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Boat Ride Bookends, Part One

Monday 6 August 2012

Day two at Lake Tillery began and ended with a boat ride. “I’ve never been on a boat,” L announced in excitement, obviously having forgotten earlier rides in Slovakia.

Yet it was certainly the Boy’s first boat ride, the first time we bundled him up in a life jacket.

“L would not have put up with this for a moment,” K laughed as we pulled out of the channel into the lake. The Boy, though, simply snuggled into the jacket and fell asleep.

Had he known who was driving, he might not have been quite so calm. L’s best friend from Montessori, E, was at the wheel, his father at his side, doing a fine job despite the jokes.

Pulling into the dock of E’s aunt, K immediately loosened the Boy’s life jacket and found a place for him to continue his apparently eternal nap.

The Girl took a quick break, and upon waking, the Boy joined his mother in the lake with his newest friends.

L has fallen in love with water this summer. Among her favorite sports to watch in London are swimming and diving; she asks daily to go to the pool; she flops about in the tub in her best imitation of Rebecca Soni. Despite her consistent love of water, though, she wasn’t that wild about the beach when we first went. Or when we went the second time. So when we headed to North Carolina with friends for a weekend at the lake, I was a but curious how she would take swimming in the open water.

As might be expected, she was a bit cautions at first. Thought she’d given up her arm floats earlier in the summer, she learned that one of the rules of the pier was that children must always wearÂ flotationÂ devices — and since there were no more swim belts, the Girl was stuck wearing her arm floats again.

There was also initial concern regarding what else might be swimming with her — or under her. Talk of an enormous catfish that broke a line earlier in the day had her worried and sitting on the edge for a while.

But only for a while.

Thus began a weekend of firsts. Fishing, for example — something that requires more patience than I thought the Girl had ever shown in her whole life. Something that involves touching things the Girl might not like to touch, like hooks and worms and fish. Something that can pass hours with only one reward: the peace of the wait.

Yet the girl is growing, and she’s always surprising us with what she can do, what she’s willing to try, what we can force her to eat. (Some humor intended there.) Fishing became the big hit for the Girl.

Yet there were the old stand-bys — what kid in history has been able to turn down an invitation to watch a film while sitting in an old water heater box?

Cramped, stuffy, view-blocking — it didn’t matter. What mattered was to beÂ in the box. The movie was only secondary entertainment.

With a full moon that night, though, adults had other forms of less-cramped, more serene entertainment.

Downtown Rock Hill, Part 2

Thursday 2 August 2012

Is downtown Rock Hill is the story of America? One would certainly hope not, but in some ways, it seems to have all the elements in parallel. Within a couple of blocks we have signs of incredible affluence

and poverty-driven decay.

What’s the difference between these two homes? What’s the difference between the owners of these homes? Over the last few years, my explanations have shifted from the left to the center-right of the political spectrum. The answer seems hinted in other parts of town.

Still only a few blocks away, Nana points out yet another building with personal significance: the remains of Rock Hill Printing & Finishing. “This was where I was working when I met Papa,” she explains to us. She shows us where she used to enter, pointing out roughly where her desk was.

One wonders if there are any plans to renovate this particular building as others in the area. Just up the road, an old factory has been turned into an apartment complex. One could likely turn this shell into high-ceiling lofts or something similar. But is the demand there? I think back to the abandoned post office just a few blocks away, figuring it’s unlikely that this gigantic building will ever become of anything more than the subject of a blog post.

Just behind it lies the heart of the factory, once impressive, but now merely tragic. According to one source,

The building of the Rock Hill Printing and Finishing Plant in 1929 moved M. Lowenstein halfway along the way to becoming a totally integrated producer of textiles. The Rock Hill plant bleached, dyed, printed and finished cloth purchased from a variety of sources, primarily in the South. The rapid expansion of Lowenstein through the acquisition of textile mills produced the raw material for the plant and resulted in its own expansion. By the early 1960s, it grew from a plant with 200,000 square feet to one with more than 2 million square feet, which bleached, dyed, and finished both cotton and synthetic fabrics. New processes such as Sanforizing and the use of Scotchgard TM finishing permitted it to create permanent press cloth during the 1970s. Acquired by Springs Industries in 1986, the plant included 23 roller print machines and 7 screen print machines. (textilehistory.org)

Looking at an aerial view of the factory in its heyday, it’s clear the impact its closure had on the economics of Rock Hill. Now, only inspiration remains.

This is the story of South Carolina, a story that hopefully America as a whole will not echo. But I wonder. South Carolina used to be a textile center. My family’s fate was tied into that of the mills. My mother worked in a mill; my grandmother worked in a mill; countless aunts worked in mills. My father did electrical work in mills; my grandfather likely did masonry work for a mill or two. Every South Carolinian has mill work somewhere in her family history.

The cemetery just a block or so away is surely filled with those who worked the roller print machines and the bleaching machines, with those who did the screen printing and counted the cost of everything.

Rock Hill is only one of many textile cities in South Carolina that has suffered this fate. It’s only one of thousands of cities in America that must be harboring doubts that its best days lie in the future.

Downtown Rock Hill, Part 1

Monday 30 July 2012

Visits to Rock Hill are visits to family. Only rarely is anything else involved. But every now and then, we go beyond the normal visit schedule. This week, we went downtown to visit the children’s museum. After the visit and a quick lunch, we went for a quick walk.

Like many old, small downtown areas, Rock Hill’s small main street is both heartening and depressing.

On the heartening side, it’s good to see so many beautiful, historic buildings renovated and put to new use. A Baptist church is now a community center.

Yet the renaissance is only partial, as it often is. Across the street from the restored church is an abandoned post office that stands empty. What are the possibilities? Certainly endless, but the economy places its own limitations, I suppose.

Just down the street, more evidence of a halting recovering for the downtown area.

Yet perhaps things are not as they seem. A quick search reveals that Penny Young still runs a studio by the name Photographic Designs. Perhaps she outgrew the space?

Still, one has to admire the effort and the little touches, like the music in the trees, initially confusing as one wanders about,

and the little cafes with outside tables that would be more inviting if it weren’t for the heat of a South Carolina summer.

As we walked, though, we weren’t as interested in what is happening in 2012; we were more interested in what was happening in the early 1950’s when Papa was a kid.

“Here’s where we had our high school Bucket of Lard sermon,” he explained, with typical sarcasm, pointing to a church just meters away from the renovated church/community center. Who knew there were so many churches in downtown Rock Hill?

Another church, just down the street, was the sight of a run-in with the police. “We were roaring down the street on our skates — and these were those skates you strapped onto the bottom of your shoes and tighten with the key you kept hung round your neck — and the officer comes running out to us, furious. ‘Don’t you boys know there’s a funeral going on in there?'” One can only imagine the noise several boys on metal-wheeled skates.

Still, it wasn’t all amusing stories. Some were touching.

At the coveted location of the prestigious Dee & Lee Unique Hair Design, there was once a jewelry store. The large display windows are now virtually empty, though one can imagine them filled with bracelets, earrings, necklaces, and rings of gold and silver, all glittering enticingly.

The significance is likely obvious: “This is where I bought Nana’s engagement ring,” he explained as we passed by. It was a photo op one couldn’t pass up: a happy couple standing in front of a hair salon — a picture that contains a secret history.

The Return to Reality

Monday 2 January 2012

The return after a long break is both nerve-wracking and refreshing. The former comes from the unpredictability of fourteen-year-olds. The latter is a simple function of having a long period away from each other. As much as I like my students, it’s good to be away from them from time to time — to be around adults more than kids. (Well, having a five-year-old daughter, I’m not sure how much that’s really possible.)

For everyone today — teachers and students — it seemed the “refreshing” won out. Far from being reluctant to return to studies, many students seemed positively eager to come back — at least that was the feeling I got in my classes.

It was a good Monday, and often can one say that, especially after a long break?

Another Return To Table Rock, Redux

Monday 22 August 2011

There’s a great trail along the stream and up the side of a mountain that’s just right for short legs.

There’s a fun swimming hole. There are tadpoles squirting about, drawing undue attention to themselves from would-be harassers.

There’s a cooling waterfall with which L becomes more and more courageous. (The corollaries to this is a new ability to put her face in the water and a develop preference of showering over bathing.)

There are smaller waterfalls nearby that are positively picturesque.

There are nature shows that allow kids to handle frogs, turtles, and multiple snakes, as well as learn about how helpful some snakes can truly be.

And there’s an ice cream shop just down the road.

Perhaps these are some of the reasons we keep returning to Table Rock State Park whenever we can.

Waterfalls

Wednesday 3 August 2011

Throughout Transylvania County, North Carolina, there are virtually countless waterfalls. One can purchase a guide that provides directions to various sites, with some of the less popular ones including instructions like, “Turn right on the gravel road just past the fish hatchery. Drive 1.1 miles.” Yet many of them are easy to find; indeed, they’re hard to miss, like Looking Glass Falls.

Down a winding, paved path to an enormous rock outcropping, our family and our guests find our way to one of the most significant falls in the area. A fine mist drifts through the gorge combines with the cool water for a most effective chilling experience. All that’s missing is a chair and a good book (preferably a ratty copy: it’s likely to get ruined in the mist).

Lacking those things, we do what comes natrually: the children splash each other and K, and I switch the camera to the six-frames-per-second mode to capture fifty photos of the fun that will be whittled down to one or two.

We’re not the only ones playing, but it seems to me we’re taking the saner route to amusement. Of course, the adolescent head is impervious to rocks, adolescent arms never lose their grip, and adolescent feet are always sure and balanced.

After a bit of splashing around, it’s time to head further up the stream to Sliding Rock, the most famous and most popular attraction in the area. Indeed, it’s so popular that we arrive to find the parking has closed because of overflow, which means the wait times for the main attraction — obviously a large rock one sides down — are close to fifteen minutes.

Instead we head further up the stream to the education center, which houses the fish hatchery. In the outdoor “race tracks” (do they actually have contests?), we find the trout are, according to our New Jersey Polish visitors, upchani jak śledzie: apparently commuters and fish of all species can be described this way. The saying refers to the habit of packing pickled herring tightly in jars for storage.

After a picnic break, we contemplate returning to Sliding Rock. Instead, we go for one of the “turn right on the gravel road just past…” waterfalls.

It turns out to be not as much of a waterfall as it is an outdoor, stone-faced sprinkler. The floaties and life jacket we brought for the children are for naught.

Still, a lovely view, some nice light, and a chance to trek through the forest for a while. It is a teaching experience, one could say. But not a lot of fun. That would be Sliding Rock, and we decide finally to head back and see if it’s still packed.

It’s not, and in fact, there is virtually no line for the star attraction.

K goes first. After a while, she talks the Girl in to a short run with her.

Perhaps Sliding Rock will become yet another metric of growth: the first time the Girl slides solo. Eventually.

Return to Table Rock

Monday 1 August 2011

The plan was simple: get up at a reasonable hour, drive two hours to a spot in northern Georgia, and be awed at the fantastic views of a canyon known as the “Grand Canyon of the South.” But such plans begin taking shape the evening before, and when the evening drifts into the morning and all the adults are still awake, the likelihood of the plans coming to fruition diminishes greatly.

The backup plan — the realistic plan — was a return to Table Rock State Park. At only forty-five minutes away, it seemed a more logical choice for a late start. Being in the mountains, it also seemed a more comfortable choice.

We hiked the trail we always tale: Carrick Creek trail, appropriate both for its length (four-year-olds can walk only so far) and for its scenery, which is both beautiful and, more importantly for the kids, amusing. (Who doesn’t love playing in waterfalls or slipping and sliding on moss-covered rocks?)

The hike was more engaging with a game, so the kids had a contest: who could find the most trail markings on trees? It’s a common game we play with L to keep her interested in the walk. We played it in Slovakia a year ago, and every time we’re on a trail by ourselves, we encourage the Girl to look for the signs.

Despite the fact that both contestants marched right by trail makers without noticing them as they tried desperately to be first (apparently it was a dual contest), the game ended in a tie, which was frustrating for both the kids but a relief to the adults: one less wound to soothe. No one likes to eat a picnic when one of the diners is tinged with tragedy, feeling the sting of an unfair loss.

Any heated tempers would have been quickly cooled, though: the lake’s swimming area was closed, leaving only one option for cooling off after an arduous mile hike.

Table Rock State Park, Part II

Sunday 10 July 2011

Returning to places as a parent provides a yardstick for your child’s growth. The last time we visited Table Rock State Park, the Girl just shy of two years old. Her recently bald head was beginning to have enough hair to make her feminine, and she was beginning to talk. (When we watch videos of her at this age, though, neither K nor I can understand much of what she says sometimes.)

That first trip, she toddled along for some of the short hike, but most of the time, either K or I carried her in a frame-less child carrier: twenty pounds of wiggle followed twenty pounds of sweat-inducing insulation.

Three years later, and she is MissÂ Independence, resisting help on all but the steepest portions of the two-mile loop and occasionally pontificating, “It is time for a break!”

Last trip, she was barely aware of the camera; this trip, she posed. In fact, we had to tell her to stop posing occasionally: she has a tendency to get carried away.

Yet some things have not changed in three years: Baby still is a constant companion, having been hiking in the mountains of Poland, photographed on the town square of Krakow, and one harrowing time, left at Target for one terrifying night.

Imitation is still the order of the day, and fussing-filled frustration will likely be a frequent visitor for years to come.

Yet the changes. We stopped for a break, and the Girl was curious: “Where are we?” K pulled out the map and showed her. At the next bend in the trail, she asked for the map to try to find where we were. The fact that she was completely off is of no importance: the curiosity is the treasure.

Curiosity was enough later to overcome fear and touch a corn snake in the nature center. K took a step further in overcoming that latent terror that seems to be in all of us almost instinctively.

Most telling was the conclusion: splashing about the lake with restricted parental supervision (the swimming area was about to close, so there was no time for us to change anyone but the Girl), she gravitated toward the deeper portions.

She called out, “Look how far away I am from you, Mama!”

Huntington 2: Atalaya

Thursday 9 June 2011

Huntington Beach State Park got its name from the original owners of the property, philanthropist and translator Archer M. Huntington and his wife, the sculptor Anna Hyatt Huntington. As such, the park also contains the Huntington’s winter home, Atalaya (Spanish for “watchtower).

One’s first thought is to compare it to the Biltmore estate. While it was built 50 years later and is much smaller (probably not even one tenth the size), there are certain similarities. Both Vanderbilt and Huntington got their money the really old-fashioned way: they inherited it. Both men were interested in fostering the local economy, with Huntington insisting that all workers must be local. If a skilled craftsman was needed, he paid to have someone come and teach a local how to do it.

Yet there are significant differences. Apart from the size and age, the motifs are different. Vanderbilt wanted his home to look like a chateau; Huntington wanted his home to reflect the Moorish influence on Spanish architecture.

Vanderbilt hired Richard Morris Hunt, the architect who designed, among other things, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty, to design the entire home. Huntington had no architect; indeed, Huntington had no plan. The home was simply constructed according to his verbal instructions.

A final difference, other than the comparative state of current conditions, is the intended purpose of the homes. Biltmore is a mansion, built for parties and guests that stay for weeks on end. It’s intended to impress, pure and simple.

Atalaya had more utilitarian aims: it was a place for the Huntingtons to work. Granted, it’s not work in the way most twenty-first century, middle-class people think of work: he wrote poetry, she sculpted, and fiscally, they were fine if they never made a dollar from either venture. Still, the Huntingtons never had overnight guests at the home (let alone the summer-long visits common at the Biltmore), and Atalaya was most decidedly not built to impress (though it does all the same).

A practical effect of this was that the Huntingtons turned over the home to the Army Air Corps during World War II, and the Corps set up a defensive battery at the home.

But I still come back to the similarities: apparently, Huntington had no idea how much his home was costing him and never tried to determine it.

The ability to live like that is so far removed from anything most of us know.

Huntington 1

Monday 30 May 2011

The beauty of sleeping less than 500 meters from the beach is that no matter how many times one wakes up to the sounds of the forest, including raccoons foraging neighboring camp sites, one simply has to concentrate on the distant sound of waves crashing to fall almost immediately back to sleep. The result is not necessarily a sound sleep, but a pleasant one.

The beauty of sleeping less than 500 meters from the beach is also the after-breakfast walk. A short walk through a forest of pine, itself filled with an early-morning enchantment, and we’re at the beach. The sun reflects off the retreating waves and the low tide yields a treasure of shells for the Girl.

The Girl’s mantra changed during our short time at Huntington Beach State Park. Within twenty-four hours, it went from “When are we going to get there?” to “When are we going to the beach?”

The first day showed just how much the Girl has changed.

Her first beach experience, some two years ago, was moderately traumatic for her. The sound of the waves terrified her, and the waves were forever chasing her form the water’s edge when she finally got the nerve to approach.

This year was different.

She played in the surf. She made a mess of Tata.

She made some new friends.

She saw some wildlife.

It was one of a thousand bittersweet moments: she’s growing up faster than we’d have imagined.

Long Weekend

Monday 6 September 2010

A three-day weekend allows us to do things we wouldn’t ordinarily do over the weekend. Trips and mini-vacations come to mind on Labor Day weekend, but we elected to stay at home. A hurricane brewing and a coughing daughter made us cancel our plans of camping at the beach, so we did things out of the ordinary.

Like go to Target.

L spent her own money, which Nana and Papa (from whom else would she have received it?) had intended the money for our trip to Polska. She’d received so many gifts — from friends, family, and a particularly sneaky godmother — that we simply didn’t encourage her to spend it.

Now the encouraging begins. What to buy? So much cash, so many princesses, so little parental support. In the end, she went with Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. The classics.

We finished Saturday at the park, with K and I musing how much she’s grown since the first time we went to this neighborhood playground. Saturday she ran wildly, losing sight of us and popping up here and there giggling. Our first visit was cautious: no running without knowing where Mama and Tata are. No climbing without a protective hand on the bottom. No swinging without a toddler swing seat.

The follower has become the leader. “Come on, Mama!” she cried out when we went to the empty baseball field. “Chase me! Catch me!” We can still catch her, but it’s not a question of three quick steps and swoosh! she’s in our arms.

She’s become a moving target, with a sure, steady gait and a strong sense of independence.

As she sat, talking to Nana and Papa, the “I can see her as a tween, as a teen, as an adult” moment washed over me all over again. The independence, the quick feet, the willingness to explore: all these things indicate the inevitable, but we so infrequently notice it.

Sunday, we headed back to the park, but this time, a large state park with a couple of lakes, a few miles of trails, and plenty of rocks for climbing.

And boats.

Blue boats.

Blue glittery boats.

“The only thing that would make this more perfect,” I suggested as we neared the paddle boats, “would be for the sparkles to be pink.”

“Right!” came the response.

Where did this love of pink come from? Pink is the stereotypical girl color, and we have in fact tried to avoid purchasing pink clothes for her. Yet pink remains the eternal runner-up in the “my favorite color” contest.

The only way to make the day more perfect was a picnic. “A picnic!” L cried. “I’m so happy!”

With aÂ mayonnaise-cheese sandwich (what odd taste little girls can have) and all the watermelon she could eat, she certainly had cause for joy.

The walk that followed somewhat damped that joy. “I want to go home!” was a common refrain,

until we reached a small clearing with plenty of rocks for skipping (“making ducks” in Polish) and general tossing.

As might have been expected, L modified the previous refrain, adding a quick “don’t” when we suggested it was time to go.

But we were all tired, and bedtime was approaching. Only the princesses were still on their feet.

Basilica of the Holy Trinity (Krakow V)

Friday 30 July 2010

“You know what I’m looking forward to?” I asked K before we left for Poland. “The smell of an old church.”

“Oh, me too,” she replied.

It’s an odor of slightly metallic dampness, old incense, leather, wool, and a thousand other notes that probably only a sommelier or blender of fine pipe tobaccos could notice and describe but which merge for us mere mortals into “old church.” It is to be in the midst of history: the structure is older than America. It is to be in the midst of profound calm: even in the most tourist-filled church, there is reverent silence.

A day in Krakow, responsible only for myself. I decide there is only one thing to do: go into churches. I begin with one of K’s favorites: the thirteenth-century Gothic Basilica of the Holy Trinity.

With so many churches in the Old Town of Krakow, it’s surprising how many masses the Basilica has. There are more on a weekday than on a Sunday at an average Catholic church here in the Old South, a clear illustration of the difference in relative demand. Then again, this particular church is popular among university students in Krakow.

So many of the churches in Krakow — they begin to blend together after a while. That’s the tourist view, I’m sure. To parishioners, there’s a history and a relationship.

Yet, there are little details in each church, little architectural touches that set each one apart. The basilica, for example, has a small upper chapel.

The view provides a little different perspective. Instead of looking up — a common action in gothic churches, and very much by design — one has the opportunity to look down. Somewhat blasphemous in a certain sense: we mortals are to be looking up to God, and here I am looking down. And on what?

A young monk explaining an upcoming ceremony to four young men. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and every picture I take turns out later to be completely, irredeemable blurry. I make a logical assumption: these young lads are about to become monks themselves, but I’m not certain. I can’t eavesdrop without making it obvious, and something prevents me from simply walking up to them and asking. What’s stopping me?

The conspicuousness I always feel as a tourist certainly has something to do with it. Walking around, snapping pictures, changing lenses, taking more photos, changing lenses again — I’m simply a cacophony.

What’s worse, unlike the Catholic tourists, I don’t genuflect as I pass the altar, and I don’t cross myself on entering. I surely stand out, but what’s the problem? We all stand out.

Is it false modesty or simply an overactive ego?

Busted

Sunday 18 July 2010

Parking in the Krakow Old Town can be hard to come by. Just ask this driver…

Up (Krakow IV)

Saturday 17 July 2010

Krakow, like all European cities, is a mix of the old and the new. Young people walk along ancient cobblestone street checking email and updating their Facebook status on their cell phones. McDonald’s sits on an ancient street in a building that is at least twice as old as the chain itself.

Often both are present at the same moment, in the same building. Visiting such an old city is a reminder that often, what’s at street level is the least interesting sight. Or, perhaps more accurately, that which is above is at least as interesting as that which is at eye level.

As I strolled along, taking a meandering walk from the rynek to Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter, I began to pay attention to the balconies.

In an urban setting, balconies are often the only part of one’s property that has anything at all to do with the out of doors. Parks, beautiful as they are, are after all public property. A balcony is the only “yard” a city dweller might own.

A few flowers and it’s positively garden-like.

Storage is another balcony option. I had a good friend in Warsaw who had a “balcony” at his apartment that couldn’t have been more than ten square feet: just a little spot to stand. He stored his bike and a couple of other items on the balcony. After all, what else could you do with ten square feet? As a non-smoker and non-coffee drinker, he couldn’t even enjoy a morning cigarette (if such things could be enjoyable) and cup of coffee on his balcony.

As in most urban areas, space is at a premium. Some decide to turn their little bit of outdoors into an additional room. Then neighbors get balcony envy and enclose theirs,

resulting in an alleyway of enclosed balconies.

Given the size of some apartments I’ve visited, it makes perfect sense.

Still others, with a more classic balcony, simply leave it alone. Then again, if one’s balcony is the size of others’ apartments (and I have been in apartments in Warsaw that tiny), one probably has enough apartment on the other side of the balcony to make such a conversion unnecessary.

Yet not everyone has a balcony, especially in the Old Town. This is not to say they haven’t carved out their own little outdoor garden. Some, more extravagantly than others.

It makes for a bit of color in an otherwise gray setting.

Many, however, just leave well enough alone. Perhaps they figure it’s not worth the time. Perhaps the reason that there’s not much use, given the state of the pre-war facade.

With all the renovation going on all over the city (thanks, European Union), it’s only a matter of time before such sights disappear. In a way, that’s sad: such decrepit facades bear witness to history. They show the gritty underside of Poland, and they serve as a reminder to visitors that, as with much of Europe, the city hasn’t always been filled with days of Italian ice cream and walks in the parks.

It also shows one of the paradoxes of modern Poland. The building above is literally on the rynek: the most prized location in Krakow real estate. Yet the roof is literally pathetic. It’s the same as in Furmanowa, the meadow overlooking the Tatra Mountains in Zab: prized real estate that’s used for cultivation.

And yet the irony: so many Poles lament how so many of their compatriots have turned so materialistic in the last few years.

Top Floor

Wednesday 14 July 2010

K’s parents have a large house. They have to: they run a little noclegi business — something like a bed and breakfast, but more often than not, without the latter.

This is the view from their highest balcony.

All the quirks of Poland, on display. The relatively rich live beside the poor. They both live next to an enormous flea market, where everything is available, and all prices are negotiable. All framed by the mountains that give the region its beauty and its culture.

In Motion

Tuesday 13 July 2010

During K’s next-to-last night in Poland, we went out for a little family-and-friends party. I posted several pictures, but only now have I gotten around to the video.

Who could listen to this and sit still? Apparently, not many…

Girls Singing

Monday 12 July 2010

The Girl loves to sing. It turns out her cousin does too, as does the daughter of her godmother.

Two Polish songs and a number in English about butterflies.

Readjusting

Sunday 11 July 2010

Coming back to the States after a few weeks in Poland requires a few adjustments. Among them:

Driving a car with an automatic transmission. My left foot is bored, restlessly searching for a non-existent clutch, and my right hand wanders to the gear shift every time we approach an intersection.
Hearing English everywhere. This always surprises me: I get used to having to do a little, occasional mental work to understand what’s going on around me. Hearing rivers of voices that are all intelligible to me initially feels a little intrusive.
Hearing other languages everywhere. I go to the grocery store, and I hear Spanish, German, Hindi, and Arabic.
Seeing different races. In the passport check line at the airport, I saw all the colors that make America. In Poland, I see a non-white walking down the street, and it’s difficult not to stare.
Seeing boys’ underwear in public. On the way back home, we stopped to grab a little something for the Girl to eat because she didn’t eat too much during the journey. Waiting in the check-out line: two adolescent African American boys with their pants seemingly at their knees. I’d mentioned this style in Poland: it seemed incomprehensible to them. It seems incomprehensible to me.
An entire row of paper towels in the supermarket. American consumerism is all about choice. What could possibly be the difference among the towels?
Having someone bag your groceries for you. Perhaps it’s the ultimate sign that Americans are in some way spoiled, but it still surprises me when I go into any grocery store in Poland and have to frantically bag my own groceries before the next customer’s purchases start sliding down into the bagging area. Why not bag as the cashier working? That’s another thing to get used to:
Not having to pay for the bags used in the process. No one provides free shopping bags. The cost is nominal, but the cashier always rings the bags up last. It doesn’t make sense.
Not having potatoes with every meal. I don’t want to see a potato, in any form, for at least a month.
Being warm. In the early morning, temperatures in Jablonka could be in the high forties. During the first week, the temperature seldom rose to the mid-sixties. The warmest it ever got was seventy-five. Back in South Carolina, it’s almost seventy-five when we wake up. It takes some getting used to.

Bags Packed

Thursday 8 July 2010

Henry John Deutschendorf, Jr. made the sentiment famous: bags are packed, and L and I are ready to go, next post from the States, yet mixed emotions linger.

“I want to go home” became L’s refrain a couple of days back, and talking to K on Skype only worsened the situation once. There were variations: “When are we going home?” “Are we going home tomorrow?”

I, too, am ready to go: vacation is great, but returning home is the true heart of any journey. K awaits, as do infected trees await, a likely overgrown lawn, a course to begin Monday, and a host of other things. One can only sit around doing little for a very short time before the feeling of uselessness sets in.

And yet, leaving Poland is always bittersweet. “Would you want to move back?” friends and family asked. Or “When are you all moving back?” Would we move back? Yes, and no. When are we moving back? Soon and never.

I wonder if other countries produce such mixed emotions among its ex-pats and virtual ex-pats?

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