Woman behaving badly, part II

Another confession to make, I'm afraid. The crimes of your humble correspondent just keep mounting up. All is not lost! Save yourselves and avert your eyes from this tale of shame!

On Saturday morning I found myself with a semi-urgent pharmaceutical requirement. No problem in the 24/7 UK society, but, the minute you set foot on the other side of the channel, you regularaly find shops closed at illogical hours. In France it's banks on a Monday. Bakeries shut for one day a week, on any given day, practicality notwithstanding. And woe betide the British Erasmus student in Italy who runs out of lavatory paper at noon on Saturday: the supermarkets will not re-open until 3 o'clock on Monday afternoon.

From midday on a Saturday, shops in Poland start to roll down their shutters, at 1, 2 and 3pm.
Waiting at the tram stop, on my way to a class at 12.30, I found myself with ten minutes to spare and decided to risk the chemist's shop on the opposite corner.
In front of me in the shop were an elderly babcia and dziadek, minutely inspecting and then rejecting one bottle of vitamin supplements after the other. After five minutes of foot-tapping had elapsed I could feel my left eyelid start to twitch from glancing periodically over the road at the tram stop.
A young-ish couple entered the shop, followed a couple of minutes later by a middle-aged nun. I'm not yet able to distinguish one order from the other- I suspect this will come at around the same time as full understanding of the uses of the Polish instrumental case- but she had a high sticky-up wimple on.
I had four minutes to go, and was considering making a dash for the door, when the dziadkowie finally made their purchase and left.
-Prosze; said the pharmacist, and instantly the young couple stepped forward in front of me.
Three and a half minutes to go, and it was all too much. Unfortunately, the column in my vocabulary book marked 'Righteously indignant Polish to use when queueing' is as yet under construction, and I have found that the best I can do is mutter loudly and darkly in English, which at least gets me noticed.
I put on my darkest look (not hard given the circumstances), and swore as loudly and as colourfully as I could muster, throwing in the word 'rude' several times for good effect.
No-one noticed.
Apart from the nun, who glared at me as I stormed out with as much dignity as I could muster, before turning tail and sprinting across the road with a minute and a half to go.

Now you know the truth. You are following the adventures of a degenerate young person who swears at nuns.

ps. I have learnt a special new Polish phrase: 'nie ma'. This means 'there isn't any', and is especially useful if you happen to work in a cafe, pharmacy or corner shop in Poland.

Tesco

After having exhausted the pleasures of watching the water go round and round the new washing machine, I realised it was probably time to buy some soap suds and get stuck in. This, and other minor emergencies (a distressing lack of yoghurts, muesli and the fundamentals of sandwich-making) prompted me to action. It was time to tackle Tesco.
Since the first time I stood forlornly outside Carrefour in Brittany (having not realised that French buses don't run over lunch hour), continental hypermarkets have made me feel like an alien landed in a strange new world, dazzled by the vastness and the hum of a thousand neon striplights lining fragrant and loaded chiller cabinets.
That and my total inability to decide between butter in a blue wrapper and butter in a white wrapper with a cow on the front. Multiply this by about 15 (Crunchy or fruity muesli, tuna in brine or tomato, etc, etc, etc.) and throw in the fact that you have to stay on tram 22 Almost til the End of the Line, and you can see why a trip to Tesco is something of an undertaking.
I won't go into detail about the experience itself, except to say that Polish Tesco is sufficiently different from English Tesco for me to have been absolutely overjoyed to find a tin of Italian chopped tomatoes with exactly the same label as they have in the UK.

As I was crossing the car park with my seven loaded carrier bags, I spotted my tram approaching on the other side of the busy main road.
Now I've relocated several times over the past year or so, and I'm not known for my punctuality, so it's not unusual for me to be found running after some form of public transport, carrying half Hulk Hogan's own bodyweight.
Unfortunately this time disaster struck. In my mad dash across the grass, my shopping bags and my legs tangled themselves together, and I tripped over the kerb, sprawling headlong into the slip road, scattering tomatoes and muesli bars and pickles onto the asphalt.

Fortunately, fashion dictates that loose trousers are to be worn beneath skirts this summer.

I managed to make it onto the next tram and sat quietly, with juice from my burst jar of gherkins slowly trickling its pungent way down the carriage.

Quote of the week comes from a Polish student I met at a Tandem (language exchange) meeting:
- 'So did you choose to come to Poland, or were you forced?'

Washing machine

Since I moved to Krakow a month and a half ago I have been without a washing machine. As you are probably reluctant to imagine, things are starting to become fragrant. Finally, on Friday afternoon, a brand-new machine arrived, and when I came home from work it was nestled somewhat incongruously amongst the side cupboards of our Highland log-cabin-style galley kitchen. The son of our landlords (who went to school with my flatmates) came round to eat cheesy pizza and celebrate the occasion. We held our collective breath (and not just our noses) as the first sounds of water rushing through pipes reached our ears, like the sweet babbling of freedom in summer meadows (belied by a smell resembling damp PE kit now permeating the appartment). We were transfixed by this vision of otherworldly technology.

ps, Good news! I spoke Polglais in the bank and managed to communicate for a full three exchanges before the cashier decided to call over her English-speaking colleague. If languages were lawn tennis, that would be 40-love to me!

faux pas

Following an hour and a half of extra Polish classes this week, I have now become acquainted with the Instrumental Case (and consequently am one up in grammar terms on the BF, who only knows Latin. Yes!!). The instrumental is where you change the ending of an adjective which describes who or what something is (just bear with me, it'll lighten up in a minute), e.g. 'he is an English student'.
Our teacher played a little game with us, suggesting a name (e.g. 'Michael Jackson') so we could identify the nationality and profession. Now, I am dreadful with names, and was doing appallingly in comparison with my classmate. Of course, I'm not a competitive person, now that I've left school and nobody is writing report cards for me any more, but I Hate It when other people (especially male people) score better than me.
After various French actresses, German politicians and American dentists, the teacher pronounced 'Lech Kaczynski'. Eager to score some points by knowing a Polish person, I leapt in without looking:
-jest polskim aktorem... ?
She gave me a strange look:
-no. This is the Polish president.
-...

I have made a step forward in my quest to practice social Polish: the other night my flatmates had some friends round to watch a popular Polish series about a lawyer called Magda. During the commercial break an advert was shown, where a man is sitting on the sofa next to his somewhat wrinkly canine companion. The guy goes out of the room, eats a Polo mint or something and comes back, with such fresh breath that the dog, in delight, leaps up and kisses him full on the mouth.
The perfect opportunity to slip in a casual 'what a charming dog!'.

I am now going to start hanging around televisions, waiting for the right moment...

Robbery in the Planty!

Yesterday the sun was shining, so I went out to buy myself an obwarzanek (special bread twist- a cross between a bagel and a pretzel) and wandered through the Planty looking for a place to sit and sunbathe. The Planty park is a ring of lawns and trees which follows the old city walls. I finally settled on a bench in a small square, opposite two mothers chatting and a couple of toddlers staggering around like miniature drunks.
Now, the Polish lessons are going ok, but I've still not had many chances to practice. There are plenty of people with charming dogs but the opportune moment to compliment them never seems to arise.
As I was finishing my pretzel, one of the toddlers tottered over to my bench. At last! I thought. A chance for my first casual social interaction in Polish with a real Polish person! (albeit one who is less than three feet tall). The small Krakovian gurgled and placed both hands on the water bottle I had left standing on the bench.
-Woda! I said, conversationally. The small person gurgled again, seized the water bottle firmly and started to toddle away, chuckling to itself.
I got up and followed it, gabbling: 'prosze, butelka', but my tiny assailant took no notice. Finally, I was able to prize the water bottle gently away from the young delinquent (managing to slip in 'dzienkuje bardzo' and 'pa pa' for the sake of extra practice), to the great amusement of the two apologising mothers on the other bench.
Don't believe what they tell you about Krakow being a safe city: a life of crime begins younger than ever here. And remember what your mothers told you about talking to strangers in the park, however small and innocent they may appear...

bank holidays

It just so happens that, in the week I am about to sign my contract, finally tying myself into a Proper Job, there are two bank holidays. May the 1st, of course, and the 3rd, which is a special Polish constitutional holiday. There are red and white flags on shop fronts and flying along with trams (ever so slightly reminiscent of the St George's cross monstrosities that fluttered on cars last summer until Portugal booted us out of the world cup).
I've been here a month and two days now, so I've had time to find a place to live and settle in. Now one day off is nice when you are new in town, but two is just depressing, particularly as I haven't seen my flatmates for a full 48 hours now, and I can only imagine that they are lying catatonic in some fantastic student heaven somewhere enjoying quantities of beer, music and sex in the way that only students in continental Europe can.
I decided to tackle the bank holiday blues in typical fashion: by going on a long long walk in the sunshine. I have now climbed two mounds in Krakow. There are three of these altogether, and the third is in Nowa Huta, so I'm waiting for my flatmates' mate to get back from holiday before exploring this particular elevation. (Nowa Huta being somewhere to avoid by night, and indeed by daylight.) It turns out that the one I climbed today (Kopiec Kosciuszki) is a special constitutional monument, and so entrance was free. And the whole of Krakow, plus a French school party, was taking advantage of the fact. I'd love to show you some photos, but, unless some wealthy blog-fan decides to donate digital photographic equipment, you'll just have to wait until my film has been processed (assuming of course that the CD-ROM drive in my elderly laptop manages to read it).
Long walks in the sunshine only last so long however, and ice-cream was disappointing for a girl who's been spoilt by Stefano's in Sesto Fiorentino, so I gave up and stocked up on Tyskie, a local brew, and very nice thank you. Off to the 5 zloty cinema in a second, I think, hoping the beer will have helped me decipher the subtitles...

Controversial new Polish joke about the EU

So a Highlander is minding his own business looking after his sheep when a man approaches him and says:
-If I can guess the exact number of sheep you have there, can I take one away with me?
-Sure! says the highlander, incredulous
-Ok says the newcomer: you have 200 sheep exactly
The highlander is impressed and grants his wish
-But hold on a minute, he says: If I can tell you exactly who you are, can I have my sheep back?
-Of course, says the other man.
-You are the European Commissioner for farming, says the Highlander
-Wow- the Commissioner is impressed- How did you know that?
-You took my dog.

Disclaimer: the author of this blog would like to dissociate herself from the sentiments expressed in this joke. She is sure the commissioner is very good at his job.
Ditto the comment about 'bloody Americans' in the previous entry.