She's bi-lingual!

I now have proof, officially and unofficially, that our 16-month-old is bi-lingual. She can point to her nose, or ears, or eyes, or feet, when asked in Polish and when asked in English. She recognizes Grandma Milly and she knows who Babcia Alina is. And so on. Simply - she responds to two different languages.
I smile and wonder: what must she be thinking? My much older self has a notion of difference: there is this one, and there is that one. Cultures, nationalities, histories, languages. There is a reason and order to all. But for her? This is the way mama talks, this is the way daddy talks. Perhaps there is no need for reasons, and for notions of 'the other'. Just the way things are.
I hope that she can respond this way to all the 'different' things and people she encounters in her later life. That she will never be absolutely convinced something is simply what she thinks it is. The fact that a 'ball' is also 'piłka' and perhaps a hundred other things opens up one's perception of the world. Let it be - she's bi-lingual! Goodness, what fun we'll have!

Return to homeland and right into the Euro madness

We landed in Warsaw on Friday morning. Immediately we found ourselves, with all our luggage including Zofia and all that accompanies a one year old on an intercontinental trip, in the middle of a joyous, colorful, slightly crazy and loud Euro championship madness. Mixed with traditional Polish hospitality, and Warsaw's constantly growing and increasingly glassy and sophisticated architecture, this was a sight to see and enjoy. Our hotel stood just steps from the Warszawa Fan Zone, which was all one can expect and more. It surrounded the infamous Palace of Arts and Science (infamous in its majestic monstrosity), with banners, security gates, large screens and the overall feeling of something important taking place. It was like nothing I have ever seen, with something akin to a 24-hour party going on the entire time. I could only imagine what it was like when the Polish team played its matches, be it only a few, bless them. The organizers estimated that almost 1 million people visited the Fan Zone! Difficult to imagine a million people. We were there one day after a semifinal game, and the place seemed empty, all the fans no doubt sleeping off their previous night's exertions. Our hotel was also emptying, we were told by a very matter-of-fact receptionist. But we saw reporters from around 10 different countries, including Al Jazeera, and also Italian, German, and British television crews. A very proud Italian football official passed us in the hall, wearing his badge like a gold medal. That was before they lost to Espana 0:4, poor suckers. Polish television, and in particular my favorite breakfast show 'Pytanie na Sniadanie' (cheeky word play which means literally - a question for breakfast) were full of excited reports of the goings-on over the past two weeks. Smiling faces painted white and red beamed from the screen accompanied by comments about what great time people were having. Someone mentioned that socker fans from around 110 countries visited Poland, cheering various national teams. How amazingly infantile, in the light of the crises looming all around, to get excited about a ball game. Something else occurred to me while watching the show, however. It was very clear that, if only for those short two weeks, Poland lost this quite large chip it normally wears on its shoulder. There was no need to prove to anyone that we were a great, hospitable, exciting country - most people saw that for themselves. And even though most of us Poles were surprised to the most that we actually pulled this off with no significant glitches, pride is the word that comes to mind right now. I do hope that the chip is gone for good, but perhaps that would be too much to expect.

Tiny library in Decatur

Our little corner of the Earth has a new neighbor-friendly, cute and almost sophisticated addition. Just as well: after all Decatur itself falls, with grace, under exactly the same description.
As I was pushing Zofia's walking stroller along the slightly bumpy sidewalk, passing yet another bunch of heavenly smelling bushes, what did I see?

Something of a tree-house-lookalike, a birds' nest and a doll house, it is most certainly the smallest library in the World. Inside? A seemingly random collection of books for big and small people. Not sure why I remember this, but hidden between the "Bridge of Sighs" and "Winny the Pooh", was Bill Clinton's autobiography. How comprehensively inappropriate... Just yesterday, on another afternoon walk, I saw an inconspicuous Decatur-mom-and-child duo on a bicycle with a kid trailer pull up and choose a book. The child looked less excited about the endeavor than the mother, but there they were, perusing this latest example of creative community-living. 

Of course this scene, and the little library itself, made me reflect and brought my thoughts back to Europe. Could this happen there? I am no all-Europe expert of course, but I did see some of it. And I am skeptical. And I am not even talking about the undeniable and regrettable fact that in much of Poland, and much of London, and Oxford, and Paris, and Brussels, and Dijon, and lots of other places, the books, and probably also the cute library itself would soon be gone never to come back.  Some clever person would think it a waste for these goodies not to reside in his own home. Community is one thing, but one's home is one's castle. The creative community living is something Decatur has tons of with more to spare, but as much as I love Europe, and Poland, I can't see it there. 

Funny how I, in common with many fellow Europeans, used to repeat the well-known categorical statements about the American every-man-for-himself philosophy, and lack of appreciation for literature and other forms of higher culture. Travel broadens the mind, and humbles it too. 

Oh, am I going to be using the library? Not any time soon. I have a pile of ten books next to my bed and on the sun-porch, waiting to be opened and appreciated. Babies are not conducive to reading, I found. 

On wonders and unspoken secrets of motherhood

Zofia is looking at me calmly and thoughtfully with those deep blue eyes. It is this blessed 'in-between eating' time when she and her stomach are contented and settled. And I am contented and settled. Time for us both to reflect.

Two momentous events: my little Zofia's one-month'day (another home-made expression of mine), and the first anniversary of my arrival in America, took me by surprise recently.

These, from the point of view of 'a girl I once was,' were entirely and wonderfully unexpected. And they made me wonder and ponder (at least to the extent that I am capable of deeper reflective thought - being a post-natal, intensely hormonal, constantly worried, newly operational and yet deficient milk-factory).

Am I the same person who last June descended on Atlanta with my wedding dress in one hand and a finance visa in another? Yes and no.

First and foremost I am now a mom, and this to put it mildly changes a girl somewhat.
Sure, there are the usual cliches of constant worries, sleepless nights and no 'me' time. All I've heard and believed of motherhood always bore a tint of 'heavy burden'. But there is something important noone can ever tell or explain. Spending every waking minute (and lots of them there are) with this new, completely wonderful human being feels good, cool, exciting! Being so elated one cannot possibly object to a sleepless hour or another dirty diaper. Indeed, the said diaper is happiness in itself, for it means that 'all is in good working order down there'.
And this brings me to the next revelation. I always imagined motherhood as being entirely responsible for someone - this someone completely reliant on me. But, again, something noone can tell or explain is how dependent on this tiny thing one becomes, how one's very life and happiness hang on a full nappy in a desired frequency and colour, on a well-eaten meal, on a smile and a contented murmur.
Thus fulfilled and transformed and satisfied I sit here, staring from time to time at Zofia's tiny frame, marveling at the magic of creation. How come, I think to myself, all her little fingers and toes are in the right place, and, goodness, the correct number and shape? How does Mother Nature know to put her tiny nose right there, in the middle of her face, and her eyes in perfectly equal distance from it? I have obsessed about these anatomical-philosophical mysteries lately. Is it any wonder I have no time for anything else?

Zofia - why I stopped blogging for a while

Zofia Taylor was born on 10 June. The whole 9 pounds and 22 inches of her came out with no trouble at all. She is a sleeping and eating machine! And a tiny miracle...

Now, about ironing...

I feel that I need to explain something about myself here. Present the matters as they are; bare my soul, so to say. Although the thing is about ironing, it really is about psyche: this mysterious something that drives, irritates and complicates us all. I can already imagine the sighs: 'goodness, woman, what is with you and all the drama...?'
There is nothing like some Polish spirit to add drama to the mundane and, according to many, the dispensable. Exactly; the dispensable...
I made a few references to housework in my latest posts: ironing in particular. And I admit - I do iron, most of my and hubby's clothes. Regularly, religiously, probably quite well too. And once Zofia is with us, I will iron her tiny onesies and such as well. But I have learnt to keep this habit to myself, rather (till today). Why? It seems that noone irons any more! I noticed this already in my previous, English life. Any mention of enjoying such activities met with a smirk, a dubious gaze, a shrug of: there is no helping this one...
What added further piquancy to my feelings on the matter were comments made by a popular English radio DJ, Chris Moyles. In his 'humorous' tirade on Polish women, he summarised that they were really only good for two purposes: one was ironing, and the other ... I will leave without comment. Mr Moyles' comments were protested by many Polish women, me included. He never apologised, and the whole thing was quickly forgotten. Since his little outburst Mr Moyles managed to insult many more important people: including celebrities, gay people, disabled people, Americans, other foreigners, women in general, in other words - all those with qualities he does not possess, and continues to do so until today.
The comment which I posted for Mr Moyles to read contained something to the effect of: I am not sure about his second observation, but as to ironing: I would never volunteer to iron his shirt - too much work! Goodness, the man is my age, and yet his shirts look like tents. He is carrying some weight around, which I kindly pointed out. Clearly, my hurt ego stood in the way of any sound criticism of his 'humour'. But what if there was something in it? Is there something inherently Polish in enjoying ironing?
This question strikes me again now, living in the American South. The new friends to whom I mentioned that I indeed regularly iron our clothes, looked at me with disbelief. Who does that any more? It seems that here in the South one either: a. has it done, or b. does not worry about it.
Is ironing a completely unnecessary, dispensable, and certainly delegable, activity? Am I a relict, holding on to the distant memories of women's lot? Many a time it became clear to me that us, Polish women, are somewhat inclined to doing things the old-fashioned way. Sad broads who do not get the whole empowerment of women thing.
Perhaps, perhaps...
Is there anything more to ironing than the harsh sweaty reality of feminine bondage? Certainly there is! How can I put into words the delights of creative thinking when one's mind is free and one's body is totally absorbed in the process of making beautiful what it rough and wrinkly? It is rejuvenation, beautification of one's surroundings without much effort and with no cost attached... My best ever ideas I've had while ironing: ideas for my books, for my life, and those good for nothing but equally fun.

And here I land back at the psyche: with the mind free to roam, one learns plenty about this very mind: about its features normally hidden under the cluster of distractions. Who knows what can be discovered there?
Ironing: under-appreciated and yet thoroughly recommended by me - a traditional broad who enjoys it.

The highs and 'lows' of Atlanta culture - all in one week

This week is not even over, and yet I have experienced two of the many sides of lively Atlanta's culture already! First - a word of explanation: I am not one for declaring all that's classic and old - high culture, and all that's popular and hip - low culture. Well, perhaps only slightly - being a European and having obtained what some might call a 'classic musical education' this type of thinking comes naturally  - but I am working on it. So the 'low' is only added here for contrast and some colour in the title. Now, to the point:

Tuesday evening: a enchanting adventure. I have learnt, truly last-minute, that the St Johns' College Cambridge Choir were going to be singing in our gorgeous St Philip Cathedral in Buckhead, to celebrate their five-hundredth anniversary. Thanks WABE Radio for spreading the good word! Amazing what one can learn while ironing one's undies and such. So off I went, to the Cathedral. It is a surprisingly imposing, Neo-Gothic building. Surprisingly - because it reminded me rather of European catholic churches than the more toned-down churches of the South.

The last rays of the evening sun were sneaking through the stained glass windows when I entered the Cathedral, and the atmosphere seemed softly quiet and dignified. But the place was packed to the brim, and it was actually beaming with excitement! By the time the St Johns' boys came out to bow for the first time, all seats were taken. Gentlemen wore elegant suits and some even bore boutonnieres! Ladies ravished with silks, pearls and discrete scent of perfume.

And then the music started... all was now harmony, and beauty, and peace, and this mysterious Zen which choral music always manages to command. My heart melted, although goodness knows that so did my backside. The seat was somewhat late-pregnancy-unfriendly. Pregnant backsides require softness, and softness was nowhere to be seen. But I quickly brushed off these trivialities. Whatever the painful reality, the music "went forth into a joyless world of swords and rhetoric to bring it joy". The boys went through this interesting piece by Walton (momentous words by Auden) like a storm, after performing a selection of older music. My favourite was 'Libera Nos' by Sheppard. They received a long standing ovation - of which I was an enthusiastic participant - I do not need to mention how happy I was to lift the aforementioned backside off the seat. That's the 'high culture' part.

Now, for the 'low culture'. Enjoying the retired lifestyle, we particularly delight in sampling the plentiful eateries, markets and other food-related establishments of Atlanta. So off we went Thursday lunchtime to the Sweet Auburn Curb Market. This urban oasis of trade in all sorts of exotic and local foods and drinks is almost one hundred years old, and is apparently located exactly in the geographical centre of Atlanta. It reminded me of city markets in places like Florence, Budapest, Bucharest or Gdynia, although no doubt it was a little smaller. Perhaps it has seen better days - some stalls were empty. But what was there was exciting, and fresh, and buzzing. As we wandered through the aisles and admired creatively displayed goodies and the bars and food stalls spread here and there, we were reflecting on the crowd surrounding us. No doubt this is a true working market, where the local not-so-affluent acquire their daily essentials. But every so often one could see the hip and the young, sometimes even elegant office workers, artists, lawyers, and whoever else thought it was an interesting place for lunch.
The market offers meat and vegetables from local producers, has a very tempting bakery, a cute coffee shop with great Cappuccinos and 'cowboy cookies', the 'Afrodish restaurant', the 'Bell St. Burritos', and of course the Grindhouse Killer Burgers! Oh, the latter are something to enjoy. The Burger bar is right in the heart of the market, and you end up sitting on high bar stools facing a tiled wall with an old-style sign and two other not-to-miss sights. One: a projection of 'best of' of Flash Gordon (the movie), the other: a flamboyant looking burger-maker, who is quite difficult to capture on camera, every now and then peeking through the hole in the wall.

The place was crowded, noisy; people were friendly and did not mind squeezing in to make more space for newcomers. A young woman wearing an interesting head scarf was shouting at the man in the wall: 'where is my burger?' and chatting with a waitress. While we were there, our neighbours at the table were a bunch of ambulance crews, some city policemen, and some local office workers wearing suits and ties. Later, a group of hospital doctors joined in the fun: all of them wearing green uniforms and one even something that looked like head gear worn during operations. As I was ingesting the burger, I thought that it was good to be sitting there. Felt like a small piece in a large human machine - a good piece in a good machine. That's the 'low culture' part.