The end of Welcome to Warsaw

It’s time to tape over the mouth of Welcome to Warsaw (the blog formerly known as Welcome to Ursynow) and deliver the mercy blow. I believe in judging by results, and this week after failing to want to blog, or to blog about anything interesting I can only conclude the time is now.

I believe to blog successfully you must have the time and you must above all blog regularly - anything less than once a week is not enough.

There are a lot of other things which I place higher in the rankings than a year ago, my yoga and physiotherapy, exercise and Polish learning amongst them. This year for me is all about doing more with less, so I want to under promise and not over extend in order to achieve what’s important to me. The blog sits in the category of nice and not necessary and is being cut out along with using facebook, staring out the window and watching endless Youtube videos. 

I enjoyed exploring the creative elements of being a blogger and with live blogs, podcasts, guest blogging and interviews I think I learnt a lot about writing, even if at times my sloppy editing and overblown metaphors came to the fore a little too often. ('Surely by now a self parody?' Wrote my exasperated English teacher at school and not much has since changed).

I have met some great people and learnt a lot about life too. Thanks to anyone who has read this blog over the course of the past year and 400-odd posts and been touched by something in it.

Even if it was just my over indulgement of your desires for stout ankled Babcias. 

Adieu - expect to see my lurking in comments on other blogs relating to the same subject: life in the wonderful country of Poland. 

Naked Babcia

I just saw my first naked Babcia.

Lying in bed this morning racked by a fever, with sweat in my hair, I was thinking about a blog post on hooliganism (yes, even when sick my first thought is for you dear reader, on my deathbed my last words will probably be the password to this blog so that Paddy Junior can take up the poisoned literary chalice that is this production belt of piffle - shame buggerbognor was taken).

Facing my window is an old people’s home. Most of the time I see them collecting in the sun, smoking cigarettes and not talking to each other. The building itself is an attractive pre-war brick affair with long balconies - God how beautiful Warsaw must have been before the war. Busty bustling matrons in turquoise tabards oversee proceedings. At night they also collect by the windows to smoke their cigarettes. Lights out at twenty one hundred.

I went to the window half an hour ago and stood observing the new day – the elderly being early risers means you get better visual plotki if you watch in the mornings. I’m an early riser too so God knows what time I’ll get up if I make it to that age.

There, yes, there the shape of a naked body, at first the sex is indistinguishable but then definitely female, bending stiffly to put on a shirt and then other articles of clothing. Everything being done at warp factor minus nine. I’m horrified but can’t turn away. It’s a naked Babcia!

Please forgive me, Vicious Trollius (the deity representing all Babcias) but surely with age comes wisdom and the wisdom to close the curtains before ubrac-ing?

The Passion of the Sweaty Christ

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....

Dog Bites Man (Emotionally)

I've hired a private physio through gumtree because I am supposed to be doing an hour's physiotherapy a day to sort my knees out (I have a hole in both my patellae) but it’s so very, very boring.

My nosey Babcia neighbour must think I am a madman. Every week a woman comes round and bends me into all manner of postures, such as the one in this photo, and then after an hour I hand her 60 zinzillas.

I got through two private physios quite quickly because (like most people I hope) when I’m embarrassed or shy with a stranger I tend to crack bad (very bad) jokes. It’s like some sort of instant idiotic banter button has been pushed when you suddenly find yourself telling your Physiotherapist that her massage technique is nothing like the one you get in Bangkok (disclaimer – never been to Thailand!)

Aside from being rather harder for me to quickly read emotionally, Poles are rather more formal in initial meetings than the easy-come, easy-go nature of some interaction between customer and staff/server that you’ll get in the UK and other Western Anglo-Saxon culture. When I think about the number of highly intimate and sometimes terrible things I learnt about the relative strangers I served when 16 and working in a delicatessen, I shudder and almost reach to turn off my covert surveillance equipment.

Anyway after yesterday’s physio I went for a walk in Las Kabacki and, turning to follow the railway track which leads to the ZTM slidings past the nice pond, found an agitated young dog lying in the grass, panting in the heat and quite distressed and zdenerwowany. I sat with him for a while but he had no collar and no owner turned up. After 40 minutes I could see he was utterly lost and didn’t have a clue where he was or what to do. I squatted in the grass by the side of the railway chewing the mental cud as four silent greyhounds and their owner tinkered past, blankly surveying us like soldiers passing civilians in a time of war.

I couldn’t leave this adorable and terrified pies alone and rang the Straz Mieszka to find out what to do. They said they’d “send a unit down later” and asked for an address. Not knowing exactly how to describe where I was, I called to an elderly Babcia bent over her field of crops in the late afternoon sun what the address of her house was, “Could the Honourable Lady tell me the address here, because I have a lost dog and I am calling Straz Mieszka” says I. “No” she reluctantly shouted back, “here is the forest, there’s forest there and forest here.” Now it could be I completely misunderstood her, but her body language said: eff off and leave me to my berry picking.

It’s one of those times that I’d deeply like to insult her in English just to get a gratifying feeling of revenge but wasn’t quite sure whether I’d quite read the situation right. So I took pies, who I nicknamed “Toast” because of the colour of his fur - to a friend who works with dogs and lived nearby and waited for the dog detectives to turn up. I can't take him in - the landlord wouldn't allow it and, frankly, I couldn't afford him either. It wouldn't be responsibile.

Why is it we form such a deep bond with dogs? Toast wouldn’t leave my side and having decided to trust me and follow me to the house, he never left my side for the rest of the day. Somehow a bit of that faithfulness and bond also seeped into me. We had to wait several hours for the dog unit to turn up and as they unceremoniously hauled him away, as he desperately struggled with them to return to me, I cried and cried. It was probably the most painful event that’s happened to me in at least two years.   

So if this your dog or you know him, you can find him at the Paluch dog place and please, next time put a chip in him and keep him on a lead... because my heart is a little broken today.

Babcia knows best!

Today I’ve got a to-do list as long as a tailor’s measuring tape but I loved the little classic Polish moment that just happened to me. I was in LIDL buying some fruit and ham and got chatting to the lady ahead of me in the queue. I made a joke about how many chocolate mousse desserts she was buying and she told me that because of rationing during the Communist period she enjoys buying treats now for herself and her grandchildren. We talked about the 1980s in Poland for a while and then about the UK – her cousin lives in Manchester – and her family.

As she paid for her shopping she grabbed a chocolate mousse and shoved it in my hands and then wouldn’t take my refusals for an answer. I can’t be certain but I think she also said, “I like buying chocolate for children” Despite the fact that I am 27 and have grey in my moustache!

In various welcome-to-Poland guidebooks I’ve read that a refusal for another serving at the dinner table is taken as a polite way of saying “can I have more on top of the more, please?” I can definitely confirm that. The more I protested the more insistent she became so I left Lidl with an extra little gift courtesy of Babcia and a big smile on my face. I love Babcia!

Two sides of the same coin...

The bus is a place where everyone has the time to stare into the distance, from Grannies to Grandchildren..

Talking about staring into the distance, I am off to catch the 0915 Warsaw train to Wroclaw and thence toWałbrzych.I should have plenty of time for short, medium and long distance staring. Particular highlights will be counting lint and checking for signs of infectious diseases in other passengers. They would do well to stay away from me on this trip as I have an "inflammation of the Episclonitis." (an eye problem) which I discovered during a costly trip to a Luxmed hospital yesterday, of which more another time.

As the weather is forecast to be superb this weekend (all day sun and 10+ centigrade) I couldn't have picked a worse time to spend 14 hours in two days on a train. Ideally I would have spent the entire weekend exploring, but c'est la vie.

Warszawa Centralna, here I come, and, then, onwards to Monotony, Victory and Recovery!

Three Sides of Warsaw on the Same Bus Seat

All taken within less than 13 minutes of each other on the same 108 bus seat.

Warsaw Street Scenes: Babcia i Dziecko

Feeding

Observing

Ignoring

This proves that PzU is not a one trick pony when it comes to Babci!

Questions to which the Answer is 'Tak'

Even though I've been rumbled, is this still a good photo?

I would love to know more about the people I photograph. It's fast becoming my number one priority reason for learning Polish. This week the only in-depth conversations I've had have been a variety of the "bardzo mowisz po Polsku" "prawda, nie, ale dziekuje" that must be familiar to anyone living in Poland. I would really like to say, "can I take your picture?" but a polite and capable explanation of why is beyond me still.

In addition to six hours of classes a week and learning vocabulary I've tried listening to radio, watching tv - anything to get myself more immersed - but it's surprisingly tough. The Mrs responds with a special type of giggle if I try and speak Polish at home, before immediately declaring we should wracac do Londyniu before I become Polish. At this rate by the end of this year I might be a specialist in buying vegetables and putting my coat in for dry cleaning but not much else. It worries me that I'm not progressing quicker. But perhaps I'm being too harsh on myself.

Oh, the other person I spoke in-depth to was a slightly eccentric chap who told me about his sister living as a nurse in Germany. He was engaging everyone around him in conversation and I think people were rather surprised that I was happy to chat. I don't mind: mad people are much happier to listen to your own waffling than sane people.

Hat tip: to John Rentoul for the title.  The next post will be the "Questions to which the answer is 'Nie ma.'

Street Scenes from Warsaw

Street selling...

Czekamy

Focus

In discussion

In discussion about the Szpital

Light Dusting of Posting Followed by Granny Glut

Niestete bede miec bardzo zajesty Ponidzialek do Sroda from now on, dlatego posting bede light.Nagle my days have stretched to 10, then 12 then 15 hours. Well, it's just like old times, I guess. And at least I am doing what I want, when I want, no longer at the mercy of the Mandarin Machine. 

Fortunately I can now present to you a glut of elegant grannies on Warsaw's public transport. The search goes on to find two Babcias wearing the same coats but I fear that, like snowflakes, no two will ever be the same.

Purple beret with a grey coat earns mega-kosmo points.

Bonus Babcia Bonanza

Cometh the snow, cometh a wide variety of trenchant, stout legged Babcias.

Damn close run thing but so far I've still not seen an identical coat on any of them, so the search goes on...

Poland 29/110 Happiest Countries

It must be true because the maths people said it, right here.There are also some interesting findings regarding the - growing, in their conclusions - disparity between European countries here.

Checking out the data and looking into it a bit more closely would be good but unfortunately I had yet another collision with vodka last night so instead I'll go for the lowest common denominator: some more Babcias that caught my eye around Warsaw recently.

The whole photographing-women-in-public-without-their-consent thing will stop eventually, I promise! But it's surprisingly addictive... I still haven't seen an identical coat yet, either.

Perhaps that's the cut-off point, then. Women of Warsaw, the gauntlet has been thrown down, if you continue to defy me by sporting one-of-a-kind coats then know that your privacy will be impinged for ever more, until one of us cracks or I'm arrested - whichever is sooner. 

Incidentally I was just doing a bit of administration and came across this text in a 'crashed'  word document written in a lull from futile attempts to beat Luke Kelly's singing of Raglan Road. It appears only sleep and senseless sobriety have stopped me continuing what looked to be a vital new addition to English literature:

"Do you remember the time you were better than anyone and did everything effortlessly? Those days are past. This is the day of the Queen Bee."

What a load of rubbish!

Buty Check And Encounter with Kontrol (Plus Bonus Tram Yeti!)

Buty Check 

 

It was Monday the 17^th of November when the first snowflakes of Winter 2010 fell upon Warsaw like so many grains of sand from the hands of Thor himself. Exactly two months to the day, it’s time to check out how my buty have fared in the snow, sludge, sand and salt.

Before:

                                                                     

After:

 

Unlike in the Just For Men Advert (TM) It'd be wrong to say the looks don't show on this shoe. (I've always found that advert strange. Who wants their Daughter bragging about their overnight transformation in hair colour? Surely it's a matter of total embarrassment requiring a minimum two week absence from work )The leather sheen has completely gone, not helped by my not bothering to use any kind of shoe polish on it - although what type of polish do you use on a light grey boot? I really don't know. Anyone know what kind of polish is appropriate in Polish? (Enough of that now). The stitching seems to have held (I usually brush it to get rid of the aggressive salt) but the laces are fading. I somehow doubt I'll be using these in three winter's time, which makes Pan Steeva's approach to buty a bit more logical. You live and learn. (I paid 300 pln+ for these)

Encounters with Kontrol

I was on Nowy Swiat today and finally had an encounter with Kontrol (ticket inspectors) - as I had a ticket there was nae bother. Unlike English buses, you're not required in Poland to show your ticket or swipe your card in front of the bus driver when entering the bus. This generally means boarding the bus is a lot quicker than in the UK as there's no hold ups at the one and only entrance. 

On the other hand it does encourage fare-dodging. I now buy a weekly travel card for 32 pln as I am hopping about all over the city every day. I arrived on the 7th of October. If I hadn't bothered to pay for my travel up until the point when the ticket inspector would have caught me and issued a 100 pln fine (about £20 quid) I could have saved about 330 plnn - ironically about the price of my much faded boots.

But that's not the interesting part: I was surprised to see that out of the entire bendy-bus, just one customer didn't have the necessary ticket or validated travel card. For a system that is so obviously open to abuse that was quite a surprise. 

Bonus Babcia/Tram Yeti

An excellent specimen with additional fur hat, spotted at the bottom of Nowy Swiat.

Uwaga! Don't get fished!

Superb coat spotted today on the No. 18 Tram to Zeran.

The only way this could possibly be topped would be with a clashing fur czapka. However, on this occasion the Babcia has opted for a Czech floppy hatty thing (limit of fashion knowledge reached and breached).

Also a great poster warning against pickpockets:

Spotted on the 148 which terminates at the Airport. Basic message is "don't get fished." I just love the design of this poster. By all accounts online the 148 is ridden with pickpockets looking for tourists and easy pickings. Intensive fish farming you might say. One problem I have with it is a Polish man would never go with such a simple shirt/tie combination. It's just not realistic: I think a better one would be black shirt with a lime green tie.

PzU Photo Corner: Babcias Edition

Gentlemen and Lady readers of Pozdrowienia z Ursynowa.There are two things you should know.

The first is that the  following pictures are of well insulated Babcias ('Tram Yetis' as Kolin Murray calls them!) on public transport with their grandchildren and friends. I find the Babcias fascinating because of their dress, their flinty and stoic resolve, and the lines that time and suffering have etched into their faces.

The second thing is an admission that, yes, I have taken these pictures surreptitiously, without consent (which is legal in the UK and I assume also in Polska) and....yes.... it's true I did also recently post that I enjoyed being crushed on buses and metro next to these Tram Yetis because there's lots of surface area to them and they keep you warm. It's not quite overnighting in a tuan-tuan but it's close.

This does not make me a heat-seeking Babcia fetishist. You may now enjoy the photos free of any residual suspicions. That is all.

Babcia Knows Best!

SCENE

In the dusk a brisk breeze envelops a short man with ruddy cheeks and regulation Polish haircut as he strides down Dolina Słuczewiecka, his pace as precise as the Grenadier Guards on parade. He removes his cap to allow his moist brow to cool as he endeavours to complete the 6km walk in under 45 minutes.  In the near distance an even shorter typical Babcia stands alone waiting at a bus stop.

DIALOGUE [Translated]

BABCIA:  Young man, where are you going without your czapka?

ME: [Not understanding initially] I am very sorry but I am not Polish and I only speak a little po polsku, do you need help?

BABCIA: I said put your hat on! You will get sick! Do it, now!

ME: [Understanding, at last] Ah thank you very much, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so very much. 

BABCIA: It is cold tonight, jako jako.

CONCLUSION

You just can't argue with Babcia. That would never happen in England in a million years!