other was from Canada. The Brazilian and I weren’t wearing coats.  The Canadian was shocked that we could survive the weather.

We crossed into a building and the heat hit us.  By the time we’d reached the classroom we’d started to complain. “I’m going to die in this country” My Brazilian counterpart said “November in Poland and I’m sweating!” The Canadian had no problems.

Many claim to be acclimatized to the region where they live.  This is true. But, not in the way people think. The temperature you were formed in makes you more critical of its existence. More tolerant of it’s opposite.  

Somewhere

“Everyone’s from somewhere”. Most speakers of English know this expression. I do not doubt this cliché’s intuitive veracity. However, I wonder where that somewhere is.

I spent last Tuesday in Wrocław’s main square, talking with a young woman. She was born of the first emigration from Poland to Germany, shortly after the fall of the Iron Curtain. She told me that she feels more a part of her heritage in Germany than she does in Poland. While proud, she said that she practically dreads mentioning her Polish heritage in Germany. Afraid she will become an object of ridicule. In Poland it’s a different story.

We both went to the same summer immersion program in Kraków.  There, she befriended one of the program’s leaders.  One evening he told her that, as far as he was concerned, she was German.  “I felt hurt when he said that” she told me.

Even as the third generation descendant of Poles who emigrated to America I could empathize with this sentiment. I grew up in a majority Chinese community. To my friends, I was always the Polish one.  They or their parents were from China, or Taiwan. Everyone had to be from somewhere.  Myself included.

In Poland, the same is true. Everyone is from somewhere. But, the perceptions are different.  In California, I might as well be from Poland. In Poland, I am ‘the American’.

After class, the professor, a couple of my first-generation friends and I got into a discussion. They told the teacher of their own dual life. Then she jokingly asked me:  “Of course, you feel as an American.”

My parents raised me to be international. I never really learned to play American football. Yet, from ten years old the highlights of my life were trips abroad. Though I come from a country where relatively few have a passport, I made a life abroad my goal. I settled on Poland as the place where I’d like to build that life.  

In graduate school, I was the only student  to place at the highest level of the Polish course who did not speak  the language at home. I’d be hard pressed to say that I’m a main stream American. I’d never say that I’m completely a Pole either.  

I tried to explain it. Telling my professor where I’d grown up. Telling her that everyone is from somewhere there. Generations removed; I didn’t know where I belonged.  

“But you feel as an American, True?”

 A couple of years ago my parents told me the story of the lupe garue.  The pet of a  man who decided  his dog was too bad for heaven and too good for hell. It was doomed to walk the night as a ghost.

“We’ve raised a lupe garue” my father told me one morning.

I didn’t know how to answer my professor. Even though I knew what she wanted to hear. Everyone is from somewhere.  But that somewhere is differs according to every person we ask.

I could chalk it up to a matter of perspective. I could let it all go as a matter of national pride. All of that seems in adequate.

 A birth certificate might make one have nationality. But from where does that person truly come?

 For my own part it's still a question I struggle to answer.   

City on a Hill

My friends say I live in a cat house. This isn’t because it’s in a slum. Cats like to be up high; its the two story living room you can look down on the activity.

Fog shrouds the valley

My family moved to the Walnut-South Hills area 5 ½ years ago. I spent many of my teenage years and early adulthood in this Asian suburb of Los Angeles. I’ve written about cultural experiences around the world. It seems only fair that I reflect on my own community.  

Every morning, from high school onwards, the first thing I’d do was open the shutters on one of my bedroom windows. Los Angeles expanded before me.  From the hills on which our house sat, it stretched through flats of tract housing towards distant freeways. The Sierra Nevada rose from the field below.

In many ways, the place I lived wasn’t anything like LA. It’s a mix of bareness and bounty. Paying an extra dollar for a premium blend at a pricy tea shop is a big decision. Many of my friends and I have traveled internationally, but never have been to Beverly Hills. This dichotomy of wealth and frugality can be shocking. It’s not uncommon to see a local washing his Mercedes in the driveway while gardeners mow a front lawn. We eat in crowded strip shopping center Korean restaurants for the best deals. We could easily go further afield.

And eventually we have to. The verity seen in more urban parts of LA isn’t available here. For culture, western food, and even education one must descend from the hills.  I got my undergraduate degree from USC in down town LA. Upon arrival, the culture I saw was different. Completely concerned with popular whims, it lacked the detachment I’d come to appreciate in my hilltop community.  I elected to remain in South Hills while studying at USC. 

One morning, I awoke, opened my shutters and looked down. Sunlight reflected off the cap of fog that settled over the LA basin.  Only the hills and mountains remained. I felt pride in having chosen to remain.

But my generation can’t remain forever.  A suburb isn’t the best place to launch a career.  Almost everyone in my closest group of friends is moving this month. One is possibly going to Britain, one to Germany, and one to that ‘other country’ called UCLA.

The field in Psie Pole

 I recently got on a plane, headed for Poland and graduate school. My route took me through Germany, the first European country I visited.   I boarded my trans-Atlantic flight in the first class cabin. One of its passengers was a 10-year old boy. He was likely on his first trip to Europe. I trudged into economy as he  played excitedly with his seat controls. That boy used to be me.  

The name of my Wroclaw neighborhood translates as Dog Field. It is also on the outskirts of the city. It’s flat as the name suggests. But, I’m still up high.  I stand on the balcony of my 4^th floor apartment as the sun sets. A field still expands before me. Light reflects on its trees, stretching toward distant houses.  A blok rises from the meadow below.

 I’d like to think that these similarities are encouraging.  A sign that the life we’ve known still exists. That we will always carry it with us. No matter where we are.