crooked corner

the summer bra

2010-08-09T15:28:00.003+01:00

I recently met up for a beer with a British friend who reminded me of the Polish summer bra phenomena...a disturbing practice I have until now, refused to accept as reality. But here it is.

Imagine, a hot, sweltering day. The sun is burning into your brain, your survival mechanism is to sweat profusely. Your logic tells you to drink water. You drink beer instead. There is no air-con anywhere. The nearest swimming hole is too far to peddle to on your bike. The apartment is too hot to sit in. Breezy refuge is found underneath the shade of a tree at the local park. But the clothes on your back are an annoyance. Too heavy. Too burdensome. What do you put on to achieve maximum coolness and the possibility of breathability. Perhaps a cotton dress? A skirt? A loose, long t-shirt?

Don't be silly. Just wear your bra! The ugliest, the most pointy and polyester number you may have in your draw. What? You're not over 50? You don't have a flabby tire round your mid-drift? Or a husband who wears sleeveless, beige wife-bashers, socks and sandals? Pft. Well, you'll just have to stay hot in the heat wave.

A country known for it's conservatism somehow has let this one slip. For some unbeknownst to me reason, middle-aged women, find it completely acceptable to prance around in their bras, in the summer days, pretending that they're wearing, um, bikini tops? At least their skirts or shorts remain safely in place. Otherwise I'd have to emigrate.

Is it a lack of summer culture amongst the older generation? Maybe. Fried meat meals with heavy loads of potatoes and stewed cabbage after servings of hot soup, are still the preferable dinner choice when it's 34 degrees out. Eat a boiled beetroot, wear your bra out, why not ey?

Islam Fundamentalists Eat Your Heart Out!

2010-07-18T21:25:00.007+01:00

I am beginning to wonder what Middle Ages backwater I am living in when the hottest political topic of the week is whether or not to remove and relocate a wooden cross from the front of the Presidential Palace that was erected after The Crash* by some scouts to a more suitable area. Current President wants the cross gone. The conservative whining bitch party wants it to stay. They've even, it appears, hired security guards dressed as praying wet blankies who have come from all over Poland to guard the cross should any hooligan be bold enough to lynch the 'monument' and “Polish icon” (their uniform: long skirt, heeled sandals with stocking sockettes). Um separation of church and state? Nup, at least not east of the European west. After all, it is only 2010.

Photo: Filip Klimaszewski

It gets better. What is required of an investor when wanting to open, say, a new shopping centre in Poland? Building permits? An environmental survey? Market analysis? A big fat loan from the bank? The presence of the clergy of course. The devil needs to be kept at bay when one wants to spend up big time, silly. Enough reason for the holy water to hit the tills and shopping trollies.

Newsagents need a good ol' blessin' too.

so do security beepers

(images courtesy of: http://panorama.media.pl/coppermine/displayimage.php?album=956&pos=5)

And just a last point of interest. This is more of a tourist attraction for the devout. Newly opened and owned by Catholic Poland Pty. Ltd., a modest, simple and austere place of worship for every lamb of God, complete with all the mod coms.

Sanctuary of the Our Lady of Sorrow in Lichen - 100 per cent of its funding came from its followers. Built between 1994-2004

It has such a community feel about it too. When Catholic Poland Pty. Ltd. needed further funding to bring this simple structure into being, it sucked out money from its die-hard followers in a classy fashion. Brainwashing particularly those living in villages, without higher education, or the old, living on their measly government pensions it singled out households with its Catholic Poland Pty. Ltd. newsletter asking for money “because every extra brick counts”. God will love you even more. Even the most incompetent follower had it made easy, with a choice of a money order, card payment, account transfer or a simple envelope drop at the local church. The somewhat forgetful were bombard a couple more times over the course of the months with follow-up payment reminders. Poland simply deserved its very own Taj Mahal.

* The Crash: the presidential plane goes down in Russia, killing the Polish president, his wife, important cronies, dignitaries, heads of military forces, Justyna hides her head in the sand in embarrassment, romantic Poles mourn for two weeks, controversy heats when the dead president is buried in Krakow in Wawel castle (in a crypt containing Polish kings), Justyna develops ulcers from her inability to deal with the absurdity of the whole situation, the plane crash victims' credit cards are stolen from the crash site by Russian soldiers who then go on shopping sprees, AND THEN the TWIN BROTHER of the dead President runs FOR president in the sped up elections. Crikey. Kill me now. Brazilian soap operas have nothing on this.

one last attempt

2010-07-16T10:10:00.003+01:00

After my two or so years of arse sitting, being engulfed by the claws of Facebook, taking criticism badly and no longer being able to see the novelty value of daily living in Poland, crooked corner is once again in action. Constant pressure from one particular, young, Bathurst dwelling cousin and the fact that I am statistically losing 8 English words per day, has forced me to rethink this stagnation. Not sure how constant the writing will be. But it will be.

Besides, the Twin President is dead, all of Poland was a flooded swimming pool, I experienced the public hospital health care system, became self-employed, contemplated village life, started eating lard during the winter period, became a qualified folk craft instructor (more on that later – I have government papers to prove it), put on a whopping 23 kilos in the short space of 9 months*, learned to cook sorrel soup and accepted Krakow as my home. Enough bits and pieces to scrape up a couple of entries.

Enough as a starter methinks.

* As a result of the weight gain an independent human emerged.

Disclaimer: crooked corner may now contain, sporadically, children-related banter. If this annoys the crap out of you, you have been warned.

albania

2008-09-22T08:20:00.004+01:00

Unfortunately this is what I will remember Albania for the most.

Albania

. Two weeks. Four days in transit on three different trains to get there. 300 euros each. Down the coast. Through the mountains. Hitchhiking. Buses. Walking. Taxis. Boat. Arse end of Europe. Little asphalt. Domesticated animals strutting through streets. Garbage management system – none. Unless you count the burning of rubbish in the evening by the side of the road. First private car to be owned 1990. Until then Hoxha the dictator allowed only state owned vehicles. Hence the lack of roads. And road rules. Car of choice – 1980 Mercedes, the toughest sucker out there to survive Albania’s dirt tracks. Aggressive development. Resort towns popping up with horrid speed. No planning. The sea is crystal and beautiful. Coastline chaotic, packed, uninviting. Freelance camping the go! Mind the turds on the beach. And a week’s worth of rotting nappies and watermelon. The fish is delicious though. And tomatoes taste like tomatoes. They do good coffee too. That’s the ‘Italian’ in them. People are wonderful and hospitable. They still scratch their heads and ask in amazement ‘so why did you come to Albania’? The mountains are stunning as are the villages wedged in between them. Especially at night. When you can’t see the mess. The village roof tops are made out of stone. The fortresses grand. The one rail line is slower than the slowest mini-bus on a dirt track. We did 60ks in 6 hours once. We were still patient then. Ohrid Lake is mind-blowing. 300 metres deep in its deepest part. It is known for its koran fish, the most expensive on the menu (a whole 8 euros). It tastes like a more dignified trout. Nobody goes fishing with a rod. Too deep. The lake is translucent. You can see the bottom even when you’re on a dingy and far out. Interesting since all the sewage flows into it. The beer is served in chilled beer mugs. A wonderful treat, since the days are always furnace hot.

after a 6hr train delay we missed out connection to Montenegro. So ended up in Belgrade. We bribed a Serbian train conductor
to get us a free sleeper. He did. For twice the amount sleepers usually go for. The compartment was the official blanket and pillow storage space of the train. It took us half an hour to move the stuff elsewhere before we could go to sleep.

intimate, cozy, relaxing. We sunbathed standing.

days of searching later we found this secluded spot. Shared it with two Hungarians. Nice boys. Beautiful water.

Trusty mover. Town of Gjiokaster.

stone rooftops. Fortress on hill. Gjiokaster.

Ksamil. Village down south. Apart from the smell and feasting on garbage cows, a nice spot.

Donkey chariots faster than rail. "Shite" means 'for sale'.

Ochrid lake. The owner of the hotel we stayed in took us out on his dingy. For fun. He had nothing else to do.
My favourite place in Albania.

post this

2008-09-16T08:48:00.004+01:00

I have a love-hate relationship with two government institutions in Poland: PKP (Polish rail) and the Poczta Polska (post office). The latter provides me with plenty of amusement, created by its mind boggling archaic ways. Sweet post ladies provide you with string for extra parcel strength, entertain you with their chatter and bleached-blond perms and complain about their wages (one of the lowest in Poland). Despite constant plans and postal policies little is being done to reform the institution. God forbid privatisation! You still cannot make payments either by way of credit card or eftpost (yup – cash only please), but then again there is some news of a mechanised letter sorting system being introduced to the mailing room. Also the postman no longer needs to wear a postman uniform. Idea is to make them inconspicuous. Too many muggings for pension cash envelopes apparently. No, the post bag doesn’t give him away. Nor that load of letters he is carrying in his hand.

By far the most entertaining aspect of the Polish post however, is the ‘post shop’. It is filled with wonderful elements that you would never even think of buying at a post office. Sanitary pads anyone? How’s about washing powder? What about a candle lantern for your grandmother’s grave? You would like a hard cardboard envelope for that CD you want to send? No sorry. Try the stationery shop down the road.

for those who may have sticky fingers, a glass cabinet with key has been installed

slut

2008-07-30T08:27:00.004+01:00

Meet my new hero. My love affair with the Ukrainian is over. I ride the German now.

zalipie

2008-06-27T10:39:00.004+01:00

There is a tiny village some 70ks east of Krakow. There isn’t much there except that its locals are super happy. People walk around with smiles on their heads and talk to you in their streets when they see you are visiting. Quite strange for Poland. Here people usually drop their gaze when you look straight at them. If you smile their way, they tend to think you are an idiot (that doesn’t dissuade me though – I am on a crusade to make Poles more pleasant – the Push for Pleasant Poles campaign). But not in Zalipie. There is a skipping vibe about the place. Maybe it has something to do with this:

The women of Zalipie have been painting and decorating their houses for about 60 years now. Just for kicks. Every year there is a competition for the best folk decorated wall. We were there the weekend before the competition began. The place is beautiful. And all the women so proud.

Am writing this on Tina's Mac so have no idea why this is underlined.

Wimbledon news: Tipsarevic kicked Roddick's arse yesterday. It was brilliant. Groaning Shazza is out too. It was wonderful to see. Silly slurry.

springing it up...

2008-06-16T16:50:00.005+01:00

Spring hoard. Cucumber, baby potatoes, young garlic, cherries, strawberries, dill.
And a new colander from the market.

It’s been a while. During my slack-arse blogging period I began to convince myself that Poland stopped being novel and therefore there was no longer a need for me to write about it. But who was I kidding? It is enough that it is strawberry season and that in itself deserves a bloody post. These delicious beauties are at $2 a kilo! A kilo!! People are shitting their pants literally during this short-lived period (strawberry season only lasts a couple of weeks). I went to my local veggies market and overheard two vendors chatting. I was buying cherries and bent down to repack my backpack in order to catch every word. It went something like this:

Vendor 1 (bleached curly hair, socks and flip flops, a bum-bag):

You know Stasia (short for Stanislawa), I ate about one and a half kilos of strawberries yesterday for dinner.

Stasia (brown curly hair, normal looking shoes, a bum-bag):

Big deal. We’ve all been doing it.

Vendor 1: Yes. But afterwards I drank a litre of buttermilk!

Stasia: Oh no! (o jej!)

Vendor 1: I was glued to the bog for the whole evening! (chuckles with pleasure)

Stasia: Well you deserve the runs for that you silly duck!

Indeed. Never eat an abundance of fruit followed by a fermented beverage. Nor drink water with cherries. The result is strikingly similar.

a whole lot of strawberry love - I made jam

Incidentally it is also cucumber season.
I have begun the pickling process. Garlic, salt, wild dill.
Clay pickling pot, Christmas present from my mum. I asked for it.

No comment. I didn't even make the damn thing.

I just ate it. (Efforts courtesy of Michal's mum).

Zabłocie (Beyond the Mud)

2008-04-07T14:59:00.003+01:00

We spent this Sunday town-based. We ate a hardy meal at the local Bar Mleczny (ala diner) on Grodzka (the quintessential cheap homemade food stop that prices its food on how much it weighs). I had the Ukrainian borsch (barszcz ukrainski), a rissole with stewed carrots and peas (duszona marchewka) for a main, which was all washed down with freshly squeezed carrot juice (sok z marchwi). My nails have been giving me grief lately. Michal had żurek (a soup made out of fermented bread things – don’t ask – it is tangy and very tasty), and the Hungarian hash-browns (placki ziemniaczane po węgiersku), a salad made out of three types of cabbage (red, white and sauerkrauted) and celery root, also followed with freshly squeezed carrot juice and an apple cake (szarlotka).

Filled with the required starches and vitamins (hidden deeply amongst all the boiled crap) we headed off on our bikes exploring Zabłocie. This is an industrial area of Krakow on the river which is being gentrified. The old mills and bread factories are being converted into lofts. But the speed with which it is all happening is hardly mindblowing, so the area was suitably grey and depressing. What I noticed though is that the commies used to take trees into account when erecting factory zones. This was definitely a plus, since the horrible architecture is nicely covered by big oaks and pines. It is a pity that the developers of new business parks are not as green orientated when it comes to camouflaging their ugly concrete slabs.

After five hours on the bikes, with arses sore a plenty (first riding of the season does that), we popped the bikes on the tram and went home.

This Trabant was photographed for its excellent leather bonnet straps. How secure!

Marketing at its most imaginative: “Cheap coal” followed by the telephone number.

This truck is always parked on Starowiślna. Wonder what the owner does during the summer time...

winter v spring v winter

2008-04-02T23:26:00.004+01:00

We made a trip to the Baltic sea the other week. It was still winter then. This is the only time I like the Polish sea-side. Mainly because it is not inflated by plastic pink floaties, sardine-like conditions of orange-tanned bodies segregated by their “parawany” (cloth and stick structures resembling wind breakers to keep in as much heat as possible), and the condensed amount of urine that is released by hordes of ‘swimming enthusiasts’ who battle for a spare piece of water to waddle in. In contrast, the winter time by the sea is calm, peopleless and somehow charming. We walked for ages and skidded stones on the flat, calm water. Turns out my mum is quite the skimmer (or ‘duck’ chucker – as it is called in Polish). She also shrieks like a 12 year old when she’s kicking arse. I think her record was 12 skims. Then we ate smoked herring. Then my dad bought 2 kilos of fresh herrings to take home to smoke himself.

Baltic sea with the Jaskies

This is a 'kutra' - old fishing boat. I got told off for taking photos of the fishermen.
Turns out there is some illegal labour going on there. And the boys are on the dole.
Social security workers have already come around sniffing.
Fraudulent buggers.

Then we went skiing. In spring. It was sunny but there was still plenty of snow. The conditions were rad. We ate sweaty fried Slovak cheese and drank a lot of their beer. Then we found out from the ski hire dude that Michal’s surname means “pot/weed” in Slovak.

Strbskie Pleso, Slovakia - High Tatras

And now it really is spring and I even had bare feet and my slip on shoes. But then the temperature fell by about 8 degrees and I was left looking like a 'tard on the street wondering whether the Biedronka at Nowy Sacz sold any cheap socks.

Most importantly though, I had to post something. It’s been a month. And people are announcing their engagements in the comments section! I am thrilled for the lucky Libby and Hugh couple. Because they both rule. Congratulations!

the grass is pretty green here

2008-03-03T20:51:00.005+01:00

I thought coming back to Australia would make my gut churn at having left it in the first place. I thought I would get to my second week of the holiday and I would start sending abusive text messages to Michal yelling at him for making me leave the great city I once called home. I even had a back-up plan. We could rent out our place in Krakow, I could get a dead-beat junior legal job somewhere, we would apply for residency for Michal and we would find a nice tidy little number in Newtown to live in. Missing my parents, well, I would just have to get over it. But it turned out that I didn’t need a back up plan at all. I missed Poland. I missed everything about it. I missed the winter and the fact that I couldn’t go skiing. I missed the anticipation of the season changing, I missed the normal bread, I missed the chaos I could usually whine about, I missed our small apartment, our friends in their stable and ordinary (in a good way) relationships. I missed the politics and wondered what the Tusk government was up. I also missed the fact that the Slavs do not have the need to harp on about things that, considering, are relatively normal. Ordinary tasks like sewing a bag or making a home improvement in Oz require an audience and usually some applause. Perhaps a blog entry or two (guilty). The Slavs however, treat such occurrences as just another thing that is done.

What I did realise in Sydney though is that by living in Krakow I would never live in place with beautiful surroundings. I would never have an amazing view, or a lush gathering of trees, or a perfect terrace with a barbie set up and ready to go or a beach to stroll to. I would never have a park free from dog poo and neighbours who would be environmentally conscious (we are the only people in our block of flats who recycle). I would never have the experience of wealthy public institutions that know how to spend their money wisely. I wouldn’t have an abundance of fresh air and a bush I could get lost in. I would never be close to a harbour or own a dingy. I would never have an array of glorious wog food and would always have to rely on my own cooking skills and forever replicate.

Most importantly though, I would not have my friends and family close to me. The reality is that some of the most important people will always remain far away. And this sucks and will continue to do so. If it wasn’t for Tim and Edd getting hitched, Michal and I would have never made the trip out, and thanks to them I was able to replenish some of the desperately needed cuzes/mates juices. Thanks cobbers!

And by staying in Poland I would never feel as confident as I do in Australia. The informality, the language, the ability to joke, to scathe, to be humoured, to dish out and be able to take it, are all extremely important factors that remain within the Aussie half of me. I ravished in the pleasure of being around people for six weeks, who could take the micky out of one another, not get offended, and retaliate with equal bite. I was around newly met people with whom in a span of 15 minutes I could feel comfortable with. God how much I have missed that! I wish the Slavs could take themselves less seriously, deflate their pomp, and loosen up a few notches.

But this trip has made the ‘grass is always greener’ syndrome blare a little less loudly in my ears. Calmed me somewhat. What makes Poland win in the end is its lack of bullshit, the frankness of the people, and problems that are real affecting everyday living. Not wank created for the sake of conversation. It helps to be in a country that is so homogenous, where everyone speaks the same language and understands each social gesture. No layer of artificiality or ‘tolerance’ dialogue required from above to keep people communicating. They just do, naturally. Poland wins because the family unit is the all-important factor upon which everything is based. And this makes me feel safe, content and in complete agreement.

My gut gets excited with every new development here, with every new road that is built, with every politician that is found guilty of corruption and thrown in the slammer. I am bloody lucky to be living in a country that is going through some of the most spectacular changes in its history and it is nice to see it all happen just outside my window. Poland is the bomb. This is where I want to stay.

buster with poo bag attached to leash - c'mon Polaks! LEARN!!!!

Kukus and Anetka, my excellent cousins. The eye of the storm at Bronte beach.

We survived.

out on Ben's dingy. 38 metres deep. Out past Manly. This sucker was not eaten.

crooked apology

2008-02-08T00:57:00.000+01:00

I have been in Oz for the last four weeks now. Three of those weeks were spent in Melbourne at the Australian Open. I did not have regular access to the internet whilst working, and now I seem to be drinking too much beer and hanging with too many friends and cousins to have time to write posts. Besides my camera got lost/or stolen on Australia Day in the pub, so my two weeks of tennis banter in picture format went down the shithole. I did, however, get an earful today from Michal about neglecting the blog. And now I feel bad. I promise to update sufficiently one of these upcoming days, as soon as I grasp these MacBooks that everyone seems to have here. Edd and Tim have been very generous and have lent me their snap-shot camera number, so I now have no excuse.

Being back is good, weird, fun, lonely, better, comfortable, easy, familiar, with that little bit of something missing. Sydney is green, clean, organised, with plenty of weirdos, with horrible traffic and distances that shit me. Apartments are more spacious, nicer, with good views, clean air and better furniture and pretty landscaping. Bike riding is still a relatively new trend that needs to be discussed by most, including morning radio stations. Wog food is delicious and I have eaten little outside of the Asian/Indian/seafood or steak variety. Beer is bad and gives you mad hangovers.

My mates and family are for life. It appears that it matters little if I disappear for a long while. We all fall back on track immediately. I am very happy to see that all my closest friends are content.

I miss Michal.

from my carp to your carp

2008-01-02T01:37:00.000+01:00

Have been away all of this week. I am over-fed and tired from all the eating, sitting, family relationing, and eating. But it has indeed been a good festive season. I even ate carp. It has to be the most disgusting fish in the whole wide world, but for some reason the Poles love it AND it is THE MAIN Christmas dish on the Christmas Eve supper table. Bleh. My dad scored these two beauties from my uncle who happens to have a carpy type of pond. These were young and not for mass-sale in supermarkets, but kept for the sheer joy of simply having carp in one’s back yard. Why? The fish bloody stinks, has massive bones, is ugly and tastes like shit. I know that they do not cause environmental damage here in Poland like they do in the rivers of Oz, since here they are a native fish, but somehow I cannot get over the fact that they are indeed a swimming rat with fins. And here’s something more bizarre – you’re meant to keep a few dry carp scales and put them in your wallet for good luck. No thank you. Anyway, all good Poles buy their Christmas carp live, stick it in their bathtubs for a day, and then well – slaughter them in the laundry. Michal had the honours (mainly because my dad is a whimp). Supermarkets have massive plastic pools set up in the fish section with a lady who has a net and who fishes out a carp of your choosing for you! Imagine that! I’ll have one swimming fish and a mooing piece of beef please.

As much as I hate the slimy carp buggers, I felt sorry for their miserable fate – and crumbled some milk biscuits into the bathtub for their pleasure. Little did I know that carp do not eat in winter. Like bears they sort of hibernate and wait for the ice to crack before they dig their dirty slimy fishy lips out of the muddy river floor and start feeding again.

note the floating bits of biscuit - their last meal on death row –

convicted for being the most horrible fish on the planet

a slice of rude head please!

I should have turned on the spa vents for their amusement.

And since we're all getting over Christmas...Polish door-knocking carol singers anyone? If you are expecting a little choir with angelic voices and the one daggy baritone in a woollen hat holding a candle, you would indeed be mistaken. Carol door-knockers in Poland don’t actually sing (or do very rarely). They come in teams usually made up of the local village kids, get dressed up in costume and perform mini plays, involving the grim reaper, a king being sleighed and some general material out of old peasant or bible stories. They come into your home, entertain the guests (usually on Christmas Day – since the Poles celebrate Christmas Eve), wish you good tidings for the New Year, then collect money and goodies from each home they visit. These carol boys came to my uncle’s place. Their costumes were pretty good, but the acting was a little wooden.

And so, in the spirit of the carol non-singing boys, may your New Year be a Happy one!

one wooden pencil holder and a grass rabbit please

2007-12-18T10:51:00.000+01:00

Can’t get my arse into gear these couple of days and write proper posts. Maybe that’s because our little digital camera collapsed and I can’t be bothered lugging the SLR around with me every time I step outside. Or maybe because it has been freezing cold and stepping outside in itself is a bother. Although I do like my beanie. Or beanies. I have a whole collection.

Fave headwear, courtesy of Nat.

Christmas is next week and Krakow is lit with fairy lights. I won’t show you the pictures because I do not have any. There is a Christmas market out in the Square as well and it drives me bonkers, mainly because it is very shit. What’s with the Square’s necessity to constantly exhibit wooden folk crap to sell on every occasion possible? What about introducing genuine arty/graphic style stalls or handmade items that are not mass produced in a wooden mountain shack in the Tatras by a horde of arthritis-ridden goat herders? It’s all very quaint when you fly here for the weekend and you want a whiff of the cows, but when you’re dealing with this kitschy hey-Poland-is-so-villagie-vibe all year round, it gets on your nerves. Krakow, despite its large quantities of sheeps' cheese, is not an agricultural heritage park. Can we start showing its urban side, which, unbeknownst to most, is actually pretty bloody good. There are people out there who are producing great photography, design work, prints and crafty art, but who have not been business-mindedly kicked in the pants. Do you know which annual festival gets the largest amount of cash from the City Council? The Pierogi Festival (dumpling). No comment. Tourists please stop buying wooden crap. Locals start selling good shit that I can buy and give to my friends and family with my head held high.

The plus side of it all is, is that the Russians have arrived!!! They are swarming in through the streets of Krakow in alarming numbers and I love it. I think Russian is the greatest language on earth, and the Ruskies one of the more interesting societies, so I take great pleasure in following them around and eavesdropping on their conversations (just for the pure sound of their language, since I can only understand an eighth of what they are saying), being amazed at all the glitz, pink and trash they like to wear.

They are coming in large numbers to get their shopping done before the Schengen Agreement kicks in on the 21^st of December. This means that Poland will no longer have border control with any of its neighbouring EU countries (Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Lithuania) and no check points (you will be able to drive from country to country like in Western Europe without even having to put the brakes on or flashing your passport). But what it does mean for the Russians, the Ukrainians and the Byelorussians is tighter border control, EU implemented border regulations, harder to get visas and tighter security. So no more popping in for shopping or skiing weekends in Zakopane. The highlanders are already wincing in pain. They will lose a whole heap of dosh over the Christmas break due to the lack of the very generous rich Ruskies who usually come in massive amounts and spend big. Decline in the hotel and hospitality sector will mean an increase in wooden shit production.

Our home does not look at all Christmasie, but it smells it. Michal decided to bake ‘paszteciki’ on Sunday, and poor Tukan just happened to arrive at the wrong moment and was forced to help. The filling is wild mushrooms stewed with sauerkraut (what else). The pastry is some sort of yeast variety. Very fluffy but filling. You eat them with a hot cup of borsch (which Michal also cooked and added a bit too much chilli). Good effort from Bake Boy.

I stole the table for craftiness.
Michal was forced to fight the slanted walls of the kicthen.

Marcin proved a very good pastry technician.

I like the turd looking one on the far left.

birthday weekend

2007-12-03T18:21:00.000+01:00

Justyna: Where are we going?

Michal: I’m not telling you.

J: C’mon give us a clue.

M: It’s in Poland.

J: And?

M: And that’s it.

J: Will I like it?

M: Not sure. I know your mum would love it.

J: Do I take my backpack?

M: Nope, your wheely suitcase.

J: What do I need to take?

M: Your Blunnies. But also a dress and some heels.

J: Is it posh?

M: Nah.

the castle poshness in paszkowka - some 30ks south of krakow

castle blunnie poshness

castle bannister poshness

back of castle poshness

castle departure poshness

chamber poshness

I have never stayed in a castle before. It is rad staying in a castle. Thank you Michu for taking me to a castle.

Also wanted to say a huge and wonderful thank you to all who thought of me on the day, sending me excellent wishes, emails, smses, cards, phone calls and gifts! It was a truly tops birthday!

volleyball

2007-11-28T10:50:00.001+01:00

Knee deep in snow and no chance in hell of being ‘outdoor active’. Yes there is skiing, but that’s hardly an option at 6pm on a Tuesday night. In fear of having my arse permanently stuck to the desk chair during the dreary dark evenings, endlessly surfing through YouTube and checking out the latest clips Wong sends me the links to (although I highly recommend this Russian gem), I decided to join a volleyball team. It’s mixed, it’s free, and it’s at the local primary school. The team is run by the teachers who work there. Got in through connections (Michal’s mate Szymon teaches maths there). Now when you think primary school, you usually think cozy one-to-two storey type building, with classes of 25 and lots of paper cut-out flowers stuck in windows. This school is a bit different. It is four levels if you count the underground gym bit and caters for 1200 primary school kids. There are over 35 teachers and classes are divided from year 3 along high-school mechanics, i.e. different teacher for PE, different teacher for maths, different teacher for chemistry, Polish etc. The school is equipped with two gymnasiums (basketball court, volley ball net, indoor soccer goals, handball, and bits and pieces needed for gymnastics), an atrium, showers, changing rooms AND this leave-your-winter-boots storage solution thingy so that children don’t slosh around in their wet footwear round the corridors. They even have special bags for their slippers or ‘dry shoes’ that they bring with them and hang up in the morning. There is also a portiere who sits in the school’s lobby and the floors smell of lemon scented cleaning detergent.

The teachers have a shit common room though, with one photocopier and only 15 or so chairs for the whole lot of them. They have to bring in their own mugs, coffee and have no regular access to their own computers or the internet. There are nice curtains though and plenty of pot plants. They also get paid next to nothing. When I say next-to-nothing, I don’t mean the usual teacher whinge. I mean next to nothing. Szymon, in order to make a standard living wage, has to tutor privately about an additional 25 hours per week. Lucky he is a maths teacher. They’re in big demand. Imagine if he taught home-ec. He’d be rooted.

As for volleyball? I am officially the midget retard. Amongst burly men who are over 1.90m tall, who whack the ball like jackhammers, and who block volleys in a way that make me look away with fear, I have come to accept I may be there because everyone is too polite to tell me to rack off. Stuff it. My ego is intact and I am having fun. Only once did I feel like vomiting out of sheer horror and embarrassment for being so completely shit. With every week I get a little better. For example yesterday I even managed to score 4 points. In two hours (for those who know anything about volleyball – that’s a really bloody awful average).

foot locker with shoe bags

some of the jackhammers

volleyball does not have to be poncey

midget retard

more winter tales

2007-11-21T21:33:00.001+01:00

This one is from last week, before the snow really fell in Krakow. I needed to get to Nowy Sacz which is some 100km south of town. I didn’t feel like waiting for the tram to take me to the bus stop that would take me to Nowy Sacz. So I decided to ride by bike to the bus stop and chain it to a fence. Now, the temperature wasn’t all that inviting. In fact it was about +2 degrees. My bike thought it was finished for the season. I thought differently. With a million layers of clothes and a scarf covering half my head, I managed to get to my destination which was some 3ks away. I hopped on the bus and was glad to be warm.

Having finished my business in Nowy Sacz and nine hours later the town was knee deep in snow. I was on a bus that was snailing its way back to Krakow at a pace of about 50ks an hour. With a two hour delay I reached Krakow which by this stage had turned into a massive white doona. I scratched my head and wondered what to do with my bike, which I barely found hidden amidst a tonne of white fluff. I started to wheel it and rang Michal to maybe come pick me up. As I hung up I felt disappointed at my lack of trying to rely on myself in a winter blizzard. The disappointment did not last long. Quickly the conviction was formed that I could indeed fight the elements. I got on the sucker and started peddling home.

On a bike with slim line city tires, no gears and only a back peddle brake, I started to think I was going to crack my head on the edge of a footpath (zero helmet, warm winter beanie instead). But the Ukrainian machine rolled on, trenching through the snow like the plough it was not. Michal found me a kilometre away from home, tapped his head with his forefinger exclaiming I really was retarded, took my heavy bag off my back, got back into the car and drove off yelling “I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun!!” Right he was, because I was grinning like a mad idiot happy that I was RIDING MY BIKE IN THE SNOW!!

I only slipped about 10 times and fully stacked it twice. A week has gone by and I do not have pneumonia. Success.

drawing made on an envelope - excuse its shitness

drawing on some more scrap - you get the idea

about 11:30pm, after the ride and before a hot bath - pretty!

desnowing - an activity done by all who have no garage

thick socks required

2007-11-13T10:01:00.000+01:00

I enjoy a hike in the mountains. A heavy pack, fresh air, sore quads, beautiful semi-alpine scenery, utter exhaustion at the end. Hiking in winter is even more pleasurable for the abovementioned reasons plus many more: frozen snot, constantly slipping in the waist deep snow, sliding on your arse, drinking cold water in minus 5 temperatures, reading the ‘warning avalanches’ signs, sweating inside your wet weather gear, wondering if there is a hungry bear still not in hibernation. And the mind blowing landscape. Nothing beats it. I had an excellent weekend.

Krakow is also covered in snow. If this is early to mid November we will all be so rooted by December.

We went hiking with Konrad and Aga who came down from Wroclaw on Friday night to our place. They returned home on the Sunday after the hike. The trip usually takes 2.5 hours from Krakow to Wroclaw on the freeway. It took them 7. The ploughs hadn’t cleared the freeway from the snow and all the heavy semi-trailers couldn't make it up the small inclines. Plus they were still on their summer tires. For those not in the know – you have to switch your tires to winter ones for the snow (deeper grooves), for better traction. Because the snow has come early, tire change places are booked up with massive queues and there are plenty of spazzos slipping and sliding all over Krakow’s streets.

this is the mountain shelter we stayed at on Sat night - at about 1000m

first icicles - they can be lethal in the city and pierce skulls

ascend begins

sigh

in the end there was no need for cramp-ons because the snow was still very fluffy -
good thing too beause we didn't have any

duck and quince

2007-11-05T23:34:00.000+01:00

Today was the first day where the temperature dropped below zero. Home projects have therefore become activated. To keep the body and mind sane. What is on our agenda? Homemade quince tincture! Michal even bought scales this year. The bastards are really hard to cut and have a shitload of seeds. But the effect is worth it. The fermentation processes will last at least a couple of weeks. Just in time for snowy evenings and visiting friends. We have enough spirit (98% pure alcohol) and quince fruit to make about 15 litres of liqueur with it. It is delicious and not at all strong (about 25% alcohol) once the whole process is completed. Michal’s dad is a master at it so he has been getting plenty of phone calls from his son who is not always sure of the proportions.

first you cut, then you remove the seeds, then you slice

then you weigh - 1 kilo quince : 1 kilo sugar

you then place sugar and quince slices and let it sit for a couple of days
before you pour the spirit in - the sugar reaction forces all the juices to flow!

And since we are on the topic of winter culinary delights, lucky we visited Michal’s cousins who live in the country the other day. They have plenty of farmyard animals including some 20 cows (they run a small dairy farm). Hospitable as all hell they gave us a freshly killed duck. City folk know bugger all about real healthy food out in their parts, hence the poultry present. We baked it on Sunday (we finally got an oven) and my was it delicious. Our first duck and such success!

now you see it waddle?

now you don't!

first you boil a kilo of fresh beetroot -
then you shred and stew with lemon and fresh cracked pepper and salt -
a must with any duck

and here are some animals we did not kill

all saints' day

2007-11-02T17:40:00.000+01:00

Celebrating the dead on November the 1^st is a massive tradition in Poland. So massive in fact that it is a public holiday. When I was told stories about it by my parents whilst sitting round the table at Oakie, I used to think how freaky the concept was. You spend a lot of the day at the cemetery, walking around, looking at graves lighting a candle or two. I thought the idea was very creepy, morose and unnecessary. Why would anyone want to spend a day free from work in such a fashion?

But then I experienced it for myself. And it is, I think, my favourite celebrated Catholic day in the calendar. Even better than Christmas. Really. There is no gluttony, no unnecessary consumption and overeating, no fussing about presents, worrying about how clean the house will be for the holiday, the right height of the tree, the mandatory church going or whether there is enough of this or that. All Saints’ Day has all the good bits of Christmas though – the family gatherings, the lighting of candles, the atmosphere that there is something special in the air ...

You arrive at the cemetery early in the day with flowers and candles and adorn the graves of your loved ones who have passed away. You walk around visiting the graves of your ancestors who you never met, but your grandma is there next to you explaining to you your family tree. She tells you about her dad, about how he used to hide pigs from the Germans during the Occupation, about Fred who had cancer and died at 32 and about her mother in law who used to live with the young couple until the first kid was born. You then run into some distant aunts whom you’ve never met but the fact that you are standing in front of a mutually known grave is enough of a reason to receive hugs and kissed and well wishes for the future. The vibe is a happy one. There is no sadness in the air. People are happy to talk about the deceased they have come to say hello to. You tug at your heavy autumn coat and start wandering that maybe cremation is not all that is cracked up to be. It’s nice to be visited. Even in death.

Then after a hearty soup and some chatting at home you wait until it gets dark and with the daylight saving being finished, the wait isn’t all that long. You again rug up in the coat, some boots and a beanie and head out to the graves once more with the family in tow. And this is when the real magic begins. You enter through the gates and momentarily your breath is taken away. You forget how splendid and enchanting the place can be. It is aglow with all the candles that have been lit during the day, with hundreds of families wandering quietly lost in their thoughts, and the smell of fresh chrysanthemums suspended in the autumn air. The graves shine with splendour, maybe even better than any Christmas tree. Better, because the candles and the flowers are a sign of how much the deceased are still remembered and how much they are missed. There is no silly talk of ghosts, scary movies or morbidity. You walk through that quiet wonderland and slowly you are not afraid of death anymore.

I watched the kids being led by their parents and thought how lucky they were, to be shown that dying is normal but that it also can be celebrated.

The mutual reflection of all who were visiting seemed to me that evening extremely powerful. It is pretty extraordinary to realise that Polish society is so strong and deeply rooted that it can think about death collectively. Even if it be just for that one day a year.

the little glass candle holders can keep a flame going for hours

these photos don’t do it justice

at the grave of the 'lost soldier'

fort oakie

2007-10-24T18:11:00.000+01:00

How can you make a suburban house look more uninviting than it already is? With more palm trees? With paving instead of a lawn? With five cars parked outside its two garage drive in? With plastic Santas still left on the roof in May? Oh no no no no. These are all incorrect suggestions. The answer is FORTIFICATION!

See example below: our old house in Oakie. Trees (okay, palm trees included) have been removed in favour of a concrete wall. Who and what are these new owners?? Is there a bunker being built out back? What war are they preparing for? Do they have a crazy killer kid who cannot escape the compound? Maybe it’s a new Oakie cult I am not familiar with.

When my aunt Dana sent these pics through today, I nearly shat myself with fear. I don’t think Dana and Marek will be making any more sentimental trips down Gersham Grove…

Also I believe it is the only house on the whole street that has now a front fence. These new neighbours must really be loved. Go private space!!

I'd cry if I cared - photo: Dana Weiss

graffiti anyone? - photo: Dana Weiss

last of the apples

2007-10-22T21:03:00.000+01:00

view from our window on Saturday morning

złota polska jesień - the golden Polish autumn - and when you leave the city your realise just how true the statement is! It is absolutely beautiful out there at the moment. The trees have taken on about a zillion different shades of yellows, oranges and reds.

Woke up on Saturday to find that our street was covered in snow. Ah, the first snow fall of October. Apparently it is the norm. The snow then melts, and the sunny disposition of autumn returns. I’m not counting on it. Day by day it is getting harrowingly colder. What is worse veggies are becoming more expensive and the selection more disappointing. Root vegetables are in at the moment. There is not that much one can do with a celery root. Wish sweet potatoes were more available.

last of the apples

celery root - my mum always had a tough time finding this veg in Sydney - it's boiled in soups here or shredded into a salad
overrated in my opinion

last of the sunflowers too - we have about a kilo of seeds from Matylda -
lots of nibbling for those cold winter nights

hazelnuts

soup is massive here - MASSIVE -
and these little 'convenient' soup parcels make me smile (NO PLASTIC!! - well minus the rubber band)

kohlrabi (kalarepa)
delicious when cut up into sticks and eaten with yoghurt and garlic dip

pretty coloured plums -
they grow on many trees just outside of Krakow so no need to waste your money.
It's tops going walkies and picking them off as you go along.
Got to be careful though - plenty of maggots (but therefore no pesticides)!

Also, bears are having it tough up in the mountains. A young cub who had left its mother’s side wasn’t prepared for the cold and snowy conditions, so was wandering the walking tracks looking for sandwiches left abandoned by tourists. It stumbled on a group of 6 dickheads who, apparently in self-defence, stoned the bear to death and then threw its body in a stream. Rangers found the dead bear and a quick arrest was made, once the dickheads were located. The 6 claimed the bear was attacking them. No scratch marks or bites were found upon medical examination. The bear might have roared, but it did not lunge. It was small enough to have been chased away with some yelling and a shaking of a stick. Charges have been laid. The dickheads if convicted are facing a maximum sentence of 2 years imprisonment. Lucky bastards. They should be facing a tidy lil’ stoning.

the poor dead bear - photo: tv24.pl

electoral party

2007-10-22T02:00:00.000+01:00

It is 03:17 in the morning and I am ecstatic. I have been voting for the last 10 years and for the first time ever I have felt that who I am voting for really matters. It means that the party that I have voted for will change the country. And I don’t mean meaningless tax exemptions. It means changing the core of the country. It is significant. The mentality of the Polish people has changed. Today the Poles voted. The turnout was over 53 per cent. The highest since 1989. The highest since the collapse of the Wall! It means the students mobilised themselves and voted. It means that people who didn’t give a freakin’ hoot in 2005 got off their fat arses and went to the ballot box. Enough was enough. A change was mandatory. It means that people are celebrating tonight and will have a foreign policy to look forward to that they can accept and not be embarrassed of. The Platoforma Obywatelska (PO - Civic Platform) won with a sweeping 42 per cent (the official numbers are in on Tuesday), whilst the tyrant extreme right (PiS - Law and Justice) - whose major concern was turning Poland into a police state - ironic, given the country's commy past, - admitted its defeat (with a tad of class – I’ll give ‘em that), curling its tail between its succulent well-fed buttocks. Donald Tusk will be the new Prime Minister of Poland and although his Slavic formal breeding forbade him to crack a smile, we all knew the shiny eye socket meant he was about to shed a tear or two at the victory. Warsaw electoral turnout just a little under 70 per cent. Krakow came in second. The Poles of Dublin waited in 40 min queues to vote. 95 per cent of Poles living in

Sweden

voted. The Poles of Chicago voted for a sweeping PO majority. Ah, it is good to be here. Fuck. It is exciting.

Besides I am pissed and I cannot type properly. We had an electoral party at our place tonight and I take back everything I have written before. We were all happy, enthusiastic, with a lot to say. We popped champagne and congratulated ourselves that PiS will be thrown to the dustbin of shit.

I am typing on the computer whilst Mat is chanting in his sleep in an induced coma ‘Polska, Polska, Polska!’. He is sleeping in our spare room on the floor. I love it. “I wonder how many places in Poland are celebrating like we are today…?”, he is muttering. I bet a lot…

Truly. I am happy to be here.

Magda. Accountant. "Ostatnia niedziela" - Fogg

Tomek. Software engineer. "If we don't have Ireland by next year, someone will have a lot of answering to do"...

Wojtek. Engineer student. "So long PiS. Good riddance".

Justyna (Titka) . Portuguese translator. "We needed to reach the bottom so that we could rebound".

Mat. Gets called in on the job to make a last run to one of the voting centres that still hadn't closed.
Photographer. Gazeta Wyborcza (one of the major leading newspapers in Poland). "C'mon Tusk! Loosen up! Just take off your suit jaket and do a victory dance!!"

Marcin. Audit specialist. "It is just easier for Poles to unite agianst evil..."

Congratulating ourselves.
Then we all stood up and sang the national anthem with the telly (I haven't done that since year 2).

Tusk wins. New PM of Poland.

Victory jig at ours. The neighbour came in around 2am in his boxers with a pleading look.
I nodded. We turned down the music.

last in before the silence

2007-10-18T18:02:00.000+01:00

The election silence kicks in tomorrow. I am positive. Despite the smear campaign inflicted by PiS, I have this gut feeling that the Poles are fed up with being fed horseshit, and are actually going to appear in huge numbers at the ballot box. The electoral commission has put out a few hilarious ads to encourage the voters (yes, for those unaware, Poland as a democracy rightly does not make voting compulsory). One of my faves is: “Don’t be a dope. Go on and vote!” (Nie bądź durny, idź do urny!). There is also a good one that uses a satirical rip off of an Ikea ad. It shows a sketch (like the graphics of an Ikea assembly manual) of the parliamentary seats being put together as votes are cast with a voiceover “if you want to change the country, you have to do it yourself”. Civic responsibility is also being talked about quite a lot, which is nice because it makes me feel all warm inside and optimistic about the fact that I am living in a very wonderful and exciting country, in which people react when they are pushed far enough.

Analysts are predicting a 60 per cent turnout or a tad less…

poster of the week

2007-10-16T12:56:00.000+01:00

Love the preggers lady and the faithful husband. When the lil ankle biter is born, maybe it too can vote for a party that eliminates classic novels from the high school literature curriculum deemed ‘unnecessary and controversial’. Goodbye Dostoyevsky, Goethe, Gombrowicz! Hello John Paul II with your “Identity and Remembrance” monograph.

"a strong family, a safe school, lower taxes" -
yeah, and neo-nazi youth party support

On Friday Michal and I went to a friend’s place for a movie night screened via a projector (fun!). The movie night was scheduled right after the hugely anticipated debate between the PiS leader and prime minister short twin #2 Kaczynski and his opponent Donald Tusk, the PO leader and one of the few politicians in Poland who has a brain (and is not embarrassing to look at) – aired live on telly. I literally ran home from my, well, run to catch the debate, whilst Michal ran some red lights to make it on time from work. It was tops. The Kaczor got screwed and his dumbarsness was made even more prominent than usual by Tusk. After having analysed each response and rebuttal, Michal and I felt uplifted that maybe PO would actually win this time round. With high spirits we arrived at our friend’s place eager to discuss the debate and talk about the upcoming election. I ranted and got a bit enthusiastic as did Michal, recapping the snide comments made and the cringeworthy moments of Duck man (Kaczynski). We quickly realised though that nobody was as enthusiastic as we were. Only the host made a legitimate attempt at carrying the conversation further. There was slight opinion expressed, but almost whispered under the nose of the speaker. Some girl whom I’d never met sighed loudly and said “oh no, let us not talk about the elections”, to which I rolled my eyes and my thwarting response was quickly silenced as the movie projector was switched on.

I sometimes have the feeling Poles don’t know how to be opinionated, express their views in an assertive manner or be feisty in their stance, whether it be political or otherwise. People who are in their late 20s and early 30s, who have been raised in the ‘old system’ appear to have been deprived from experiencing the thrill that is ‘speaking one’s mind’. Keep quiet, or the neighbours will hear you – meant a lot more in Poland’s 1980s than stickybeakness. Kids weren’t encouraged to express their opinions, just in case they would accidentally let it slip in school that mummy was all for private entrepreneurship and daddy hated The Party…

this is where i am living

2007-10-11T17:01:00.000+01:00

Early parliamentary elections have been called in Poland and we are all (well, probably less than half the population) going to vote next weekend. The election campaign has been a mixture of embarrassment, cringe and devastation. Nonetheless I am hopeful that Poland will only have the one twin in power by the time this circus ends.

Favourite quotes this week

When asked about their environmental agendas this is what some of the parties had to say:

PSL (Peasant Party)

“Please do not bother me with questions of this nature. I really am busy with the election campaign”

SLD (the former commy party)

“Oh yes, nature. I have always been interested in nature. I used to go to the meadows and the forest often when I was a boy. If SLD gets into parliament we will encourage a healthy lifestyle so that boys can take their girls out to the meadows and not out for chips”.

LPR (League of Polish Families)

“Come on! The only reason western politicians talk about the environment is because it is in fashion right now. They don’t have any bigger problems to deal with. We at least have pro family politics!”

KILL ME NOW AND SCATTER MY ASHES OVER A FUCKING MEADOW.

I’m joining the Greens (who are useless at the present moment).

a postcard from the Mezzogiorno 2

2007-10-09T16:38:00.000+01:00

We flew out of Naples instead of Palermo. And lucky we did because the city was fantastic. It was like a hideous, gaping wound making you squirm, and you just couldn’t help looking at it anyway.

Most cars looked like these. The streets are so narrow that nobody pays any attention to what and who they are hitting. I saw a small pick up truck drive into an alley way brushing against the knee of a dude sitting on a stool reading the paper. The paper was whipped out of his hands by the truck. The dude just looked at the driver and raised his eyebrows, slowly picking up the Le Republica and re-commenced his reading.

Loved the general respect for public monuments in Naples. This statute was my favourite. I was so mesmerised by the graffiti that I took no notice of who the actual historical figure was standing guarding over the piazza at the dirty end of Toledo. Some pope or bishop no doubt.

I saw these anti anorexia billboards strewn around the city. Looks like the image obsessed Italy is having some problems with its younger female population (and possibly male). Italians are the second slimmest European country (France is at No. 1 and Poland at No. 3). I thought these harrowing images were really strong and made me wonder whether they achieved the same effect as the Australian anti-smoking campaign did, with the dead lung in surgery ad and the hook in the cigarette.

We stumbled into this pizzeria by chance. Getting lost we wandered the tiny street getting hungry. Scoring a table at 7pm with ease, we were lucky. The locals start eating pizza at around 8pm. The two storey pizzeria with a special inbuilt lift to take the pizzas up to the second floor, soon became packed. When we left there was a huge line outside the place stretching for miles with people yelling wanting to know if any tables had freed up. This was the best pizza I have ever had in my life.

a postcard from the Mezzogiorno

2007-10-05T10:44:00.000+01:00

Back in drizzly, cold, autumny Krakow. But it is good to be home. The basil survived. Wojtek did a good job. Sicily was ace, hot, dirty, with good food, nice beaches, fat mummys' boys and plenty of rubbish strewn across every single piece of public space (beaches included). We tried to hitchhike once to a village. No body stopped. They probably couldn’t see us hidden amongst the mountains of litter living rampant by the side of the road. Strewth. Ian Kiernan and his ‘clean up’ campaign would have no chance on this island. Dirty buggers. It’s all the mafia’s fault that Sicilians don’t give a shit anyway, right? I really liked it. It was raw and not Italian at all (but for their super cool high-end sunnies that they all seem to wear, including school kids). They don’t speak Italian, they’re not as loud as Italians, they’re super friendly and have all the time in the world. The Sicilian motto is ‘if you work you eat. If you don’t work, you eat, drink and sleep’. This explains the ridiculous siestas lasting 6 hours during the day, driving us all insane, as we could do nothing and achieve little during the sleep period.

The coffee was extremely delicious. We spent much time in public coffee houses. Standing by the coffee bar throwing back espressos like the junkies we became. Evenings were spent sipping various types of Marsala – the port-like wine from western Sicily (from a town with the same name) - chewing on octopus or the most fantastic olives on earth. Or both.

I have resumed reading 'Midnight in Sicily' by Peter Robb. It shat me when I first bought it years ago, but now it appears to be a thrilling read. The escapades of Cosa Nostra, the Corleonesi clan and the Andreotti bastard explain why Sicily is so fucked up.

Since being back I have attended one funeral and am off to a wedding in Szczecin tomorrow. Also my mate Jodie gave birth to her second daughter. Also a care package arrived from my uber-cuz Nat on the day I got home, complete with eucalyptus lollies, tim tams, papaw ointment, and various Japanese noodles! What a week!

old geezer at the banks of Cefalu

pottery in Taormina

walking up Mt Etna the volcano - not visible in picture

Vucciria fish market in Palermo

tops wireing and drain pipes of Palermo

sticky fingers

2007-09-14T19:57:00.000+01:00

Well, it finally had to happen. I got pick-pocketed on the train. Or close to being on the train. I was returning home from Wroclaw at six in the morning. They were so good that I don’t even know when or how it happened. It wasn’t in the actual train because I slept on my backpack the whole time so I would have felt somebody fumbling. They must have been watching me when I was purchasing my ticket, fiddling with my wallet and sticking it into the top of my backpack. Then they followed me, down to the platform, waited until there was a crowd entering the train, and whamo – got it out without me even noticing. Crap. But they were good robbers. Because they only removed the cash (some 250 PLN), leaving all my bank cards, my id card, my driver’s licence and even my library card! They then threw the cashless wallet into the bathroom on the train, which was retrieved by some random passenger who then passed it on to the train guard. The train guard then looked all over the train for me, until he found me and gave me a nice friendly talking to about being a silly daffa for putting my wallet into such an obvious stealing place! Sigh.

My seven year love affair with the Polish rail based on complete naïveté, has finally come to an end. I am now a person who has been robbed on a Polish train. It makes me sad, because I really do think the PKP is a wonderful institution in which I have felt safe and comfortable. It doesn’t matter that it is on the verge of collapse, bankruptcy and the average age of an employee is over 40.

The episode however had its bonus moment. I got to use the toilet at the station for free! Also I told a 16 year old off on the tram for not vacating his seat for an old nana. He gave me a ‘look’ with his stupid cool hair and slouchy jeans. But my retaliating look said “don’t fuck with me or you’ll get it. Now move!”. He blushed, got up, and nana sat down. Damn straight.

We’re off to Sicily this evening. Plane leaves half past midnight. I have a new backpack! And I cannot wait to try it out. After lumbering for seven years with my green Crapmandu number that has always been too large for my back, I am ready to fly high with my new purchase! The plan is to climb Mt. Etna. The volcano on Sicily, which has recently been alight. I better go and pack. Michal has just yelled from the kitchen "You-Styna, what you are doing is improper!". Better go and roll a mat. Wojtek, Michal's brother with his big hair will be staying at our place. We needed someone to water the basil.

I won’t be blogging regularly for about two weeks. But you never know…

cooking means war

2007-09-07T15:08:00.000+01:00

I have been battling with the pumpkin. And I will continue to write about it until the damn thing disappears from my fridge and my milk can return to its proper shelf. The sucker is:

a. heavy
b. tough
c. awkward to carry
d. stubborn

I finally did manage to mangle it and cooked a pumpkin curry. Despite Wong’s polite advice to email his mother, I decided to take on the challenge solo. The curry was delicious. I had some red curry paste I made from scratch some weeks earlier that I had frozen. Finding fresh galangal and fresh kaffir leaves in Krakow set me into a frenzy of excitement and I whipped up various curry pastes to last us the whole winter. Unfortunately as I finished preparing the dish I realised I had run out of rice. Being a lazy sod at the best of times, I dug out some buckwheat from the back of the cupboard instead, convincing myself it is kind of like rice. It’s not.

Note: buckwheat goes badly with curry. It also makes the poo curry colour look even more pooey. Makes a bad photo for a foodie post on one’s blog.

Today I whipped up some pumpkin soup. Recipe from my uber zuper cook cuz Marta. She adds coconut milk. Yummo. It’s been raining heavily here for the last 6 days or so, so hearty hot meals have been craved my most healthy bodies. Now there is only ¾ of the pumpkin left. Maybe I’ll go and feed the neighbourhood.

killing the beast

ugly buckwheat

beast dominates

tasty treat in the making

Off to my parents place for the weekend. They don't know we're coming. Hope they'll be home.

as requested

2007-09-07T09:47:00.001+01:00

Some of you moaned about not being able to access the pumpkin pilates photos. Here they are. Facebook-less.

pumpkin slug position

pumpkin hunting frog position

pumpkin resting frog position

keeping fit

2007-08-28T18:34:00.000+01:00

You can see the full session of my pumpkin workout here.

Mr H, I stole your phrase and used it in the title of the album.

crushed

2007-08-28T15:45:00.001+01:00

You know you have been away for too long when you realise you have no idea who your best mates’ new mates are. I was talking to Tabitha today over Skype, catching up on this and that. We got to a point in the conversation when I had to stop her and exclaim “geez Tabitha, I have no bloody idea who the hell you are talking about. All these new people. I know no one!” Tabitha replied “Yup. You are officially out of the loop dude. When I’m being asked how I know Libby and Hugh for example, I often start the explanation with there once was this girl named Justyna…”. I groaned “oh crap, my footprints are fading!” At this point Skype cut out and I really did disappear. How sad.

Also I tried to return my cross-eyed specs yesterday. I went to the optometrist and told the lady I made a really big mistake and could I just return the frames minus the lenses cost because they make me look so awful. She said no. "Next time don't make such hasty decisions. All I can suggest is you give them away" she advised. Return policies always thrill me in Poland. Pity I don't have any friends with really wide heads.

And another thing. I finally managed to stack it on my bike. After a good 12 months of dodging traffic, horse buggies, trash-metal-and-shit guys, dicky tourists and hideous pigeons, I crashed in a very pathetic way. It was all my fault. I convinced myself I could tackle the river terrain around Tyniec with my Ukrainian, 30-year old, rickety gear less wonder pretending it was a mountain bike. It's not. My back wheel slid in the dirt on a steep ascend by the river bank and I failed to lift it out in time. The bike toppled to the side in slow-mo, lazily tossing my sad arse to its knees, head bowed in the dirt. Tragic. "You ok?" Michal came rushing over. "Yes" I bluntly responded and with determination got back on and peddled away. Now something came loose in the bike's frame and it squeaks more than ever.

hole in the wall

2007-08-27T21:17:00.000+01:00

I didn't get a chance to do anything with the pumpkin over the weekend. It is sitting by the wall, and I occasionally use it as a stool. To stand on, as well as it to sit on. It is indeed a sturdy little sucker. Instead, Saturday was spent on home renovating. Exaggeration aside, it was spent on putting a hole in the wall. Michal has grand plans. The hole will be turned into a cupboard. With shelves and a door. I await with anticipation. It is desperately needed to store all the jars filled with pickles, fruit and whatnot. Winter is coming after all. The family is preparing us for hibernation. Latest count: 4 jars of wild cherries, 3 jars of pickles, 2 jars of stewed apples, 1 jar of mushrooms. See. This is how Poland survived before Tesco (ala Woolies). I just need to find a jar large enough for the pumpkin. I hear it pickles well in vinegar.

pumpkin stool

day trip

2007-08-27T20:50:00.000+01:00

Over a week ago we went to Suchedniow to pick up Michal’s grandparents to take them back to Krakow for the day. Last time they were both in Krakow was in 1976 at Marek’s (Michal’s dad) graduation. It was a treat seeing them get so excited about the day trip. There was no complaining, no tsk tsking, no pains in the neck, no ‘lets go home soon’, no old people whining. It was great. They were happy to see the sites, eat my spicy pasta (Helena even asked to take some sauce home – fancy that! I got to put shit in a jar for someone else, so it could be reheated the very next day), they liked our apartment and appreciated both the Singer sewing machine and Michal’s new power saw. Pluses all round. The most entertaining moment was when they saw some break dancers in the town square. Helena stopped and stared and then exclaimed "oh my, these young men really are twisted". Noice.

It's nice to have grandparents who not only give you slippers and stewed apples, but who are also keen to see a bit beyond their front fence. I hope that I am as easygoing and enthusiastic as Helena and Mietek when I am their age. Or be like my babcia Zosia, who at the age of 70 still went camping with us, slept on a blow up mattress, and the only nanerish thing about her was keeping each individual piece of her clothing is separate plastic bags. The rustling would wake the whole camp ground in the morning.

Helena and Mietek

pumpkin dog

2007-08-21T22:00:00.001+01:00

I convinced Matylda (Michal's mum) to grow some pumpkins this year. Pumpkins aren't all that big of a veg on a Polish plate. Pumpkin bread, soup, scones, salad, quiche etc are all unheard of. The poor Polish pumpkin has existed for the sole purpose of feeding pigs in winter with. But I am marketing the return of this super vegetable! Matylda complied and the pumpkins in her garden are huge. One is being grown to its hugest possible size - so far it weighs about 30 kilos (not shown here). We were given the one on the photo to take back to Krakow. It is now on our kitchen table and I am wondering what the hell am I going to do with all that flesh? Ideas anyone? Please remember that I do not have an oven. And yes, pots of pumpkin (and coconut milk) soup, are already being planned.

Aza the dog and the pumpkin

a shitter

2007-08-21T21:40:00.000+01:00

I went to listen to a lecture today. It was given by a founding partner of a leading labour law firm in the States. The informal lecture was organised by the firm I used to work for (incidentally a firm also specialising in labour and employment – and no, not for the plaintiffs). It was great to listen to a man in his seventies talk about his love for the law (and going up against Jimmy Hoffa in the 1960s). I have forgotten what it feels like to be stimulated by the profession I was once fond of. I looked at my fellow solicitors in the room wondering whether they felt the same insufficiency of the Polish legal system that I feel. Whether listening to the passionate American was a huge slap in the head for them. It was for me. Sigh, what the hell am I doing here…

Meanwhile, Michal is looking at architectural designs for a house we're planning to build next year. I really should get over myself.

And one more thing. My glasses broke a couple of months ago. They were stuck together, albeit not with sticky tape. The super glue I implemented continued to let me down. So I began to search high and low for new frames and kept getting disappointed. Finally last Friday I thought I found the ones least harrowing and had the lenses ordered. The optometrist said the frames were a tad wide for my head. But I insisted they were fine. I picked them up today. “So what do you think?” I said to Michal. “Bit wide for your head. Looks like you’re cross-eyed”. Great.

what's your hobby?

2007-08-13T17:03:00.000+01:00

It is a fact. Poland is full of freaky Christians. And I am not talking about the evangelical types inhabiting the bible belt of the US southern states who like to clap and dance and on occasion join a cult or stick a ‘Jesus loves my ma’ sticker on the boot of their car. I’m talking about the fundamentalist freaks. The ones who fuck up the state by blindly voting for the party that their local priest is sodomising. The ones who never actually question the need for separating the church from the state (wake up Poland!!!). The ones who spend their last pennies of their pension on petrol for the brand swanking Merc their fat priest is driving. AND the ones who spend weeks on pilgrimages, at the ripe age of 16, when they should be getting pissed and listening to loud guitar with their friends. Ok, or some raw NWA or whatever the equivalent is today.

Yes, welcome to the annual Pilgrimage to the Shining Mountain!! August is the month where presbyteries across Poland motivate their ‘flock’ and organise ‘excursions’ to the Hill in Czestochowa, where an old painting of the Madonna is hung (Poland’s patron and some would say the Pope’s only mistress. Yeah yeah, everyone knows John Paul II had a thing for Mary). Kids young and old, don comfortable shoes, sing hymns, hold hands, communally pray and walk for weeks across Poland to reach the Hill, AND PRAY SOME MORE. They cross villages, forests and streams all for Jesus. Or Mary. And for a bit of snogging action when the priests aren’t looking. The ‘faithful’ sleep in tents or are put up at local houses in various villages, fed and are sent on their way. People, usually equally freaky Christians who are too old to do the walk themselves, open their homes and hearts and dress the streets in flowers for the ‘youth who will save Poland’. From what? Progress!

We were on our way to Warsaw when I saw this phenomenon in action. I wet my pants with excitement and nearly fell out of the car when taking happy snaps. The traffic would come to a halt, watch the freak show, read the banners (the pilgrimage participants have their own banner representing the town that they are from), toot in support, or gape at the fucked-upness of it all. I did. Then I turned to Michal and said: “if our kid ever tells us he wants to go on a pilgrimage, I will punch him”. Screw tolerance.

freaks in action. Check out the portable speakers they carry. So god can hear them.

heavy freak action

really?

2007-08-10T21:58:00.001+01:00

It is late. Michal is in bed snoring. I am googling sailing bags (a wedding present - maybe) and listening to Radio Trojka (Radio 3). Turns out that Architecture in Helsinki will be playing in Myslowice, Poland next Friday. See. Wanky Aussie bands are making their way here too!!

windsurfers

2007-08-10T18:23:00.001+01:00

Last weekend was a good weekend. Marcin (aka Floorboy) took us down to the lake where his grandmother has left the family a tidy little house. We spent the first day sightseeing, looking at old ruins of castles, and the next day giving windsurfing ‘a go’. I bruised my ribs. And my hips. And didn’t manage to sail much at all. Kai Budd, on the other hand (a mate from uni and Ayesha’s brother), who came to stay with us for a couple of nights, was the only one in the entire group of beginners who set sail. We looked on with jealousy and disbelief. Marcin put it down to ‘aussie genes’. The board was suitably christened with a non-alcoholic champagne and named Fela. Hopefully we will make our way down to the lake again soon, so I can regain my dignity by wearing boardies over my swimmers so that my arse does not hang out. Such a mistake.

Marcin's uncle, Tukan, Paulina, Magda, Michal, Marcin -
having brekkie in the garden

Kai windsurfing

ruins of old castle

due respect

2007-08-07T15:12:00.000+01:00

Many of you commented on the 'hat' photo. It was my dad's idea. He ran around the house like a madman looking for a stapler. Once he stapled the 'crown' to his own, he dragged my mum out of the bathroom and wacked a similar piece on her head. He was pissing his pants all the while he was doing it. If you know my dad, you know that he shakes a lot when he laughs. I was very much amused. I have therefore included one more photo. I have covered his offensive nipple appropriately. It was a hot day and Jasiek refused to wear a shirt whilst wallpapering. His gut, it appeared, needed 'to breathe'.

the kings of wallpaper

2007-08-06T08:55:00.000+01:00

The Jaskies came and stayed with us for a week. It was nice having them both sleep in our bed, whilst Michal and I took the couch in the living room. They arrived with news from the west and wild cherry liqueur, home made by Jasiek. It was the best damn cherry liqueur I have ever tasted! My dad is becoming a master of the brew. They brought over a litre and we polished it off in one evening. Apart from hanging the Jaskies were put into good use too. My dad and I hung some wallpaper in the living room. A wallpaper feature wall. It was bloody harder than expected. The damn thing was very difficult to align and it takes a lot of patience to get all the bubbles out. Like covering your exercise books with contact. Except on a bigger scale. See end result below.

season change indicator

2007-07-30T22:12:00.000+01:00

The places to get the ‘best’ something or other in Krakow I find out from people who don’t actually live here. The best ice creamery in town was pointed out to me by my cousin Annette who was visiting us during the wedding last year. The tiny hole in the wall that you walk into sells five types of ice cream, its flavours depend on the fruit that are in season. At the moment it is apricot flavour and blueberry. There is always a huge line of people waiting to get in and purchase sweet, sweet heaven in a cone. The ice cream ladies wear white aprons and hair nets. There is no chit chat and you better know what you want before you order or the crowd will wreak havoc on your indecisive behind. ‘Lody’ means ice cream. The sign is bullshit free. And what is more exciting about this place, is that when summer ends and cold days set in, the place flips its sign to ‘pączki’ (version of a doughnut with rose flavoured marmalade), and the only thing available for purchase is the sweet, sweet dough. Served to you on a ‘napkin’ that is really just a tiny square of tissue paper. You are therefore forced to eat it at once.

queue

tool of choice

2007-07-24T09:23:00.001+01:00

I have a 100 year old typewriter that, well, isn’t in operation. Apparently all it needs is a thorough clean and some tape. But I haven’t gotten off my arse to do anything about it. It lives on our shelf looking helpless, glaring at me every time I answer a visitor’s question ‘does it work’ in the negative. I was therefore a little skeptical about my own enthusiasm for an old Singer sewing machine I dug out in a junk shop. I was taken by its wooden case with its original key attached. Forcing Michal to come with the car (the mother was heavy like all hell), I convinced him that regardless of its useless status, I was going to get the thing fixed and sew on it like no tomorrow. And my, did I get it fixed! A measly 70 zloty (round AUD $35) at the local sewing machine fixer-upperer shop later, the beauty purrs beyond my highest expectations. What’s more, the Singer sent all the fixer-upperer men in raptures, with its mint condition and rust-freeness. Turns out the machine was made in 1921, has all original engine parts, was part of the first run of portable electric sewing machines in the world and its original plug is made out of ceramic!! Woo hoo. What a friggin score. It has been put the test already and I love it. A bag has been made.

The sewing machine was purchased for 140 zloty (round AUD $70) at the junk shop.

'Portable Electric'

with wee key

poster art

2007-07-17T18:18:00.001+01:00

Leszek Zebrowski

So it took a Texan to tell me that Polish poster art is some of the best poster art in the world. Sarah even took me to a poster shop in Krakow where all these treasures are collected and are for sale. How embarrassing. The place has an excellent selection from various decades of different poster art movements and tops postcards as well. It is opposite the American Consulate and the shop is called Poster Gallery on ul. Stolarska. Now I get why there are always so many international poster exhibitions in town. Thanks to Sarah I have been looking at poster walls everywhere I go these days. And I must agree with her, that the current poster vibe is pretty shit. One is really pushed to find anything decent out there. These beauties below however show how great the posters can be. They advertise movies, theatre openings, operas etc. The propaganda ones are excellent too. Even if you're not a social-realist fan. Lucky for me, I am.

Stasys Eidrigevicius

Mieczyslaw Gorowski

pit anyone?

2007-07-16T15:48:00.001+01:00

All in all I am glad that almost-developed-but-not-quite countries such as Poland are not contributing as much to the global warming problem as their developed-and-kicking-hard friends, but geezuz will ya BLOW SOME AIRCON MY WAY PLEASE!!! Needless to say it’s been freakin’ hot here of late. Really hot. Living under the roof with slanted ceilings may be pretty and all, but it is a balmy bitch from hell. I wish I had some sweet air-conditioning bliss to send relief to my sweated arse. Instead I desperately await for the sun to set and in the meantime submerge myself in icy baths. Even the tiles in the kitchen are too hot to lie on. But the big problem really is the public transport. For the first time ever I have begun to dislike catching Krakow’s trams. Why, you adamant lover of light rail? Because the trams stink. Body odour off a sweaty young adolescent male pit anyone? Or how about the intoxicating sudor emitted from a fat moustached butcher lady? Last I checked deodorant is available on all supermarket shelves. In fact, the variety of deo sticks and sprays falsely misrepresents that the Poles are smelling musky and spring flowery. Why the hell then do a lot of people stink, despite hygiene and cleanliness being culturally acceptable? Two reasons:

1) Deodorants have only become widely available in the last 15 years or so. Commy times meant a deo stick here or there would arrive in an overseas package from an uncle living it up in the States. If you had no uncle in the States, then soap was your only friend. Or talcum powder. Which leads me to wonder if the breast cancer stats are lower in Poland. Hence the lack of deo routine has stayed with a lot of people of the older generation. Poor stinky bums.

2) The price. For some bizarre and god-knows why reason, the tax on cosmetics is extremely high in Poland. And I’m not talking just about the fancy French shit. Everyday products such as creams, shampoos, hair styling goods, scrubs, deodorants, conditioners etc, carry hefty price tags comparable to the western pocket, and are regarded as ‘luxurious’ goods by tax legislation. So many people stink because they prefer to spend their money on other staples such as food. Or beer.

Nonetheless I am an awful harsh wench, and the above two reasons are in no way justifiable. You wanted the west, then you go and clean ya pit! Deodorant companies are stupid bafoons, because they have a ready made market just waiting to be embarrassed. All you need is to send some of those free-products-for-everyone girls onto all of Krakow’s trams, hand out free deo samples and erect billboards with slogans such as “Poland stinks. Do something about it” or “If your mother didn’t teach you good hygiene maybe we can!”

a comfortable couch it seems

2007-07-08T21:35:00.000+01:00

Wongeloid left on Friday, heading to Rome then back to Malaysia. He slept on our sofa bed for close to 8 weeks, and now the house feels very weird and empty without him. Some would feel relief, enjoy the quiet, or revel in the personal space after a guest leaves after such a period of time. Not us. Wong was too tops of a house guest and instead he will be missed. A different kind of missing too. One that is coupled with knowing you may not see them for a fucking long time. Sigh.

Some of the things Wong left behind to make room for the 25 books he ordered on amazon:

a huge bath towel
a huge yellow bath robe
6 packets of envelopes
10 tins of snuff
books he read and gave to us (including The Young Stalin)
2 notebooks
350 zloty to send his sea-mail stash of books he didn’t manage to finish reading (the stash includes 6 volumes of Proust and Italian vocab textbooks)
about 7 bottles of grog, including a 15 year old Balvenie whiskey
Czech money
a nice load of boxers left in the bin (he claimed the Malaysian sizes were too restrictive)

To fill the gaping wound created by his departure, we will be having a new guest to stay with us as of tomorrow. For 6 days. Her name is Sarah, and she is the girlfriend of a guy who is the son of my mum’s neighbour friend from the 70s who lives in the States. Sarah is from Texas and is doing a thesis on Polish poster art. She is not Polish. I wonder what she will leave behind…

Wong - the man of many cakes

tough old bird 2

2007-07-08T21:12:00.001+01:00

We went to a wedding this weekend (Michal’s good friend from high school). It could have turned into the ultimate wedding from hell. Firstly, the young couple found out only a day before the ceremony that the church they were getting married in was being renovated. On the inside! The vows were made amongst some gruesome scaffolding. The guests were forced to sit and squint at the couple from a distance. Secondly, upon sitting down to the main meal, the bride’s grandfather who looked close to being 90, started to choke on a piece of meat. People started to scream thinking he was having a heart attack, whilst he went purple and slowly started to lose consciousness, eyes rolling back. The bride initially looked on with horror and then ran out of the building bawling. We all thought pops was going to cark it right there and then, but some burley uncle pulled out the Heimlich and the pesty bit of meat popped out. Pops got his colour back. The ambulance came, the band began to play and the guests started to dance. After some tests were run at the hospital, turned out pops was ok and no bones were broken. And how did we know this? Because pops made a speedy return to the wedding! And enjoyed himself (although slightly hazed) until about 1 in the morning. Why are old Slavs so goddamn crazy?

tough old bird

2007-07-08T20:48:00.001+01:00

Pictures below are of our plot. We spent last Saturday there cleaning it up a bit, tending to the oats (not really, it belongs to our neighbour Pani (Ms) Irenka) and planting some trees (birches, oaks and linden). Plus Michal got Pani Irenka on his side by showing her that he could indeed mow the shit out of the grass with a scythe. No pictures of our hardcore neighbour. Yet. I had one of her chained up dog, but that would have been too disturbing to show…

Pani Irenka is a tough old bird because:

she has municipal water pipes coming into her property but hasn’t connected them to the house – she still uses a well.

she uses an outside dunny (pit)

when she caught the bus to go to the bank to check if the money for the land had gone in, she got it all out in cash (90 000 zloty), stuffed it into her handbag and then decided to walk across the fields (some 4km) back to her place. After dividing it up amongst her relos, I suspect the rest of the stash is under a mattress somewhere

at the ripe age of 74 she still chops her own firewood. And yes, you guessed it, no gas heating.

(Wong doesn't think she's tough - instead views her as crazy. Maybe I'm just being too deluded).

this is our plot. It ends with the oats. The potatoes to your right
are part of the plot too. Gorce mountains in the background. Glimpses of the
Tatras behind the Gorce.

the oats is doing splendidly

Pani Irenka's house

Michal with scythe . Good workout for the boobs.

He-Man and She-Ra shit pants

2007-07-01T23:45:00.000+01:00

I rode my bike out of my way just to show you more hideous-but-love-it commy designs.

Check out Skelator (Szkieletor), a skyscraper built in Krakow in 1971 that was never completed due to financial issues. It towers over the city at 90m high with its 24 floors (still the highest building in the city – finished or otherwise). Appropriately the new Opera House is being built in its vicinity (unfortunately the new building does not carry a cartoon figure nickname to continue the tradition). Bums have been very happy at the Skelator residence until it got fenced off, due to obvious imminent death possibilities of the thing falling on your friggin’ head. Did I say bums? I meant useless dreaded ferals and their hash stashes. Now some ambitious Brits want to buy it. By the power of Grayskull – it is going for 4 million euro! When it finally resembles an actual and functional structure with office space, I hope a sufficient plaque with its unofficial name dons the entry way. Or a statute in the front garden! How cool would yellow Skelator with his hood look in front of the building? I’d bloody Ryan-Air it to see it, wouldn’t you?

My mother let me watch this, but refused me the
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pleasure!?

stary kleparz

2007-06-28T10:02:00.000+01:00

I used to hate Woolies fruit and veg. Every friggin’ time I would purchase tomatoes or radishes I would chuck a tanty, whine about their tastelessness and get annoyed at having to pay a heap for crap that tasted like shit. My dad used to travel Sydney wide looking for the real tomatoes from Maltese wogs selling straight off their hobby farms on the way to Campbelltown. Then he would come home, proud as bloody punch for having found the treasures and we would all crowd around the kitchen table, ooing and aahing over their aroma and wonderful taste. I.e. we were wankers. Same applied to fresh geese, cucumbers, bread or garlic that wasn’t grown in China. And that’s what annoyed me the most – the appalling state of the fresh vegetables in Sydney’s normal supermarkets, forced the more ambitious foodies to become fresh food wankers (Farmer’s Market anyone?). Lucky are those who live in the proximity of food co-ops or delis that suffice (certain wankedom is always present though), or the early birds who have time to hit Flemington. Tough titties to those who live in the burbs and are stuck with shit on their plates. This is wrong. Tasty tomatoes for everyone dammit.

And Krakow? There are fresh fruit and vegetable open air markets in every major part of the city (so you never have to travel too far outside your neighbourhood, even if you are living in the burbs). Despite the influx of huge ‘hypermarkets’ like Tesco, Geant and Carrfour selling fibrous rubbish, the average Pole still purchases at the markets and smirks at the crap sold wrapped in foil or delivered on a styrofoam tray. And because these markets are easily accessible, cheap and convenient they are normal and therefore wank free. The one down the road from ours is convenient but lacks the babushka buzz, so I go to Stary Kleparz, the market we once lived close to (same place the Ukrainian Easter eggs were bought), where I can purchase fresh ewe's milk cheese.

The pics below are of what is in season at the moment.

highlander babcia - I buy farm cheese from her

cherries are back

chanterelles - my fave mushrooms (early mushroom season)

more mushies - don't know their English name

good radish that

blackberries

broad beans

revolutionaries

2007-06-27T08:59:00.000+01:00

I was visiting my parents over the last couple of days. Turned out that they had a bit of a party for friends and family on Saturday. It was the first ‘do’ at their new place and my mum was desperate to steer away from the stiff mechanics of a Polish shindig, whereby people sit rigidly at the table, places set, three course dinner served and a relaxed atmosphere anticipated with the third shot of vodka. Instead, Basia was keen to introduce some laid-backness in entertaining the guests, ala Oz style. So they had a bbq (which was quickly dubbed by the guests as a ‘garten pardi’). There was a table set with salads, dips, bread etc at one end of the patio, my dad in his cook’s apron frying up meat at the other end, no official table set for guests to sit at, and a bunch of bewildered faces not knowing what to do with themselves. It was hilarious. People showed up in suits. They sat on garden chairs expecting to be served instead of loading up their own plates themselves. Because the meat was slow coming, people were forced to sample salads, pasta and rice dishes first and to their carnivorous alarm, were surprised at actually liking food that didn’t contain protein. Unfortunately three shots of vodka had to be drunk before people relaxed. The end result was a mixed reaction. Some of the guests loved the idea and commented how much better and easy-going an official ‘do’ could turn out with a bit of fresh air and fried onion, whilst others looked at the Krzywicki clan with scorn and ‘how uncivilised’ expressions on their faces. Fuck ‘em, I said to my mum, as we emptied the last nibbled bits of shish kebabs into the compost bin. Bring on the next garten pardi!

Apologies for lack of photos from the shindig. Instead have a look at the fresh strawberries my dad got from his next door neighbour.

storky business

2007-06-27T08:19:00.000+01:00

The stork is a Polish icon. It not only brings babies in bundles, but when it returns from far and away Africa in spring, it brings with it the warm weather and good times ahead. More importantly though, when the stork decides to build a nest on your chimney it means you are the luckiest bugger in town, your house is blessed and the family will prosper. And on an ecological side, it is also an indication the air in the area is clean and there are plenty of frogs, which in turn suggests clean water. Thus stork equals all round goodness. It is an additional bonus that the birds also happen to look like super dorky spazmos. When the first storks arrive, village primary schools get their kids to dress up in stork costumes to welcome the birds back on Polish turf and to greet spring. Needless to say then, I was overly excited when my parents took me to this abandoned house to show me the stork nest. The house has been taken apart and the bricks used elsewhere, ruins remain. But the owners, in love with their stork tenants, decided to leave the chimney standing so that the storks could continue their storky business.

departures

2007-06-19T14:31:00.000+01:00

Wong left for Vienna today. He’s back on Monday. I called the train info line to ask some details about the connection. The dude kept putting me on hold. Pissed off I dialed 4 to talk to an English speaking operator (same dude picked up the phone immediately) and abused him in English for putting me on hold. It worked and I got the info I needed (probably because my rant in English was fast enough that the poor bugger didn’t understand what I was saying). I wonder when this free ride of ‘I’m sort of a foreigner’ will end for me here?

Wong was up at 5am to make his train. Michal and I got up to see him off despite Wong’s horror and distaste at seeing us refuse to go back to bed, insisting on being up. That’s the way it is – Slavic hospitality – sometimes uncomfortable, often unnecessary. Whilst tying his shoes he grinned and said, “I left you a parting gift Michal” pointing to the stack of dirty dishes left over from his hearty breakfast of sausage and egg (“do Poles have big breakfasts before a train journey?” Wong asked). The house will be empty without him. And me. I am heading off to Debno to see my parents.

to avoid confusion, this note was left by Wong in the fridge

do it yourself

2007-06-19T13:46:00.000+01:00

We planted some plants in the communal garden on Sunday. Michal and I went to the local Castorama (ala Bunnings) and bought some pine needle crawlers and shrubs. The small block of flats we live in was built a year ago, the developer stuffed the new owners around and never finished off what he was meant to finish off (there is a pending law suit). Hence the parking area is somewhat of a nightmare, the garden area ain’t too crash hot either and the paving round the front stairs already needs uplifting. Everyone is pitching in and things are starting to take shape albeit very slowly. Our contribution (apart from the communal new door mat with feet and Wong’s basil) so far has been the plants.

The gardening ‘experience’ however, turned into a bitter war against what only appeared to be soil on top. As Michal sunk the spade into the dirt, we looked with dismay at the building rubble underneath, realising what the next door neighbour meant when he lent us the spade chuckling “don’t break the tool mate”. The developer in a budget attempt at ‘evening out’ the garden area, sunk broken bricks, tiles, bits of insulation, plastic, roof tiles and other shit associated with construction around the open area of the building and hid it with a thin layer of topsoil. We bought seven plants and ended up clearing eleven buckets worth of rubble before we could actually reach the earth and plant the poor buggers. Really made me want to slap someone. Ultimately the ordeal wasn’t all that surprising. Krakow, well Poland generally, is going through a massive housing boom. Real estate prices are skyrocketing and construction companies, swimming in the profits, are unable to build quickly enough to meet the demands. They really are the kings of the hill, with huge lobbying power, and can do whatever they goddamn like. It’s not much of a point of contention nor a topic of conversation round these parts anymore to learn that your construction company has screwed you over, failed to build a road in the building estate they promised to build, instead of a children’s playground they snuck in a 10 storey apartment eyesore mammoth without telling the people in the area, or just filed for bankruptcy leaving new would-be owners with huge mortgages they acquired to put down the deposit payments. And because the judicial system is good for nothing, the legal process takes years (on average 3) to come up with an outcome and pittance in terms of damages (compensation litigation is in its infancy in Poland). Fortunately the EU has implemented tight guidelines as to urban space (only 10 per cent of Krakow has urban planning) so everything built these days is more inhabitable. Poor suckers who bought before 2004 and this includes off the plan apartments that are still in construction stages today. What is the answer to this problem you ask? Build your own bloody house.

door mat

diy floral improvements

battle on wee shrubs...

sour cherry tree

holiday pacing

2007-06-15T13:46:00.000+01:00

Michael Wong is still at our place and it turns out he’s a pretty goddamn good house guest. Example, on Monday he washed all the windows. When we were away he replanted all my basil. He cooks really good curries and entertains us with his online purchases. The ladies at the post office where he goes to pick up his ordered goods have started to write in English on the post slips left in our mail box. The last one indicated that a ‘smal paket’ was ready to be picked up. It turned out to be snuff. Around 15 tins of it. The boys have been sniffing snuff each evening after supper, and from what I can gather the “Prime Minister” flavour is their favourite. No wonder the era of snuff has ended - it's not really appealing watching someone stick fingers up their nose and suck in brown looking shit that leaves crap residue on the sniffer's face. Michael argues that they used special sniffing picks back in the day. I say he should roll up a fiver instead.

We are all going for a spot of one night camping tonight (for a bonfired sausage) and tomorrow to Michal’s parents’ place in Suchedniow. Apparently the mushrooms have made an early appearance and people are starting to get excited.

basil patch

Wong with a cereal bowl used as a coffee mug. He must
really burn his mittens.

Today's curry. Yummo.

Wong's snuff stash.

is it necessary?

2007-06-15T12:40:00.000+01:00

I came home and found this glaring at me from the living room window. What was looking to be a normal extension to the neighbours' house, turned out to be the West Bank Separation Wall no. II, disguised as a chimney.

what not to bring from France

2007-06-12T13:09:00.001+01:00

When you purchase and open aged camembert cheese, a fat fart escapes. If you, like me, experience this for the first time, you blame the fart on someone standing close by. When the fart continues to reek for 15 minutes you begin to wander what in the hell the person standing close by was eating all week. Then you get uneasy. Then a Frenchie explains that it is in fact the aged camembert. You giggle and turn red for being a moronic pleb. Uncertainly you take a bite of it and it is heaven. Then you make the rash decision to purchase loads of it for your friends and family back in Poland. You wrap it up in newspaper, stick it in a plastic bag, tie it, then stick that plastic bag into your dirty laundry satchel, which then is thrown into the depth of your backpack. When you arrive home, the people at the baggage carousel look at you with scorn and probably label you as an uncouth swamp monger. Just deserts, because at this stage your backpack and therefore you stink like shit. At home you quickly throw all the clothes from the laundry satchel (minus the cheese) into the washing machine and pray for a miracle. It doesn’t come. When the clothes are washed they continue to stink of cheese poo.

Perpetrators of Stench

honfleur

2007-06-12T12:27:00.001+01:00

Honfleur

As stated before, whilst in Paris we met some tops Frenchies. Fethia, a tv production assistant from Paris and Yann, a sound engineer from Nancy were our faves amongst the people we met. We had a whole weekend we wanted to spend away from Paris and they suggested we head up to Honfleur, a port town north-west of Paris taken over by artists, their galleries and tourists from England. It actually was lovely. Went to beach but didn’t swim in it (see picture), ate some crepes (average) and wondered the streets (excellent). We also met the owner of an early 20^th Century carousel, in operation, it the middle of the town. He was Polish. How the hell does a Polish wog come to France in the mid 90s, end up in Honfleur and becomes a carousel owner? Did he bring the carousel with him? Did he find it in the French yellow pages? Did he get a good deal?

“What do you do, sir?”

“Oh, I am the local carousel owner. I bring joy to the youngsters.”

His wife sits in the booth and sells the tickets. It is in operation all year round.

Yann

Fethia

old Citroen

the carousel

the beach - the industrial cranes in the backdrop
did not entice us to take a dip

federer you ninny!

2007-06-12T12:12:00.000+01:00

We were there for the quarters, we were there for the semis. Unfortunately the men’s final (and only one set of it) was seen at the airport lounge at Charles de Gaulle. I had high hopes. I had thumbs crossed. I thought the champ wouldn’t disappoint a second year round, especially against such a bafoon as is Nadal. Nadal obviously takes it up his vein. No one can be that huge, that young, that fast and that slow witted and claim not to be doped up. Impossible. His left forearm is as huge as Serena William’s thigh for chrsissake! Besides, he has that stupid Terminator look released from under his brow every time an opponent wins a point, which I hate. He does it to intimidate – but ends up looking like a fuck stick, as the ‘look’ is closely followed by Nadal’s forefinger reaching his ass and plucking out his wedgy from his crack. Yeah, you look heaps scary now…man. So I was rooting for Federer. He bloody lost. What a grass court ninny. The pictures are from the quarters against Robredo, a right Spanish hottie.

Federer serving an ace

Robredo loosing big time

skinny paris

2007-06-03T21:56:00.000+01:00

Thank you to all who sent me the Teletubbies update regarding Poland’s continuous fear of effeminate men carrying women’s purses. For those who don’t know, Poland’s right wing coalition party the Legion of Polish Families (LPR) wants to ban the Teletubbies from public broadcasting in the country, as it appears that Tinky Winky might be gay. In the show he is seen wandering around the meadows with a lady’s purse. Funny that. Poland does not seem to have any issues with the man bag number carried by moustached men in moccasins. Now this indeed should be a topic of concern! I have an uncle who fits the above description and he’s never been a victim of gay hate. Maybe Tinky Winky needs a biker moustache and Ukrainian gold teeth to make him look more hetero. But this LPR reaction must be put into some perspective. This is a party, after all, that only four or so months ago, wanted to establish Jesus as the King of Poland. Ah huh.

Apologies for the lack of photos but it appears that I have forgotten my camera/laptop cord thingy required for downloading. Shame. Two nights ago Michal and I were invited by a lovely Parisian girl, Fethia, whom we met at the tennis, to a trendoid pub in Bastille. The smoke was gruesome and the beer mild. The blasé nonchalant crowd of emo carbon copy cut-outs was impressive. All that was missing were the trucker hats. A subtle difference, no doubt, not to be mistaken for - god forbid, American layabouts. Visual? A super skinny waif guy, with black skinny jeans hugging his non existent hips, unshaven and loving it, faded small t-shirt, trainers, and a swooping fringe covering half his face. They all looked exactly the same. Michal with his well equipped ass was a circus freak standing amidst them all, as he desperately tried to squeeze his way to the bar for another pitcher of the said mild beer.

And because we’re all adults...

Michal walks into a tobacconist:

“Pardon monsieur, parlez vous anglaise?”

Tobacconist shakes his head and laughs.

Michal unperturbed: “Le kondom?”

Tobacconist: “Huh?” (raises his eyebrows)

Michal: “Le preservative?”

Tobacconist: “oui oui!!” (roars with laughter – as does the other man waiting in the queue)

Tobacconist: “oui oui préservatif, le préservatif!!”

right said fred

2007-05-27T21:22:00.000+01:00

sky news

Heard there was a gay rights march in Moscow today. Some human rights supporters and gay rights activists arrived from England to lend their support. Among them was the Right Said Fred dude. He got slogged and received a black eye. Sucked in.

paris

2007-05-27T21:18:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I think I have too much luck in life. I’m happy, got a good dude, got my health, parents that I actually get on with as individuals, brilliant cousins and friends to the grave etc. Ok, I don’t have a career as such, but things are somehow working themselves out and money is not an issue. This makes me wonder when my luck will end. Maybe the result will be a downy baby. But right now things are ace. Literally. Michal and I are in Paris and are hanging out at the French Open. Yup. Friends in high places and all that. My good mate Joanna organised it for us, so we have been rubbing shoulders with the ultimate hottie in town – Safin. Should see his sister – massive Russian scare freak. Michal got time off work because he has excellent bosses and Wogus, well, lets just say there is no huge client portfolio yet. Wong is sitting in our apartment, replanting basil leaves and eating Polish sausages.

Did you know that Serena Williams in her weight/ height portfolio has put down the following: height – 175cm, weight – 61kg. Hm, I thought carriage horses weighed a lot more than that. In fact when I was reading all the player portfolios, the women tend to weigh a lot less the higher they climb. How sad.

the wongster

2007-05-20T22:44:00.000+01:00

Michael Wong has arrived to Krakow! To show him that we are very hospitable Slavs we greeted him with vodka and herring at the train station and offered him our couch. In fact, he is our first guest ever (as this includes our pad in Newtown) who will not be sleeping under the desk listening to the aching snores of Michal lying centimetres from his head. Ah, the bliss of having more than one room. Today he cooked up a pork loin, spring onion and ginger dish, but we are awaiting its effects as the meat smelt off when we bought it. Meat from a corner store on a Sunday is like deep cave diving. We were feeling macho brave. I think, that so far he has enjoyed the bathroom the most as it is a notch higher than the last one he had to wash himself in. But you have to look at The Deracinated Cornstalk to find out more…

shot glasses, vodka, herring on bread, salt - the welcoming committee

Michael

saturday chores

2007-05-20T22:25:00.000+01:00

We do not have a strata set up for our apartment block. We do not have a separate bank account for a communal pool of money for things that need fixing. We do not have a cleaning lady or a gardener. Instead the neighbours meet up on the staircase once in a while when things need doing and someone goes around collecting money for the new shrubs that need to be planted or the like. We clean the stairwell ourselves, with each unit responsible in alternate weeks for their section of the stairs. One lady collects money for the water bill. Another dude does the same for the garbage removal and another for the communal electricity used in the apartment block. We all get on. Except for the 65 year old smart alec Warsawvian spaz, who bought his unit as an investment and only comes around once in a while to scoff at the lack of progress done in the communal parking area. On Saturday I was weeding and having extreme fun in pulling out the fuckers from between the pavement cracks in the hot sun, and smart alec spaz came towering over me suggesting I purchase weed killer instead, to avoid ‘calluses on those pretty hands’. Pf. I, a) rolled my eyes because I do not have pretty hands, and b) to show I was no wimp when it comes to unnecessary manual labour, pulled even harder at the weeds. Overall, it was a good afternoon and I enjoyed talking to Ania, the neighbour on the ground floor. She has an Algerian husband and told me tales of how their house was ransacked on random occasions after 9/11 by the police who would take photographs of all the postcards and letters sent from Algeria. After a couple of years of such random searches the police have concluded that Sarik is no terrorist. Her friends still claim that she should not have married an Arab. God, the homogeneity in this country makes people super!

our place

2007-05-15T11:46:00.000+01:00

I have been getting some threatening emails demanding photos of our apartment. I have been putting off taking the happy snaps for want of renovation completion (we still do not have all the furniture we need/want and our bedroom continues to fest in a state of ugliness). But the pestering has continued and so buggering the caution to the wind I have included the photos below. As an act of defiance against all the email demands however, I have refused to wash the dishes or clean up the place. So there.

tulips from michal's mum's garden

bookshelf in living room

michal in room with desk

small dining area adjacent to the kitchen

living room

place to cut stuff. basil farm on the windowsill

kitchen

...and dunny

the neighbour is adding on an extension - view outside our living room window

wogus part II

2007-05-15T11:40:00.000+01:00

Equipped with street arse whippin’ know-how (see earlier palm oil entry) I headed off confidently to the city council on Friday, my bag filled to the brim with vodka bottles and boxes of chocolates to register Wogus. I lie. Corruption is wrong and the stickers on all the office doors at the council prove it. An outstretched palm crossed out by a red line with the caption “I take no bribes I give no bribes” is enough of an imposing image to make you quake in your boots at the efforts the government is taking to counteract under the table dealings. Instead I took some light reading to keep me entertained in the 1 hour queue I knew I would be facing. The queue indeed was tremendous, the weather outside a heat wave, the interior corridors of the council building a furnace with its walls yelping for a lick of air-conditioning bliss. The result of my registration procedure you ask? A big fat surprise!! The civil servant, who, uh, served me, was the nicest bureaucrat I have ever met! He spent close to an hour with me explaining the procedure, what else I needed to do, gave me advice on how to formally expand the business activities I selected, chatted to be about the current Constitutional Tribunal ruling regarding the government’s official intrusive inspection process of all hypothetical Commies still raging loose, gave me a folder for all my papers, photocopied all the documents for me FREE OF CHARGE and gave me a computer programme to assist me in my business set up. I love the Krakow Municipal Council! I filled out a survey overflowing with positive remarks and had to refrain myself from drawing love hearts next to the ‘staff opinion’ section asking about the efficiency of the ‘administrating officer’. Yay! Now all that is left is a visit to:

The Bureau of Statistics
The Taxation Office
The Social Security Office

…and Wogus will be fully up and running! And as a side track – suck shit to all my fellow Slav locals out there whining about public officials. I scored. I got a good one!

umm?

2007-05-09T15:37:00.000+01:00

I don’t know whether this is tragically hilarious or whether it is the beginning of something that may bring me some satisfaction in life, but I have decided to register a business. Yes. The daunting thought of working for another Polish employer has made my guts churn and the only way out is to pretend to be my own boss. The idea is to have a multifaceted scope of business activity, so in my business registry description I have included the following:

Paper production and production of paper goods
Textile design and printing (?)
Translating
Publishing (?)
Foreign language tuition
Research in economic, legal, financial fields
Legal advice and consulting
Freelance journalism
Transport provider (!)

I thought about adding forestry and dairy production but I think you need permits for those.

Ok, so the only serious bit is the legal advice service and the translating, but here in Poland you can really eliminate a lot of taxation issues when opening up a business by broadening the business activity. And maybe one day I will publish some really kick ass comic book drawn by some up and coming artist and drive him around to the paper mills, whilst correcting his English dicton. For now I just have to find some clients.

In the meantime I will continue to look for foreign companies investing in Poland who will take me on board.

But the best bit about registering the business is the name. After some brainstorming with Tabitha over Skype and later over a beer or two with Michal and Tukan, the name of the self-employment venture will be “WOGUS Inc.”!! The ‘us’ makes it sound Polish (since the ‘w’ is pronounced as a ‘v’) and the ‘wog’ part will just make me piss my pants continuously.

For my Polish readers, you just have to trust me that the ‘wog’ part is probably highly inappropriate and that I would never be able to get away with it in Sydney.

If any of you however have other suggestions, please feel free to comment. The registration part is happening this Friday so there is still a day or two to make the name more ridiculous.

valid warnings?

2007-05-08T11:47:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the delay in blogging. There was a long weekend here in Poland – Constitution Day. Incidentally the first written and codified Constitution in Europe in 1791 – second in the world after the States – it codified the freedom of religion and gave political equality to the peasants. Beetroot picking serfs began to have a say. Pity the founding roots of a political culture do not stand much for today, in a country where only 48 per cent of the population goes to vote and the one political voice of the people is a big fat whine. You only have to look at the country’s leaders for the symbolic essence of the political atmosphere in Poland. Yes, the president and the prime minister are identical twins!! They’re about 156cm tall, and one of them lives at home with his mother and his cat. And no, last year’s elections were not rigged. People actually voted for them! Mind you, what is interesting is that the economy in the country is so strong at the moment that irrespective of what the government does, the Polish zloty is powering through and people are starting to lead comfortable lives.

Jaroslaw the Prime Minister on the left (the one who has a cat),
the President Lech Kaczynski on the right
(has a wife and no longer lives with his mother)

We spent the weekend in the mountains again. This time it was by the Ukrainian border in the Bieszczady Ranges, where the mountains continue further into the East. We arrived late in the day on Thursday and the first signs of us getting old and worrisome appeared when we got stopped by a park ranger. We had planned to set up camp in the late evening within the mountains in a national park where you are not supposed to set up camp willy nilly. Normal practice, for Michal and I at least. The ranger rushed out of his ranger station, clomping in his wooden clogs with a massive beard yellowed by tobacco smoke warning us it was not a good idea to freelance camp, due to the current ‘climate’ conditions. He was neither talking about the weather nor about the hungry bears waking from their winter hibernation. He was warning us about the Afghans and other “easterners” who in desperation of trying to get into the EU have been doing "harrowing" things to campers in the mountains. I scoffed at the lame reason provided and was about to shrug it off, when I saw my fellow campers starting to nod their heads in agreement making a hasty retreat. What??!! Where was our adventurous spirit and youth?! Where was our carpe diem mindset and the hospitable nature in sharing our Spam can of meat with a hungry Afghan who probably wouldn’t eat the filth anyway?! “This sucks”, I mumbled underneath my breath as I watched my decline into nannadom and boot camping. As I dragged my feet and whined Michal began to yell at me for having no humility and a sudden inability to adapt to a new environment. Yeah, whatever, maybe he was right. I made him take 8 litres of water in his backpack once when we went hiking in Oz and I remember his Polish head looking at me like I was a crazy spaz. He argued a bit but later learned how crucial and scarce water supply in the bush was. Maybe the crazy Afghans do rape and pillage the virgins in the mountains and steal their two minute noodles and camping socks…

all the post boxes in the mountains had the toadstool hats

a lake in the mountains

bieszczady mountains

plenty of blogging time now

2007-05-01T23:28:00.000+01:00

Back home from the Big Smoke and excited to see Krakow green and warm. I left when it was dreary with no leaves in sight. It is truly amazing how quickly greenery sprouts from buds on branches. The green at the moment is almost fluro. Judging from my reaction last year, I know that May will again be my favourite month. I have spent the last few days donning summer dresses and riding my bike. Unfortunately where we live now, there are hills, which seem more like mountains to my Ukrainian gear-less treasure. I am battling on, looking forward to calves of steel. Also the roof of our apartment block has proved to be a source of joy. It is flat enough to lie on and I have been making trips up there for a spot of sunbathing. Do not scoff. European winter white dermis is disgusting. Besides, there’s no ozone hole. Yet. As much as I enjoyed New York (thank you Jules for being my super cyber guide and NYC companion in spirit!), as soon as I got back Michal and I hit the mountains. There was still snow at the top of Babia Gora (Old Hag Mountain) and it was nice to breathe air not infested by the putrid smell of surprisingly tasty Yankee hot dogs (throughout the week I consumed about 4).

trying out my new boots. no blisters. ugly but noice.

Sunday was spent in a small town called Wislica. There is nothing there but for a 13^th Century church and some sculptures of saints, queens and kings carved out of trees that nannas like to visit and pray at. We just ate ice cream and watched the nannas.

michal, tukan, titka, mat

the original handicap mobile. you don't even need legs!
cooler than any vespa

After arriving from the States on the Monday, I went to work on the Tuesday and handed in my official resignation. Work at the firm has bothered me for a long time and I have whined about it for months. The trip was the clincher. Maybe it was the only place where I experienced the clashing of the cultures on a complete scale whilst in Poland. Or maybe private practice sucks fat balls. So now I am unemployed and being financially supported by the hubby. It is not doing wonders to my ego but I am thankful to Michal that I could leave without having to wait until ‘something else’ came up.

trust the stranger

2007-04-26T11:18:00.000+01:00

This tale is not intended to elude corn nor pukedom. A dude was travelling alone in his car on a Saturday night to visit his parents. Some 100 ks from Krakow, at dusk, he saw two hitchhikers, a guy and a girl, waving down cars with their backpacks perched against a tree. With a screech of the tires the dude stopped his car, reversed and picked up the couple. They turned out to be Estonian, hitchhiking their way back home after spending a backpacking holiday in Croatia. Five days on the road they were trying to make their way to Warsaw by the night in question. The driver attempted to speak to them in Russian. It turned out that the first year and fourth year uni students were much more comfortable with English. They chatted for some 60 ks, before the driver announced he would be turning off the main highway making his way to his parents place. Night had set in, and the driver suggested he would drop the couple off at a nearby motel. The motel was booked out. The Estonians, in the middle of nowhere started to look anxious. The dude then said he would drive them to a hotel that he knew of at the other end of town. Once the three entered into what looked like an unaffordable harbouring for the two budget travellers (who at this stage started to display signs of distress at the situation), the driver dude pulled out his wallet and paid for their accommodation plus breakfast. Gobsmacked the hitchhikers hugged the driver before they said their goodbyes and the driver left. After years of being at the receiving end of hitchhiking hospitality, the driver knew that what goes around comes around.

It is excellent to be back home in the arms of my driver dude.

murray and the madman

2007-04-23T15:46:00.000+01:00

saw the filming of sesame street in washington square.
apparently that's murray

I’m not sure what you have been hearing about the Virginia Tech Massacre in your respective homes, but you can well imagine the Cho bombardment in the media here. Now, you’d think there would be plenty of gun law issues being raised at this time and possible calls for stringent gun control. Well, you’d be wrong. What has been typical is the debate about ‘the system’ and whether the mental institutions did enough, whether the police did enough, whether the university did enough in dealing with a student who had obvious psychological issues. No one yet has talked about the fact that clearly the American society is incapable of social interrelations and face to face communication. The parents spring to mind, as do the two bloody dip shit roommates who lived with the psycho plus all the idiot students who failed to deal with the problem like normal people do! Sheesh.

On a brighter note today I took the advice of Liam and hung out in Washington Square in Greenwich Village. I loved it. Especially the dog runs (special fenced in areas, not dissimilar to kids play pens, where owners let their puppies run around together, chase, attempt to hump, and play before the owners return them to their handbags and carry home ala Hilton). Watching the mutts was hilarious. Not as hilarious though as the proud owners sitting and pretending they were watching their grandkids. The dog culture is astounding in NYC as it exemplifies the dog as the ultimate accessory. It was also sausage dog day hence the trendoids came out with their elongated pooches.

my fave was the ultra hot lassie
in the blue number

The day was also spent on errands. I scoffed a cupcake for Jodie from the Magnolia Bakery (nice but too much icing) on Bleecker Street and had a slice of floppy pizza for Marta. This stuff was the food of every American telly teenage slumber party with Marta and I watching in envy holding our own sad stiff excuses from Pizza Hut, dreaming of the time when we too could sink our teeth into the ultimate pizza flop. The dream burst today, resulting in a monthly intake of oily cheese on the one slice.

the upper roof of my mouth was left scratchy

tasty but half the icing was removed with my index finger

wheyz da tee'shird section huh?

2007-04-18T18:23:00.000+01:00

easter display in front of the rockefeller centre

Frigg. If I ever come back as anything or anyone in a future life I want to be a gay man in New York. These dudes exude sharpness of the cut fabric like no other. They are walking hot machines oozing class and elegance, way beyond the trendoidness of their Oxford Street counterparts. I have never seen so many attractive men flawlessly dressed at the one time. Ever. Needless to say this city rocks. Fortunately enough I have not drowned in the flash flood that occurred here on Monday nor did I happen to fly unexpectedly to Virginia Tech yesterday, hence I am alive. I have already blown more than half my budget on hiking boots, Chuck Taylors (so I can be like them) and a frightening amount of comic books. It is amazing how quickly the shopping culture eats you alive here. For the last two days I have been feeling like a crazy person convincing myself that I need to buy shit, and then telling myself out loud that I am being a knob. I have however, stayed way away from the God awful grot that is Starbucks. Except for emergency urination requirements. My biggest surprise occurred today when I accidentally walked into what turned out to be a wadyaniggamudda-sup-y'all shop, where a shopper mistook me for a person that worked there, hence a street wise ass crackin' no bullshit Yank. Crap. I was trying to go for a 'European' look. Aside from retail experiences I have done proper stuff too. Like eating a chili dog from a hot dog stand. The Brooklyn Bridge at 10pm tonight was brilliant. And the crazy black guy on the Subway yelling that we're all equal coming out of the one womb like him out of his mother's pussy, made me grin with excitement at the authenticity of the moment.

Maybe it is the number of wogs here or maybe the unconscious longing to be living in a metropolis again, but New York has made me sentimental about Sydney and what I have left behind. Of course it is a behemoth beast and I have only but whiffed its underpit, but somehow New York has a feel of the familiar about it. As I tucked into a steamed pork bun today breathing in the familiar smell of Chinatown, I fondly recalled the words of my Public Law lecturer Drew Fraser "multiculturalism is the death of a city's own identity". Face value at this stage thanks.

I am sending this post from the NYC Public Library, the most impressive library on my world library tour list.

lot flight

2007-04-18T18:18:00.000+01:00

Sitting on the Lot ("Flight") flight. Have one spare seat next to me, which means I can spread my limbs somewhat and attempt to have a nap. Nice. I have now drunken two bottles of wine (Spanish. The only Polish branded flight food has been the butter - very good), eaten a shithouse chicken pasta, avoided thinking about the artificial components of my meal and have been entertained by the self proclaimed chatterbox babcia sitting one seat away from me. She's tops, about 70 and visiting her grandsons. It's her fourth trip to NYC. Last time she took over bottles of vodka and Polish Eagle t-shirts. This time she is taking bottles of vodka and registration number plates for her grandson Greg who is an avid collector. They're brand new too. Not rusty crappy ones like expected. She thinks Washington DC is a pile of uninteresting rubbish and the White House not as good as the Polish Presidential Palace (??). Apparently the Cathedral in NY is not worth seeing although there is a Holy Mary painting hung by a Polish painter. Hmm. Will I make a trip to see it? Doubt it. Apart from Manhattan the rest of New York is like Poland, i.e. three storey houses and gardens. And here I was thinking that was only the case of the Sydney western suburbs minus the three storey bit. She’s going to a christening of her great grand kid and staying on for two months, but isn’t all that worried because she has excellent neighbours who will water her plants and pick up her pension cheque from the post office. The in-flight movie is the Ben Stiller Night at the Museum one. There are no individual video screens and the passengers have to put up with the old communal system of one screen at the end of the alley. I will not be able to see shit. Doesn't matter. Apparently the only valid element in a Lot flight is the availability of grog. No shit. I can slowly see the passengers getting happy and relaxed. They must do with wine, whiskey and beer though. Vodka has long been banned, but the tomato juice remains.

fun days ahead

2007-04-14T22:03:00.000+01:00

The tough homosexuals are being put to work again in Krakow. Looks like next weekend they will be holding a "culture of toleration" festival not only to convince the skinheads and Christian fundamental freaks that they are part of Krakow, but to educate the average Pole that no, the country does not hold a 100 per cent hetero rate. It would all be fine and seemingly normal if it wasn't for the fact that the All Polish Youth, an extremist right nationalist youth group (licking the balls of the League of Polish Family Party - currently part of the ruling coalition) - with a huge Catholic national ideology - is scheduling to host a counterattack march on the same weekend. Last time one was held in Krakow, it was pandemonium. Michal attended in support of the peaceful march of the gays and lesbians and witnessed how the Polish Jugend skins broke in and began to cause havoc. This time the Jugend kids are promising it will all be peaceful and non-violent. Doubt it. But what is interesting is the official poster war that is happening across the city. Free speech still exists and there is no talk of minority group rule. Yet.

Festival for cultural toleration. March with us on the 19th of April 2007

Stop propagating homosexuals in Krakow. Stop sexual deviation
And then various paragraphs about the sin of sodomy and whether we want that to be a symbol of Krakow, homosexual excess, impudent homosexual manifestations etc etc.

Now I am off to bed. Tomorrow I fly to New York. Work is sending me there for one week. Meeting clients. Whatever. I'm just peeing in excitement to be going to the Big Apple!! Never been. Will take the laptop and try to post some pics.

what bead shop?

2007-04-14T21:39:00.000+01:00

fossil snails

Went to the mineral fair today. Not entirely for the love of the rock (although the snail fossils were quite good), but because this is the place you want to be when you want to score some cool beads and shiny polished silver. Spent over 100 bucks on coral, lava and bronze. Good deal really. There is not one single bead shop in town, so bead fans order their goodies either online or frequent these fairs and stock up on clasps, roundels, spacers, hooks and wires. Also if you happen to be a precious gem collector you can make deals with the gem merchants who use those tiny scales to weigh their goods brought all the way over from Madagascar. And here I was thinking, skewed by days in criminal trials, those scales were only good for dope.

'ain't no welfare state no more

2007-04-13T22:57:00.000+01:00

Recycling exists in Krakow. I wouldn’t say it is developed on a huge scale, but if you want to make an effort there are containers for glass, metal, paper and plastic usually provided on some corner street or other. This means you have to take your recycling crap down and separate it yourself accordingly to the abovementioned communal containers. Hence, recycling hasn’t taken off as much as it should have, mainly because people are too lazy to bother. However, by 2010 Poland has to reduce its waste by 50 per cent, or else the European Union is going to get the royal shits and whack on massive sanctions. Or else turn their attention to Romania, the new EU member state predicted to fuck up big time. I long for the days when Poland is as organised as the Germans in terms of recycling. Instead of going shopping or to church on the weekend, the Krauts spend their sunny afternoons separating their trash in massive recycling depots. I applaud. But Poland has its wonder moments too. It has its very own scrap-metal-and-shit guys. These people are pretty incredible. At first glance they appear to be your regular bum, wearing layers of dirty stinky crap, reeking of grog and missing vital teeth for opening beer cans. But behind the bum exterior, there lies a working man spirit! Equipped with make-shift trolleys (either made from old prams, wheelbarrows, bike wheels, falling apart trailers) these scrap-metal-and-shit guys walk around from dusk till dawn throughout Krakow and collect recyclable waste that nobody wants, like old fridges, aluminium cans, computer parts etc. They then sell the products off at scrap metal yards and earn a good penny. It’s tough work too. We had two scrap-metal-and-shit guys come up to our apartment we were renting on the 4th floor to take out an old washing machine that broke down. The landlord organised it and warned me the day before not to be frightened of them (lucky good old Ben was visiting at the time). And sure enough, the two men who were probably 35 years old but looked to be 50 came in mismatched cardigans, stinking of beer, calling me ma’am and swiftly removed the old piece of junk that weighed more than 300 kilos. It then went straight to the scrap yard, bypassing the tip completely. Unbeknownst to most Poles who treat the scrap-metal-and-shit guys with distaste and scorn, these men are the true eco warriors.

I tried looking for some scrap-metal-and-shit guys today and to take their photo, alas none could be found. So this picture is taken from a Polish film called Edi, dealing a bit with the subject matter at hand. The dude who played Edi was a real scrap-metal-and-shit guy and the movie stirred some discussion about homeless people in Poland.

the potato clause

2007-04-10T22:29:00.001+01:00

Michal and I are buying a plot of land some 16 kilometers south of Krakow. Once a farming field, it is now a tops bit of dirt for a home with views of the mountains based at the foot of a forest. To complete the cliché, when we visited it once, a deer ran across it. But what makes me very excited is the existing land owner. She is 74, never married and childless. Her arms are the size of tree trunks. Even at her age. She is the strongest woman I have ever seen. When our car got bogged, she came out to assist by pushing the damn vehicle out of the mud. And didn’t even slip. She spent the last week chopping down the trees and shrubbery to make a clearing for the road that the council is promising to build. They paid her 1000 zloty for the chopping (some AUD $450). Yet she is softly spoken and trusts you completely as long as she is confident you’re not out to screw her over. And we’re not. There is a small problem in closing the deal though. We’re taking out a mortgage for the land and the bank will only pay out the sum via account transfer. Normal, yes? Well not if you have never owned a bank account. As in ever. She was first hoping that we would arrive at the solicitor’s office with a suitcase full of cash (mind you, we did just that when we were putting down the 10% deposit), and was a tad disappointed when we asked her this evening to open a bank account to complete the contract of sale. I too was a bit shattered. I was really hoping to don some black shades, whack a cigar in my mouth, and slam a briefcase filled with 90 000 zloty and smirk ‘ya gonna count that?’ But she consented to the bank idea. Michal and I in the next week or so will drive her to Krakow and help her open an account. Fancy that! The vendor trusting the buyer with the vendor’s money! Only in Poland. In exchange we have agreed for her to plant some potatoes on what will soon be our plot. Nice bit of contracting that, methinks.

visiting the jaskies

2007-04-10T21:46:00.000+01:00

Easter in Debno? Swell thanks! We had a great time hanging with the Jaskies. The house is tops, my mum looks happier and my dad is busy distilling various spirits and smoking meat. The eggs were blessed and eaten on Sunday. My dad has gone a tad mental in collecting old shit for the house. Examples include the 120 year old timber logs for the pergola (taken from an ancient barn in Dobra, courtesy of Karolina’s uncle), a tiny rustic looking window for the bbq area, old rocks and stones collected from various villages to restore the cobble stone effect in the driveway. I especially like the water pump and the well – it is still in operation and will be used to water the garden.

When the collecting first commenced the locals thought my dad to be a bit bonkers. People tend to favour the new and the shiny there. Little by little though his conviction for the old is starting to bring about a few nods and praises here and there. The local baker has started to hang fresh bread and rolls on my parents’ fence each morning, whilst the young carpenter that works on the house brings them fresh ham from home to smoke in the new bbq/smokehouse.

the pump

wee window

smokin' it up

we returned with cherry juice (yummo), pickled apples, and strawberry jam,
all courtesy of my babcia

easter

2007-04-05T22:20:00.000+01:00

It is 11pm at night. In four hours I have to get up. We are driving 500ks west to spend Easter with my parents (aka The Jaskies – in translation The Johnnies, my dad’s name in a diminutive) and are dropping off Michal’s boss at the airport in Katowice – an industrial mining town that still happens to accommodate late flights to Rome for the Easter break. I shouldn’t be writing. I should be in bed sound asleep. But tonight is Wednesday, official day of the Slav version of the Crafties (an ideological concept that actually works, developed by Tabitha – noseyinnewtown - for women friends to meet and make super cool shit) and I wanted to throw in my final two cents before I disappear for the long weekend.

We’re heading to Debno, the town my dad was born in and the place where I get to see a lot of people that look like me. It’s small but cozy. And finally I will get to view the house my parents bought and renovated. It was a bitch, but somehow they managed to convince the local tradesmen to work for the Polish zloty (Debno is on the German border). Plus I will get to eat a zillion dishes made from herring. The salty substitute has almost made me forget the taste of prawns. Almost. But most importantly Michal and I will get to hang with my parents. It’s been too long. Five bottles of wine are packed for the long weekend (two from Italy brought over by Michal) and my mum’s favourite mayonnaise – she couldn’t get it in Debno – and one kilo of Ethiopian coffee (again, impossible to get over her way). Feeling quite the merchant coming to exchange goods. I’m sure we will return with radishes, raspberry jam and what not.

The Easter pics are from the Krakow market square. The sheep, well the lamb really, is the Easter icon here. Yes. It has huge Catholic connotation (sacrifice etc etc), but also manages to keep the cute and cuddly effect. The baskets are big on Saturday. You fill them with food and have them blessed in church.

Hope you all have an excellent Easter with plenty of goods in all your baskets!

jog in the park

2007-04-04T10:00:00.000+01:00

Went for a jog on Saturday. It was the first boost of physical activity since morbid flu recovery. A warm sunny day, lungs conking out at about 1km. Not fit. Yet. The place of choice for a quiet jog? My local concentration camp! The rolling green clearing down the road from my place is now a reserve and memorial park for what was once the Plaszow concentration camp for the Krakow ghetto Jews (it was a holding depot for the prisoners awaiting transport to Birkenau and the like). There is a monument erected and buses drop off Israeli school kids coming to light a candle. But there are also park benches, mums with prams, dogs being walked and young boys kicking the soccer ball around. At first I was a bit thrown as to the use being made of this public space, expecting people to walk around with bowed heads and in silence. But now I think the recreational option is more preferable. E.g. ball falls out of bounds, you must retrieve it out of the still existent yet rusty barbed wire fence and you think – shit all those poor people back in WWII. See, footy and history lesson! And it’s better than catching the train to Auschwitz with fat loud tourists. Or watching The Pianist.

the telly

2007-04-03T20:20:00.000+01:00

I’m not too huge on television. More to the point I am not too huge on Polish television. Most of it is crap. Maybe that is why Michal only sticks to the 10 pm news and the occasional indulgence of Name that Melody. The soaps reek of boring family shit like whether the Belarus nana-aunt boils the potatoes for too long (The Clan – Klan) or whether the young Warsawvian hottie will make it back from her Afghanistan lets-build-a-school aid programme (L for Love – M jak Milosc). Or better yet, whether the parish priest will sell enough Easter candles to rebuild the church tower (The Presbytery – Plebania). There’s never any sex, parental abuse, not much adultery and hardly ever any drugs. Soapies my ass! Further, any thing that is imported from England or elsewhere (Heartbreak High, umm from 1997 and the most current episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful – in translation A Trend for Success!!) is hideously dubbed with a Polish narrator (always the same man - Little Britain for example is unwatchable due to the bad narrating) forcing me to pin my ear to the television set to catch the English words. Tiring. But if I ever become deaf I reckon I will be an ace lip reader!

My dad, however, used to cry when watching episodes of the Clan (hand-me-down VHS tapes making their way across the Pacific) in Sydney. The Polish dinner table, complete with the wise words of a grandfather and a steaming bowl of fried beetroot were too much for him. He would yell out from the living room between great big sobs “Justynka come watch this episode! See what a real respecting family looks like!” He and my mum would then remain glued to the television for the next 3 days until they had to pass the VHS tapes on to the other Slavs in the neighbourhood.

And on that note I will now watch the first episode of this year’s season of Magda M. A Polish Ally McBeal. Except attractive. With a sexy main man. And better clothes. But way shittier court scenes, not much witty dialogue and much smaller compensation claims. She probably whines a little less too. There is a homosexual couple though. Whoa. And single women in their mid thirties living alone!!!! And divorce. And NOBODY goes to church. Absolutely revolutionary stuff. Plus everyone has a great paying job, cool apartments and they all go out for sushi. So it is not very much like Poland at all.

that's magda m, the barrister. not too keen on those robes. solicitors wear ones with blue trimming.

This post is dedicated to Hugh and Libby who once knew a lot more about Polish soaps than me.

palm oil

2007-04-02T13:44:00.000+01:00

Bribing is part of Polish culture. It is the way things are ‘done’. Statistically, as far as Europe is concerned, Finland is the least corrupted country followed closely by Germany. Poland is nearly at the bottom of the list because no one can beat Russia. Today on the morning radio people called in with the best-greasing-of-the-palm tales...

At the city council...

Customer: gee your table is a bit wobbly. Let me level it up for you (slips a 100 zloty bill under one of the table legs).

Civil servant: Now you’ve really made it unbalanced. Please fix the other side.

Customer slips in another 100 zloty bill under the other table leg.

At the public hospital...

Surgeon storms into nurses’ tea room slamming a box of chocolates on the table

Surgeon: (yelling) what the frigg?! She expects me to do the operation for her for a shitty box of freakin’ chocolates?!!!!!!! Where does she think she is?!

The nurses open the box of chocolates and reveal a wad of notes amounting to 10 000 zloty (about AUD$4 500).

At the land registry office...

Customer to civil servant: I bet you 1000 zloty you will not be able to register that straight away!

The poor university student has it the toughest of all. Passing exams depends largely on ‘who’s your daddy’ and whether your taste in whisky selection is the same as your law professor’s. I am exaggerating. But only a tad. The story that churned my gut the most was the tale of Michal’s good mate. He threw in his political science PhD grant after working on it for more than a year as he could no longer stand the bribing demands of his academic supervisor. The clincher came when the aspiring scholar was told his doctorate was on the line...that is unless the supervisor’s apartment was re-carpeted by the end of the week.

flying rats

2007-03-31T14:04:00.000+01:00

I hate pigeons. With a passion. I used to dislike them in Sydney. But now I have moved into a new category of absolute despise. These flying rats circulating round town are a hideous excuse for a bird. They are everywhere with their toxic crap eating away at the heritage listed buildings. They stink and are freaking ugly. Especially the big fat ones feasting on the pretzel crumbs scattered all over the footpaths by tourists who mistake the flying rats for a tourist attraction.

The first place we lived in was a flying rat nightmare. Michal, equipped with a metal spatula would religiously remove their poisonous shit from the window panes and the balcony. No matter how many attempts were made at stopping the flying rats from landing on our balcony (metal wire spikes were wound into position on the railing to scare the suckers off) they always managed to land helicopter style and perch their crap on our wooden balcony seat. Bleh. When we finally did move, the mother rat laid an egg in our flower pot. M&J 0 : Flying Rat 1.

I read recently that the French-Algerian artist Kader Attia made an instillation at the Lyons Biennial in 2005 that went to auction at Christie’s this month in New York. The work consisted of a massive cage. Inside it were sculptures of children made out of birdseed. The cage was then filled with pigeons that would attack the birdseed sculptures, giving the whole thing an eerie effect. Wanker. There are kids in Krakow having their eyes removed on a regular basis.

photo by Blaise Adilon

after the flying rats demolished her pretzel they moved in for her retinas

and the egg goes to...

2007-03-30T16:23:00.000+01:00

Thank you to all those who participated in the egg limerick comp. Your year 7 English teachers would
have been proud. As stated in the previous post, the eggs are awarded to the first two entries. And
so it is with great pleasure to present Liam and Hugh with this folky Ukrainian Easter decoration.
Enjoy boys!

Ps. Hugh sent me his limericks directly to my email account, due to having problems with the
‘comments’ icon. Maybe this is a valid cause for disqualification, but I am a soft... egg.

I have posted his limerick entry for him in the comments section.

eggs and pussy willow

2007-03-29T18:04:00.000+01:00

Lent is coming to an end. The 40 days before Easter of refusing yourself the little pleasures in life, such as booze, sweets, meat, shagging, dancing and laughing raucously in the street is a Catholic ritual not really adhered to by any one any more. Well, not on such a grand scale. People however, here and there might stop drinking wine with dinner or refuse to gobble chocolate for the period or even refrain from hosting a wedding (a big fat NO during Lent), all small sacrifices to strengthen the spirit. Religious clanking aside though, I think it is commendable. And also more proof as to why the almighty Pole has an iron will and the balls of a bull. Seriously, I have never met so many individuals on a grand scale who display such strength of character and self-reliance. ‘No bullshit’ should be the national catch cry, whilst powering through the national sport.

Aside from my gushing love for the average Pole, check out these eggs below! The local market I frequent has filled up with all things Easter and egg (and not too much of the chocolate variety). These particular ones were hand-painted by a Ukrainian woman working in Krakow (they’re not actual boiled eggs). Aren’t they tops? I bought two and have decided to send them to the first two people who post an egg limerick on crooked corner. You better not disappoint me!

Pussy willow is also huge around Easter time. Mainly, because it ripens during the spring period. But more importantly because it’s fury. And therefore resembles say, a rabbit? A chicken? A duck? A hairy egg?

With Easter comes Palm Sunday. That’s the day, to fill the gaps in your biblical trivia bank, when Jesus arrived to Jerusalem on a donkey and was greeted by the hordes waving palm leaves, a week before he was crucified. So the Poles, on Palm Sunday go to church and wave ‘palms’. Given there are no actual palms in Slavland, these decorative twigs and wheat grasses are dyed and arranged in a bouquet instead.

And for those keen to see it live but not in Poland? Don't fret. Way out west in Marayong you can catch a palm waving ceremony this Sunday no doubt. Just catch the Richmond yellow line. All stations.

posh commy

2007-03-28T20:22:00.000+01:00

Yesterday Michal and I went walkies after work in our new neighbourhood. We decided on a detour to check out the local commy architecture down the road. There are ugly things in life that you can shrug off or at least learn to accept. Like, for example Macquarie University buildings. Or tight white trousers on a size 16 ass. But Polish commy architecture is in a hideous world of its own. No matter how long you stare at it, no matter how many times you walk past it, live in it, see it re-painted or wonder at its holding capacity – it always remains disgusting and an eye-sore on the landscape. Plus, it holds no retro value and never will. This in itself is pretty amazing, given that ugly shit usually turns retro at some point or another. These structures litter all of

Poland

. And have done so since the 60s concrete slab revolution. Pity there’s not much tectonic plate activity in the area. I would welcome an earthquake.

This particular commy apartment block stands out amongst the other giants. Note its wooden decorative facade? That’s a special type of ugly. It is “posh commy” ugly. Obviously the Party was feeling generous when this little beauty was being built, and showered the some-are-more-equal-than-others citizens with a tad of architectural elitism. Love that raw timber feel!

red stocking alert

2007-03-26T20:51:00.000+01:00

So I browsed the paper and there weren’t many fashion pics to steal. I only liked the one. See below. The designer is Elwira Horosz (starting out, yadda yadda not much yet in the way of fame – but maybe the fashion houses of Milan will one day be kind to her). In addition I have attached pictures of the local Krakovians donning the latest. Stockings that is.

photo by Krzysztof Karolczyk

photo by Michal

Tukan and Titka. The red stocking idea is all hers.

lying pays off

2007-03-26T00:21:00.000+01:00

Driving Titka and friend home at around 9pm. Police car ahead indicates for me to pull over. I pull over and roll down my window. Policeman, "may I have your driver’s licence and rego papers?", Justyna, "sure, but may I ask what this is about?" (lie – I know what this is about – I only have the dimmer lights on because the normal lights are broken). Policeman, "maybe if you turn on your lights you will know". Justyna, "gee, sorry (hands over her Australian licence and the rego papers), this is a hire car" (bad bad bad – hire car only under Michal’s name, shouldn’t be driving the thing at all).

Policeman, "how long have you been in the country for?" Justyna, "oh about 2 months and 1 week" (lie – I have been in the country for one year and two and a half months – but I say this because I can only drive on a foreign licence for three months). Policeman, "how long are you planning to stay?"

Justyna, "I leave next week" (lie – I live here now). Policeman, "ok. Well you turn on your lights from now on." Justyna, "I will, sorry sir" (waits for policeman to leave because can’t in fact turn on broken lights). Titka, "you are such a liar!!! I heard you deep breathe between every sentence!" Justyna - Avoids a ticket. Drops off Titka and friend. Goes home. Unlit.

trendoids

2007-03-25T23:25:00.001+01:00

Finally saw some of the Krakow trendoids tonight. Given a lack of an obvious trendoid street in town, I have often wondered where they strut their stuff. So I managed to sneak in, with the help of Titka, into the annual fashion awards show in Nowa Huta. For those not in the know, Nowa Huta (New Steelworks) was a city erected in the 50s by the Commies. It was modelled on a utopian dream to have this amazingly industrial town close enough to be able to shit conveniently on Krakow, the intellectual and cultural centre of Poland. And shit it did. With years of acid rain and toxicity a plenty. It also brought in thousands of migrant workers from villages all around Poland to fuel the labour hungry machine and show Krakow that a good university and musical recitals where useless in the grand scheme of ‘productivity’! And now, surprise surprise, just like all leftover post-factory centres of the west, it has attracted the swarms of trendoids. I am just waiting for the first loft to pop up.

So after getting into the invite-only gala invite-less, not only did I manage to see that thick red-rimmed glasses are the new black Buddy Holly substitute, but also had an excellent opportunity to see some really cool designs. There was an obvious lack of pretension that I was anticipating. After I saw a few nannas sitting and admiring the designs of their grandkids, I didn’t mind so much to be wearing ill fitting jeans and unpolished Blunnies. And I liked the fact that you could buy a cream bun and an orange popper from a very non-designy looking woman at the intermission, whilst standing next to some fashion magazine editor hottie wearing the latest whatever. Once the official photos are up in tomorrow’s paper, I will steal them and put them into the blog for you to have a squeeze at.

And now I am off to bed. Michal was meant to arrive from Rome with his mum at midnight tonight. Unfortunately he made the mistake of buying a cheap Skyeurope ticket and their flight has been delayed until 6am tomorrow! See. Tightass tickets are not actually as good as I once dreamt about them being when living in Sydney. I used to think, “gee, ‘ain’t Europe grand – fly to any city for less than three cents return”. Well the bubble has burst on more than one occasion. I have come to learn that tightass flights are a ticket to hell, starvation, numb airport lounge butt cheeks, delayed passenger wrath and retard ground staff who know nothing (understandable as they are not re-compensated for dealing with aforementioned delayed passenger wrath). And what is worse you have no jetlag excuse to chuck a sickie.

paper flower goodness

2007-03-24T14:49:00.000+01:00

As I walked home from work across the Market Square, a dreary and miserable day as hell, a tiny tiny school girl approached me and handed me an origami flower saying “this is to make you smile” as she skipped away. Apparently the kids of Primary School No. 82 in Krakow have been folding these little numbers and handing them out in town for a “dzień na tak” – a day for being positive. Another tick for why I love this place.

toes

2007-03-24T14:27:00.000+01:00

It was the first official day of spring on Thursday. Except it wasn’t. It snowed. And rained. And froze off all your limbs. But it did explain to me the mystery of the crooked toes that has been haunting me for years. My grandma used to have toes that overlapped one another in a fashion not dissimilar to this sketch I drew on the bus:

I always figured the nannas of Poland displayed similar grotesque deformities due to the Commy one-size-fits all shoe era. Not so my friends. It is because toes crawl underneath one another for warmth! As I walked in the slush with my freezing feet I became aware of my small toe on each foot navigating its crawling journey under the remaining four. They too crave warmth and crawl under one another to survive the harsh months of winter. Or spring. And give you a permanent cramp in the process. The end result will be that when I am 70 I will have very narrow feet and a further tactic for scaring my grandchildren.

dash of draught please

2007-03-19T22:13:00.000+01:00

My Australian cushy existence hasn't prepared me for the morbidity of a Polish flu. Everyone left, right and centre has been warning me it might lead to pneumonia, heart failure and/or death. Hmm. After coughing all possible fluid out of my lungs (a good thing I have been told), scraping off the last layer of skin from my nose due to non-bleached dunny paper blowing action and a week of watching Brazilian soaps from the couch, I started to think that maybe the overreacting Slavic hordes of Krakow were not exaggerating after all.

But then again this is a land in which people equate walking around the house without slippers on, to an extreme sport. And should you ever open a window on the tram be prepared to have your head eaten alive by a nanna. She's been brought up to believe a draught is actually an illness. Really. People prefer to ride on stinking hot buses, sweating, farting, coughing, sniffling, sneezing and bad-breathing on one another and not open a window. Because a draught can kill you. Fresh air if at all breezy is death. And so my love for the public transport system has been put to a test in these winter months. I think I need to get better thanks. And start riding my bike.

Pity Michal still sounds like a potato harvesting tractor every time he opens his mouth to release another roaring series of coughs. It's been fun being disgusting phlegm buddies.

Slipperland stand at the station