The Fat Chicken

On Tuesday we had a tour of the Reichstag, the building which houses the German parliament, or Bundestag. Definitely a cool experience for me, since studying the German political system last year was my first experience with understanding consensus/parliamentary-style democracy, which I found really fascinating to compare to our majoritarian/presidential-style system in the U.S. One thing I did notice arcitecturaly was the obvious attempt to avoid anything that could possibly construed as nationalistic. In the Capitol building in Washington D.C., for example, it seems like every square inch of space is occupied by a painting commemorating some famous battle or treaty signing, or a bust of some famous dead white guy. In the Reichstag, the decor is all modern: stainless steel, bland blue uphostrey, not a bust or painting in sight. Check out the winged creature in the background of the photo below: it's supposed to be an eagle, the German national symbol, but in an effort to avoid a re-creation of the war-like symbol of the Third Reich, the government commissioned an artist to redesign a kinder, gentler feathered friend. The result is a cartoon-like avifauna the Germans affectionately refer to as the "fat chicken." Another interesting sign that Germany is still very much in the process of discovering it's modern identity.

Role Reversal

Today I had my first interview with a German journalist for my research paper: Sigrid Kniest at the Berlin paper Der Tagesspiegel. I could tell she was definitely not used to being the one answering the questions, she seemed a bit nervous and unsure of her speech, but then again it's always difficult to communicate in a language that isn't your mother tongue. Still, I was able to get a bunch of good information. One of the most interesting things she touched on was the tension between journalists and politicians on the issue of Hartz IV, the German unemployment assistance/ welfare system which we've been hearing a lot about in our various meetings with political parties and NGOs here. She told me that the current Minister of Finance has been reluctant to give her more information after she embarrassed him by publishing a "Hartz IV menu" he had written up to show how someone receiving Hartz IV aide could still eat a sufficient amount of healthy food each day. The problem was his calculations severely underestimated the caloric needs for an average-sized adult male. Whoops. She also mentioned the economic woes faced by both newspapers and individual journalists thanks to declining readership, and something else I found really interesting. Apparently in Berlin, each of the major newspapers has a very established relationship with one of the five main political parties. Sounds to me like a potential threat to objectivity. Definitely worth a closer look for my project.

Deutsches Historisches

Today during our afternoon off, Kate, Alex and I decided to check out the Deutsches Historisches Museum, or German Historical Museum. We only had a couple hours, so I cherry-picked from the different eras I found most interesting, as the museum is organized in sections of about 20-year time spans. The most fascinating was definitely the section on the interwar Weimar Republic. I spent some time studying it last year in one of my comparative poli sci courses on modern democracies. We read this really intriguing book called The Nazi Seizure of Power, which followed the NSDAP's rise in a single German town called Northeim. The interwar section of the museum was full of election posters from the famous 1932 election in which the NSDAP began their takeover, photos from political rallies and tons of other memorbilia. Those objects really served as reminder that although it was a seriously flawed, the political system under which Hitler was able to build up his power was at least nominally democratic. It's one thing to read about that process in a book, it's another to see the tangible evidence that it actually occurred.

SiCKO- German Style

Sometime during the wee hours of last night, I sustained an unidentified party injury on the streets of Berlin. Well, to tell you the truth it's not exactly unidentified, I know exactly what happened, it's just mad embarrassing. I tripped over a curb and sprained my ankle when excitedly exiting the park near Alexanderplatz after having imbibed heavily in preparation for our foray into the pulsating neon nightlife of Berlin's famed "Week-end Club." Being the party animal that I am, I rejected my comrades' pleas that I return home and ice my already swelling ankle in favor of continuing our mission. Once we arrived at the club, we forked over 10 Euro to enter the lobby of an old GDR office building, another 5 for an emaciated wannabe model to hang our coats up, then headed up to the 13th floor to be greeted by a epileptic's nightmare of strobe lights, neon flashes, and "music" resembling the noise my car makes when the battery is about to die. After four hours of jerking my limbs back and forth amidst a pit of sweaty strangers to what little rythem I could discern from the futuristic electro-gumbo eminating from the 3-foot tall speakers, I noticed shots of white-hot pain in my foot with each movement, so I called it quits and caught the night tram home with Kate.

The next day my ankle had swollen to roughly the size of my fist.


After an afternoon of R.I.C.E. (Rest Ice Compression Elevation!) and no improvement, my rightfully concerned parents suggested I call the program director and ask her to take me to the an urgent care facility of some kind. BIG MISTAKE. Sorry parents, usually you do know best, the trip was a profound waste of time. At first I had high hopes, a cheerful male attendant placed me in a wheelchair as soon as we checked in at the front desk, and whisked me up the elevator to the main waiting room. We filled out some paperwork, then waited. And waited. And waited. FIVE HOURS. Not even kidding. The chairs were made of the hardest, most uncomfortable plastic imaginable, and were chained to the floor and each other so I couldn't even re-arrange them to continue with the elevation portion of my R.I.C.E. regimen. And forget about the ice part. They gave me three ice cubes wrapped in a paper towel and didn't look back. The waiting room was full of other patients, some looking like they were teetering on the edge of death by the plague, others looking perfectly healthy, catching up on their gossip with one of Berlin's infamous bikini-filled tabloids, and one women, for whom I felt honestly terrible, shuddering and wailing into her boyfriend's shoulder. FIVE HOURS LATER when the nurse finally called out "Frau Scheltens?" I hobbled into the examination room, where I was met by a nurse who told me I'd definitely need ex-rays, then by a doctor who said they'd be entirely unnecessary, wrapped my ankle in a disposable ace bandage, and handed me a container of pain relieving cream. Since I could barely walk at the time, I found this minimalist solution highly problematic. When I inquired about crutches, the nurse brought in something resembling what I imagined Tiny Tim used in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol I've included a photo below, which I found simply by Google image searching for "European style crutches." Go figure. I'm not really sure how well my experience can speak to the German healthcare system as a whole, but I have to say I was unimpressed. The wait was terrible, the environment downright prison-like, the care lackluster, and the paperwork tedious and time-consuming. To be fair, one of the nurses put it well in her response to one impatient patient's inquiry as to the nature of his extended wait. As in the U.S., understaffed emergency rooms are increasingly forced to deal with illnesses and injuries that people wait to address until they have reached their absolute worst point, oftentimes in cases where preventative care or early intervention would have solved the problem entirely. What I'm still unclear on is why a phenomenon like this would continue to exist in a country in which the state provides free healthcare for all citizens. Maybe next time I'll think twice before extolling the virtues of European-style healthcare.

Another Brick in the Wall

Today was so fantastic- I spent the whole day by myself, which I think really helps me connect with a new environment. I went to Schoneberg to the Winterfeld outdoor market. The weather was a litle chilly, but brilliantly sunny, perfect for wandering among the white-topped tents full of vendors selling everything from cuts of giant blocks of cheese, colorful bags and scarves, sizzling bratwurst and potent bags of herbal tea. It made me wish I had a camera that could capture scent. A different delicious aroma with each step. I ordered a lammbratwurst, a short, skinny sausage served with strong mustard and rye bread. I enjoyed it while basking in the sun on a park bench, listening to the shrieks of children on the playground. I walked around some more, took a few photos, and had a bowl of hearty lamb curry lisensuppe on my way back to the train station.

Later in the afternoon we had a lecture with one of the directors from the community center for Poles in Belrin. He was a little hard to understand and follow, but his story was interesting. He inspired me to expand my vocabulary by learning 5 new words a day, which is how he says he learned German. I need to do the same for English, instead of using hackneyed words like "amazing" "incredible" and "interesting" to describe all of my experiences here.

After the lecture I took the U-Bahn to the East Side Gallery, a 1.5 km stretch of the Berlin wall that has been left intact as an outdoor art project, full of spray painted murals that unfortunately have been marked up by graffitists. At first I was irked, but then I realized that their "work" does give the wall a certain gritty edge. Besides, if they had a guard outside the wall making sure no one defaced it, wouldn't that be kind of ironic? The gallery is supposed to be a reminder that wall is a part of Germany and Berlin's past, but it still plays a role in its present. The graffiti sort of says "This happens when the state lets go of its iron grip on the people, and we shouldn't try to hide it." If people believe they have no way to make themselves heard except by vandalism, that says something about the society, and that's something to be addressed, not covered up. The voices of the vandals mingle with those of the artists- that's democracy I suppose.

Back in the G.D.R.

The name of the game in Berlin is chaos. I can't even begin to list the eclectic mix of experiences I've had so far. Walking tour of the city (in the freezing cold, I might add), with a Canadian expat, talking politics with friends over wine at a hole-in-the-wall bar on Mehringdam, meadering around Mitte with Kate and Jill on a sunny afternoon (that neighborhood is fascinating- in the GDR time it was a concrete wasteland, right after unification it was a squatter's paradise, now it's trendy as can be, with expensive shops, funky cafes, outrageous dance clubs and smoky pubs). Today, and every Thursday, most of the museums in Berlin are free from 6-10pm, so we hit up the GDR Museum and the Altes Museum. The GDR museum was like stepping on to the set of "Goodbye, Lenin." They had a complete replica of a GDR-era apartment (complete with books on sexuality and a corresponding explanation of the GDR's progressive sexual policy- abortion legal and paid for at any point in a pregnancy, free birth control for all women over 15. Although they did include a line about the fact that although the GDR proclaimed women and men were equal, the social division of labor was still pretty traditional- men pursued their careers while women were expected both to work and maintain the household. Have things really changed that much today?). The museum also had a closet full of GDR-era clothes, displays of magazines and television shows, and photos from the family vacations to nudist colonies out in the country. I know they wanted to up the kitsch factor the bring in the tourists, but I couldn't help but detect a wiff of nostalgia in the whole affair. The only negative element of the regime they really highlighted was the lack of choice when it came to newspapers- which I thought was interesting given my research topic. But other than that, I kind of walked away thinking, "well that wouldn't have been so bad." I suppose everything in the museum was pretty surface, though. And they did make note of the fact that farmers and engineers in the GDR earned an almost identical salary. But overall, the picture was a bit one-sided.

"Eich Bin Ein..."

Berlin...wow. I can’t believe this place. Enormous, modern, crowded, graffitti’d up and down, unique, eclectic...and I’ve only been here 4 hours. We’re all staying with friends of Ipek, the site coordinator for Berlin (who totally embodies the city’s spirit- second generation Turk, fabulous/feminist/lesbian, and renowned DJ), in Kreutzberg, an immigrant-turned-yuppie neighborhood on the very easternmost edge of West Berlin. Ozga, my host, says for a long time most West Berliners were scared to come here, too dangerous, too many immigrants, too close to the wall. But all that’s changing.

Ozga is fantastic, she’s originally from Istanbul, studied fashion in Vienna, had a Ph.d in drama, and now works in arts education. She’s incredibly sweet and easygoing, I can tell we’re going to get along really well. We had few beers together at the Turkish restaurant where we all met our hosts for dinner, talked about life, transience, the funny way that our post-modern human condition shows up in our tendency to pick up and move anywhere, in our hesitancy to commit to relationships, really fascinating stuff. This place couldn’t be more of a contrast to my homestay in Krakow- I have an enormous room with floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors, wireless internet and a queen-sized bed with a temperputic mattress. The difference in average income in the two cities is obvious, and I’m sure other differences, positive, negative, and neutral, will reveal themselves as I better get to know Berlin. I couldn’t be more excited.

Buchenwald

Yesterday, some of my friends and I went to Buchenwald, which was one of the main Nazi concentration camps, about 10 minutes outside Weimar. What an eerie and somber experience. It was the coldest day we've had on the entire trip, maybe 2 degrees above zero Fahrenheit. As I walked across the giant gravel square where all of the prisoners had to stand every morning for roll call, the cold sliced through my skin like needles and I thought "this doesn't even compare to how cold these people where." It made me lightheaded to think about.

After walking through the main gate and the first building, a prison, I entered the crematorium, by myself, which was a big mistake. The first room was where they performed medical experiments on the prisoners, they had a doctor's table and a bunch of really terrifying-looking instruments. I seriously felt like I was going to faint or throw up. Then I went inside the room where they actually shot the prisoners, and saw the hooks on the walls where they hung the
bodies to let the blood drip out. A small room off to the side held thousands of urns where their ashes were kept. I thought about skipping the room with the actually ovens, but I figured I'd already come this far, and I knew there would be other people in there so it wouldn't be so terrifying. It was chilling, but not as bad as the other rooms. They had a bunch of pictures, cards, poems, and other memorials to make the place less haunting. When I came out of there,
the freezing air hit my face and I realized I had tears stuck in the corners of my eyes. It's an experience I'm glad I have had, but it was really emotionally taxing. Afterwards, back at the hostel, Kate and I ate our kebabs in silence, then I took a nap and was okay after I woke up. It was our last night, so some friends and I went out to a bar later that night which was really fun and sorely needed.

I know we're taking a trip to Auschwitz when we return to Krakow at the end of the program, and after today I'm really wondering if I can handle another such experience. But I know I'll go, it's one of those once-in-a-lifetime things I suppose. I guess after today I have some sort of idea of the mental preparation I should do beforehand. I'll try to go in feeling calm and ready to reflect, always remembering that it's sort of my job as a world citizen in the 21st century to have this experience and keep telling the story.

Last Train to Weimar

Today was a travel day- a 2 hour train ride from from Tubingen to Frankfurt, most of which I slept through, followed by a 3-hour ride from Frankfurt to Weimar, which was breathtaking. Foothills covered with dense forests set against bright blue skies and white marble clouds, villages full of red-roofed wood-frame cottages surrounding Protestant churches with metal sculptures of roosters atop their steeples. Patchworks of farmland, crystal clear rivers, winding country roads and the crumbling ruins of medieval castles atop steep cliffs. I didn’t want to close my eyes for fear of missing something. The sunlight was the most perfectly clear pre-dusk hue, and made everything appear to glow. Juanma, Darut, Abi, Majd and I had dinner at the most authentic of German restaurants, the furniature was all dark upholstered oak and the place was full of kitchy knick-knacks. Greasy food, good beer, and a great conversation about politics. I’ve definitely noticed a difference in architecture now that we’ve crossed over into the former GDR, or maybe just because this town had to be completely rebuilt after the war. It looks more like Krakow, planning-wise, with its straight, wide streets and boxy buildings, but it’s much cleaner and quieter. It’s strange to think of this small sleepy town as the cultural center of Nazism so many years ago.

Dreaming in German

I love this city. As we hiked up the hill to the old castle on a winding cobblestone path, with the sun warming our faces for what felt like the first time in weeks, I fantasized about learning German and coming back to Tubingen for graduate study or a Fullbright scholarship. Does it have to be just a fantasy? I have a long life ahead of me with many years to be spent many different places, as well billions of unused brain cells read to soak up a new language. Like Juanma, my friend on the trip who is originally from Bolivia, mentioned over beers at the brewery tonight, “It’s nice to have another language to express yourself in.” Sometimes there’s a word or a concept I can feel but I just can’t express because of my linguistic limitations.

Tubingen

Tubingen is like a postcard come to life. A small university town in southwest Germany, its winding cobblestone streets and five story wood frame houses with their colorful facades couldn’t contrast more with Krakow’s gritty uniformity, although there are elements of both cities I find appealing. There is something about the attitude of the people here that is different from Krakow as well. Kate mentioned it over lunch- it’s almost as though you can feel the sense of hope, confidence and direction, as opposed to the kind of defeated feeling that hangs in the air in Krakow. It’s nothing scientific, just an observation, but it makes me think about health, wealth and happiness, how much are they truly connected? Germany has something of a sordid past as well, how is it that it has been able to collectively pull itself from the rubble and start anew, but always guided by history? Maybe the attitudes, values, and general demeanor of Tubingen just match up more with my conceptions of happiness and satisfaction- perhaps Krakow does the same for other people. Every city and society is too complex to be reduced down to such a simple description, but it’s something I think about as I travel.

This afternoon we visited the job center in Tubingen, which is charged with helping people who have been unemployed for more than a year find work, and supporting them financially in the meantime. The presentation got me thinking about the differences between Germany and U.S. in terms of social welfare. Centers like this might exist at the non-profit level in the U.S., but they’re nowhere near as well-funded and regulated as in Germany, each town has their own branch, which is funded by the national government (an element of the program the German court actually ruled to be unconstitutional). It sounds like the best of both worlds to me- the financial power of the national government combined with the know-how of local administration. As the world economy becomes more integrated and advanced, and finding gainful employment becomes more of a complex task requiring ever-changing types of skills, will the U.S. end up having to play “catch-up” to all of these other advanced Western democracies that are working to build a system that truly advances equality of opportunity? As the German economies soars ever higher, while the U.S.’s shows signs of sputtering, are we already beginning to see this phenomenon at work?

Imminent Departure

It’s my last night in Krakow, and I’m certainly ready for what’s next. I’ll be glad to say goodbye to my homestay family, I’m incredibly grateful for their kindness, and also for the opportunity to see a very different part of Polish life than I would have under normal study abroad circumstances, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it was tiresome at times. The class issue always made me nervous/conscious about using my laptop, or my ipod, or talking about my experiences traveling, etc. Oftentimes I felt isolated because Ania and Agata spoke exclusively Polish to one another, so it was nearly impossible for me to join the conversation unless they asked me a direct question, or I did the same to them, which made conversations seem shallow and forced at times. I think sometimes when people don’t understand each other it’s more of a communication barrier than strictly a language barrier- it has to do with shared values, experiences, norms and expectations. One of the reasons I’m glad, in the end, that I had this homestay experience is because I’d like to become better at communicating with people who don’t necessarily “speak my language,” even if they’re native English-speakers. I mean, recognizing when someone is coming from a different place in life than I am and still being able to carry on a conversation with them, to try to learn from them.

Today Kate’s host Zina invited me and Agata to join the two of them and her son Michael and his wife Katia on a day trip to the Pieskowa Skala, a 14th century castle about 45 minutes outside of Krakow. Both Micheal and Katia are in their late 20s, he works as a computer programmer and she teaches English to Polish adults, so they both speak perfect English. After a week of sign language awkward silence, I have to say it was definitely a relief. The castle looked just like something out of Shakespeare. In fact, Agata mentioned that she’s performed Othello there years ago, and showed me the spot on the terrace where she stood as Ophelia when the curtain rose. I was surprised and impressed, Agata is so soft-spoken and inconspicuous, and it’s difficult for me to picture her onstage. It reminded me to be careful and think twice when I think I’ve pegged someone’s personality or character. There’s always so much I don’t know.

After looking around the castle’s exterior (the inside was closed for the winter), we drove about 10 minutes up the road to the village of Ocjow, to see the ruins of an even older castle. Unfortunately, it was closed for the winter as well, so Michael, Katia, Kate and I went for a hike while Zina and Agata had some tea in town. It was so relaxing to just walk in the woods- al this time in Krakow has made me forget how refreshing it feels to be out in nature. The forest was beautiful, all tall skinny trees, second-growth I suppose. I spotted three different types of fungi growing on fallen tree trunks. The air was damp and fresh, like cool water trickling down my throat. We got a little lost, but found our way to another tiny village that was connected to Ocjow via a main road. I could have sworn we were in Switzerland by the architecture of the houses, they all looked like cottages on an alpine lake. I noticed a number of small, makeshift alters outside some of the houses: stone pillars with a painting of the Virgin Mary and some flowers and candles. One was next to the keypad for an expensive security system. Kind of like Poland itself, marching excitedly towards the future but always with one eye looking back to its religious roots.

Times They Are A-Changin'

Today we took a tour of Nowa Huta; an old socialist factory town built in the 1950s to counter the cultural and capitalist hedonism of nearby Krakow. To me it looked incredibly similar to any low-income neighborhood in Krakow, like the one where I’m staying now. Uniform concrete high-rise apartments, a few small shops and churches, but mostly empty buildings sprayed with graffiti, and lots of elderly people out and about during the day. When I mentioned this last point to Marchin, Ania’s boyfriend, he said that it was because the small number of young people who live in Nowa Huta commute to Krakow to work, and most of the residents these days are retired factory workers who moved to the community from the Polish countryside in the 1950s.

I thought our tour guide’s explanations of the churches was particularly interesting, a perfect example of the “imaginary” identity I was thinking about yesterday. He mentioned over and over “The Polish people are very strong Roman Catholic, some say that is what made the communist system fail here.” It reminded me of the tendency Roger Davies mentions, of nations to rewrite their own history, or at least just emphasize the good parts. Our migration professor mentioned that her research on Polish immigrants in Chicago confirmed this tendency- most of them (incorrectly) assumed that their forefathers had fled political oppression, but in reality their reasons for migration were mostly economic.

My conversation with Marchin also made me think about some of my earlier musings about the onset of secularism as Poland becomes further integrated into the EU. I told him about my idea and asked him what he thought. “I think you are exactly right,” he said. “Things are changing. The church used to run the government, now no more.” I couldn’t help but notice the large cross around his neck, and thought about Ania’s statement that they “sometimes” go to church, and how she spends the night at his flat at least once a week. Marchin asked me about politics and religion the United States, and the upcoming Presidential election. I told him the U.S. was different from Western Europe in this respect. In France, for example, politicians don’t mention God or religion, nor do they make campaign speeches in churches or court religious organizations. In the U.S., they’re all doing that right now. A lot of people in the U.S. take comfort in the idea that the President is somehow close to God. After September 11, I said, the President Bush played on that feeling, combined with a newfound sense of fear, in order to gain support for some policies his administration had wanted to pursue for a long time, like the war in Iraq. “So, you don’t like the war?” Marchin asked. “I had a pretty bad feeling about it in the beginning,” I said. “I think it was a careless, brash mistake that will end up costing the U.S. and the Iraqi people a lot of lives and money. But, I think it’s also important that the U.S. think long and hard about the best way to end our role there, we don’t want to cause more problems by leaving than we have already. It’s a tough situation.” Marchin nodded. “But, U.S. went to Iraq to get Osama Bin Ladin,” he said. I nearly chocked on my tea. Poland may be changing, but there’s still a long way to go. To be fair, I can think of plenty of Americans who would have said the exact same thing.

Identity Politics

February 6, 2008

I’ve been thinking a lot about a lecture we had with Professor Kubiak a couple days ago, about nationality and ethnicity as “imagined” communities that link people who don’t really know each other. It’s always in the back of my mind as I try to process this new society and culture in which I’ve suddenly found myself. What does it mean for something to be “real” versus “imagined,” anyway? It reminds me of an episode of South Park, of all things, titled “Imaginationland,” where the characters find themselves in an alternate universe inhabited by every fairy tale creature, cartoon, or legendary figure that has ever had a place in human consciousness. In this episode, the government wants to destroy Imaginationland with nuclear weapons (don’t ask), but Kyle eloquently makes a case for their preservation, “These characters might not be ‘real,’ but what is ‘real’ anyway? They’ve had a bigger impact on more people than any of us ever will, and I think that makes them as ‘real’ as you or me.”

All identities are “created,” in a sense, but does that necessarily mean they are as malleable as social theory would have us believe? Take the situation of Kurds in Turkey, now that they’re not really fighting for their own territory, will they still be able to preserve their “ethnic” identity, when the fight has been a central part of that identity for so long? Without that fight, what makes them more ethnically conscious than me, an Irish-Dutch-Polish American? Without some form of an “imagined” identity, there probably would have been no American Revolution! From what I could gather, and I may be misinterpreting, Professor Kubiak’s dream is of a world full of people whose identities are not derived from “imaginary” distinctions like nationality, ethnicity, or even race. He believes this is our best defense against repeating the 20th century’s bloody mistakes.

I’ve had a little bit of downtime at my homestay, so I’ve been doing some reading about Turkey in preparation for our travels. With its hunger for democracy, EU candidacy, and ethnic and religious diversity, Turkey is a country with the potential to shatter all kinds of conventional academic wisdom. If Turkey can begin to follow Professor Kubiak’s vision of a society founded on universal values like human rights and democracy, rather than nationalism and militant secularism, it would fly in the face of the pessimistic prognosis of scholars who believe Eastern and Central Europe are too focused on ethnic and national identity to catch up to their Western counterparts. It reminds me of another article we read, about post-communist society in Poland and how it never really went through the period where bourgeois capitalists where in power, it “skipped steps” to an economic system where social and cultural capital are the most important commodities. If Poland can “skip steps” economically, maybe Turkey can do the same on its path to democracy- perhaps it can do without the nastier periods of democratic development that the U.S. and Western Europe experienced: nationalism, xenophobia, and civil war. I certainly hope so. Whatever the case may be, the more I learn, the more excited I am to check out this place for myself.

Krakow

Sorry it's been so long since my last update, internet access has been spotty lately. Here are a few retroactive posts I wrote while in Krakow, updates soon on my adventures in Germany!

Today I found out a friend of mine from high school lost his dad to a heart attack. It seems like such a life-stage marker, that age where your friends start losing their parents. Like I’m a real grown-up now or something. The time we have on earth is both limited and limitless; when something like this happens it always makes me sit back and re-evaluate how I’m spending my time and whether I’m really doing things that bring me both pleasure and purpose.

The day went by so quickly, a semester of days like this will pass in the blink of an eye. It’s all I can do to keep mine open and try to take in as much as possible.

Today we had a lecture on migration at the Jagiellonian, which was mostly rehash from an immigration course I took at Kenyon last semester. The lectures here are interesting sometimes, but very different from Kenyon. One big difference I’ve noticed is the reliance on theory at the Jagiellonian (and presumably other European universities). I’ve never had a professor make so many references to certain authors- we read them outside of class, but the professors’ lectures at Kenyon tend to come more from their own thoughts and experiences, with the theoretical base kind of mixed in, but not the focal point of the lecture. I like it, because having a context to which theory can be applied always makes it more interesting. When the Jagiellonian professors lecture, I wonder, where are their ideas and perspectives? At Kenyon, creativity and academic rigor are bread and butter. Here, they seem more like oil and water.

After class, Kate and I walked to the Krakow transport office so that I could get a refund for the citation I received last week for riding the tram without my I.D. card (oops!). The place had no lights on, and just two employees working at the time- certainly not the picture of a fat, bureaucratic European welfare state. But Poland’s something of a special case- a socialist past and a subsequent aversion to the state that you don’t really find in Western Europe. Plus, it’s nowhere near as wealthy. All that makes it an interesting outlier.

Later in the evening, Ania, Agata and I headed over to Agata’s friend Zina’s apartment, where my friend Kate is doing her homestay. Ania was funny- you could tell it was the last thing she wanted to be doing. She reminds me of my sister when she was about 16, whining about schoolwork, spending hours on the phone with her boyfriend, bickering with her mom. The three of them mostly spoke in Polish to one another, but Zina (a former actress, like Agata), is engaging and dynamic no matter what language she’s speaking. Although the language barrier does create some awkward moments. For instance, Zina was trying to apologize for her poor English skills, and compared her speech to that of a “Neegra,” by which she meant African-American. Kate and I looked at each other nervously, unsure whether we should point out that a) such a comparison isn’t really P.C. in the first place, or b) her incorrect/possibly offensive terminology. Kate handled the situation well, “That’s not a term people really use anymore, it’s considered rude.” “Most people say ‘black’ or ‘African-American.’” I said. “Right,” said Kate, “Although in Poland they wouldn’t really be African American.” I felt my face redden as I stuffed another tea wafer in my mouth. I really wanted the conversation to end. We went home after about two hours and Agata left the flat suddenly almost as soon as we arrived. “My friend is hungry, I bring food, back tomorrow.” Hmm...friend? I wonder why she didn’t think she could tell me she was spending the night at her boyfriends’ house? (Which I assume she is doing). Ania and I had a good time at home, just studying and taking little breaks to talk about little things; school, friends, how expensive textbooks are whether you live in Ohio or Poland. Our topics of conversation are expanding.

Home Sweet Homestay

Friday morning marked the end of the group's stay at Sodispar, our apartment/hotel setup in Krakow, as everyone headed out for a 10-day homestay with different Polish families in and around the city. It's amazing what a different perspective it's given me in just two days. It feels like I've been here for a week already; not in a bad way, it's just been so jam-packed with different thoughts and experiences. For instance, speaking primarily with people who aren't fluent in English (but are conversational, and a thousand times more skilled in English than I am in Polish) has given my "inner-monologue" a Polish accent! Wow, there's just so much to say, I know I'll never get it all down.

I was greeted Friday morning after seminar with a smile and a handshake from Ania, a 19-year old girl with straight brown hair cut in stylish fringed layers and huge brown eyes. She helped me carry my bags out to the car, where Kate's homestay mother Zena (Ania's neighbor) was waiting to drive us out to their apartment complex, about 10 minutes outside the city center. The car ride was pretty quiet, neither Zena nor Ania spoke very much English, and Kate and I speak practically no Polish, plus we were a little nervous I think. A quick observation- all of the Polish people who I've talked to whose English is less than perfect are incredibly apologetic about it, I noticed it with Zena and Ania, and later with Ania's mother, her boyfriend Marchin, ans her grandmother. But as Zena remarked from the drivers' seat, "We do not have language, but we have hands." I can't help but notice that fluency in English is definitely a class marker in Polish society. [Side note: I'm trying to be honest and forthcoming in my descriptions of my experiences and my interpretations of them. I'm certainly not trying to offend anyone or ruffle any feathers, but I also don't want to be constantly self-censoring and worrying about how what I'm writing might be interpreted by others. It's a balancing act.]

As we left downtown Krakow, the buildings took on an industrial, 1970's kind of look: 10 or 12 stories high with uniform facades, clustered in groups of 6 or 8. The shops changed from downtown storefronts to strip-malls and freestanding warehouses. When we arrived in the neighborhood, I was overwhelmed with...gray. Buildings, sky, roads, sidewalks- all gray. The faded yellow paint covering the walls of the narrow staircase leading up to Ania's flat was a welcome shot of color. We entered the small flat on the second floor and I was greeted by Ania's mother Agata, with whom she shares the one bedroom, bathroom, family room, and kitchen. Agata is one of the most genuinely kind people I've ever met. Petite and dark-complected, she speaks less English than Ania, but has made such a tremendous effort at communication, one that I've tried hard to reciprocate. She carries around a Polish-English dictionary so that she can describe things to me. For instance, during dinner on Friday (which in Poland is called "Obiat," and is traditionally eaten around 2 in the afternoon), she looked up a Polish word that translates as "flour gone sour" to describe the soup she had prepared. (I looked it up later in my Polish phrase book, the soup's called "barszcz bialy.") Over the past few days we've all found ways to communicate- I try to speak slowly and simply (but not in a condescending way), and use lots of expressions and hand gestures. I'm trying to reciprocate the incredible kindness they've shown me (Ania insisted I sleep in her room, while she stays on a cot in the the family room that doubles as her mother's bedroom) by offering to do the dishes and help with meals. Sometimes they humor me, but usually they'll have none of it. They really have been incredibly gracious and giving.

Friday evening after dinner, I accompanied Ania by bus to her university, so that she could check her exam grades and get a signature from a Professor. The school reminded me more of high school than Kenyon- students running around in cliques, talking excitedly, it was very different atmosphere from the Jagiellonian. I could see the dichotomy that Daria had described between private and public universities in Poland- the public schools are very selective and academically rigorous, while the private schools are less so. We met up her friend Olivia and her boyfriend Marchin, took a bus to Galleria Krakowska, where Olivia and Ania shopped for makeup in a drugstore and I tried to explain to Marchin why I was studying in Poland (all three of them thought I was crazy for doing so). We spent the evening wandering the streets of Krakow-they felt bad for not having anything specific planned for me, but I was happy just to be out exploring. We tried to get inside the Wawel castle, where the Polish King and Queen used to live. It was closed for the day, but they did tell me the legend of a dragon who used to used to live there and showed me his commemorative sculpture. Apparently he prayed upon the virgins of Krakow until he was vanquished by a clever townsman, who fed him a sheep with a flaming rock in the stomach. Even better than the three brothers legend. Poland is full of great stories.

Later that evening, we met up with some of some of the other EiT students and some Polish students from the Jagiellonian at a bar in Kazimierz, the old Jewish district. I hoped that Ania and Marchin didn't feel out of place, with everyone speaking in rapid-fire English. I met a bunch of the Jagiellonian students, and had some great conversations with them about Antioch (where many of them spent time as exchange students), sociology, politics, fashion, film, television- before I knew it it was time to catch the tram back to Ania's neighborhood.

Saturday was a pretty lazy day, just lounging, watching TV with Ania and Agata, telling them all about my family, my house, my school, and asking about their lives. Agata used to be an actress, then went to school for five years to become a nurse, which she's been doing for 2 years. The conversation required much effort on all of our ends, but was incredibly worth it. I can't articulate how thankful I am to be here, to be spending time with people who aren't so materially well-off, but whose stockpiles of kindness and good humor are unending.

Today, Agata's parents came to visit for the evening. They live in a suburb on the other side of Krakow, about 15 minutes from the city center. Within five minutes of meeting me, Agata's mother insisted I visit them at their house next weekend. She was so proud to have been to the U.S. twice, in broken English, with Ania as a translator, she described the 24 states she'd visited, including Yellowstone National Park, Hawaii, South Dakota, and Florida. Almost immediately upon arrival, Agata and her mother began what I later learned was their monthly ritual of dying her mother's hair (jet black) in the kitchen sink. The tiny flat reeked of ammonia for days afterwards, but the sight of Agata's mother walking around with her damp hair under a plastic cap, forcefully insisting that I eat another pounchek, or donut, was almost worth it.

Like any parent, Agata's mother was incredibly proud of her children- she showed me Agata's nursing thesis (on the treatment of patients with Schizophrenia), and told me all about her son Peter, a urologist. She asked me about my parents' jobs, and when I told her my mother was a University professor, and my dad was an engineer, she said "Good positions, smart people." She sighed. "This is not good country. Many in Poland are smart, but have no money. My Agata, she has two professions, but still no money." I didn't want to look at Agata and Ania, who must have been embarrassed by her comments. "In America, is different," she said. "You do work, you have money. Is not like this in Poland, because of the communism. Communism is gone, but is still the same." I nodded, deciding I had neither the heart nor the communication skills to explain the nuances of American inequality. I thought of Ania, and the background photo on her old PC of a giant American McMansion- the kind that pop up in droves near my house, in fake neighborhoods called "Eden Meadows" and "Eagle's Landing." I wasn't sure what was worse, the unfair stereotypes of Americans as loud, brash, and culturally insensitive, or this illusion of widespread affluence and equity. It reminded me a piece by Polish scholar Ewa Morawska, who mentions the view of Western democracies that most East-Central Europeans get through the media and entertainment industry- a view of rampant consumerism rather than political participation, civil society, and other positive attributes of democracy.

Later that evening, Ania and I were studying in the family room/bedroom while everyone else talked and watched TV. "What are you reading?" her grandmother asked, leaning over to see my book. "In-ter-national Mi-gration," she read aloud. "Ah, it is now," she said. "There are too many Rosyjski (Russians) in America." I tried to hide my surprise. "The first time I go to America," she said "No Rosyjski. Then I go next time, and there is too many. The Rosyjski mafia, everywhere. We no like the Rosyjski." "Russians," Ania corrected her, without looking up from her notebook. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. A while later a news program came on TV. I wanted to show I knew a little bit about Poland, so I pointed to the screen and identified the former Polish President. (Or maybe he was Prime Minister? See how much I really know...) "He is a very good man. A good politic. He is right, not left like communists. Right, like me," she said, pointing to her chest. I nodded again.

They left soon after Agata's mother's hair dye had been rinsed out, and Ania closed the door behind them and sighed audibly. "I am free!" she exclaimed. Agata smiled, "Flat is too small for five people," she said. I smiled back, realizing how happily accustomed I'd become to our little trio.