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.