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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
On dishwashers and death of profound, or just warm, conversations
We are in a habit of tuning in to English radio: BBC4 and LBC being the top contenders, through this amazing invention called 'internet radio', just before dozing off every night. Apologies to the US radio (especially in light of my last post), but ain't nothing like it here... And only a few nights ago I heard someone's monologue, which was really an epitaph to profound, or just simple and warm, family conversation over dish-washing after meals. The author suggested that the omni-presence of dishwashers tragically eliminated this so important family interaction. Of course, if one were to search for the culprits in reducing family time of contemporary families, dishwashers would not be high on anyone's list, but bear with me here.
Not quite sure what it is, but I certainly subscribe to the finding: there is something comforting, bonding, conversation-inducing in gathering together over a pile of dirty dishes which is being purified through an assembly line-like process of "dad's washing, mom's sorting things, I'm drying, grandpa's..." etc.
I can remember my 5-year-old self standing on a little stool next to my grandfather and grandmother, while my parents were in and out of the kitchen bringing things in, helping me wipe things dry, and generally wandering around. Grandpa had a very good system for washing the most dishes using the smallest amount of water. One bowl for washing, one for rinsing, c'est ca. Not out of concerns for environment, but rather for family budget which was stretched beyond imagination. Perhaps also because he was brought up in a culture of non-wasting, pretty common in the 1930's Poland. And while he was washing-economizing, he talked! And my grandmother talked, and my parents talked. The most interesting family stories, gossip, war memories of my grandparents, I heard to the bloop, swoosh, bloop sounds of dish-washing. I miss these times, just like I miss my wonderful grandparents. But I am glad about this special bond we made while cleaning our dishes. I am worried that my little Zofia will not have the opportunity to experience this.
I should probably say honestly - I am not planning to throw away my dishwasher. Too lazy, too comfort-loving. Amidst plenty other life-simplifiers (interesting how many of those are also time-wasters: computers, TV, all the stuff starting with i-...) where do we find time and energy to talk, profoundly or simply, to each other? What to do...., what to do.....
Not quite sure what it is, but I certainly subscribe to the finding: there is something comforting, bonding, conversation-inducing in gathering together over a pile of dirty dishes which is being purified through an assembly line-like process of "dad's washing, mom's sorting things, I'm drying, grandpa's..." etc.
I can remember my 5-year-old self standing on a little stool next to my grandfather and grandmother, while my parents were in and out of the kitchen bringing things in, helping me wipe things dry, and generally wandering around. Grandpa had a very good system for washing the most dishes using the smallest amount of water. One bowl for washing, one for rinsing, c'est ca. Not out of concerns for environment, but rather for family budget which was stretched beyond imagination. Perhaps also because he was brought up in a culture of non-wasting, pretty common in the 1930's Poland. And while he was washing-economizing, he talked! And my grandmother talked, and my parents talked. The most interesting family stories, gossip, war memories of my grandparents, I heard to the bloop, swoosh, bloop sounds of dish-washing. I miss these times, just like I miss my wonderful grandparents. But I am glad about this special bond we made while cleaning our dishes. I am worried that my little Zofia will not have the opportunity to experience this.
I should probably say honestly - I am not planning to throw away my dishwasher. Too lazy, too comfort-loving. Amidst plenty other life-simplifiers (interesting how many of those are also time-wasters: computers, TV, all the stuff starting with i-...) where do we find time and energy to talk, profoundly or simply, to each other? What to do...., what to do.....
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