A Mad Biker's Ongoing Tale

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