Pole Dating

This is not a confessional about how I can’t meet the right man (paging Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy!), but a query about food and culture.  Let me say though that immigrant dating is a fraught venture.  I am too American for Poles and too Polish for Americans.  No wait!  Poles are too Polish for me and Americans are not Polish enough.  No wait!  Poles are not American enough and Americans are too American.  No wait!  I am too American for Poles, and too Polish for Americans.  It’s a predicament.  Add to that equation my “wet blanket/I can’t live without you—I don’t need you/get a life” personality and you’ve got yourself what my fellow Poles ever-so-endearingly refer to as an old maid. [*Bicultural digression: I was not aware of any words to describe unattached women in Polish except for panna (maiden—ugh!) or stara panna (old maid) until the arrival of democracy and capitalism when Poles began to adapt the English word “single” as a noun.  If you’re a single woman, the hip crowd refers to you as a singielka.  My rather large extended family is not hip.*]

A few months ago, I went on a rather strange date.  Not strange enough for abadcaseofthedates.com, but strange enough for me.  We made plans to meet for dinner.  Date said something rather strange over the phone as we agreed to meet at a local Chinese restaurant, but I dismissed it.  He said something about “hitting up” an Asian grocery store before dinner.  I dismissed it because who goes to the grocery store on a date and, more importantly, who goes to the grocery store when they don’t need to?  But I get so nervous during these initial date exchanges that I quickly chalked up his suggestion to my own Polish-inflected hearing.  

Immigrant or not, I’m no idiot and was not about to have a guy I’ve never met pick me up at home.  We agreed to meet at the restaurant of my choosing.  I arrived a couple of minutes before my date and the place was dead.  There were two people there and one of them was working.  When my date arrived, I proposed that we drive down to another restaurant, just minutes away.  He told me to follow him.  I did.  I knew the other restaurant and was surprised when he made a left turn blocks before we arrived at our destination.  God help me, I followed (it's not like it was a dark alley, so I kept going).  I quickly saw, however, that it was, CRAP, a local Asian supermarket.  We got out of our cars and he suggested that we check the place out.  Let me emphasize, I am waaaaaay too nice to people I’ve just met.  My friends will tell you that I am waaaaay nicer to strangers than I am to them.  This is true.  I am working on it, but may need professional help for it.  But I digress.  We walked into the store.  I had been to that store before and had no idea why he wanted to “check it out.”  Check it out he did.  I followed him up one aisle and then decided that I was A/ embarrassed and B/ needed some groceries.  We separated for a few minutes and met up in the market’s impressive seafood department.  “Mmmm,” he said, “it smells horrible.”  What the hell?  “That’s what fish smells like,” I responded.  By now, I was both hungry and embarrassed, so I said “I’m starving, can we get dinner now?”  Why I didn’t just leave him there, I don’t know. “This doesn’t gross you out?” he asked.  I’m not a vegetarian and having grown up in a small town/farming community, I harbor no illusions about the source of my dinner.  “Nope,” I said, “can we go now?”  I had a few items and needed to pay.  I did and, to my relief, we left and drove to the restaurant.  Again, why I didn’t just leave, I really don’t know.  Perhaps, despite my Polish upbringing, I am an optimist?

At dinner, my date disappointed further.  For one, he was one of those thigh-slapping jokesters who make inappropriate comments to the servers (if you have ever worked as a waiter/waitress as I have, you know who I’m talking about).  For another, though he professed to be a liberal, he told me that he was “conservative on some issues.”  When I asked which ones, he told me “like immigration.”  Ouch!  To make a long story short, in order to avoid a full on conflagration (which I can handle with friends, but not strangers), I called him Archie Bunker and he ended up calling me “Ms. Ellen DeGeneres Stalin.”  Except for the genocidal maniac part of it, I felt vindicated.  

All of this to say: how is it that we live in one of the most culturally diverse countries in the world and yet feel that a trip to the local supermarket is an adventure into the realm of the unknown?  To be fair, my date may have been an exception to the rule.  He did tell me that he doesn’t read the newspaper or listen to the news.  No need.  All he needs to do is walk down the street to know what’s going on in the world.  CRAP!

Dogs

Found Grover a nice place complete with a lovely couple and a dog named Buster.  I call him Uncle Buster since, at thirteen, he’s Grover’s senior (for easy comparison, in human years Uncle Buster is 91 and Grover 35).  Even if slightly smaller than Grover, it’s clear that Buster’s in charge.  That’s a good thing because my dog has me wrapped around his little paw and needs someone to tell him what’s what.  Uncle Buster’s begun to do so.  He even tried to hump Grover, just to reassert the hierarchy, but the hump didn’t quite work out.  Though he’s in great shape, especially for his age, it took Uncle Buster just a bit too long to get both of his paws on Grover’s behind.  By the time he lifted his other paw and was getting ready to make his move, Grover slipped away diplomatically.  Uncle Buster then made it clear that a concerted effort was beneath him by nonchalantly scratching his ear.

When I adopted Grover, he was a year old and afraid of his own shadow.  For a long while, I had to avoid sudden moves or he’d scurry under the nearest table.  I felt bad for the little pooch.  So bad, in fact, that I did everything he wanted and spoiled him rotten.  By the second year, Grover’s hold on me was obvious.  So much so, that a couple of friends decided that a Cesar Millan intervention was in order.  They sat me down in front of a TV and got me to watch episodes of the Dog Whisperer by telling me that I would learn all about doggy behavior.  Ha!  By the time the first episode ended, I felt like I had been on a therapist’s couch for half an hour.  Cesar trains people not dogs.

I don’t think I can be trained, however, even with Cesar’s expert advice.  I really gave it my best, a real sportsman's try, but since that therapeutic afternoon in Ohio, Grover has made a lot of progress in the “she’s my bitch” department, while I've made none (one could say I've regressed) in the "I'm gonna train your ass" department.  Grover learned, for instance, that when he wants something, all he needs to do is to bark at me (sit in front of me, stare me down, and bark).  He wants to go outside, he barks.  He wants to play, he barks.  He wants a treat, he barks.  I take complete responsibility, of course.  After all, I am the one who first goes for the door and asks if he wants to go out.  If not, I go for the toy and ask if he wants to play.  If not, I go for the treat.  It’s always one of the three so, in the end, Grover gets what he wants.  I’ve tried to alleviate the situation.  I have let him bark and bark, hoping he’d wear himself out, but the little dude has staying power and I have neighbors.  I think I'm in an abusive relationship with my dog.  I wonder if there is a support group for that. 

In my defense, though, just look at this face!  How do you discipline that?  You're my only hope, Uncle Buster!

Aliens

My memories of Taxi got me thinking about TV immigrants.  There was Latka, of course, and then a direct Latka-derivative, Balki Bartokomous, from a made-up Greek-like island, on a show called Perfect Strangers.  

It ran for 8 seasons and generated a spin-off (Family Matters).

I did not enjoy Balki as much as Latka.  By the time Perfect Strangers aired, my English was a bit better and I was unimpressed (seriously, “the dance of joy”?!).  Latka though was cool.  He was funny and he had a multiple personality disorder (which immigrant doesn’t?) so in addition to his regular shtick, Kaufman occasionally became Vic Ferrari, turning shy Latka into a womanizer, or Alex (one of the cabbies), turning Latka into a fountain of wisdom.  

Does Alf count as an immigrant?  He emigrated from another planet.  He was illegal too (never was processed by the INS/now Homeland Security).  So was Mork from Mork & Mindy.  Both of them were quite literally illegal aliens.  More so than any human being I’ve ever known.  Mork even met the Fonz of Happy Days to learn about women on earth, and by that I mean in America; it’s not like the Fonz was acclimating Mork to Polish dating rituals.

I don’t care for the labeling of people as aliens—if you’re here illegally, you’re an illegal alien and once you get a green card (which is rather pink), you’re a resident/legal alien (Sting’s song immediately pops into my head “I’m an alien.  I’m a legal alien.  I’m an Englishman in New York”).  Immigrants experience alienation, but that hardly makes them aliens.  I am, however, happy to report that, since I took my citizenship a few years back, I’m no longer an alien of any kind (nothing to see here, Homeland Security).

Aliens on sitcoms are an excellent way to show American culture from an outside perspective without alienating (hahahaha) the anti-immigrant crowd.  

On a related note, I came across a trailer for a new film starring Demián Bichir (loved him on Weeds!  He’s super hot and can act, too).  It's called A Better Life and it’s about an undocumented Mexican immigrant who's trying to make it in California so that his son can have a better life.  I’m looking forward to seeing it and hope that, unlike Spanglish, it portrays immigrants as multi-dimensional human beings (although the mother-daughter relationship  in Spanglish made me weep.  That relationship makes the movie.  The love story part of it blows.  I mean who wouldn't totally fall for Paz Vega?). 

The Mexican immigrant experience has always been close to my heart.  I identified with it, especially when I lived in California (natives there often assumed I was Mexican anyway), probably because we were Catholic aliens landed on a Protestant planet.  

Sounds

You know that time between wakefulness and sleep?  You’re not quite asleep and not quite awake.  Your mind begins to wander and ends up in strange places (Proust wrote about it.  Hells yeah, I’ve read Proust!  Ok, a tiny fragment of Proust’s mammoth.  I appreciate what he did for literature, but Remembrance bores the living daylight out of me.  How many details can you cram into a single sentence, anyway?).  For one reason or another, before I fell asleep last night, my mind ended up hearing the theme music from Taxi.  Memory works in funny ways.  Even when you haven’t thought of something in ages, a sound or smell or taste all of a sudden brings it back full force (damn Proust wrote about that too, just spent way too much time detailing it). 

Taxi was the first TV show I watched (via what I now know were late night reruns) when I ended up in the U.S. back in the eighties.  I didn’t understand a single word of it, but after a few a weeks, began to distinguish a word here and there.  I loved it!  I’d like to think it was because of Latka Gravas.  

I’d like to think that even without getting the dialogue, I spotted a fellow immigrant, even one from a made-up country because, let’s face it, Andy Kaufman oozed alienation.  

Whenever I hear or even think of that wistful theme music from Taxi, I remember my first American summer and cringe with contradictions of delight and misery. 

What melody or sound reminds you of a crucial part of your life?  Not a song, mind you, because then we’d have to take stock of the lyrics. 

Japanese Poles

Back from Poletown, making preparations for my annual journey to the motherland.  This time, my visit is a bit belated as over last Christmas I opted for a trip to Japan.  A Pole in Japan is not as strange as it sounds.  Besides, Eastern Europeans and Asians share a gene pool reinforced by centuries of mutual conquests.  

I loved everything, and I mean everything, about Tokyo and the surrounding area (except for little white fish served cold.  I thought they were crunchy little noodles and took a mouthful. Surprise!). 

Soon after my arrival in Tokyo, I discovered a Polish-Japanese connection.  Ayako found a website for a bed and breakfast not far from my hometown.  It’s called Villa Akiko and run by Akiko Miwa, a Japanese woman who has made Poland her home: http://www.akiko.pl/index.html

Akiko built the hotel from the ground up, which wasn’t easy since there were no roads leading up to the land she purchased.  She speaks fluent Polish (she didn’t know it when she arrived in 1989) and gets along with górale (or highlanders, a particular ethnic group of which I count myself a member) who reside in the area.  The górale are a famously difficult and stubborn people, but apparently what Pani Akiko wants, Pani Akiko gets, and the górale of the surrounding villages adore her.  She’s involved in the life of the nearby village, Harklowa, and has founded an environmental organization in the area.

Polish National Geographic published an interview with Pani Akiko, not because she’s a Japanese woman living in Poland (there are others), but because she lives in the mountainous middle of nowhere among the górale: http://www.national-geographic.pl/artykuly/pokaz/mam-dusze-mezczyzny/.  She’s my new hero.  I hope to visit Villa Akiko when I’m in Poland.

One of my favorite adventures in Japan involved a trip to the mountains to soak in an onsen, traditional Japanese baths.  Ayako took me to Nikko, home of the famous Tokugawa Ieyasu shrine.  

   

We stayed at a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn.

 
The Nikko style tofu dinner and breakfast there were incredible. 

Specific procedures must be followed at the onsen.  For Westerners like me, the ryokan provides a handy dandy guide complete with pictures.

After a week in Tokyo, Ayako was sick and tired of my questions.  Admittedly, some were just downright stupid but, in my defense, there is a fourteen-hour time difference between St. Louis and Tokyo.  Jet lag was a mammoth!  She flung the guide in my general direction and told me to memorize it.  Except for one mistake, all went well.  I scrubbed and rinsed in the correct order and manner and soaked to my heart’s delight.  The one error, however, came at a great cost.  Ayako told me that I could never be “a Japanese lady” all because once we put on the yukata and haori the ryokan provided, I immediately took off my undergarments.  This was apparently a grave error as it is inadvisable to walk downstairs and across the outside bridge leading to the onsen wearing only the yukata and haori, both of which tie at the waist.  

A highly impractical proposition, if you ask me, since the baths are gender specific, and all wear birthday suits anyway. 

While in Tokyo, I discovered just how much I enjoy taking photos.  Though I only have what Poles refer to as an “idiot cam,” some of the photos came out well enough to be framed.  This is one of my favorites.  I took it at Edo Wonderland (A Tokugawa era theme park outside of Tokyo):

During my time in Chicago, I snuck a little Japanese time away from Poletown and took Ewa and her adorable daughter Gaia to Rolls N’ Bowls, a tiny and really good restaurant in Lincoln Square.

 
I felt it necessary, however, to finish my Poletown adventure with a Polish meal.

 

Pole Spotting

Most of us immigrants can spot another immigrant from a mile away.  Familiar habits, fashions, speech, occasional racial profiling (high cheekbones and substantial ears, for example), help us make or avoid contact with each other.  In Chicago, Pole spotting is like shooting fish in a barrel.  For one, all of Polish Chicago smokes, and does it smoke!  If you want to locate a group of Poles, look for a plume of cigarette smoke and there they’ll be (these habits make my own nonsmoking commitments difficult).  I have no problem spotting fellow Poles because, in addition to smoking, we have a unique fashion sense.  For example, ladies prefer dramatic hair jobs: brunettes go super dark, coloring their hair charcoal black, while blondes go super blonde, coloring their hair platinum white (I just spotted a lady in her early sixties with punk-red hair).  A few of the ladies compromise with really chunky black/platinum highlights.  As for men, it’s stupendous, impressive moustaches.  These are giant, bushy staches that seem to grow only out of East European soil.  In addition, both genders have a tendency to overdress.  Whether shopping or praying, we put on our Sunday best.  This is a throwback to the old country.  As my grandma always says, you never know who you’re gonna run into.  On a related note, I’ve met more than one Pole over the years who, upon arrival, commented with shock and/or scorn about the natives’ inelegant public appearance.  I got a few looks just yesterday when I went Polish grocery shopping wearing worn-out khaki capris, an old black tank top, and no make-up.

Obviously, language is the surest way of spotting a fellow immigrant.  Speech in Poletown, as in any other immigrant community, has its own fashion sense.  Like all immigrants, we code-switch and use English words as part of our Polish vocabulary. Thanks to A, I found a great example of Chicago-style code-switching on youtube.  It pivots on the word “four-footer,” which, when used while one is writing or speaking Polish, gets spelled as “forfiter” and pronounced as “fourfeeter.”  The youtube clip where this comes from has become a Chicago sensation.  So much so that a few talented young men made a musical parody of it titled “forfiter blues.”  On youtube, the short description below the original clip references a popular Polish television travel/nature program titled “Pepper and Vanilla” and describes the clip in both languages:

Z cyklu "Pieprz i Wanilia" Popularny film na Youtube przedstawiający Polaka w zetknięciu z dzika naturą.

From the "Vanilla & Pepper" series, Popular clip from YT showing Polish man and the wild nature. LOL:)

In the clip, the man filming and feeding the wildlife uses the word “szwagier” repeatedly, apparently addressing his brother-in-law, as well as the word “kurwa,” a more than emphatic Polish cussword.  Beware of the foul language in both the original and its parody. 

The original (someone added subtitles by translating his Polish into English and vice versa):

 Now, “forfiter blues,” which is really well done! 

“No bierz ta kurwa kure [take the f***ing chicken]! There you go…”

Refrain: “Jest piekny.  He’s beautiful!”

“Uciekaj kurwa stad [get the f*** out of here].  Get outta here.”

The original forfiter made it on the Polish TV station POLSAT as a fun news story about Poles abroad.  Poles everywhere have begun to spoof it (I found dozens of clips!).  Here is a spoof from a vacation in Tunisia (a popular destination for Polish tourists):

All of this led me to other videos made by CeZik, the guy who made “forfiter blues.”  My favorite is his bilingual performance of Aerosmith’s Cryin’: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icPdaH_w8d4

Poletown Adventure Continues

My encounter with Poletown continued today when I purchased multiples of pierogi packages to keep in the freezer for those evenings when cooking is not A’s friend.

According to her, this place has the best pierogis in town. I am inclined to believe her given the history of Alexandra Foods Co., which reads like an immigrant rags-to-riches story.   Also, I just tried the meat & spinach pierogi and oh my!

The couple started the business only three years after they arrived in the U.S. (penniless, I’m sure) and now they have a substantial store in addition to country-wide distribution:

Alexandra Foods Company was founded in 1992 by Polish natives, Mark & Alexandra Dembicki.  Upon their arrival in America at just 25 years old, the couple planned on starting their own business in their new home.  After saving some money they decided to embark upon their path to the American dream.  After 5 years of long hours, and often two jobs to cover expenses, their hard work finally started to pay off.  Business started to steadily increase.  After just 2 years of successful sales during 1997-1998, the couple realized they had hit a home run.  Plans and investments pushed forward and the company continued its excellent growth (http://www.alexandrapierogi.com/about.php).

There is nothing about their “path to the American Dream” or “years of long hours, and often two jobs” in the Polish version of the website.  The Polish description of Dembicki’s success simply refers to their hard work and initial financial challenges.  Needless to say, in Polish they don’t “hit a homerun” either.  We play baseball only in English.
 

As I drove to buy the pierogi, I saw a few more places with Polish signs.  They’re still freaking me out a bit, so I had to photograph at least one.

On the way back, I stopped at a grocery store to buy bread.  While in line at the register, I saw a DVD of a Swedish children's program I watched as a kid in Poland.  

I think it was shown on American TV as well, but was called Pippi Longstocking (is that right Americans?).  I adored Pippi the tomboy and her rapscallion ways.  She was tough and smart, had a monkey and rode a horse.  Her father’s job, if I remember correctly, required him to be away from home all the time because he was a pirate (the series took place in 1970s Sweden!).  Pippi’s mom was nowhere to be found (was she dead?  I can’t remember) and so the brave little girl lived alone and spent her days playing with a brother and sister who were super clean cut and afraid of everything.  It was Pippi’s job to ensure that they had a fun childhood. 

Chicago: The Ultimate Poletown

I immigrated to the U.S. in the mid eighties and ended up in Southern California.  Didn't speak English and not a Pole in sight.  If I ever heard Polish, I'd run up to that person and immediately introduce myself, hoping for a cultural connection.   Needless to say, same nationality and language do not an automatic connection make.  Throughout the last couple of decades, I've lived all over the country.  Heard more Polish in Michigan and Ohio than in California, but nothing prepared me for Chicago.  Not some years ago when I lived here for a spell or now when I visit friends.   For instance, I walked out of my goddaughter's apartment this morning to walk Grover.  I ran into at least a dozen different people, men, women, children. young and old, taking walks or getting into their cars.  All I heard was Polish.   Mind you, she does NOT live in a "Polish neighborhood."  I had to quickly change my habit of saying sweet nothings to Grover as we walked since these people could actually understand that I was trying to have a "conversation" with my dog.

As I drive around town, I see signs, billboards, and stores all advertising their wares and services in Polish or in Polish and Spanish.   I am experiencing a culture shock once more.  I was culture shocked into English and now I'm being culture shocked into Polish in English.  My cultural schizophrenia is growing another layer of fun.  Once the anxiety of this encounter wears off, I hope to enjoy it.

The sign above is for T-Mobile and says: "Mowimy po Polsku" and "Se habla Espanol."  The photo above it is of A at a giant Polish grocery store where you can buy all things Polish.

I also went to this little place called Cafe Prague.  Cafe/club/restaurant.  I wanted to have lunch and read.  Both were splendidly accomplished.  The food was excellent.  I had goulash and knedliki (Czech dumplings) and then apple strudel with a cup of coffee for dessert.    I found the place on yelp.  It's near A's place and she likes it as well.  One of the yelpers criticized it because apparently the wait staff tells you what to order and what not to order.  I found that to be true but enjoyed it thoroughly.  The server was a cute young Czech girl who first asked me whether I spoke Polish or Czech (her English was not so good).    I proceeded to order chicken and wanted to try the knedliki as I've never had them before.  She advised that that was not a good idea since the chicken is dry and comes with no sauce.  Given her English skills, the advice sounded rather like an order so I totally get the yelper's gripe.  On the other hand, I love being told what to do, so no offense here.  Bring it!

Interior view of Cafe Prague

Goulash with Knedliki and Apple Strudel

I wound up my Chicago afternoon at the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio in Oak Park where I took a tour of the premises led by a rather acerbic elderly woman who had super long and yellowed toenails.  She also kept repeating the word beautiful only pronouncing it "beauteeeeful."  Given the actual attractiveness of the place, she said it quite a bit.  In the next couple of days, I hope to visit the Hemingway House and Museum (though I've never been a fan of his work or his persona), which is a few blocks from the Wright Home.

Photography is not allowed inside of the home and studio, which is too bad.  There were so many cool architectural details, furniture, and light fixtures I wanted to photograph.  I thought to sneak a couple here and there but I was afraid of the long toenailed, acerbic guide.