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.

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.....

On being a citizen US style - supporting public radio

WABE Radio of Atlanta has been a true delight for me since I arrived in America. An important thing to note here: it is a public radio station. One of 934 in the US! It never ceases to amaze me how prolific Americans are. Our WABE offers cleverly chosen classical music, which I am addicted to, and plenty more: news, cooking shows, talks and interviews... But here is the point - 'OUR' WABE? Whose? Who is responsible for its continued existence?

A naive, formerly overtaxed and overregulated European that I am, it did not occur to me that because it is public radio, it needs funds. From its listeners. Each year they organise a special pledge fest, when they tell you, very patiently and often, that you ought to contribute your hard earned cash. The pledge fest is going on right now. True, some public funds support public radio, but it has never been enough and it is not going to be happening for much longer - the funding has just been cut. 

Here lies my surprise and fascination with the phenomenon. My money? For a radio station I like to listen to? Should these things not be 'sorted' by the powers-that-be, up there in their grey-carpeted offices reachable by kilometers of concrete corridors of government bureaucracy? Paid by the license fee, which in the European countries I lived in is obligatory, public television and radio function quite happily providing content of varying quality and interest. Paid by all, enjoyed by some. Whether classical music, interviews with artists and politicians, gardening shows or books of the week selected by anonymous radio employees are your cup of tea, your license fee pays for the said delights. Same with other types of public entertainment provided on other stations: including jazz or hip hop music, or Bollywood music. The powers-that-be decide what cultural outpours are worthy of being placed within the realm of public culture - thus being paid for by the cultured-or-not general public. And here we are: all of us taxed, not all of us enlightened. 

This is Europe, but here in America the position is quite different. My other half explained with a smile of certainty that an official demanding a license fee would be met by a door slam, preceded by the well known middle finger gesture. How anti-social and greedy of these Americans, eh? How cheap, unsophisticated, peasant of the government. No wonder we have the stereotype of an uncultured, ignorant Yankee. 

Not at all, actually. Those public radio stations, in common with public television and other cultural and intellectual endeavours, are receiving impressive amounts of money from individuals and private foundations. Those greedy Americans are paying a lot for things they consider important: higher or lower culture, no culture at all. And, what could very much surprise your average BBC supporter (UK 'higher authority' for public culture), arts and culture are alive and kicking! Plenty of Americans think it a worthwhile cause to pay for classical music radios, enlightened academic media discussions, intelligent and informed documentaries, and more. 

Why pay if you do not have to - this is a question which comes to my mind. Cynical perhaps, but I am pouring out my soul here, so why not? 

What pulls me in at WABE radio? Driving, ironing, gardening, trying to take a deep breath while heavily pregnant - all are made easier to the sounds of Brahms and Bartok, Schubert and Chopin, and of course Gershwin. The good people at WABE talk to artists big and small (in size and fame), they support local young musicians, local cultural events, and track all the important arts happenings around the country. NPR news are excellent, so are 'All things considered': I love not being preached or shouted at. There is an interesting culinary show. And did I mention CAR TALK? The two brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi - or as they like to call themselves Click and Clack - talk about car repairs of course, but also provide a healthy portion of philosophy and humour to go with one's Saturday morning coffee and toast, or bacon and pancakes. They have been doing it since 1970s, and who can resist their slightly rough around the edges charm?

'How important is the station to you, how often do you listen to it?' - the people at WABE ask, and suggest that the answers to these questions ought to translate themselves into an amount. The contribution growing proportionately to how large a part in your life the station plays. A sort of self-imposed per-usage payment. Makes perfect economic sense. I first heard the pledge appeal driving from a garden shop, car boot loaded with pots, rocks, soil, and flowers of various colours and scents. On my way to work on my own little garden, minding my own business. And here it was: 'like it? help us pay for it!' And I felt, against my wildest expectations, responsible, at least in part, for the life of this space in ether which fills my days with pleasure. What I thought was crucial for maintaining some level of sophistication and panache in my immediate surroundings, suddenly became another item in my budget. And an important one too.
And I felt, perhaps for the first time since I voted in the first democratic elections in the newly freed Poland some time around 1990, a citizen.

Settling down in Decatur

After our Florida tour, we settled right down to quiet life in our little Decatur. We brought the great weather with us. With the exception of a few rainy hours, it has been continuously delightful here. Days are getting longer and brighter, the air is warmer and nicely scented with flowers, and with all the bird songs from the trees around our house - who needs Atlanta Symphony? (Although we have been to the Symphony too: the great Wynton Marsalis and his band made even Zofia kick for joy).

Right now it is almost 7pm, and I am sitting on our deck enjoying the end of day. The birds are chirping gently, and our crazy squirrels seem to have gone to bed. I am actually preparing a battle plan regarding the squirrels: last autumn one or two suckers took a habit of digging into my flower pots in search of some hidden treasure. Moth balls is one weapon I heard about. Still in search of other ideas, ideally not too bloody, although I did see red a few times when I saw what they have done to my cute little flower pots.
Decatur is quiet and peaceful, but by no means is it idle. The enthusiasm and creativity of Decaturians will never cease to fascinate me. Our local running store - Fleet Feet - organises runs and mini-marathons, and every Saturday morning there are groups of eager runners gathering around there, chatting and drinking vitamin waters and such. Dancing Goats coffee shop oozes creative energy from many of its patrons reading off paper or sleek monitors, drinking gallons of various coffee concoctions. I like to sit down with a paper and sip a small hot choc sans whipped cream. No, I am not that good with resisting other temptations (rice pudding being the latest craze). A new triathlon store opened recently, with all the possible equipment you might need, were you so inclined. Strange-looking bicycles are most impressive. There are some exciting new restaurants, and the Blue Elephant book shop has just celebrated its third birthday. Our local 'The Marlay' pub is getting ready for the St Patrick's Day celebration. There will be live music, of course, as usual - very decent Irish food, and tons of beer obviously.
People's gardens are receiving beauty treatments, and the sound of leaf blowers accompanies these not very tranquil therapies. Things are blooming, flowering, and certainly alive. Just yesterday, a group of volunteers was very busy clearing up a large green space bordering on the tiny creek behind our fence. They are setting up a nice little community garden there. What an exciting project.
Good place to live, Decatur.

Back from the land of flowers

When the Spanish explorers reached the southern part of North America in early sixteenth century, they discovered an almost tropical land covered with flowers (and swamps, but perhaps they did not notice those at first). Thus - they gave it an appropriate name - La Florida - the land of flowers. We drove almost two thousand miles, and cut through this long state up and down - from the northern borders to the southern most Key West.

When we were leaving Atlanta, the cold was intense and depressing. Packing swimsuits and beach umbrellas felt slightly inappropriate. But with every hundred miles south it felt as if someone was slowly uncovering the sun and turning up the thermostat. By the time we got to St. Augustine on the first night, it was much warmer already. The air smelled of the ocean and the upcoming spring. The shabby chic B&B we stayed at (Penny Farthing Inn) was full of trinkets, old china, and antique curiosities such as this one:

And when you add warm apple pie and tea waiting for us when we arrived, the full delight of the experience reveals itself. St. Augustine is an old town, in fact it is the oldest in the United States. There are reminders of history everywhere: castle, fort, museums. We were somewhat distracted because we could not wait to get further south - to Miami and Key West, yet we could not help but be charmed.

Next point - 'The Breakers' in the gorgeous, outrageously posh Palm Beach. The hotel fits the place like a leather glove. First built in 1896 by Henry Flagler - the builder of Florida railways and the head of Standard Oil (so powerful that it was dissolved by the Supreme Court in 1911 and split into 34 smaller companies - two of which later became Exxon and Mobil) - it was burnt twice and rebuilt to perfection. We enjoyed the luxurious lobby, which seemed to stretch for miles. The ceiling reminded me somewhat, in grandeur and in colour scheme, of the Vatican library - and in spite of that there was little I could call kitsch or cheap in this marvel of a place. The swanky restaurant where we had dinner was a true culinary mystery - just to mention a salad served in a tiny parcel with the dressing hidden in a little bubble one had to bite through. The rotunda breakfast room was one of the most breathtaking places to ingest your morning eggs and coffee that I encountered. We loved strolling around the cloisters and tiny courtyards, dipping in the relaxation swimming pool (one of five), and watching the sun travel over the ocean.

Our exit from Palm Beach was equally impressive. First - manicured streets with tiny hat shops, antique stores, coffee shops, art galleries, trodden softly by ladies and gentlemen clothed in pastels. I saw a mysterious slender figure of a woman covered head to toe in white and beige - wide-brimmed hat, scarf covering part of her face and her neck, long gloves and large sunglasses. She flowed almost above the pavement seemingly oblivious to bright sun and heat. Then we drove down narrow alleys, where one after another, among perfectly trimmed hedges, magnificent gates the size of our house hid mansions, sculpture gardens, fountains, and other things normally only seen in museums. We visited the house Henry Flagler gave to his third wife: she wanted a marble palace by the ocean and she did get just that! Pity he did not get to enjoy the house too long - died of a heart attack soon after they moved in. 

The road towards Miami almost touched the ocean. Perfect weather, the turquoise of the water, slight breeze... even my car sickness went away somewhere faced with these delights. The luxury turned to a concrete reality of jungles of retirement condos and hotels, only occasionally broken by a mansion or two, or by a public beach. Boca Raton, where we made a short yet unremarkable stop - perhaps with the exception of golf which was superb, Fort Lauderdale, etc, etc. Who knew there were so many people willing to retire to Florida... But who can blame them? This sun and this breeze (Floridians must have booked their own sun and breeze with god in advance somehow - they feel so different!) can make even tons of thousands of concrete and glass feel fresh and inviting. Those who could not afford their share of the concrete brought their mobile homes with them - we saw quite a few trailer parks filled with those 'snow birds'. 

Then - Miami Beach! Since I first experienced this cocktail of cultures, cuisines, colours, and, oh, art deco, in 2007, I have not been the same. And yet, this time I found it a touch tiresome. True, the ocean was there, so was the white sand, and the shopping, and the food, and the curvy art deco buildings, and the colorful crowds of the weird and the interesting, but what fun could they be for a large-tummied woman? My soul and my taste buds craved a mojito - of course an unachievable fantasy. After all, Zosia should choose her own favourite cocktail when she is grown. The sushi - always the high point for me - was another unattainable. Suddenly I started noticing the dust, the annoying crowds, the rush... Miami and me are having a crisis. Below is a photo from the place I really enjoyed, however - the Rusty Pelican has such great views of Miami that one forgets about the curiosities they serve there and call food. 

Later I discovered a new revelation - the Keys! We drove all the way to Key West when we left Miami. Driving down the seven mile bridge over the turquoise water one seems to have a feeling of leaving behind what ought to be left behind. And a new dawn comes, when one is surrounded by a curious mixture of all types of human species, by the beauty of coastal architecture, by countless chickens walking here and there, and of course by water on all sides - there seems to be nowhere to go! And it is interestingly soothing - even Hemingway seemed to think so (for a while at least), and he should know. 

Coming back to the people of Key West: there are those who left suits and city jobs for long beards and motorcycles, and there are those who did nothing of the kind - rather they bought expensive, charming houses and settled to a sun-filled life; there are thousands of tourists spit out every day by cruise ships for a brief stop on their way to the Caribbean - they spend their time buying cheap tat and getting drunk in the marina's bars; there are artists who rightly thought this was an inspiring place to be; there are artists and musicians who no longer wish to be creative, but spend their days recounting all the good and the bad in their life. And there we were - walking around and admiring them all. 

The hotel we stayed at was a phenomenon in itself -an old mansion with charming, palm-shaded courtyards, just off the streets with all the fun - the Island City House. Our veranda was a perfect place to read - I swallowed the Great Gatsby in a few hours there, and started craving another great novel. Key West - I will be back! 

Rose parade - a tale of the uncool

New Year's Day – when many of us wake up to a day already slightly past its prime. The sun, high up in the sky by the time we rise, looks with a sense of deep irony on our resolutions and good intentions which still smell of last night's delights. 

Half-woken, I sipped my decaff to the sounds and sights of the Rose Parade - a phenomenon I was not aware of until then, and which almost brought a tear to my eyes. From our living room sofa, stretched before our flat screen and covered with a warm blanket - Christmas gift from mother-in-law - I was transported to California. I reflected deeply on the metaphysical, philosophical, and botanical wisdom of parades, but mostly on the thousands of young people who enthusiastically took part in this one.

My thoughts were: what could possibly have enticed these teenagers to dress up in costumes which were hardly cool or sexy, and march, various musical instruments and other suitable objects in hand? This was so not u-tube, facebook, or twitter-worthy, so not Justin Bieber or Hannah Montana!

Up to this point, I had a very clear image of an American teenager in mind (don’t we all?) – a vision split between two very distinct heads of a hydra. One: low-cut jean-wearing, exploring a slight bit of a toned, tanned midriff, exhibiting an ‘I just got out of bed but cannot help looking gorgeous’ outlook on life. The other: also wearing low-cut jeans but for different reasons altogether, hamburger and fry-munching individual with shiny, streaky hair and a facial expression calling for help. One could even add another, much less significant in size ‘head’: large glasses, bad haircut, a large doze of social awkwardness, a PhD-level knowledge of major computer games, a slightly grey ‘computer tan’ complexion, in other words – a nerd. These three, on the surface so different, types have one crucial thing in common. It is being cool, aspiring to be cool, doing nothing that could even remotely be accused of not being cool.

Watching the Rose Parade, I realized that somewhere between Glee, Superbad and my memories of Beverly Hills 90210, I missed something. Who were these young people I was watching, in their hundreds, playing in marching bands or otherwise parading down the sunny California street? Why were they there?

The history of the event is long, perhaps as long as the Parade itself (it takes hours for all the participants to parade down Pasadena’s Colorado Boulevard). Sometime in the 1890s very distinguished citizens of Pasadena decided that they ought to show off their own little paradise, their 'Mediterranean of the West,' to the folks from the East Coast. So they invited them over for fun and games, and a parade showcasing the region's beautiful flowers. Of course, the flowers were meant to make the New Yorkers arriving from snow-covered metropolis sick with jealousy. It was January after all. And the success was overwhelming.  

Since then, the Parade is organized once a year and now it is a major media event - would it be too much to say that it equals some of the key college football games? Probably yes, but it is big nevertheless. People all around the country are having their first, and second, coffee of the New Year to it.

I think it is difficult for Europeans to understand the enormity, the pomposity, the variety, the monumental impressiveness of this parade. Perhaps one might compare it to the Queen's Jubilee, or the Bastille Day Parade. For me - a Pole who grew up in the socialist system - all the May Day parades come to mind, albeit for obvious reasons the mood in Pasadena is less, ... well, artificially joyful.

But the Rose Parade is so much more than this, and in fact it is so much more than roses.

First of all, there are the floats. They call for a longer story, which you will not find here: they are gardens, homes, toys, and often all these together in supernatural sizes, built out of flowers and some popular foods like corn, on wheels. They are built by volunteers or simply float-building companies using countless hours of hard work. They are built by charities, towns, hospitals, big and small businesses. They compete in a beauty contest under a whole number of interesting categories.

But even more impressive than the floats are the marching bands, if only because of the young people I am reflecting about. They march and strike various poses in perfect harmony, in the rhythm of the tunes they play, and pretty well too.

The bands come from various corners of the States, and are mostly school or college bands. Many consist of more than 100 musicians, some have a good few hundred members. All of them young, dressed in old-fashioned costumes which remind me of, well, uniforms. Here goes the North Carolina University Marching Sound Machine (a band with an over 70 years’ history), all dressed in red and white, straight up, proud and smiling; then there is the Southwest DeKalb High School Marching Panther Band (from Decatur, in Georgia), dressed in blue and yellow, and just as impressive; or the Spirit of St. Louis Marching Band – at least a hundred of them dressed in black and dark green. And there were so many more…

Old-fashioned uniforms? And they volunteer to play part in this Parade? I’ve been hit by a disconcerting thought that my comfortable set of stereotypes has just fallen like a house of cards. This called for an answer, a solution, and hopefully a new comfortable set of stereotypes. All things and people ought to fit snugly into categories if one is to retain one’s sanity, right? Where and how do I catalogue them, though? These were hundreds of teenagers for whom ‘cool’ was irrelevant. Or perhaps I should revisit ‘cool’. Did they redefine ‘cool’?

Searching for the meaning of ‘cool’ is a somewhat vain exercise – with a far from certain ‘do I qualify?’ somewhere at the back of our minds. Although, to quote Homer Simpson, “if you’re truly cool, you don’t need to be told you’re cool” (from episode: ‘Homerpalooza’).

Each historical point in time has its own ‘cool’. Academics who analyse the concept even drew a time-map of what was cool, and where, since about 1500s (they call it the ‘Cool Timeline’). According to Dick Pountain and David Robins who drew this Timeline, what is cool right now in the Americas and Europe are Dance/Techno and Hip Hop. Rather than merely styles of music, these two are cultural, philosophic youth movements. They allow those who wish to express themselves to do so through the attitudes, ideas, clothes and haircuts. The things they say and sing are cool, so are things they smoke, drink, and tweet about.

The bands marching in the Rose Parade might have been playing Dance or Hip-Hop music. Some actually did just that, but there was something crucial missing. There is another important thing about being ‘cool’. What is ‘cool’ at a particular time is slightly out of the ordinary, beyond the generally accepted, somewhat distant and out of reach, non-conformist. But the young people I saw in the Rose Parade were certainly quite ordinary, and I could almost imagine the establishment, sitting comfortably in their dark leather armchairs, nodding and singing to the tunes they played. These were thousands of young people who were not well dressed. Many of them were also not very attractive. There was nothing disconcerting, gripping, intriguing about them. Instead of the casual and slightly dissatisfied attitude typical for cool teenagers, they were happy to be where they were. They were not cool and they did not care.

Interestingly, the longer I live here in America, the more I see the presence of these bands in community and cultural life. Take college football games as an example. Don’t understand the fuss? Just check a few U-Tube videos of such games. And remember when you observe stadiums capable of containing one hundred thousand people (and full to the brim) – these are games played by two amateur school-kid teams! Even Stephen Fry, who is not known for being overly emotional, was reduced to tears when witnessing one such game. Important games very often start with, among other attractions, a band or two. This is another side of American pop culture – something Europeans certainly do not appreciate.

So – back to the bands and the uncool teenagers. Perhaps the uncool is the new cool? As in all my other experiences and reflections since I became an adopted American – the more I see, the less I seem to know. 

How much does America care about world news?

How many times has an average European been told about the badly informed, uninterested in the world news Americans? Hehehe... those ignorant Americans, so blase about all that happens and all that is in foreign lands ... If I am anything to go by, and I do count myself within the ranks of average Europeans, the answer is: this picture of Americans has been almost engraved on my mind.
Now that I am here, in the land of the ignorant, I started reflecting on this phenomenon. And the thing is: it can be a challenge to get good quality international news, if one is to watch and read what is generally/easily available. Of course, as with all things, upon further digging one comes across the unexpected. PBS news, the New York Times International section, and even the BBC America can fill in the void and satisfy the longing for information about the world. But because there is some significant effort involved in those searches, one can safely assume that an average American does not become overly exposed to international news.
Are we to commiserate those under-enlightened, self-absorbed people?  Right now I am no longer so quick to judge, or indeed commiserate them. And, forgive me o ye European brethren, I even started commiserating you.
First of all, I am afraid that our/European judgement passed on the Americans has its deeper source, at least partly, in a little chip we carry on our shoulder. Because, let's face it, when we say that Americans are not curious about the world news, we really mean that they are not curious about us. And how can this be? Is Europe not the centre of the world? We would be surprised to see that there is quite a lot spoken of South America and Asia. To an average American, Europe is just as un/important as their southern and, much further away, western neighbours. And, frankly, I personally have a feeling that they see us as 'those weird Europeans'. Something like what the French are to, well, the rest of the world. Quite often I see, or at least sense, a slight smirk on the faces of reporters giving us a gist of some event in Europe. The latest strikes in Greece, demonstrations in France, the strikes in Italy (where strikes are not really 'latest' but rather constant) are the best example. How can Americans keep straight faces at the sight of someone demonstrating at having to work until they are, well, 62? Or English students breaking into government buildings at a suggestion that they would need to pay more for their own education? Or Mr Berlusconi's recent adventures at the Italian Parliament. Or Poland's continuing struggles with conspiracy theories about who 'really' brought down the plane with our president on it, and who created an artificial fog when the plane was landing. Or even Europe's quite serious problems with the Euro? They bring smiles to the faces of quite balanced and sophisticated newscasters. So my conclusion here would be - an American perspective on the world news is far from similar to ours.
And another reason why I feel we Europeans have not got a whole lot to be proud of, is when I compare American local news with what an average European is receiving. Yes, we in Europe may be well informed about what the German Chancellor said the day before, but do we know what has happened in our own cities, in our neighbourhoods? I am sorry to say that American local news puts their European counterpart to shame. I have lived in quite a few European countries - never observed anything like what I see here in Atlanta.
Local news starts at 4:30 (!) in the morning, and lasts till 9am. Then there is the lunchtime and the 2-hour dinner slot as well. And the late evening show concludes the day. What could they possibly talk about? Oh, I cannot help but feel amazed at the contents. True to fact, local crime, disasters and corruption play the key part. It is an intense, chilling drama of human emotions. But you can bet on the fact that if there is anything of importance happening in your 'hood, the news people will be there. Helicopter shots of accidents and road problems, a microphone straight in the face of a corrupt local official, an interview with a firefighter who has just finished saving a local store, all create a newscast which is difficult to miss. A visit by a famous someone, an event at a local school, a book or film festival, a new restaurant, and more... Not only are the news people there when it happens, they also often are the source of the news: they discover and uncover more than one would want to see. I will never forget the face of a local Atlanta reporter who wanted to show how bad the rain and wind were - we've had some localised tornadoes that day. His was soaking wet. His hair in thick dark streaks was stuck to his forehead. The rain and wind were getting into his open mouth when he spoke. But the determination on his face! And did we know exactly how bad it was out there? Yes we did.
To all you skeptics who shoot 'humbug' straight back at me, and point out the relative lack of any point in such 'news', I say - humbug yourselves! There is more to this news coverage than meets the eye. It shows local/unimportant people caring about local/unimportant events. And it makes one feel a member of a community. To risk being overly dramatic: it is democracy in action, if ever I saw democracy in action. It is dialogue about issues, transparency, full open (often too open for my taste) information. Americans - self-absorbed? Yes! Well-informed and involved in their communities? Also yes! I, a European, feel jealous.
Back to watching local news now.

Winter is coming!

Europe has been covered with a think white cover since Tuesday, and my Polish compatriots are bracing themselves for a -20 Celsius night. Still, one always feels for the English of course - they traditionally appear so cutely amazed and terrified at the slightest sight of white-coloured precipitation. So - my warmest thoughts go to all my friends stuck somewhere in cold buses (London Underground was on strike this week), and in cold houses. I remember my cottage in the Cotswolds - so gorgeous but so impossibly, bone-breakingly cold! 

We also have our own cold streak here, and today Atlanta even saw some small tornadoes! Top that, Brits! It still did not deter me from starting my Christmas shopping. Malls are a great invention - probably an American invention. If not, Americans took them on and perfected the idea. Spent half an hour being pampered by a half-Italian, half-Russian make-up salesman. Of course I bought some - mea culpa. 

TV watching - one of the great pleasures of early pregnancy... or not?

As I have become temporarily house-trapped by my morning sickness, I explored the joys of day-time American TV. What else can a girl do when the only way to be comfortable is on her back, and the only direction is horizontal? I thought I became accustomed to the media of 1990s and the present – so different to the experiences of my childhood in Poland. But here I am, all old-fashioned, black and white, and irritated. 

Why am I being shouted at? TV hosts, advertisers, even serious journalists tend to raise their voices to the level which my hormonally-affected head cannot tolerate. It is a peculiar phenomenon, where people seem to think that the louder they talk, the more important we the viewers would perceive their message to be.

And to continue with my list of complaints: I am missing news from Europe! US is a large country, to be sure. Thus, unless there is a major (minimum 50-ish victims) disaster somewhere across the Ocean, or some lesson (normally a 'what not to do' lesson) to be learnt, Europe does not seem to be much on a radar. 

Should I stop complaining? Perhaps... Voltaire wrote a story of a man sent by a god to explore a city and determine whether it was worthy of survival, or as the god intended it ought to be destroyed. The man first encounters the loud, the outrageous, the despicable – what Voltaire rightly observes is often the most visible in any nation or society. Only after deeper observation, almost as if he were peeling an onion, does the man see the worthy, the good: which tends to be quiet, modest and thus less visible. Perhaps I have not peeled the American TV onion yet. Still searching... 

Weather is improving...

This is how different the South is to everything my life in Europe got me used to. Only a few months ago the phrase 'weather is improving' would mean one thing to me: it is getting warmer! In Atlanta, though, it is exactly the opposite. September here is nothing short of delightful. With the cooler air, still warm and even hot during the day, and the humidity which finally reached tolerable proportions, we can spend most of our days outside without fear of being boiled (or steamed...?) alive. Oh, how delightful the mornings are on our deck, with gentle breeze, chirping birds, the green wilderness behind our fence... And afternoons are also full of attractions: just watching the completely mad squirrels chasing one another up and down the tall pine and oak trees which surround our house could take one's attention for a while. Add a glass of wine (or water for those of us who do not do alcohol) and some jazz, and you are in Southern heaven my friend.
And did I mention Atlanta itself, and even our little Decatur? The place is coming to life. It is as if it suddenly became populated again. 'So there are people inside these buildings...', I think to myself when driving by the now colourful and lively streets of Decatur, Midtown, or Virginia Highlands. The cultural events are so plentiful that one would need a group of assistants to attend them all. Just a few examples of what the people of Atlanta have been up to:

• The Decatur Book Festival in early September, which is apparently the largest independent book festival in the country, with the opening speech by Jonathan Franzen - author of 'The Corrections' and now also 'Freedom', and plenty of events: book fairs and meetings. The organisers seem to have wanted to cover as many aspects of literary work as possible, even including the previously unexplored aspects of language and literature: the first Experimental Writers Asylum. Overall - impressive event.
• The Midtown Art Festival, with artist markets, art auctions, live concerts, and lots of beer and wine, and food of course.

Zombie walks, runs, culinary celebrations,... Exhausting, this Atlanta life.

Back from Texas

And so we are finally back from our Texas road trip. Did not go exactly how we planned it. We did plan: Hill Country, Dude Ranch and some 'cowboy' experience. We got: a severe tropical storm named, mystically, Hermione and so much rain you could swim in it. Records were broken, we were soaked. So instead of Hill Country we did San Antonio, Austin, Houston, and we ended the trip in New Orleans.

San Antonio: the River Walk is definitely overrated, though there are true architectual gems to be observed in some not-so-well-trodden places. Example - look left.

Austin is a fun city - a real working city as opposed to San Antonio which felt like an artificial tourist trap. We had a great dinner at Perry's Steakhouse, which is in an interesting historic Norwood Tower, right in the heart of Austin. They have an impressive wine cellar (which one can actually admire while eating - shelves upon shelves of red and white, some even pink or bubbly, goodness. Our favourite place in Austin, though, was the State Capitol - what an impressive building! The things which impressed me most:

• its Renaissance Revival style
• the Capitol Building (which hosts the State Legislature (House and Senate), the State Governor, as well as the Supreme Court) is centred around a rotunda. Not only is the rotunda gorgeous to look at and a pleasure to stroll up and down, it also has portraits of all the Governors (yes, including the certain Mr Bush) in chronological order: so if you want to see the first one you must climb all the way to the top. They move them all, one by one, one position higher, with each outgoing Governor. It seems that one day they will run out of space.    

This is me, very thoughtful in the Supreme Court room:

• 
  
  And yet another detail in the 'what impressed me most' series: the Capital Building is most increduously open and accessible to the public. I have visited a good few buildings of this type, including the European Commission and European Parliament, and some other European parliaments and courts, and have been screened and screened and screened... Plus, noone would even think of letting me in if I was not invited by 'someone on the inside'. Yes, official tours and such, but accessing the library, the Governor's official meeting room, even eating at the canteen with the members of State Senate? I like democracy Texas-style.

New Orleans and I probably did not get the best of introductions: it was college football night, and Bourbon Street swarmed with drunk football fans: strolling with drinks in hand, standing on balconies, screaming to people below, throwing things from balconies. Man, the place stunk! You think you understand? Let me illustrate. Imagine: you are in a crowded bus, next to a dude who's evidently had a few too many the night before and probably forgot to shower. When he yawns, you are on the receiving end of the sniff of last night's beer and cigarettes, perhaps even some remnants of kebab. Unforgettable experience. After a drink or two the smell somehow stops being a nuisance and starts 'setting the mojo, man'. But the rest of New Orleans, though hot and swampy, was interesting, charming, old, artsy, and green. Architecture lives up to the legends about it, the cemeteries are full of somber-looking, imposing tombs (no wonder the Interview with a Vampire was filmed there), and the voodoo, colourful, jazzy groove is scintillating.

The Garden District was my favourite part of New Orleans. We passed by the house of Anne Rice - the author of Interview with a Vampire, and so many gorgeous historic houses that I lost count. On our way back we returned to Bourbon Street - much quieter this time (Sunday morning), and had an oyster and beer tour - not sure how many oysters and beer we've had: my best guess is 48 and 4 respectively. I am glad to say that no serious stomach perturbations followed and we are now safely home.

On contributing to economy and rationalising the irrationalisable

I thought about this some more: buying the 'necessary' stuff when getting into new sports. Was I rationalising something which cannot be rationalised? Was it really necessary to obtain the complete attire in order to play? Or perhaps the two noble games do not require all these? Some clubs, and a tennis racket - that's all? Am I a sucker?

I hate to generalise (well, not really...), but it seems to me that: a. I am indeed a sucker, and b. I am not the only one. It is tempting to get into the 'need to get equipped' mood. I personally know quite a few gadget people. Stocking up on the gadgets makes getting into a new activity real, brings it home. We can look into the mirror and say: see how serious I am? We are seducing ourself thinking: even though my swing is wobbly, I might at least look good while I wobble. Just look at my curves accentuated by the cute skirt, and how elegant my hand looks in the leather glove, I am so glad I got the blue racket and not the yellow one - it reflects my eyes ... Been there, done that, and will continue.

On taking up new sports and contributing to economy

I have just taken up two new sports: tennis and golf. Love both, completely, for life, and with no reservations. I would like to say that where I came from they are only pursued by the wealthy, but I think the Poland I left during mid-90s is quite different to the Poland of today. To the point, however: I have some reflections concerning the taking up of new sports which do not quite have much to do with sports as health-inducing activities.

Having just spent, in order to obtain all the necessary pieces of equipment one cannot play golf without, an amount of money which would sustain an average middle class family for... well, a while, I am in two minds about the whole thing.

The shoes (oh, the shoes....), the socks, the sexy glove, the seven (for now!) clubs, the bag which holds them, the polo tee, the cute skirt, and I am now fully equipped. Hit my first few balls today. Very gracious, elegant way of twisting one's body and walking. Riding the golf carts is fun too, and do not let anyone tell you otherwise. But why oh why the fuss? I am no socialist - noone who grew up in Eastern Europe should be. But could we make do with three or four clubs and perhaps even (forgive me, o ye golfers) go glove-less? Could we be less 'elitist', for lack of a better word (perhaps pre-selective is a better one)? I say 'we', because for all my complaining I adore golf, and tennis which also costs an arm and a leg to get into, and have been completely sold (irony is not accidental here) on the idea of pursuing both.

One thing that makes me feel good is that I have contributed to the economy, which in today's times cannot be a bad thing.

Texan adventures

And so we got to Texas. The whole 13 hours of driving, through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. A few things I did not know/realise about Texas:
1. It is industrial, built-up, commercialised, probably as much as it is green and scenic (I guess deep in my mind I imagined vast pastures, horses and other associated farm animals, very importantly - cowboys with the appropriate attire consisting of tight jeans and sleeveless t's, and the occasional oil well/factory of some type),
2. A more striking fact - it is huge! Once you enter, you have over 800 miles of driving to get you to the other side. The vastness of it is intimidating.

Adventures so far: we drove to the Sweetwater Country Club, I played golf for the first time, and I won my first set in tennis!

So no 'Texas-style' activities yet - horse riding and hanging out at a dude ranch will come later, when we get to San Antonio and the Hill Country - Monday.

By the way, Sweetwater Country Club is in a suburban town near Houston - Sugar Land. From what I saw, I think it should be called 'Milk and Honey Land': the mansion houses we saw on our way to the club were the size of a decent hotel: they had separate wings, cute verandas, swimming pools, gardens, etc etc, and were as opulent as mansions go.  Check out this example: