Kotlet Schabowy and salad? Done.
Physio and back stretches? Done
Job Application. Yessir.
Blogpost? Here we go...
Lock and load your blogger dashboards, my PzU troopers, we’re back on the wagons. So let’s crack that post whip and see where it takes us!
In the book “If you Meet Buddha on the Road, Kill Him!” which is rather more properly sub-titled “The Pilgrimage of Psychotherapy Patients” the author Sheldon B Kopp (could he be from anywhere other than America?) describes a patient who had a hard time controlling his tempter. The patient insisted he had tried everything to be a better, nicer person but would suffer from uncontrollable outbursts of rage and aggression. The victory of his time in psychology was to understand he was really a bastard trying to be nice. Human, know thyself!
Something about this particular story rang a bell this morning as I sat on the 185 into work. Actually, it wasn’t just bells ringing, but a peculiar psychosomatic boli dupa. It came from 9 months of sharing my personal shopping space with that most ferocious of beasts: the babcia with a trolley. In almost the first week in Poland I was standing in the Lidl queue and felt it: A gentle, pointless nudge on the behind. I turned around and got a blank stare. These things happen, leave it.
Then the next time I was in ther: Donk. Same thing, different babcia. By now I was starting to see a pattern, but despite getting a C in Biology GCSE I still knew that it’s only after three donks that you’ve got enough evidence to draw a graph. Well, the data’s now well and truly in and I can positively confirm: the Polish babcia is a homicidal, trolley bumping maniac. It’s some sort of collective desperation to push the queue along which must be a related strain of the anti-social behaviour seen by most car drivers.
A peculiarly long level of eye contact when looking at someone on public transport when compared to the UK (Poles will stare at the opening of an envelope), a desire to tell strangers to put more clothing on and a compunction to keep all windows on all forms of transport as firmly closed as possible are all peculiarly Polish traits.
“The window’s locked” said the middle aged woman on the bus swathed in a coat and hat on the day new.meteo.pl told us it was 27c. I looked around, so drenched in sweat it was running into my eyes, and took the law into my own hands. “I’m sure it’s not,” I said and opened it with a desperate tug to much barely suppressed tutting and eyeballing by all and sundry. I’d marked myself out as almost certainly foreign and worse, a foreigner who opened windows. Off with his head! (But on with his cap).
It was this morning that I was thinking about Sheldon B Kopp’s patient and wondering whether I might be a nice guy desperate to be a bastard. In my head I stand on the highest platform of the bus and shout “look, people, it doesn’t have to be this way. Don’t you realise? Don’t you feel that we could change history? For god’s sake, why aren’t you sweating?!!” The bus driver's radio falls magically silent. The passenger stand, mouth agape, before, one at a time, bowing to my wisdom and opening the window. Word goes out and a montage of buses then pass by with people waving and cheering.
In Lidl I run through the scenario over and over again. Crunch! Arse + trolley. I turn around and shove the trolley back. “The queue is going as quick as it’s going, now please ****** *** ****** **** **** before I **** **** ************** ***!"
It’s not just a language thing – I could complain if I needed to. It’s a cultural thing. The strongest reaction I can present in public is to rustle my newspaper and do that particularly English roll of the eyes to indicate disapproval. The thought is, somehow, drilled into us is: don’t react, he might be a nutter. Even physical violence gets ignored in the UK, such is the extent of people's desperation not to get involved. I wonder what the babcia I saw last week slapping a young boy who was beating a guy up by Imielin metro would say about that.
Despite all this, I can't help but find Poles remarkably polite. Polish kids are in the main remarkably respectful to their elders. Bike riders queue behind each other at lights (like Japanese public crossings) and nary a nudge in sight. Nobody engages in mind numbingly boring phone conversations, loudly advertising their personal problems or plans for tomorrow night. And best of all, there’s very little of the “fuck you at all costs” individualism and aggression that seems all consuming in London sometimes. I know Poles who complain about the ruthless go-gettism of young professionals, but really, it’s in a different league. An emphasis on tradition, be it food or family, remains and is very appealing.
So in the interests of fairness, let’s summarise the facts: Poles stare and will hit you with their trolleys. They’ll subject you to an amateur group sauna whenever the chance takes them, but on the other hand, if you’re getting beaten up or looking for a bit of peace and quiet in the park on a sunny day, then you’ve come to the right place.Not quite sure where I've gone with this post today, but it's going up anyway....
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