Claire in Poland

1. Never turn down the opportunity to travel .  Ever.  Even if you are forced to leave your dog, your boyfriend, your uncle, your mom, or your best friend, I am here to personally promise you that you will not regret it. You may find how lucky you are to have what you have and to have been born into the community you belong. Or, you may find you have been living in false light. You may find that you belong somewhere millions miles away, and you've been missing out. Either way, changing scenery every once in a while helps you discover yourself and open your eyes.   2. There is no reason to worry or even think about things you cannot control. Take a second and think about everything you control. For me when I first did this, I realized how much I cannot control. If you focus on only what you can control, life becomes bearable.  3. Let people finish their sentences before accusing them. You’ll gain much more out of it than interrupting them and ...

“A polite conversation about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, especially as engaged in on social occasions” -Google. It exists in all languages, but there’s something about American small talk that’s different than any other language’s. It seems to be purposely insignificant, purposely shallow. We say everything we don’t feel. We lie for other’s comfort. We’re doing well or good even when our cat died yesterday or we really didn’t want to get out of bed that morning. We say everything that we don’t mean. For example, let’s take the phrase “nice to meet you.” After we shake hands and smile we usually speak this phrase before beginning to converse about the snow storm that may blow over on Thursday or the car accident down on route 122 or any other subject that doesn’t require an opinion.  I was pointed out to this strange saying when I was introduced to someone in Poland. In the process I said “Nice to meet you,” and shook their hand. Quickly though, another person ...

There are no pots or pans clanging as the sun rises. No relatives laughing, cooking, baking or drinking together. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade is not on TV. I awake to silence.  There is a dinner with the American ambassador that is traditional in the sense that there is a fat turkey in the middle of every table, but cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans and relatives are not present. A day later, there is another Thanksgiving dinner, but with friends. A “friendsgiving”, if you will. We assign foods to each other and I attempt to teach traditions of the American holiday. The girls dress in skirts and tights while boys wear button down shirts and dress pants with a belt. In the kitchen three of us peel potatoes, another three fry the chicken in egg yolk and flour. We set the table with plastic forks knives and plates. We stand around the dining room table decorated with food and say how thankful we are to possess the ability to stand around a maho...

As November 8th approaches no one can escape talk of the election even across the Atlantic Ocean. Every second post on any social media is most likely a joke about Trump or Hillary, an anti-Trump or anti-Hillary post, or a post that yells at you to vote. Teachers make references to the election as a part of lessons and students argue over polls and statistics in class and at lunch. “Who will win?” Everyone ponders anxiously. In spirit of this memorable election, I decided to send out a poll for students to choose which candidate they would vote for if they had the chance. The poll ended with 166 votes and provided Hillary Clinton the win of 79.5% or 132 of the votes and Donald Trump losing with a mere 20.5% or 34 of the votes. To acquire even more information, I sent out a facebook message to the entirety of ASW’s high school hoping for some responses on students’ individual reasonings for choosing the candidate they chose as well as what they predict the outcome of this presid...

Classic music echoes from the living room speakers and lightly dances its way into my room. I lay on the covers of my bed wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe with my hands raised above my head to hold a book. The heater beside my bed keeps me warm. My dog’s feet peck against the wooden floors as she trots to investigate what my mother cooks.  I make plans with friends that I’ve known for many years. I walk the same streets, eat at the same restaurants, coffee shops and ice cream parlors. I walk from my home to downtown easily to admire the bright leaves. I wear only a light jacket to venture outside. Pumpkins, fake cobwebs and skeletons decorate the passing houses. The streets are quiet at night, with only the glow from the fake candle inside the carved pumpkins to light the porches. Life seems predictable. The British newscasters alert us of the current events occurring around the world on the screen of the small TV in our living room. I sit hunched over at my tiny desk arran...

I held my breath as the plane hovered over the runway, only to exhale when I felt and heard the tire hit the asphalt. My father and I high-fived. We were in the United States of America. We were home .  I became ecstatic entering the airport with all the signs reading in English. After two months in which I was constant dependent for translation, these signs filled me with triumph. I could resume being a completely independent, functional human being again!  I whispered a chant of the national anthem as we emerged from the airport out into the pouring rain. It was much warmer than Poland. If I’d been living in India instead of Poland for the last two months, I’d probably regard the pouring rain as a sign of bad luck for our return, but the constant rain in Poland that occurred no matter bliss or suffering taught me otherwise.  While sitting in a bus on the way home, gazing outside the windows that dripped with rain drops and watching the familiar landscape ...

It rains. It rains and rains and rains. And then, it rains more. The trees whistle with the wind, and the water pooling on the streets splash onto the sidewalks because of the passing cars. Umbrella covered people in rain boots infest the sidewalks. The hood of my coat shields the top half of my vision, so I am left to stare at the ground while walking.  The bus windows are fogged with condensation, and the bus is dark because outside is only pale, dark colors. People seem more irritable. Everyone just wants to be out of the rain, so they push and shove more often to run away from the gloom of outside.  It’s dark when I wake up. It’s getting dark when I start homework.  It’s gray. Always gray.  Rarely, the days are crisp and sunny like Massachusetts' October. Instead, the days are foggy, gray, and wet. I am forced to stand at least ten feet away from the streets while waiting to cross in order to ensure I won't be splashed by the passing cars.  ...

I calculated that I spend more than 400 minutes on a bus each week. In these hundreds of minutes, I observe an etiquette I was never taught. An atmosphere of uptight bodies and secluded minds. A rushing world I barely encountered in the States.  Children are taught to never sit down on public buses. The custom remains that if anyone older than you is standing, you surrender your seat. Something about this custom of standing up, saying "Proszę," (please) pointing to your seat, and the person replying “Dziękuję." (thank you) with a smile makes my day. The good deed has been engraved in the youth of Poland, but not in me. This new act of kindness, while most don’t think much of it, reassures me.  Elderly people appear happier here. Or at least, the elderly women appear happier. When sitting or even stand on the buses, they talk with a smile. Multiple times I will stand inside the door, seconds before the bus departs, and I see an elderly woman walking or hopping...

In a city that conquers miles and miles of land we still feel important. We still feel that if we accidentally say the wrong thing at the wrong time or forget to do the laundry and feed the dog, it is a tragedy. A crime.  It’s even easier to feel this way in a suburban town where you know every face and the roads like the back of your hand. Where everyone knows when you did something wrong, and the news of a mistake or achievement spreads like wild fire. Besides you and your circle of family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, places and objects, the rest of the world ceases to exist.  Sure, on the nightly news we hear about earthquakes, bombings and all other horrors occurring around the globe, but they aren’t real to us. We try to sympathize, but we probably don’t understand. How could we ever understand if we weren’t there?  We only possess knowledge of how the people’s heartbeats became louder than the sounds of crumbling buildings in their ears and how t...

I’ve been typing snid-bits of observations all week between doing homework, laundry and settling in. I kept trying to add on and put things into a past tense but now I realize I’m just going to have to document by day, or something of that sort. Whatever it is, it is something.  Wednesday - 8/24/16 I just plopped down into my desk chair in exhaustion and excitement. I don’t know where to start. There is too much to write, but I guess I’ll begin from the beginning:  Two days ago I attended the informal orientation for my new school, the American School of Warsaw. It takes one bus change and twenty minutes of walking to reach it on the outskirts of Warsaw where the only sights are cabbage fields, sunflower fields, expensive apartments and even more expensive condos. I met the new students entering my grade, and there was only one other American kid. I met a girl straight from south China, a boy who came from west India, a girl from Moskow, Russia, and a boy and ...

I sit on a train headed to the town of Poznań. But I am not in a regular seat, rather in a little pull-out plastic stool that folds out from the walls of the train. This setting reminds me of the scene from the first Harry Potter movie where Harry, Ron, and Herminone are on their way to Hogwarts. After jumping into Platform Nine and Three Quarters to catch the train headed for Hogwarts, the three of them meet for the first time in their seating compartment. The little rooms with three seats facing each other on both sides and space overhead for luggage appear identical to the train I am on now, except the seats look more modern. Sliding doors painted a mint color separate the passenger compartments from the consequence seating for purchasing a ticket too late after all the seats are already full. But my seat is quite comfortable, surprisingly, and I also achieve the best view if I sit sideways where I view the passing fields of yellow flowers, wheat, villages, white birch tree forests,...

It’s been more than 48 hours since we landed and I’ve learned more than 480 things. Or at least, I’ve heard them, and tried to permanentize them in my memory. From the code to enter the building to how to say tomato. It’s been a lot of habit making.  The apartment we live in is beautiful in it’s own way. An art historian lived here after her two children left for college. Just the profession of an art historian gives you a sense of what the interior is like. The wall colors resemble the deep ocean on a day with clear skies, and the furniture looks as if it’s from a 1960s movie. A chandelier drapes from the ceiling of the living room. The bathroom tiles are checkered yellow and white and the sink, toilet, and shower are turquoise. A piano stands in the left corner of the living room. There are three cupboards scattered around the apartment completely filled with books.   My room only consists of a dresser, an oval mirror in a rusted-looking silver frame, a polished woo...

        It always felt a life away.  In sixth grade, my father drove me to school most mornings. The other mornings I took the school bus from my mother’s. On this particular day, the world appeared crisp in the early hours of the spring morning with green leaves scarcely brightened by the sun overhead. That morning, the topic was the idea that I would go to Poland with him for his sabbatical that would take place during my sophomore year of high school. “You’ll be fifteen,” he reminded me.  Fifteen seemed a life away at the time. High school seemed a life away, although it was really only four years away. Still, four years determines the difference between ten and fourteen, fourteen and eighteen, and eighteen and twenty-two. All the years included and in-between remain crucial in the process of developing an identity. At the time I still believed the stereotypes of teenage life seen on TV: lots of crazy, amazing adventures, just like those on ...