Wednesday, January 07, 2004
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
Comments:
Post a Comment
