A Mad Biker's Ongoing Tale

Thursday, December 16, 2004

A Santa by Any Other Name an interview with Swi?ty Mikolaj (Saint Nicholas)

The notoriously retiring Swi?ty Mikolaj arrives early, dressed in an ankle-length crimson cassock and matching mitre cap, his crosier grasped gently but firmly in his right hand. I have the impression he wouldn’t suffer this writer laying a hand upon the crucifix without a hardy fight. He snowy beard is regal. Of the four unoccupied seats in the room, he chooses the least conspicuous – a wooden chair with a worn cushion. His complexion is of a ripe olive, his eyes sparkle with wit and purpose. His time, I know, is limited; his steady gaze says as much. We begin.

What’s the first impression you hope to make to those whose paths you cross?
"Talk is cheap and rumors are even cheaper." I know that perhaps this isn’t the most elucidating way to start this dialogue, but let’s be forthright, shall we? Throughout the centuries I and the Holy Babe I eternally serve have been subject to the most damnable distortions. Most don’t bother me – truthfully I think nothing of the sort ever bothers Him – but I would be remiss not to, ah…. exploit this opportunity to its full end. Yours was a bad pun, by the way. "Paths you cross," indeed. (His brilliant eyes, every hue of the rainbow, shift skyward in an impatient appeal. I blush.)

Fair enough. So what are your origins?
There is truth in the assertion that I’ve been around a long time, but this doesn’t translate into a "Divine Birth." My parents were born in Lycia – claimed in diverse times by each of the Persian, Grecian and Roman empires – which grew in time to a collection of 23 city-states united under the virile democratic Lycian Union. That’s the heritage I was born to, in the Lycian city of Parara. At the moment we paid tribute to Rome; contemporarily, Lycia belongs to Turkey. I have since transgressed such unpurposed political boundaries. (Here Swi?ty Mikolaj shifts in his chair. If possible, he seems to grow in stature with this gesture.)

I speak of my homeland and not, directly, of me. But to understand a man you must first fathom his origins. What he inherits, and if he chooses to embrace or reject that inheritance, speaks far more eloquently than any department store biography. As for me, I was conscious of my religiosity from the earliest age. My noble inheritance could not have been birthed in a vacuum; a pilgrimage to each of Palestine and Egypt confirmed this simple truth. I therefore dedicated my life to sharing this vast endowment with all, and in doing returned the precious gift of my birth to my Lord and Savior. Lycia, like all regions in all times, had both rich and poor. To serve Christ and my fellow man I turned my attentions to the less fortunate among us. I gave to those who had not.

You say that very matter-of-factly. But isn’t it a point of fact your family was rather wealthy?
In my youth I met a family who ate a solitary meal per day, from an old kettle they kept in the center of their living room. They had no chairs to sit upon because they burned them to provide fuel for their fire. The passing of the centuries and our fabled accumulation of wealth has done nothing to appease the hunger of families like these. In fact, it has only grown. To such, all are rich. I gave only what I had. (It’s odd that pride never seems to taint his voice. But impatience? Yes, and frustration, resignation, even exuberance. His responses are rapid-fire. How one expresses all this without a hint of vocal pride is beyond me, but he does. His pride is wrapped up in even his subtlest gesture.)

Do you have a favorite memory? I heard tell you gave gold coins to a man who had lost everything and would have been forced to sell his three daughters to prostitution. Three gifts of gold in three successive nights.
Gold coins or brass ingots, what does it matter? One must give what he has to another who has not. I seem to be repeating myself.

Uh…. Apologies. I only mean to show everyone –
You only mean to perpetuate the legend. The fact is I am real. The Christ I serve is real. In every moment, thought is juxtaposed to motion. We are faced with what is, in our minds, the merest fantasy - unless we act. Something as innocuous as do I devour that last slice of pizza or leave it for one of my 12 starving guests, or do I change the channel from TV1 to TV2? Until we act all thought is only gossamer whimsy and naught else.

I went from house to house, city to city, bestowing gifts to those who needed them. I ask you, who does not need to be reminded daily that they are noticed… and loved? Children are the most unreserved in their expression of gratitude – and criticism. Thus as years progressed, they came to love me. I became known to them most of all.

Because you gave most to them or because they were most vocal in their response?
Both. Over time, both. After my aforementioned pilgrimages, I accepted my ecumenical calling and shortly thereafter rose to the post of Bishop of the Lycian city of Myra. When the Roman emperor Diocletian persecuted Christianity, he incarcerated me into the dankest prison. It was Constantine who rescued me – and indeed, all of Christiandom. Though I never approved of the many piercings he had.

Piercings?
Never mind. The march of time is relentless, fashions come and go, but I remain the same. My feast day is celebrated on December 6th and it is at this time I distribute presents to the children of the world who believe.

Why just those who believe?
Logistics. Those who believe and curry my favor in this country should leave a clean – I emphasize clean - shoe on their windowsills or by their beds. In other countries the receptacle of choice is different. Stockings, for instance.

Hmmm. Why the emphasis on a clean shoe?
Would you want to eat sweets from odoriferous footwear? As for the shoe, nothing is more elemental to one’s personal welfare. Sometimes I leave shoes for those who hitherto had done without. Sometimes they even leave sweets for me – which is deeply gratifying…. This naturally bears no relation to the fact that they may receive little from me other than a stern rebuke for their past willfulness. I am a fair man.

I see. There was a Pope Nicholas. Any relation?
(He bristles.) Of course not. By the way, there were five such popes. There were many Saint and saintly Nicolaii in this world. Surely there are others who share your name? I am the patron saint of Russia, however.

Russia? Do the Poles know that?
Very few. I find that highly amusing.

And what about Santa Claus? In Poland he is called "Gwiazdor," or Star-Man. Apparently the two of you have never been seen together. Any Comments?
(My attempt at humor falls woefully flat. He is neither amused not angered. But if this man wore something as modern as a watch I am certain he’d be studying it now.) Not to sound immodest but "I am who I am" – all allusions to science-fictions icons to the contrary. Children in Poland and throughout the world address their Christmas letters to me. For all of these I am held accountable and I accept this unflinchingly.

(I cannot refrain the skepticism in my voice. I soon regret that.) So you’re the "Fat jolly old elf," Clement Moore spoke of?
Young man, I take profound joy in what I do. I am truly blessed; all the more since it is my sacred trust to spread these blessings. However, this need not conform to your expectations of what "jolly" is or should be. The years bring change.

Uh, Right. So what you’re saying is…?
Don’t expect too many sweets this year. In fact your own tradition calls for coal, does it not?

So it does. Merry Christmas.
And to you. May God bless you with wisdom. Are we through?
(It is only after he leaves I notice the sweat stains on the pits of my shirt. It is later still I notice the white chocolate bar lying on the worn seat cushion. My favorite; how did he know?)

posted by mark 5:40 PM

Friday, April 30, 2004

THE MARKET SQUARE

Poland is about to join Europe. We don’t wish to startle, but we thought you should know.

It’s been a long time coming. On May 1st, the eyes of the world will be upon us. Hyperbole? Watch the financial markets and see if we exaggerate. This grand political and social experiment called the European Union, harbinger of the New World Order, is unprecedented in the annals of history - and Poland’s about to join the club.

East vs. West

You’d have to be living in a water closet to not know how contentious our joining the EU is. On both sides of the former Iron Curtain multitudes have gathered and marched in protest of what they see as doom for their way of life, raising salient points that cannot be ignored.

Small farms and businesses will fail, and prices and taxes (most immediately, VAT) will rise. Conversely, joining the EU brotherhood will bring both cash and a major house-cleaning to our beleaguered government - but how much of that will filter down to the common man? Impoverished Poles fear that the palaces of power will expand and leave even less for the little guy than he’s already getting.

“It’s a cliche, isn’t it,” retorts entrepreneur Agata Nieczerzk, “but such is the price of progress. Look around - 20% unemployment, dilapidated infrastructure, a grossly incompetent bureaucracy, too many people selling shoelaces on streetcorners. Poland needs to cultivate strong friendships and raise itself to international standards. Perhaps our greatest problem has been the stubborn belief we’re still under the Communist thumb.”

It’s precisely this state of affairs that strikes so much fear into Western Europeans: that we’ll siphon money, products and talent from their coffers – the resignation of Miller and his cabinet are the case-in-point. Brussels doesn’t see us as a source of stability. Perhaps the most flagrant sign of homeland troubles is the battle-line drawn by the Warsaw District Court against Poland Monthly, Rzeczpospolita and Wprost. The old order is fighting hard to retain its power.

Debate now rages at home on lowering the Corporate Income Tax (CIT) this year to attract foreign investors, and lowering the Personal Income Tax (PIT) next year to attract expats - which is, naturally, a further type of foreign investment. Hopefully it will also keep domestic job-seekers within our borders. Competition for monies and loyalties will be keen.

Redemption Song

Curiously, this great Modern European Republic still has no constitution. In one of contemporary history’s supreme ironies, the country, which has most hampered this process - is Poland. “Don’t be too quick to judge,” notes teacher Jolanta Kruszek. “Poland had the very first democratic constitution in Europe. So who would know better when something’s amiss? Who better to challenge the bully? The voice of Poland saved the day.” Indeed. Perhaps the long war of attrition waged by Poland’s bloated bureaucracy against its pure-hearted citizens is about to end.

Of course even while Poland was rapping on the EU chamber-doors, they and America were openly wooing each other. Despite threats from France to revoke our application if we didn’t desist from this “irresponsible act”, Poland stood firm, and now has a wealth of contracts with American firms. Oh... and up-to-our-waists involvement in “nation-building.”

Yet the EU isn’t the only game in town. The Vysegrad Group was formed within Central Europe in 1992 as a response to the European Union, with Poland as a charter member. But the EU is much more formidable, so today Vysegrad isn’t seriously pursued by anyone. Says IT consultant Adam Nowak: “As soon as the Communists left we opened up markets and dismantled state controls. Can you believe, in mere months there was a real feeling Poland was competing with the global economy! You still see it in small towns and villages today, tiny mom-and-pop stores selling everything from toothpaste to bicycle repair. Entrepreneurial spirit was everywhere.”

Where do we go from here?

Given Europe’s fractious history, it’s no exaggeration to say this polygamous EU marriage, ideal in theory and obstreperous in practice, has been forged from the fires of Hell. But from Hell march the most battle-worn, most tenacious, most idealistic of soldiers. Perhaps famed Polish philosopher Leszek Kolakowski said it best: “The market square of the word with all of its dangers is finally a more appropriate place.... than the king's court.” Give us open borders and free trade and in return we’ll give you the fiery Polish soul. In the end, that’s not a bad deal.

posted by mark 7:09 PM

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

A MINUTE IN THE LIFE OF ZBYSZEK ROYAL……

Scene: fastened into his car seat, on the living room floor.

WHAT’S THIS? My foot? That’s nice. And that? My pants? That’s nice. Oh, there’s a device, plastic and shiny. It’s a nice color. Why, I think, I think I’ll call it “Blue”. Yes, blue. That’s a nice name for it. And I’ll name the device a “buckle.” Yes, nice buckles should be plastic and shiny. Look, there’s my middle. That’s nice. I’ll call it a “no-muck”. No, no, that’s not nice. I know, I’ll call it a “stomach”. Yes, that’s nice. Oh, my finger is in my mouth. You, yum. Very nice. Does the middle finger taste as good as the first finger? Why, yes, yes indeed. Very pleasant. And there’s Daddy. He’s nice. Behind him is a light, small and round, looking over him, over his, his..... “shoulder.” Shoulders are nice. I’ll call the ball a “sun.” Yes, that’s very nice. Very nice. I want the sun. Let me reach for it and maybe I can refract the light from my fingernails… wait, is there a fingernail on each finger? And why did I call them “fingernails?”. Oh well, that works. Wow, there’s one on each finger. But on each hand? Wow. How fascinating. How nice. And on my funny finger, too? Yes, there it is. I’ll call it a “thumb”. Is there a funny finger on the other hand, too? Wow, there is. And they’re opposable! Wow. How nice. Look, a dust mote. And another. It’s floating over the many intricate tapestries of time and space. And there’s my stomach again. Hmmm…. There’s my feet. Hey, Daddy’s feet. I’ll eat them. Ummmm, very nice. I’m tired of eating. I think I’ll “votit”…. No, “bomit”…. No, er…. I got it! I’ll “regurgitate” on his feet. Ah! Very nice. No, where was I? Oh yes, the sun. Wait, there’s the floor! What a nice color. Are there any more? Hmm, yes there are. And there’s mommy. Maybe I can eat her feet. Wow, look at that paper….. it has a nice design. Does my butt have nice designs? Mommy and Daddy must think so, they spend so much time putting paper on it. Hey, Daddy is tasting Mommy! That’s nice. Oh, my stuffed bunny. Nice. Colors are nice. Daddy is wiping his feet, but why? He’s taking away all the nice colors I gave him. Oh, now he’s reaching for me! Breathe hard, Zbyszek! Wave your arms and pump your legs. Give him that half-tooth goofy grin! He’s taking me, I’m rising. Oh, look there’s a dust mote on his nose. Wow. He’s squeezing me. Ah…….. how nice!

posted by mark 8:36 PM

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

FOUR NEW ONES, INCLUDING A REVIEW OF THE LORD OF THE RING SERIES. ENJOY. PEACE.

posted by mark 6:14 PM

FROM POLSKA, WITH LOVE

It's the small things, really. A meager smile, offered at the tiniest trifle: perhaps at the last leaves of autumn, cascading in the winds, or perhaps still the first raindrop from an approaching storm, or the last drop of a departing one. Her brisk, assured pace, which pauses to appreciate the passing procession of life. The slight tension in her calf muscles as she twists 'round at the calling of her name. The way her cheek refuses to blush at the way the gentlemen across the way stare - likewise at the hooligans across the way, too. Yet accompanied by an unmistakable change in her manner, a warmth which rises from deep inside that the gentlemen and the ruffians and anyone else even casually looking in her direction are sure to spot.

Much has been written in praise of the Polish feminine form - and many more volumes are yet to be filled. In these volumes, both actual and yet-to-be, two notes are consistently struck: that our Slavicbeauties possess a sheen unsurpassed. And this is coupled with an awesome and refreshing modesty.

In this slavering rush to deify, the woe-begotten male of the species is apt to overlook what he clumsily labels inconsequential. But though we say "overlook," we do not mean "unaware." Certainly all are aware - even the blushing bride-to-be is aware (ah, someday) - but generally in the most unconscious sense. These small things are adored by the practiced eye - and loved by the willing heart. And the willing hearts are legion.

Reyes Davies trotted over from Wales to find work and a spot of adventure; instead he found love. Christopher Millian from San Francisco found the same. Mike King from Angola, Sanjay Srikonda from India, Alain Morceaux from France, Dimitri Dovestvsky from Russia (don't blame us; we didn't name him), all made the same journey. Sure, their starting points were different but all ended up here: the Promised Land - not even knowing it was the Promised Land until all were under its spell. Even this author fell prey to the same idealism, though the normal order of work, then love, were reversed. For his Polish Queen he was willing and able to leave all that was familiar and comfortable behind.

Millian vowed never again to give his heart away, unless it were to Jesus. He had been down that other road before, and with the benefit of hindsight found it all too well-trodden: his fairytale marriage dissolved into a momentary condition, avowed romance into avowed silence (he entered the seminary after the dissolution), family togetherness into monthly palimony. One fine day an opportunity presented itself for him to make a difference and gain valuable teaching experience in Warsaw. Once here, the girls flocked to him, an exotic dark-skinned foreigner in their midst. Eventually, one of them stole his heart away. Thus he relinquished the others for the one call he thought he'd never hear again - that of true love. Without regret.

For all those expats who found love and marriage, there are more who are drunken as bachelor revelers at the wedding feast. Sean Anderson thought his rural hometown of Seeridge, Scotland, was too small to hold him and his dreams. A frequent story - though he escaped to Warsaw to find his particular fortune. His plan was to stay a year and then move on - but he's since had a change of heart. Or to hear him say it in his regal burr: so many ladies, so little time. The same for Tony Salan from Michigan and even the lovely Yukon maiden Barbara Peale. And Alec Milka is positively giddy with the serenity this Polish ocean brings: separated from his Bulgarian wife and pre-pubescent daughter, Poland has welcomed him with more than one pair of welcome arms. And he welcomes that.

Consider it this way. What would be the ideal evening out for a Polish beauty? A German girl would be dashing in her hiking boots and multi-hued stockings, especially as she both drank and cussed you under the table; at least she'd fling you over her shoulders and carry you home afterwards. The English lass would welcome the same competition - but it'd be she who'd wind up on the floor. The Spanish dame would be sure that every other man in the place knew exactly what he was missing. Both before and after drinking you under. The French lass wouldn't even consider drinking - or talking - with you unless you offered a national vintage. You'd hit the floor from exhaustion before you even worked your way through all the layers of garments covering the Norwegian damsel. As for the American belle, forgedaboudit! Beauty and modesty just don't co-inhabit thereabouts.

Ah, but the Polish matriarch is unconscious of her exquisite elegance. Uncompetitive, unafraid, inattentive to the others who, like her, are blithely content to be themselves and nothing more. Their loyalty is legendary, their devotion to both the traditional views of family and children as strong as their willingness to contribute to the same. They bring to the table intellect and career-orientation without sacrificing a whit of the loving wife and mother. In short, they are the renaissance woman both for the post-feminist and post-communist world, a force of fidelity and devotion without peer. They demand little but the same values they show their men: love, tenderness, wit, allegiance. These are rare and prized qualities, which must be treasured and amply appreciated.

But how? Well, certain principles apply equally to all women. First, listen. Truly listen and make conversation that shows it. Second, make her feel like she's the only girl in the room - no matter how big the room or interesting the crowd. Other than that, flowers are always a safe bet. Seven red roses if you're really in love - or any odd number. (why odd? As a fiddler-lover named Tevye once famously observed: tradition!)

On the communist-inspired (some would say "imposed") Woman's Day, flowers (tulips or legendary carnations, which are pretty difficult to come by these days) and quality chocolates should be enough. Same for Valentine's Day, which is approaching quickly. (You mean you haven't planned anything yet? Shame on you!) Take her to the best restaurant in town - or better yet, prepare a home-cooked meal. If that means buying a cookbook and taking a crash-course in the culinary arts, then do it, man! Just the effort will secure a place in her heart.

Birthdays are less important than Name Days once the lass passes 18 - but don't dare make the mistake of forgetting her birthday. Not if you plan to be around to celebrate the next one. As for Name Days and more importantly, Christmas - expensive perfumes, lingerie, more chocolate, and whatever meager amounts of gold you can hoard. And always tenderness. If in doubt, flowers are always a safe bet. Seven red roses if you're really in love - or any odd number. (Why odd? As a fiddler-lover named Tevye once famously observed: tradition!)

We can also tell you what never to get. This author once thought a big, glass-encased candle would add a luster of romance to their somehow-incomplete apartment. One day he sprang this pleasant surprise on his unsuspecting wife, only to be surprised himself at her gaping mouth, pale complexion and horrified eyes. Turns out it was a cemetery candle, for the tombstones of dead relatives. Caveat emptor.

It's not just the Polish women who are adored, you know. Terry Douglass hails from Ohio - but she found herself a man here and here they'll stay. British expat Helen Thompson similarly swims the Polish waters - marriage is a long way off in this sea of opportunity. And South Carolinian Saffron Ellis simply will never get enough of Polish men: she is evermore a confirmed bachelorette and Slavophile.

Sadly, not all is sugar and spice. Donald Blain escaped to Poland with his Polish-American wife, convinced that the Apocalypse is near and Poland the safest spot on earth. We at the Insider guess that's good - except for the unfortunate fact that he hates Poles. And Michael Blankowski came from London to start a business, achieved untold success, married a Polish beauty, left her in the Christmas season, and is diving headfirst back into the waters. His kind of "admiration" we don't need.

Yet despite the occasional sadness - both from crass opportunists and post-Communist realities - Poland is truly a wonder to behold and partake of. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the faces and hearts of its stout citizenry. We have mountains and seacoasts, magnificent lakes and vast forests, but it's those hearts which are the bravest, the most exquisite of all. Did we say "the small things"? Nay, we meant the large. The very large, indeed.

posted by mark 9:49 AM

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

The snow patters upon your face, aided by soft movements of the breeze. The streets grow quieter as you head for home, until there is only the remote sound of flakes accumulating and the beats of your heart, furiously circulating warmth to chilled extremities. The brilliance of Gwiazdka, the first Christmas Star, paints everything in somber hues that bespeak of family, friends… and love.

So what the heck are you doing in Warsaw?

In this, our Advent season of impending EU membership, the numbers of expatriots trickling into Warsaw increase daily. We have wives, families and jobs… Poland’s our new home.

Or is it? Some of us have left all loved ones behind; in the cross-cultural smorgasbord that is Christmas, Hannukah, Ramadan and Kwanza, being alone can be oppressive. If you’ve recently arrived to pursue a new career, or your significant other has just skipped town, and the old familiar faces are a thousand miles away, then what do you do here in the City of Big Brotherly Love?

The obvious choice is to wait until Christmas Eve, then knock on a random citizen’s door. There’s an age-old tradition in Poland that the Christchild will appear as a stranger at the door on the eve of His birthday, and many families set an extra space at the table. Christianity has always leaned upon the image of Christ as the unlooked-for (and possibly odoriferous) stranger; in Poland they’ve boiled that perhaps unsavory notion down to a single annual event. So don’t be shy: the grandest spirit of all may be moving within you.

Polish Christmas fetes are unquestionably among the planet’s most family-oriented. Poles are exceedingly warm and loving, having learned to do so within a Communist-instilled-atmosphere of fear and distrust – an astounding feat. They learned to eat, drink and be merry in private, if not in secret, and those old habits die hard.

In my quest to find those covert celebrations, I’ve spoken to dozens of gracious souls. All advise the same: find yourself a family to break bread together. Locals may shy from the uninvited dinner guest, but many would be gratified to extend a plateful of pierogi and sledzie to the new arrival in their workplace, church, or - if you’re really lucky and have abounding interpersonal skills - neighborhood. And if you think you don’t know anyone well enough to wrangle a dinner invite or share a Midnight Mass, there are a number of organizations which will help you find some company. Uh, the platonic kind, of course.

Listen to Pastor Ed Broke of the Open Door Christian Fellowship: “My wife and I were in the military,” he relates, “and know about being away from family…. We open our church and our home this holiday season to anyone in need.” Warsaw International Church has the usual lineup of prayer services and carols, and also visit orphanages on December 7th and 14th “to celebrate the season with them. We welcome everyone! As Christmas gets closer, small groups will make plans for meals or a ride in the countryside.”

Rabbi Joseph Kanofsky can help you find food, friends and prayer all eight days of Hannukah, Alcoholics Anonymous conduct English meetings every day of the year. And the Safari Club aids Warsaw women in search of cultural and sporting enlightenment. The Canadian Circle also puts together a Christmas fest. If you like to run, walk, and/or socialize, contact the Warsaw Hash House Harriers or Warsaw’s Family Hash House Harriers, (though you better hear what an HHH is from their own lips) which are both planning Christmas get-togethers. The American Ambassador invites those with nothing to do to his home on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but it helps if you’re an Embassy employee. And the British embassy has a dues-free pub open to all, which meets every Friday.

Naturally a few personal stories stand out: Mike McMillian hails from NYC and is a teacher at the International American School in Kabaty. “I’m different than most,” he confides, “I spend Christmas Day in isolation… internally preparing for the coming year, celebrating the call for harmony that is Kwanza, exploring that which is Divine in all peoples.” Mike is abundantly sociable and accessible, but Christmastime is his time to refresh and recharge... a welcome change from the commercialized bustle he left behind.

Grzegorz Semenowicz, on the other hand, is a recovering expatriot. Pure Polak, he’s lived most of his life in the UK. For now he’s back on homesoil, and a few years ago he and his girlfriend trekked to a village south of Kraków to spend the holidays with a family she knew. Greg was the only guy there.

“They cried all the time,” he laments. “It was a bit awkward.” I ventured that someone close to them must’ve died. “I guess so,” Greg continues. “I didn’t really want to ask, ‘Oh, now what?’ I mean, they would break the op³atek and then break into tears. And we were snowbound in that house for three days.” Ouch.

On another Christmas Eve, Greg was in a small hostel when a wayfaring stranger blew in with the wind a minute to twelve – the 13th person to join their merry band. “Some of the guests were terrified. I think they thought he really was the devil. But after a few hours they calmed down.”

Tom Melcher’s tale is best: he saw a talking donkey on a dimly-lit mountain village avenue. Midnight Mass – which has been virtually banned in the States because too many drunks kept crashing the party – in Poland is called Pasterka, or Shepherd’s Watch. While the congregations pray, the Holy Dove is said to descend upon our domestic animals and grant them power of speech. But only the pure of heart can hear them. Tom hadn’t been pure of anything that night, and had a local pastor in the States seen him at that miraculous moment, he may have barred the doors.

But if you’ve nothing else to do you may want to wander down to a live manger scene and give it a go. Sit placidly in the snow and… who knows? Or better still, maybe a talking donkey will come rap-rap-rapping at your door on the 24th. And start a discussion on how lonely it is to be stuck in Warsaw while all his donkey friends are home munching hay in Minnesota.

posted by mark 6:08 PM

FOR YOUR ICE ONLY

By Mark C. Still

"Can you make people want to be in Warsaw this winter?"

Wow. Now that's a challenge, isn't it? Yet that's exactly what this Insider writer was presented with one cold, gray Varsovian morn. Who wants to cool their heels in this boring burg? City heat and low elevations blanket our fair city in the cold and wet but lasting snow is something of a rarity. However, the only legitimate reason for boredom is lack of imagination. And the only legitimate response to boredom is to nurture that imagination, by seeking out or creating thrills on your own. This is what Varsovians excel at; for here, anything is possible. Perhaps at no time more so than in the numbing, relentless cold of Polish winters. If you're looking for a welcome - and daring - break from this monotony, the world of extreme winter sports is waiting for you.

Warsaw is a perfect jumping-off point for diverse extreme adventures, tailor-made for our intrepid ice-veined legions. And right now that's just about everyone. How does ice-diving grab you? If that doesn't float your boat, you could take up ice-sailing. How about kiteboarding, ice-surfing, ice-biking or shovel racing? 200 Balling? Maybe permanent Polar Bear Club membership? And if these don't excite you, perhaps a heady mix of 'board, 'chute and tall Tatra peaks will. Let's take a closer look.

UNDER THE ICE
When the Insider first heard of ice-diving we thought it a silly way to create memories, if not contusions, but after we realized it didn't involve simpletons jumping head-first onto the ice we began to see the appeal. That is, if swimming in darkened water a hair's breadth above freezing, covered by miles of an impenetrable lid with only a tiny opening wide enough for a fat man to wiggle through is your idea of appealing.

Piotr Gadecki of Diving Center Nowa AMA spilled his water-logged guts on this, the most claustrophobic of sports. (His boss is Jacek Paradowsk, Poland's premier ice-diver, who literally wrote the book on the subject.) "AMAs" are Japanese chicks who dive for pearls - a risky venture by any means - but replete with the most romantic visions of death-defying. Think Bond girls. Got the image? Good. Now think Bond.

Nowa AMA operates a Centrum diving school, but organizes trips year-round to Mazury and the Baltic coast. Oh, and Egypt every February, for those who want to experience ice-diving without the ice. This month they're heading to ¸anskie Lake, where they'll book into their usual hotel, cut a triangular slice out of the 50-cm-thick lake ice (it's easier to climb out of the water if you have corners to pull yourselves up on), and set to work at creating their play.

Though the water is dark, it's also clear; lake waters settle in winter, clearing away all the murk. That's good. But it's so cold that the regulators - the breathing apparatuses - often freeze solid. And that's bad. But you get two of 'em plus two air tanks and all dives are in tandem with a AMA professional, so a potential textbook "buddy system" rescue is never far away. So that's good. Another buddy waits topside, holding the rope that's attached to both you and your veteran partner. That's very good. But that rope can easily sever on the edge of the ice-hole, and that's very bad. But you get a second line, an "ice screw"... which you don't attach to anything until after the first one snaps. Which is when you decide if you have a set of brass ones or your average garden-variety snowballs.

Naturally, any activity this risky requires licensure by certifiable...er, certified professionals. To this end the Insider asked Piotr why a diver wouldn't want to use that second line as a preventive instead of an emergency measure. "Where's the fun in that?" he replied with a Mephistophelian grin.

Cheers to the brass ones.

OVER THE ICE

For (marginally) drier adventures, the Insider turned to Szymon Gruszecki, the publisher of Hiro Magazine ("Hero" spelled phonetically for the local yocals) - dedicated to extreme sports and "people who do outstanding things."

Maybe you've seen the clips of ice-sailing on Eurosport or ESPN: catamarans on runners, propelled by wind and enormous sails. With Poland's harsh monsoons, speeds of 100 km are not unachievable. (The world record is 170 km). Situated near Olsztyn Jezioro Âwi´cajty in Mazury is a prime locale, but you can accomplish the same 20 km NE of Warsaw at Zegrzyfskie Lake. And, yep - you need a license first. But it sure beats puttering around in a Fiat during rush hour.

Also on Zegrzyfskie are ice-surfers - whose windsurf boards are perched atop skates - and kiteboarders, who harness themselves to small parachutes ("kites") as they board. Gusts of wind and waves can set summer kiteboarders airborne for up to 50 feet and 30 seconds. Contrarily, lack of waves and breakable water below may make for less spectacular wintertime jumps, but that brings the Insider back to its original supposition about ice diving. And licensing? Heck, we don't need no steenkin' licensing.

Drive over whenever the weather is right; it's a big lake but easily accessible by car. Be sure to wave at the hookers stamping their boots near the exits, and the muscular Moscowites in their Mercedes concealed in the nearby trees. Or stop and offer them all a hot chocolate courtesy of the Insider. It doesn't get much more extreme than that.

OVER THE EDGE
The "crazy things mountain people do" are in a class by themselves (too extreme for you, Szymon?). The 200 Ballers take the fast way down the slopes, inside giant rubber balls. Or they fill burlap bags with hay and ride 'em bareback, a-whoopin' and a-hollerin all the way. Szymon assures that the speeds are nothing short of spectacular. City slickers who can't locate sacks of hay or huge inhabitable balls need not despair however: designer snow shovels, molded to hug the contours of the most thickly flannelled-covered derrieres, guarantee a ride to remember.

If none of these set your heart to pounding, you could try ice-biking - with either old-fashioned wheels, or those more creatively designed with skies in lieu of the former. Or snow-blading, which is essentially roller-blading on snow. These sports can be enjoyed right here in Wasaw, anytime there's snow near Welwetowa Hill in Kabaty, or in Park Szcz´Êliwicki. And don't forget to lay in a stock of Ace Bandages. All this is oodles of fun, but dangerous stuff nonetheless. Get proper training and protect your most valuable frozen asset, yourself.

If you want to feel that wild rush adrenaline brings, without dire risk to health and sanity, you could grab friends and bath towels for an extravagant dip amongst the ice floes. This qualifies you for lifetime membership in the Polar Bear Club. Although if you prefer to socialize over the bun warming... I mean freezing, bona-fide clubs can be found north and south. But even this, photos of overweight frolicers notwithstanding, can be dangerous if you're not in good health. Consult a physician before you actually take the plunge, and you won't have cause to regret the dip.

If all of the above still finds you victim to uncontrollable ennui, as a last resort follow our suggestion to strap on a chute and board, and take the most expedient route down a Tatra cliffside. Like they do in the movies... But, nah, nobody could be that crazy.

Could they?

posted by mark 6:07 PM