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.