So Wyspianski Unwinding tagged me in this thing known as 'meme'. I'm still not sure what this means actually: generally it seems to consist of answering arbitrary questions on facebook when it's not even your lunch hour.
The rules are that you have to reveal Seven Random Facts about yourself which are Strange but True.
The problem is I'm fast learning that most things about me seem to be verging on the somewhat odd. Being English is the big glaring one, not to mention enjoying rain and Marmite and thinking that Polish grammar is cool. And naming a blog after a family pet.
Apart from that, finding out strange facts about other people is often not as interesting as you'd hope. "Oh so your toenails curl inwards? That's uh... nice..."
It'd be much more of a challenge to think of seven normal things about me.
(You saw this one coming, didn't you...)
1. I like cake. Everybody likes cake. The only time I've been unable to finish cake was in Balice airport waiting for my brother's plane to land in the snow. This particular slice of cake was beautiful, appetising, with layers of chocolate sponge, cream, pastry, pretty much everything- but after two forkfuls it became mysteriously and incontrovertibly inedible. It was the cake you go home with after ten pints and then chew your arm off trying to get away from in the morning. Even Car Guy didn't like it and that's pretty telling. I'm willing to bet my dog wouldn't have touched it.
2. Going by the last time I checked, I'm pretty certain I have two of everything that I'm supposed to have. Actually you can almost see them in the Christmas post below. Y a peu de monde au balcon. Hélas.
3. I don't like to put together flat-pack furniture at two in the morning. Neither will I do DIY, test crash helmets or hold tap-dancing classes for baby elephants at this time of night. If you happen to be my upstairs neighbour and you have any vestiges of a survival instinct, you would be wise to follow my example.
4. I have brown hair. About 60% of people in Europe have brown hair. Contrary to popular belief, the hair-colour map on Wikipedia shows a higher concentration of blondes in the UK than in Poland. Clearly I fit in here. That doesn't fully explain why Polish people keep asking me for directions though. Today, some very spacey-looking babcia in a mohair hat asked me for something like 'great street' or 'garden street', or possibly 'great garden street' and for the first time I had absolutely no idea where it was. Shame on me. Normally I know exactly what they are talking about: the main challenge is to get them there. Sometimes I wake in the night and have visions of bewildered non-Krakowian Poles circling the Aleje in their Fiats, repeating to themselves: 'But she looked so trustworthy...'
5. Just like everyone else, I lose everything that isn't tied on. The mohair beret is now doing the rounds on the number 132 from Nowy Kleparz. Sorry Maria...
6. I'm a coward. This is a very normal human trait. It is what makes me afraid of the Bad Obwarzanki Lady and all other purveyors of ring-i-form baked goods. It is possibly why I am sitting at a desk translating stuff instead of leaping around in dungarees saving the world. It probably explains why I am not earning pots of money like my friends in London. It definitely explains why I haven't been upstairs to help my neighbours with their DIY yet.
The unfortunate thing about cowardice is that it is often combined with curiosity e.g. "I wonder what will happen if I rollerblade down this apparently gentle slope without using the brakes"; "Hmmm do you think I could get across Basztowa before that tram comes around the corner?"; "What would it be like to move to a Central European country where I don't speak the language and don't know anyone?"
The sad result is a life spent in a state of continuous downhill rollerblading terror.
7. My dog is called Hodge One. OK, I made that one up.
And seven blogs to tag, without any obligation at all to faff about with meme (which is quite difficult to make into a decent blog post, actually), just purely cos it's the rules and it would be rude not to and I want to excrete this increasingly-tiresome post from my system and get onto the next thing:
http://bsketti.wordpress.com/ - hilarious and scarily well-informed about climate change.
Polish blogs:
http://www.pogodna.blogspot.com/
http://www.kinuk.co.uk/blogspot.com/
Random selection from the Guardian Abroad:
http://scagozo.com/blog/
http://earthandstarrs.blogspot.com/
http://www.dalianmitmita.com/yblog/
http://abermonamour.blogspot.com/
Showing posts with label Rollerblading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rollerblading. Show all posts
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Sunday, 16 September 2007
Impertinent questions, ice cream, directions
Our Polish class- no longer 'beginners' but 'been doing this for five months now so no excuses for still being pretty rubbish' has increased in number by two. It might be three, depending on whether or not we scared the Dutch guy away.
We are still working on the past tense: this is made more complicated than you'd think because each verb has two versions, depending on whether you did something often-frequently or only once (thank you W.S. Gilbert for a very effective illustration of the difference between perfective and imperfective). A favourite language school exercise involves taking a little picture card from a stack and describing the activity illustrated on it. This is useful because you can do it in the past, future, negative and so on. The framework question is 'How often did you ... last year?' e.g.:
- Last year, how often did you go to the cinema?
- Last year, how often did you go out to dinner?
- Last year, how often did you watch television?
The answer is 'daily', 'once a week', 'twice a month' and so on (i.e. often-frequently/imperfective). Unfortunately, one of the picture cards shows two faces in close proximity. What's that? we asked.
- 'Całowac': to kiss.
Scandal ensued. One of the new guys in the class, with a big grin, has taken to asking the girls how often they kissed last year, last weekend, yesterday evening and so on. The cinema picture is no longer 'jak często w ześlym roku chodziłaś do kina?' but
'jak często w ześłym roku całowałaś w kinie?' - how often did you kiss in the cinema?
The possible variants are endless. I can only hope that I have been kissed in interesting enough places...
For some reason (maybe because I have a deceptively harmless appearance), people always approach me to ask for directions.
Little do they know.
To begin with, I would listen calmly and then respond with 'nie wiem', 'nie rozumiem' or 'nie mowie dobrze po polsku'. However, now I can just about work out what the question is and where the place is. And, thanks to my Colloquial Polish CD, I am An Expert at telling people to go straight on, turn right and so on.
Today, as I was on my way back from the American bookstore, two middle-aged ladies asked me how to reach ul. Piłudskiego and the National Museum. To my surprise, I realized I knew what they were talking about. I couldn't tell you whether my directions were accurate or not (given that I usually need SatNav just to find my way to the muesli aisle), but there was definitely communication of some description, which is a small miracle!
Visitors to Krakow... watch out...
This weekend the sun came out and we had a short-lived Indian summer [in Polish this is known as a 'golden summer' because of the sunlight on the turning leaves and other sentimental things. I think the British name came about because the reddening foliage, coupled with the fact that the rugby's on, triggers a mysterious craving for chicken tikka masala].
On Sunday, having spent an hour and a half rollerblading up and down the Wisła without falling in, I decided that it was high time I tried out the famous ice-cream place on Starowislna (given that it's been just down the road all this time). This unassuming outlet is reputed to sell The Best Ice-Cream in the whole city, so normally there is a resigned-looking queue of people lined up along the street. In almost six months I've still not managed to acquire any kind of Polish stoicism in the face of queues, so up until now I have always passed this particular confectioner by.
Today, however was going to be the day.
As I approached the shop, I passed several cars parked in the street, each with one or two people sitting inside, vacant, beatific looks on their faces and melted ice-cream dripping down their chins onto the dashboard.
A certain amount of organisation is required if you want to frequent any eating-places in Krakow not designed for tourists.
Once inside the door of the shop, you realise you do not get to see the product. Recommendation by word of mouth should be enough for you. There is a list of seven or eight flavours, primarily forest fruits, on the wall behind the counter. You have approximately six minutes to translate them and decide what you want (although the size of the cones is generous, so you can go for several at a time) before you arrive at the till. There are two things to remember: number of scoops followed by list of flavours. It is a slick operation, and before you realise what has happened you are outside blinking in the sunshine with a veritable tower of frozen dairy product causing you some serious wrist strain.
Verdict: fruit flavours are definitely what this place does best. They have a sharp and tangy flavour (I had strawberry and blueberry) which a good foil for the slight sugariness. The berry ices have a smooth texture as they melt and are not sickeningly creamy, although the chocolate (ok, ok, I had three scoops, I couldn't decide quickly enough) was a bit icy. But more than compensation for this iciness was the fact that it contained chunks of real chocolate: decent stuff too, not that cooking rubbish.
Apparently in the winter they switch to doughnuts.
If you're reading this in the office, I do hope there's a decent gelateria on a corner near you...
We are still working on the past tense: this is made more complicated than you'd think because each verb has two versions, depending on whether you did something often-frequently or only once (thank you W.S. Gilbert for a very effective illustration of the difference between perfective and imperfective). A favourite language school exercise involves taking a little picture card from a stack and describing the activity illustrated on it. This is useful because you can do it in the past, future, negative and so on. The framework question is 'How often did you ... last year?' e.g.:
- Last year, how often did you go to the cinema?
- Last year, how often did you go out to dinner?
- Last year, how often did you watch television?
The answer is 'daily', 'once a week', 'twice a month' and so on (i.e. often-frequently/imperfective). Unfortunately, one of the picture cards shows two faces in close proximity. What's that? we asked.
- 'Całowac': to kiss.
Scandal ensued. One of the new guys in the class, with a big grin, has taken to asking the girls how often they kissed last year, last weekend, yesterday evening and so on. The cinema picture is no longer 'jak często w ześlym roku chodziłaś do kina?' but
'jak często w ześłym roku całowałaś w kinie?' - how often did you kiss in the cinema?
The possible variants are endless. I can only hope that I have been kissed in interesting enough places...
For some reason (maybe because I have a deceptively harmless appearance), people always approach me to ask for directions.
Little do they know.
To begin with, I would listen calmly and then respond with 'nie wiem', 'nie rozumiem' or 'nie mowie dobrze po polsku'. However, now I can just about work out what the question is and where the place is. And, thanks to my Colloquial Polish CD, I am An Expert at telling people to go straight on, turn right and so on.
Today, as I was on my way back from the American bookstore, two middle-aged ladies asked me how to reach ul. Piłudskiego and the National Museum. To my surprise, I realized I knew what they were talking about. I couldn't tell you whether my directions were accurate or not (given that I usually need SatNav just to find my way to the muesli aisle), but there was definitely communication of some description, which is a small miracle!
Visitors to Krakow... watch out...
This weekend the sun came out and we had a short-lived Indian summer [in Polish this is known as a 'golden summer' because of the sunlight on the turning leaves and other sentimental things. I think the British name came about because the reddening foliage, coupled with the fact that the rugby's on, triggers a mysterious craving for chicken tikka masala].
On Sunday, having spent an hour and a half rollerblading up and down the Wisła without falling in, I decided that it was high time I tried out the famous ice-cream place on Starowislna (given that it's been just down the road all this time). This unassuming outlet is reputed to sell The Best Ice-Cream in the whole city, so normally there is a resigned-looking queue of people lined up along the street. In almost six months I've still not managed to acquire any kind of Polish stoicism in the face of queues, so up until now I have always passed this particular confectioner by.
Today, however was going to be the day.
As I approached the shop, I passed several cars parked in the street, each with one or two people sitting inside, vacant, beatific looks on their faces and melted ice-cream dripping down their chins onto the dashboard.
A certain amount of organisation is required if you want to frequent any eating-places in Krakow not designed for tourists.
Once inside the door of the shop, you realise you do not get to see the product. Recommendation by word of mouth should be enough for you. There is a list of seven or eight flavours, primarily forest fruits, on the wall behind the counter. You have approximately six minutes to translate them and decide what you want (although the size of the cones is generous, so you can go for several at a time) before you arrive at the till. There are two things to remember: number of scoops followed by list of flavours. It is a slick operation, and before you realise what has happened you are outside blinking in the sunshine with a veritable tower of frozen dairy product causing you some serious wrist strain.
Verdict: fruit flavours are definitely what this place does best. They have a sharp and tangy flavour (I had strawberry and blueberry) which a good foil for the slight sugariness. The berry ices have a smooth texture as they melt and are not sickeningly creamy, although the chocolate (ok, ok, I had three scoops, I couldn't decide quickly enough) was a bit icy. But more than compensation for this iciness was the fact that it contained chunks of real chocolate: decent stuff too, not that cooking rubbish.
Apparently in the winter they switch to doughnuts.
If you're reading this in the office, I do hope there's a decent gelateria on a corner near you...
Monday, 3 September 2007
End of the summer
This morning I merrily got up at seven, washed and ate breakfast and left the house for work, locking the door securely behind me [author's note, I can say all this in Polish now- except possibly the bit about locking the door- aw let me feel pleased with myself, just for a second, please...].
Fifteen minutes later and halfway down Starowislna street I realised that I had turned the key in the deadlock, effectively trapping my flatmates in the house. I sprinted back down the street, across the tram station and up the stairwell, where I had to go through the whole process of unlocking the door, re-locking it (using the other keyhole) and then unlocking and re-locking, three times for luck, just to make Absolutely Sure, before finally racing back down the stairwell.
So much for getting to the office early.
The heady summer weather has broken and autumn is on its way for sure. The other night I attempted to go rollerblading before darkness fell. As I trotted down the street to the river, blades swinging, the first ominous drops started to fall. I carried on regardless, but by the time I reached the river and changed shoes there was a noticeable, if gentle, precipitation. It was really fine until I rounded the bend towards Wawel hill and was caught full in the face by a driving gale.
I took refuge under a bridge (which was rapidly becoming a wind tunnel) with a couple of other bedraggled rollerbladers and one or two cyclists.
We all waited for the shower to pass.
We waited.
And waited.
Summer had clearly moved south to warmer climes.
Finally I ventured out from under the bridge, tentatively stepping off the verge onto the slick asphalt. Instantly the wind caught me from behind and I half-slid, half-allowed myself to be buffeted all the way back to the bridge at the end of Starowislna. Sadly I may have to hang up the knee pads until spring, but I suppose at least I have more chance of staying upright.
Roll on the snowboarding season I say!
Fifteen minutes later and halfway down Starowislna street I realised that I had turned the key in the deadlock, effectively trapping my flatmates in the house. I sprinted back down the street, across the tram station and up the stairwell, where I had to go through the whole process of unlocking the door, re-locking it (using the other keyhole) and then unlocking and re-locking, three times for luck, just to make Absolutely Sure, before finally racing back down the stairwell.
So much for getting to the office early.
The heady summer weather has broken and autumn is on its way for sure. The other night I attempted to go rollerblading before darkness fell. As I trotted down the street to the river, blades swinging, the first ominous drops started to fall. I carried on regardless, but by the time I reached the river and changed shoes there was a noticeable, if gentle, precipitation. It was really fine until I rounded the bend towards Wawel hill and was caught full in the face by a driving gale.
I took refuge under a bridge (which was rapidly becoming a wind tunnel) with a couple of other bedraggled rollerbladers and one or two cyclists.
We all waited for the shower to pass.
We waited.
And waited.
Summer had clearly moved south to warmer climes.
Finally I ventured out from under the bridge, tentatively stepping off the verge onto the slick asphalt. Instantly the wind caught me from behind and I half-slid, half-allowed myself to be buffeted all the way back to the bridge at the end of Starowislna. Sadly I may have to hang up the knee pads until spring, but I suppose at least I have more chance of staying upright.
Roll on the snowboarding season I say!
Monday, 27 August 2007
Serious Whinge
Now, while I appreciate that Starbucks, Costa coffee and the like are the Dark Angels of Globalization, at least a girl can go in on her own and drink a coffee undisturbed.
Why is it that I cannot simply sit peacefully on a bench in the Planty and eat my sandwiches without some fat old drunk assuming that I require his company? Piss-artists of Poland: Go Away! I vant to be alone. [melodramatic flounce].
Things are looking bad, very bad: even Harry Belafonte is not helping. I have had to break into my emergency HMS Pinafore supplies. I haven't yet resorted to the double Iolanthe CD, but it's coming, I can feel it.
In almost five months, I have managed comprehensively to ruin both my personal finances and my romantic life, and I still don't understand more than about the first three words that anyone says to me. And the food is Awful. Sorry, but I'm never going to be a fan of kielbasa and potatoes.
Dearly though I love the British higher education system (ahem) it is grossly overpriced for the returns you get on it. As a consequence I now spend over a third of my take-home pay on loan repayments. This hurts especially because almost all the other the British expats I've met so far are buying up land (even if only a parking space) as if it were on two for one at Sainsbury's. I can barely afford to eat meat, let alone invest in property.
A friend back in London says she looks forward to seeing me in the orange-painted EasyNursingHome in fifty years time when our scant National Insurance contributions have finally become obsolete...
Right now, I fail to see how being in Krakow is furthering my career or indeed bringing me any benefit at all. Except that I finally learnt to use the brakes on my rollerblades. But this was more a question of survival (not to mention saving face) than anything else.
Can anyone give me a decent reason not to hitch a lift (or indeed skate) back to Katowice and jump on the next WizzAir to London where I can live out of my parents' fridge and earn a fortune (in fat shiny British pounds) as a French PA to a hedge fund manager in the City??
Why is it that I cannot simply sit peacefully on a bench in the Planty and eat my sandwiches without some fat old drunk assuming that I require his company? Piss-artists of Poland: Go Away! I vant to be alone. [melodramatic flounce].
Things are looking bad, very bad: even Harry Belafonte is not helping. I have had to break into my emergency HMS Pinafore supplies. I haven't yet resorted to the double Iolanthe CD, but it's coming, I can feel it.
In almost five months, I have managed comprehensively to ruin both my personal finances and my romantic life, and I still don't understand more than about the first three words that anyone says to me. And the food is Awful. Sorry, but I'm never going to be a fan of kielbasa and potatoes.
Dearly though I love the British higher education system (ahem) it is grossly overpriced for the returns you get on it. As a consequence I now spend over a third of my take-home pay on loan repayments. This hurts especially because almost all the other the British expats I've met so far are buying up land (even if only a parking space) as if it were on two for one at Sainsbury's. I can barely afford to eat meat, let alone invest in property.
A friend back in London says she looks forward to seeing me in the orange-painted EasyNursingHome in fifty years time when our scant National Insurance contributions have finally become obsolete...
Right now, I fail to see how being in Krakow is furthering my career or indeed bringing me any benefit at all. Except that I finally learnt to use the brakes on my rollerblades. But this was more a question of survival (not to mention saving face) than anything else.
Can anyone give me a decent reason not to hitch a lift (or indeed skate) back to Katowice and jump on the next WizzAir to London where I can live out of my parents' fridge and earn a fortune (in fat shiny British pounds) as a French PA to a hedge fund manager in the City??
***
It is now about six hours later. Things are ever so slightly better. I have realised that, however bad a day I am having, it can't be nearly as bad as that of the grumpy girl with the tattoos in the ex-commie grocer's (sorry...) next door. If she's not bailing yet, then I have no excuse.
Next time she's out for a fag break in our yard I'm going to strike up a conversation. I can't wait to see the look of abject horror...
Next time she's out for a fag break in our yard I'm going to strike up a conversation. I can't wait to see the look of abject horror...
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Wheels on fire
After a week or so of fine weather, my boss has started cycling into work instead of taking the tram.
He does it very professionally, with a change of clothes, special shoes, lights and helmet. This is because 'you can't just hop on the bike in the morning'. I feel rather guilty and say nothing, thinking of the four years I spent in St Andrews doing exactly that, usually with head-on rain (if not salt spray) and cross-winds. The extreme of my cycling folly involved a rather wobbly trajectory down Abbey Street after rehearsal with a good 25cl of chinon blanc sloshing around my insides, an electric keyboard under one arm and twelve rolls of Kitten-soft swinging from the handlebars.
Last reports say my bike is gently rusting away outside the library. Faithful companion, I salute you.
Being unable to shift a longing for the breeze in my hair, the road beneath my wheels and misguided insects careening into my eyeballs, I rather frivolously 'invested' in a pair of rollerblades.
After my experiences with balance and coordination outside Tesco, I ought to have known better.
I've now been four times to practise up and down the path along the Wisla, and I have made an important discovery: asphalt is not smooth!
I can now chart every bump, node, crack and change in surface texture between Galeria Kazimierz and St Norberts Abbey. Small children on bicycles and joggers- old, fat joggers- frequently overtake me. Still, I'm taking no chances, and the knee pads, elbow pads and wrist guards are staying firmly in place, although the statistical chances of a fatal accident at speeds of under 2mph are low. A special kind of panic is generated when I find myself having to go into the cycle lane to overtake pedestrians: what if a bike should come silently whooshing up behind me? How do I get back into the pedestrian lane without crossing the path of one of them?
I'm proud of our efforts with eco-friendly transport. We must be the lowest-carbon translators in town. Our specialism? Automotive engineering...
My boss's cycle lamps actually reminded me of something which happened to me back in St Andrews. I never managed to keep a set of lights for more than about a month without them being pilfered by some young hoodie (read 'first year med. student') outside the Whey Pat Tavern after training. So I was frequently stopped by the police, whose presence in such a quiet town was impressive (although this never stopped my bike lamps from disappearing).
One evening, I was peacefully puffing and wheezing up Abbey Street with several kilos of fencing equipment lashed across my shoulders, when a large van swerved out of the darkness in front of me. My habitual stream of post-Romantic French poetry was cut short when I drew up on the inside of the offending vehicle and saw that it was driven by two policemen.
- I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you stop. You can't ride without lights after dark.
I was already late for training.
- Well how about a lift then?
The first policeman was just muttering something about insurance, when his colleague leaned over from the driver's seat:
- Where is 'training'?
I explained where the Sports Centre was.
- Oh that's just on our way: hop in the back
And they came round to help me in with my bike, while I took a seat on one of the benches and grabbed a helpful loop hanging from the ceiling. There was an amusing barred-effect window between the front cabin and the back benches. We were halfway down Argyle Street when the phone rang:
- Flic, where the hell are you?
- Are you sitting down? Sit down. It's an interesting story...
He does it very professionally, with a change of clothes, special shoes, lights and helmet. This is because 'you can't just hop on the bike in the morning'. I feel rather guilty and say nothing, thinking of the four years I spent in St Andrews doing exactly that, usually with head-on rain (if not salt spray) and cross-winds. The extreme of my cycling folly involved a rather wobbly trajectory down Abbey Street after rehearsal with a good 25cl of chinon blanc sloshing around my insides, an electric keyboard under one arm and twelve rolls of Kitten-soft swinging from the handlebars.
Last reports say my bike is gently rusting away outside the library. Faithful companion, I salute you.
Being unable to shift a longing for the breeze in my hair, the road beneath my wheels and misguided insects careening into my eyeballs, I rather frivolously 'invested' in a pair of rollerblades.
After my experiences with balance and coordination outside Tesco, I ought to have known better.
I've now been four times to practise up and down the path along the Wisla, and I have made an important discovery: asphalt is not smooth!
I can now chart every bump, node, crack and change in surface texture between Galeria Kazimierz and St Norberts Abbey. Small children on bicycles and joggers- old, fat joggers- frequently overtake me. Still, I'm taking no chances, and the knee pads, elbow pads and wrist guards are staying firmly in place, although the statistical chances of a fatal accident at speeds of under 2mph are low. A special kind of panic is generated when I find myself having to go into the cycle lane to overtake pedestrians: what if a bike should come silently whooshing up behind me? How do I get back into the pedestrian lane without crossing the path of one of them?
I'm proud of our efforts with eco-friendly transport. We must be the lowest-carbon translators in town. Our specialism? Automotive engineering...
My boss's cycle lamps actually reminded me of something which happened to me back in St Andrews. I never managed to keep a set of lights for more than about a month without them being pilfered by some young hoodie (read 'first year med. student') outside the Whey Pat Tavern after training. So I was frequently stopped by the police, whose presence in such a quiet town was impressive (although this never stopped my bike lamps from disappearing).
One evening, I was peacefully puffing and wheezing up Abbey Street with several kilos of fencing equipment lashed across my shoulders, when a large van swerved out of the darkness in front of me. My habitual stream of post-Romantic French poetry was cut short when I drew up on the inside of the offending vehicle and saw that it was driven by two policemen.
- I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you stop. You can't ride without lights after dark.
I was already late for training.
- Well how about a lift then?
The first policeman was just muttering something about insurance, when his colleague leaned over from the driver's seat:
- Where is 'training'?
I explained where the Sports Centre was.
- Oh that's just on our way: hop in the back
And they came round to help me in with my bike, while I took a seat on one of the benches and grabbed a helpful loop hanging from the ceiling. There was an amusing barred-effect window between the front cabin and the back benches. We were halfway down Argyle Street when the phone rang:
- Flic, where the hell are you?
- Are you sitting down? Sit down. It's an interesting story...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
