Current mood:
contemplativeugh.
i am sitting in the bookstore, after hours, and i am experiencing crazy culture shock from the fact that last week i was in poland. in fact, last week at this exact time i was on a plane. coming back. and when the plane landed at SFO, the one polish family that had come all the way from warsaw with me began to applaud. and it saddened me, the quiet that met their applause. because in poland, when the plane lands, and the voice comes on to say that you made it safely, the people on the plane clap for those who have worked so hard to get us there alive. but in this country, no.
so, the applause started, enthusiastic and unintimidated, and quickly died. and we trundled the rest of the way to the gate in silence, waiting for the seatbelt light to go out, so we could jump up and run away as fast as we possibly could.
and i was there for only two weeks this time, but got to experience the polish version of car culture, which is ridiculous and insane. how can you be sure that you won't crash and die when you pass that truck at 150 km/hour in a blind turn? you can't, and that tells me something, too.
and basia brought us to the jewish cemetery in her village of okuniew, 10 minutes outside of central warsaw. well, it HAD been a cemetery, but vandalized over the years, so our quiet visit entailed sighs and gasps as we tripped over the remnants of headstones, piled cut rocks with the suggestion of hebrew tapped into their surfaces. fucked up and haunted. scary with heaviness, with all that had happened there. and the mosquitoes took out their revenge on my legs, bites that became mutant lumps that have yet to fade.
and marysha told us about our great uncle, and the circumstances that kept him from dachau. the chances and seconds and bits of luck that saved his life, and how the lives of others were not so lucky.
and then there was the drunken priest, and the showers that disappeared in a storm of jackhammers, and the chapel of skulls, and the woman who saved us with blankets on her floors, and the black market, not so black anymore, and the spiders as big as your head. and the vodka. and being in a car, really, feeling so removed from it all. sigh.
it was laden, this trip, dripping with discoveries, weighed down by the past of so many wars. and now i am home, and still adjusting. it took me days to realize that i could stop concentrating on the words i heard around me, that i automatically understood them. but i am ready to go back, so soon. really.
there is a time limit on all that we do. we are not moving fast enough.
i am sitting in the bookstore, after hours, and i am experiencing crazy culture shock from the fact that last week i was in poland. in fact, last week at this exact time i was on a plane. coming back. and when the plane landed at SFO, the one polish family that had come all the way from warsaw with me began to applaud. and it saddened me, the quiet that met their applause. because in poland, when the plane lands, and the voice comes on to say that you made it safely, the people on the plane clap for those who have worked so hard to get us there alive. but in this country, no.
so, the applause started, enthusiastic and unintimidated, and quickly died. and we trundled the rest of the way to the gate in silence, waiting for the seatbelt light to go out, so we could jump up and run away as fast as we possibly could.
and i was there for only two weeks this time, but got to experience the polish version of car culture, which is ridiculous and insane. how can you be sure that you won't crash and die when you pass that truck at 150 km/hour in a blind turn? you can't, and that tells me something, too.
and basia brought us to the jewish cemetery in her village of okuniew, 10 minutes outside of central warsaw. well, it HAD been a cemetery, but vandalized over the years, so our quiet visit entailed sighs and gasps as we tripped over the remnants of headstones, piled cut rocks with the suggestion of hebrew tapped into their surfaces. fucked up and haunted. scary with heaviness, with all that had happened there. and the mosquitoes took out their revenge on my legs, bites that became mutant lumps that have yet to fade.
and marysha told us about our great uncle, and the circumstances that kept him from dachau. the chances and seconds and bits of luck that saved his life, and how the lives of others were not so lucky.
and then there was the drunken priest, and the showers that disappeared in a storm of jackhammers, and the chapel of skulls, and the woman who saved us with blankets on her floors, and the black market, not so black anymore, and the spiders as big as your head. and the vodka. and being in a car, really, feeling so removed from it all. sigh.
it was laden, this trip, dripping with discoveries, weighed down by the past of so many wars. and now i am home, and still adjusting. it took me days to realize that i could stop concentrating on the words i heard around me, that i automatically understood them. but i am ready to go back, so soon. really.
there is a time limit on all that we do. we are not moving fast enough.
 | Currently reading: The Scar By China Mieville Release date: 29 June, 2004 |
