Matching Tracksuits

fun in fours

ameryka

Golden Slippers

Monday 10 October 2005

Mars Hill Fair, 1 Oct 05

Not quite as distant as it sounds, Mars Hill is a small community about fifteen miles north of Asheville. Last weekend, Kinga and I went up for a country fair. Bluegrass music, quilting stalls, homemade cheese -- the whole deal.

We bought some great goat cheese, and of course, there was a bit of live music everywhere.

That's one of the greatest things about bluegrass: it's community music. The more, the merrier. In that sense, it's very similar to Polish Goralski (Highlander) music. Songs that everyone knows, half the people wandering around have instruments themselves -- it always becomes a big sing-along.

More than that, though, bluegrass and Goralski both run the cliche gamut as far as talent goes. In a group of players, there'll be one or two who just astound, and one or two who clearly have just begun playing.

Another critical similarity: both sound much better live, and too much recorded music of either can be tiresome.

Good morning

Thursday 06 October 2005

I’m shocked at how many times I’ve said “Good morning” to students coming into class where I’m subbing, and been ignored.

Completely ignored.

What happened to politeness? What happened to basic social skills?

Shakin’ the Rolls

Monday 03 October 2005

The entrance to our apartment complex is situated between two fast food restaurants: an Arby’s and a McDonalds. When Kinga and I first came to look at the apartment, we were given directions which included those two restaurants as landmarks. Whenever we give directions, we in turn do the same.

We’ve never really eaten at either restaurant. Kinga has never been a fan of fast food, having grown up in a country more or less devoid of it (at least in the time she was growing up). I ate less than my fair share growing up. I was never crazy about any of those places, but they were convenient and so I did eat there from time to time, though almost never at McDonalds.

About once a month, Kinga and I like to walk the quarter of a mile down the long driveway and get shakes (she, vanilla, I, chocolate) at McDonalds. No burgers, no fries, just shakes. And smalls, at that.

All the same, I feel embarrassed walking in. Looking around the room at the patrons, I want to say, “We’re just here for shakes! We’re not going to eat this filthy, greasy food, just a bit of ice cream mixed with milk!” And it must be much greasier than I remember, for you walk in and smell it -- you can almost feel it hanging in the air.

The cliche is that America is fat because of such restaurants, that McDonald’s and Wendy’s play a disproportionate role in the fattening of America. While not a staunch defender of freedom of grease, I used to look at that argument in the past with skepticism. “It’s more a lack of exercise,” I thought. But on seeing the average McDonald’s customer for the first time in years, I’ve come to the conclusion that it must be more the food than the lack of exercise.

Every time -- and I mean every single time -- Kinga and I have gone for a shake, there is always a family or two sitting in McDonald’s who probably have between them enough weight for one or two additional people. Last night, there was a family to the right of us as we ordered our monthly shakes and a family coming through the drive in, and they were all, parents and children, huge.

The question is, who’s to blame? Fast food is undeniably that -- fast, and convenient. I suppose when the majority of what you sell is simply taken out of a freezer and fried, it can’t help but be fast. Don’t these fast food places have any sense of guilt in what they’re feeding people?

An interesting article ran this morning in the IHT about this: "Processed foods? Read this, France says

But food can be fast and healthy. The only place Kinga and I eat at with any regularity is

Subway, and for ten years I’ve always gotten the same thing: a veggie sub and water. But it seems the vast majority of people doesn't want vegetables, but meat. Fatty, greasy meat.

In the end, though, it’s like cigarettes: smokers and McDonald’s patrons are ultimately responsible for their own decisions. We can argue that there has been misleading advertising and so on, but let’s be reasonable -- something dripping with fat or glistening with grease is so obviously unhealthy that it’s hard to imagine who could be fooled by any kind of advertising spin whatsoever.

Help II

Tuesday 27 September 2005

It can be a look -- eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly askew, or the opposite: eyebrows raised with eyes opened Bambi wide. It can be a sound -- smacking licks, a gasp of exasperation. It can be body language -- a staunch refusal to look someone in the eyes, shoulders turned perpendicular to another’s body, a tapping pencil. It can probably be even a smell -- pheromones released, but undetected by the blunt human nose.

There must be a thousand ways of telling someone, “I don’t want your help, and I think you’re a fool for offering it” without uttering a single word.

At some point we all need help, so the theory goes. But there are a few stalwart individuals who would rather drown than take a proffered hand. There are a few who will refuse swimming lessons even as they stand on the ever-vertical deck of a sinking ship, not take a parachute in a spiraling plane.

Neck Pigment

Thursday 25 August 2005

I've been fighting for some time with the term "redneck." While not racist, I think, it's classist. The same basic thing: making assumptions about an individual's character based on a stereotype of his racial, cultural, ethnic group.

Really, I try not to use that term.

And then feel guilty when I laugh at something like this.

Quick Fixes

Saturday 20 August 2005

Oil prices approach $70 a barrel, with analysts saying an even $100 a barrel is not unrealistic.

Politicians say there’s little we can do about it, and point out that the national average is still not as high as the inflation-adjusted prices of 1981 of $3.11.

“I wish I could say there is a quick fix, but there is not,” said Rep. Bob Beauprez, a Colorado Republican who is expected to face a tough reelection campaign next year. “Everybody is feeling the pinch.” (Washington Post)

Everybody is feeling the pinch, but I’m sure Bush’s oil company cronies are feeling it less than we mortals. Such is the reality of a market economy, some might say, shrugging their shoulders and walking away.

Quick fixes? We had thirty years to solve this problem. What did we learn from the late—70s, when long queues at the pump helped force Carter out of the White House? Apparently nothing. Hybrid car sales are most certainly rising — we’re thinking the next car we buy will have to be hybrid — but it all seems too little too late. No one is in a position to thumb his nose at the oil cartels and say, “Screw you! We just won’t buy your oil.”

China would surely be grateful.

We’ve built our entire civilization on fossil fuels, and it seems that the people sitting on said fuels will soon be realizing the power they wield. OPEC has us by the gonads, and has for decades. We saw in the late—70s what could happen, and yet our dependence only grew.

Not only that, but in America we’ve built our culture on a sense of independence that somehow dictates that we all have cars, that we fill our highways with cars transporting only the driver and a cell phone.

Lawmakers also cannot easily suspend or reduce the 18.4-cent-per-gallon federal tax on gasoline. That money goes straight into a trust fund for covering highway and mass-transit upgrades. When gas prices climbed in the 1990s, some Republicans were quick to call for lowering the tax. This time, however, Congress has boxed itself in by passing the largest-ever transportation bill just before leaving for the August recess.

And how much of that transportation bill was aimed at improving public transportation? If you live in a larger city, a car might not even be necessary. Living in Poland showed me that even if you live in the boondocks, a car is not completely necessary. A nice convenience, but not a necessity.

Sen. John F. Kerry (D-Mass.) and others say Bush should take a harder line with Saudi Arabia and other oil-producing nations, and demand that they release more oil and help push down the price of oil, which hit a record $66 per barrel this week. But skeptics say that approach has not worked in the past. “We have to realize they have the oil, and it’s a seller’s market,” Beauprez said.

Don’t worry — Bush will find a reason to attack them soon enough and then we’ll have all the oil we need.

Wasn’t this Iraq thing supposed to be about oil? Isn’t that what we bleeding hearts have been saying all along, that the WMD charges were just a smoke screen to justify a long-planned war? For whom could that oil be intended?

Even if that obstacle could be surmounted, “if you roll back that tax, people have to keep in mind that may not transfer into savings for consumers,” said American Automobile Association spokesman Mantill Williams. “It’s not automatic [that gasoline firms] will give that discount to the consumer.”

Oh — right. Right. Bush’s and Condie’s and, well, the whole administration’s buddies in the oil industry are getting their campaign contributions back many times over. It was a sound investment.

America, goes the cliché, where we have the best politicians money can buy.

Oil companies have us over a pork barrel and that’s that. We drive buy a service station and, noticing that the prices has jumped up two cents overnight, cut in quickly to fill up before it goes up again — even if there’s three-quarters’ of a tank still in the car. We buy their product even when we don’t need it at the moment…

Preventive Questioning

Wednesday 17 August 2005

Coming right out with it, I failed the North Carolina written driving test today.

Twenty-five questions, and I could make only five mistakes. I made it through twenty-two questions before racking up my sixth and final wrong answer, which resulted in the screen going blank and informing me tersely that I’d failed. I went back to the  examiner and she seemed surprised.

Indeed, I was surprised. I’d gone through the manual and remembered all sorts of fun facts.

  • It takes 211 feet to come from 55 MPH to a full stop.
  • You can’t park within 15 feet of an intersection when the road is not curbed; when it’s curbed, it’s 25 feet.
  • A person has to be visible at a distance of 200 feet with high beams and 70 feet with low beams for your lights to be “valid.”
  • Your horn must be audible at a distance of 50 feet.
  • You must stay two seconds behind the car in front of you (i.e., not the # of car-lengths, as I’d learned so many years ago).

All sorts of fun facts.

What did about 20% of my randomly prepared test involve? DUI.

For the first DUI offense, how long can the DMV revoke your license?

Any amount of time would make my life infinitely more complicated. But that is not the reason I don’t drink and drive. I know I can kill myself and others doing it — that’s why I don’t do it. Simple.

What is the punishment for refusing to take a Breathalyzer test?

What does it matter? I know it can only be something unpleasant, something that will make the situation — and my life in general — more difficult, so even if I knew I’d fail it, I’d take the stupid test.

What should the punishment be? The officer should give you a quick bullet to the head — you’re obviously too stupid to be making a positive contribution to society.

What is the first step to getting back your license after having it revoked for DUI?

I didn’t know. (It turns out that you have to take a driving course.) If I were so stupid as to get in the car after drinking, I don’t know that I deserve to get my license back. But if it were revoked, I guess I’d start worrying about how to get it back then, not before my license has even been issued.

The good news: Kinga’s test had no questions about driving drunk and had studied her butt off — though she didn’t know the answer to those questions either — so she passed her test, successfully drove the examiner around the neighborhood, and got her NC driving license.

Keeping Busy with Great Books

Monday 15 August 2005

Keeping busy is the key. Idle hands, idle minds — conventional wisdom.

We’ve moved in, and as I don’t have a job, the last week has been busy with straightening and organizing. I’m a house-dad, without the “dad” part. Too bad I can’t just get pregnant and make use of the down time. Indeed -— if that could happen, we’d never have to work again, either of us. Medical miracle. Religious miracle, and it wouldn’t even have to be a virgin birth.

Keep busy. Our computer crashed and we had to buy a new one a few months ahead of schedule. Best Buy almost ripped us off, due to a pricing mistake. I went in ready for a fight. At last I can get out all the frustration building in the last year of Polish bureaucracy and tangle in my native language. No tangling there, though. They gave it to us for the advertised price. As if they wouldn’t. Well, in my recent experience abroad, worse things have happened.

Keep busy — else you end up writing things like this.

Two years in a place is enough to make it home. Three years cements it further, and moving after three years somewhere can be overwhelmingly traumatic. Four years could kill a person if she didn’t some kind of support. Seven years, ten years, twenty-six years — the transition period itself could last years. Family and friends constitute “mitigating factors” but most importantly in my experience is a concrete goal, a reason behind it all that motivates and justifies uprooting yourself.

Kinga and I are now settled in, hoping to take root in America. Because I spent seven of the last nine years in Poland, it’s as much a foreign country for me as for her. How long before we think of this place as “home”? I no longer associate our cozy apartment in Lipnica with that word, but also, I don’t imagine our new place when I think of “home,” either. It’s a word that hangs in my imagination, not even suspended by anything tangible. Maybe it will settle with the dust that will accumulate in our new apartment, and gradually pick up the warm associations it needs.

In the meantime, there’s the inevitable sadness that edges everyday life. I see it sometimes in Kinga’s eyes and remember what it was like when I first moved to Lipnica. The stimulation of all that’s new and different in a foreign country can grow tiring, and it’s then that thoughts turn back to the places and faces that usually come to mind alongside the word “home.”

I feel it like a fog in my own thoughts, when I realize anew how distant all I knew and loved in Lipnica is at this moment – friends, students, and now family. I look at pictures taken during our last weeks in Poland and I feel I’m looking at snapshots of another’s life. Seeing myself in some of the shots reassures me that I was there, that I didn’t just dream it all.

This tint of gloom is nothing compared to the wretchedness I felt when I first returned from Poland in 1999. Struggling at first just to scrounge up enough for Boston’s exurbanite cost of living, feeling intense doubt about graduate school, knowing next to no one, thinking it could be over a year — maybe two — before I’d be teaching again, and being so far from everything and everyone I knew in America made the first months dismal. It’s not that every moment was hellish. Far from it. But the transition from my rural Polish world of certainty was emotionally exhausting.

It was a bad day.

One good way to keep busy is looking for work, combing CareerBuilder.com and Hotjobs and Monster daily. Hourly is the temptation — after all, you can search by the hour. Still once a day should suffice.

Reading is another way to keep busy. God knows we’ve got enough books to read now. Dad gave me his “Great Books” collection. An odd thing, those Great Books. Everything from Freud to Euclid, from Shakespeare to Darwin. They’re big, hardback books, with a sixties binding. I thought about digging into Faraday or Adam Smith, but I still haven’t finished Kapuscinski’s Imperium. For now, Faraday waits on his side, stacked on the floor by the bookcase, with the other Great and Heavy Books of Western History beside anthologies and lesser books. My father said he had decided in the late sixties when he bought that Bundle of Books that he would, through his life, read them all. There are fifty-four volumes, beginning with the Iliad and ending significantly with Freud. I’m not  sure how many he read, but I’m fairly sure he never made it out of the ancient Greeks.

The Great Books series gives we intellectual mortals a feeling that we’re somehow greater than we are. After all, we have in our library Gibbon and Ptolemy, Chaucer and Galen. But really, what’s the point? Those who would read them probably already have them. They’re useful for libraries and sect’s bookshelves. No, I’m not so unoccupied that I’ve taken to reading Tacitus, important though he may be.

Keeping busy -— for example, physicals for registering as a substitute teacher, getting a North Carolina driving license (I have to take the test —- can’t just turn in the valid VA license.), getting tags, and so on.

Moje pierwsze amerykanskie urodziny

Saturday 30 July 2005

W tym tygodniu skonczylam 27 lat. Ostatnio nie mialam zbyt wielu powodow, zeby czuc sie staro. Tutaj mam kontakt z ludzmi starszymi ode mnie, wrecz emerytami. To osiedle gdzie mieszkaja rodzice Garego to osiedle emerytow, wiec gdziekolwiek sie pojawiamy wszyscy witaja nas slowami — o,mlodziez przyszla. Milo byc najmlodszym, no ale to 27 to juz niestety blizej trzydziestki niz osiemnastki…

Rodzice Garego postanowili uczcic moje pierwsze urodziny w Stanach w sposob, na ktory godza sie tutaj tylko dzieci i emeryci. Ja zupelnie nieswiadoma tego co mialo sie wydazyc nie musialam udawac zaskoczenia i znioslam wszystko z usmiechem na twarzy. Po pierwsze dostalam od nich suszarke do wlosow — uwielbiam te wszystkie praktyczne prezenty, ktore ostatnio zdaza nam sie dostawac. Tak sie ciesze, ze wszyscy na sile nie staraja sie dekorowac naszego mieszkania. Po drugie, postanowili mnie zabrac na kolacje do Cracker Barrel. To jest taka amerykanska restauracja, ktora serwuje „wiejskie” i „swojskie” jedzenie (wiejski i swojski umiescilam w cudzyslowiu tylko dlatego, ze nie maja wiele wspolnego z polskim znaczeniam tych slow, poza tym jedzenie bylo bardzo dobre) i cieszy sie ogromna popularnoscia wsrod amerykanow. Kiedys probowalismy sie tam wybrac w czasie weekendu, ale kolejka oczekujacych na stolik byla tak dluga, ze zrezygnowalismy. W kazdym razie na moja urodzinowa kolacje Gary zasugerowal danie, ktore skladalo sie z trzech najbardziej polularnych tam potraw — pierogi maczne, ktorych tutaj nie nadziewa sie niczym, smazona szynka i mieso mielone z warzywami (papryka, cebula i przyprawy). To mielone mieso najbardziej mi smakowalo. Obslugiwala nas bardzo mila kelnerka.

Od razu wyczula, ze nie jestem tutejsza, moj akcent rozpoznala jako francuski — cieplo ale jeszcze nie goraco. Kiedy konczylismy posilek a ona jeszcze raz przyszla zapytac, czy niczego nam nie brakuje, mama Garego powiedziala, ze wlasnie dzisiaj mam urodziny i zapytala czy firma nadal serwuje dla jubilatow torciki. Kelnerka powiedziala, ze teraz serwuja cos innego i ze zaraz przyniesie mi moj urodzinowy deserek. Po chwili widze, ze z kuchni wychodzi caly szereg kelnerow i kelnerek (bylo ich czterech albo pieciu) i kieruje sie w strone naszego stolika. Otoczyli nasz stolik i klaszczac zaczeli spiewac specjalna firmowa piosenke urodzinowa. Bylam w totalnym szoku, zupelnie oszolomiona nawet nie czulam sie zaklopotana ale zdecydowanie nie chcialabym przezywac tego jeszcze raz. Zupelnie sie nie dziwie, ze Gary jako nastolatek podobno grozil rodzicom, ze ich zabije, jezeli zrobia mu taka niespodzianke. Wszyscy mieli ze mnie nie maly ubaw, Gary, rodzice no i polowa gosci w restauracji. Jak wychodzilismy ludzie mnie zaczepiali i skladali mi zyczenia — niezly obciach. No coz, ciekawe jakie jeszcze amerykanskie niespodzianki przede mna…

Swimming in Culture

Wednesday 13 July 2005

How many cultural issues can you spot in the image of an American man going to buy swimming trunks? More than you’d expect.

Sunday Kinga and I went out with friends of the family on their houseboat. Those who can read Polish got more details form Kinga, but suffice it to say that water skiing was one of the afternoon activities and Kinga got up on her first try.

Before going, though, I needed a pair of swimming trunks. I have a pair that I bought in Poland, but I’d not be seen in public wearing those in the States. They are, in a word, Speedos. I bought the longest pair the store had, but they’re still skin tight and extremely skimpy. What is it about European men wearing Speedos all the time?

I have nothing against Speedos in the proper context. In fact, I’ve worn them many times — in competitive swimming events. But walking around the beach? Swimming around in a lake? It seems like taking a Ferrari to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes — completely unwarranted and a more-than-slight exaggeration.

So, not wanting to parade around in Speedos yet wanting to save as much money as possible, Kinga and I did the logical thing: we went to Wal-Mart to buy swimming trunks.

It was a mistake.

Wal-Mart is, arguably, one of the cheaper stores in the States, which means it attracts a certain clientele from a certain socio-economic group of people. I don’t know if in fact that has anything to do with the fact that literally 95% of the trunks we found were size XXL, but I have my suspicions. And the colors and designs: Lord, I left with a headache.

I ended up leaving with a pair of violently bright green shorts because they were the only pair I could find that were size large. They’re too big for me, but I feared one of the three “Mediums” we found would be too small.