Guide to Small Town Living

Breakfast parfait: Greek yoghurt, fresh berries, and almond slivers, topped with some honey.

I live in a small town, about half an hour by train from New York City. It’s in the sticks, as they say, the boonies. When at first we moved here, I promised myself I would take the train into the city three times a week “at least”. I was terrified of being left out of the loop.

Fast forward five years and I’m as out of the loop as you can get. I’m also not that concerned about it. There’s wisdom to be gained by living in a small town.

So what have I learnt?

I have learnt that the anonymity that I cherished in Brooklyn is all gone. People say hello and more than that. You stop for a chat and talk about things that go on in town.

I have learnt not to be afraid of peace and quiet. These days, when I travel into the city, I marvel at the dangerous decibels. I’ve learnt to love the lazy, quiet Sundays here.

I have also learnt that I better comply with some unwritten rules.

The most important rule is the rule of “sameness”. It means that you have to find the lowest common denominator of the group. It may take some experimenting. The older man with the kind face and the big glasses who packs up my stuff at the grocery’s on Main Street, well he is also the man who collects the offerings at my church. When he and I discovered that, we both laughed the easy laughter of recognition. We had discovered our lowest common denominator; we share something. Now, as he comes by my pew, he smiles at me and his smile tells me that he and I have something special.

It is also very important, when you live in a small town, to agree on something. This might be more important for women than for men. Most of our men are absent during the day when they are busy working on Wall Street or somewhere else important in the city. So, agreeing on something makes sense because groups of women like to know that everyone is alike. Women usually don’t like to find an orange among the apples. If they do, they tend to get a bit suspicious, which in turn can lead to malicious talk or worse: Malicious silence. And you do not want to be the target for this type of thing.

Finding something you can agree on may or may not be easy. Again, you will have to experiment. In the Big Apple nobody gives a rat’s ass what you think or believe, but we’re not in the Big Apple anymore, and remember the warning about malicious silence? That’s right. So, you put some idea out there, and wait for the reaction. There can only be one of two: Either silence (sorry, you picked the wrong idea) or cheer (yes! It’s your lucky day!). When we first came here, I was thinking about home schooling my child, and wanted to find other moms who were interested. Nobody took that bait. When I repeated my request, a nice lady put  me straight:

“Hun, we all move here because of the good school district and as the property taxes are very high, you have to understand we’re not going to not take advantage of the schools.”

I clearly had the wrong idea.

The safest bet is to agree what great job the teachers at school are doing, or what great job volunteering moms do, everyone likes a pat on the back. Another thing is to agree how great the local grocery store is (there’s only one so there’s no competition). I don’t have a problem with that, especially since they have an excellent cheese selection. Agreeing on a common cause like this will make you likeable and unthreatening which in turn will give you the stamp of approval. It may also, eventually, lead to invitations to book clubs and private parties to which not all and sundry are invited.

Now, when it comes to making friends you must be mindful. I’ve shed many a tear over the fact that there’s a great divide in my town. Come spring and summer, playgrounds and parks are separated by an invisible border sectioning off immigrants from Americans. Only immigrant women married to successful American men are allowed to join the ranks of the American women in the park. The rest are viewed a bit suspiciously. There are some refreshing and wonderful exceptions, I better add. But as a general rule: Stick to where you belong and do not trespass.

All in all however, I like it here. People are friendly. They say hello, they ask how you’re doing and they care. They look out for each other and now that you are one of them, they will look out for you and yours too. It’s just the way Mr. Rogers promised it would be: It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood. A beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

Star struck

Midweek breakfast: We shared these sandwiches for breakfast. One Scandinavia-inspired one with cream cheese, lox, dill, capers, and lemon. The other Mediterranean with roasted red pepper hummus, cucumber, tomatoes, and crumbled Feta cheese.

Through the years, I’ve had my share of star meetings and interviews. At first, the thought of having to meet someone really famous was intimidating to me, but I soon found out that the bigger the star, the easier the interview. There are of course always exceptions, but I’ve found this to be a rule of thumb.

I was once scheduled to interview Caroline Kennedy. I can’t recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason I was very stressed. I think it was something about not getting there in time. “There” was a midtown hotel, and the occasion was some event with loads of press. Not ideal. It had also been decided that I should forego my usual pen-to-paper method, and instead rely on one of those palm-sized tape recorders. I guess it looked more professional. Anyway, I had to force myself through the crowds of people until I found Ms. Kennedy. I recognized that sort of sad smile of hers. She was courteous and calm. Friendly and sweet even. But of course something went wrong with that tape recorder. When I came home I found the tape blank. Luckily, I have a very good memory and I had memorized – verbatim – everything Caroline Kennedy said.

Another time, I was supposed to cover some affair in which Henry Kissinger was the greatest star in a line-up of starry guests of honor. I had been sent to the beautiful Pierre on Fifth Avenue, primarily as a photographer, as there were no interviews. Now, photographers and writers prepare and act differently during events like these. As a reporter, you dress up for the occasion more so than a photographer. Most photographers I know never dress up, not even if the President himself is due to arrive. Knowing this, I refrained from putting on something nice, and showed up in an old, worn trench coat. Camera slung over my shoulder, I took my place among the rest of the photographers, waiting for the guests of honor to parade on in. One after another, they filed in: Ambassadors and dignitaries. But no Mr. Kissinger. Eventually I decided to leave.

“Excuse me! Pardon!” I whispered as I squeezed my way through the crowd.

Once out of the hall, I was alone and about to make my way down the elegant stairs leading to the lobby, when down there I saw Kissinger enter, through the revolving doors. He too was all alone. It’s a bizarre thing to see someone you have seen on TV and in the papers for as long as you can remember, suddenly standing in front of you. As I descended the stairs, he came up. When we met midway, he reached out and grabbed my elbow:

“Young lady, where are you going?”

And that’s how I re-entered that hall with all the guests of honor and the photographers. On Kissinger’s arm, in an old, worn trench coat.

Pia Lindstrom, the former TV personality and Ingrid Bergman’s daughter, was another gracious lady. She spent hours talking about her life with me, making sure that the tray she placed on the sofa table included the correct number of cookies (in Sweden a cookie tray should feature seven different kinds of cookies, and hers did). Some time later, I returned with a photographer that I didn’t know very well. Upon entering Lindstrom’s beautifully designed, sprawling apartment, he blurted out:
“Wow! How much did you pay for this?”

I nearly died of embarrassment. He made it up to me though, the photographer, while Pia Lindstrom was in her bedroom getting changed, he took down one of her mother’s Oscar statuettes (for her role in Gaslight, 1945) from the shelf and photographed me holding it.

Some years ago, I set up what I thought would be the interview of my dreams, with my favorite author, the Danish Suzanne Brøgger. We were going to meet in her Copenhagen apartment and I begged my boss to send me a photographer. I knew Brøgger was a beautiful woman, and I also knew I couldn’t make her justice with my Canon Rebel. Sure enough, a Copenhagen photographer was located and all he wanted to know was when to show up? I said I needed ample time with Brøgger. This was after all the interview to end all interviews.

So there I was, sitting with the person of my dreams, in her apartment, drinking from her teacups and eating her biscotti. And there she was, just as beautiful and mysterious and intelligent as one could’ve hoped. And then guess what happened? I found that I had nothing to say. Nothing to ask! Nothing! Because like any fan I already knew everything.

Not once did Brøgger roll her eyes, ask to cut short the “interview” or in any way, shape, or form diminish me. Instead, she helped me out. She spoke about her childhood, about her books, and about life in general. She asked me questions. Meanwhile, I prayed for the photographer to come and save me. When he finally did, I watched as he photographed her. Then we left. Outside, in the cool, clear, blue light that is Copenhagen’s, we briefly looked at the photos he had just taken.

“What an extraordinary woman,” he murmured.

“Yes, yes,” I nodded. “Quite an extraordinary woman.”

It’s the less twinkling stars that give journalists and reporters headaches. The prima donnas who push for attention and are needy as infants. Their brittle egos demand constant pampering, yet they are never satisfied, never say thank you, never help you out, no matter how beautifully you write about or photograph them. 

With Henry Kissinger. Photo: Diane Saarinen.

Christmas in February?

 Lussekatt and coffee for breakfast. 

Who wants Christmas in February? I do, I do! Well, not really. But you see, the Swedish saffron buns, also known as Lussekatter, that are present in every Swedish home throughout the month of December were conspicuously absent in ours last year. And only because I couldn’t find fresh yeast anywhere near. And I just can’t bring myself to make these fragrant, bright yellow buns using dry yeast. I’m simply not good with dry yeast.

Then the other day on a trip to our local grocery, imagine my surprise when I came across a couple of old packages of fresh yeast*, hidden in a different space from where they were last seen in 2013. It felt like the holidays! I rushed to pick up saffron and a big bag of flour, and then my son and I went to work.

Swedes call them Lussekatter and begin making them around December 13^th, which is Saint Lucia’s Day in Sweden – an important day celebrated by everyone and one which, in spite of its name, is not religious. But much as we may like to think the beloved saffron bun has something to do with Saint Lucia, we’re wrong, the “lusse” in Lussekatter has to do with Lucifer, the Devil. The “katter” means “cats”, which would then translate the name as “Lucifer’s cats”. They come in all kinds of shapes, these devilish cats, but the S-shape is the most common, and the one that you can buy in pastry shops all over Sweden during the Christmas season. Lussekatter has been around for a great many years, so many in fact, that the real symbolic behind both the name and the shape has been lost. Today, nobody knows for sure what these buns are meant to symbolize; but to Swedes they are simply the harbinger of the Christmas season. However, nobody will think ill of you if you eat them at other times of the year!

Here’s how you make them.

Ingredients

¼ teaspoon saffron (I use quite a bit more than that)

150 g butter

1 ¾ cups milk

50 grams fresh yeast (I use an entire Fleischmann’s package of yeast, 57 g)

2 cups milk

1 egg + 1 egg later on for brushing.

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup sugar

About 7 cups all purpose flour

Raisins for decoration

1. Crumble the yeast into a big mixing bowl.
2. Melt the butter in a pot and add the milk. Stir until the mixture is about 98F. Make sure you stir well.
3. Pour some of this mixture into the bowl with the crumbled yeast and stir until the yeast has been dissolved. You have to work quickly; if the milk/butter mixture gets too cool the yeast won’t let the dough rise later on.
4. Add the rest of the milk/butter mixture to the mixing bowl and stir. Add the saffron, the sugar, the egg, and the salt. Stir. You might want to use your food processor (I use a hand mixer).
5. Now add flour, a little at a time. I like to use my hands for this step. You have to add flour and work the dough until it’s smooth. It shouldn’t be sticky, but also do not use too much flour or your saffron buns will become dense.
6. Put a clean kitchen towel over the mixing bowl and let the dough rise for about 30 minutes.
7. Put the dough on a slightly floured table. Knead it until smooth and shiny. You might want to add more flour.
8. Cut the dough into 4 parts, then cut each of these into 2 equal parts, and so on. You should get about 20-30 buns (I tend to make mine slightly bigger, so I always end up with fewer).
9. Roll each of these parts into “snakes”, approximately 10 inches long, and make an S-shape. At the center of each curl, you put a raisin, the eyes of the “lussekatt”. Don’t be afraid to really push the raisins into the dough, or they’ll get burnt in the oven.
10. Put the buns on lined baking sheets, and cover with a clean towel. Again let rise for 20-30 minutes. Pre-heat the oven to 425F.
11. Beat the egg and, using a pastry brush, brush the tops and sides of the uncooked buns.
12. Place them in the oven and bake for 8-10 minutes.

* I’ve found that using slightly older fresh yeast (not too old, obviously) actually works better than using very fresh yeast.

On Language

Off to a good start: Mango smoothie with coconut/almond milk. Happy Monday!

The other day, I was reciting a poem from my youth to my son, who is seven years old. It was one of those hilarious, nonsense poems meant to simultaneously crack you up and think. I could barely keep myself from laughing while reading it. My son, on the other hand, sat there stone-faced. When I was done, I leaned forward.

“Seriously? You didn’t think it was funny at all?”

He squirmed.

“It was so-so.”

“So-so? It’s a very funny poem! Just listen here…”
I repeated a couple of verses, and my son smiled a little, but I could tell it was for my benefit only. I realized it had to do with language. Or lack thereof.

There are times when I pull at the vaguely familiar loose ends that stick up in the bin of my mind’s Lost and Found Languages. I pull a bit more, but quickly let go when I realize that what was once familiar is now painfully strange and alien. Fluency in a language is such a perishable thing. A language needs constant attention. In order to keep it up, you need to use it on a daily basis.

I remember making a conscious decision to switch from my native Swedish to English. My English was acceptable when I came to the U.S. My first lesson in English had taken place in school years before, when I was nine, with a book called This Way. I loved the sound of English. At least I think I did. The truth is that I can no longer remember what English sounds like. You can only say what a language sounds like when you do not understand it. As soon as you understand it, you can no longer hear the melody or the rhythm of it, you hear only its meaning. I think I fell in love with English because it was quite easy, not too different from Swedish. It was fun. The book had little color pictures in it; drawings of kids with names like Bill, Bob, Mary, and Pat, all of whom roamed around London with Big Ben in the background. I liked the words “umbrella” and “dressing gown”. The latter I had to unlearn when I came to America.

“You mean ‘robe’,” people told me.

But speaking, reading, and writing in English wasn’t enough. If what I wanted was true fluency, I had to reach deeper, into the unconscious location of my dreams and thoughts. I decided to start thinking in English, and began by talking to myself in English. You know that small talk you have with yourself throughout the day, either out loud or in your head:
“If I do the laundry now, I can peel the potatoes while the clothes are in the dryer.”

That sort of thing. My obsession stemmed from my wanting to act and write in English; both of which meant I had to really learn my adopted language. Little did I know it was to take years and years before I was anywhere near my goal. (I'm still not there).

I once met an American doctor who married a French woman.

“French is actually not that difficult,” he told me. “I picked it up one summer when we were there.”

“You mean you learnt some phrases,” I corrected him.

“No, I mean I learnt to speak it.”

Learning a new language isn’t something you do over a summer, nor over the course of a year. Learning a language takes much, much longer and is much more complicated than we will ever understand. Ask any immigrant!

I can pinpoint the exact time I first felt the beauty of the English language. Really felt it physically. It happened in the basement at HB Studio on Bank Street in the Village one Monday morning many years ago now. We were putting up a scene from Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure. I was standing center stage wearing a long, black skirt, black tights and some sort of a dark gray overdress. I was supposed to be Isabella, the novice. My scene partner Larry and I had rehearsed for weeks and weeks. I had analyzed my speech inside and out, every word had been looked at as if through a magnifying glass. I was very nervous, especially since I had a monologue at the end of the scene. But that’s exactly the moment when it happened. As I spoke Isabella’s words, I felt my mind release itself from my body, as if I were nothing but a conduit for Shakespeare’s words. The words poured out of me, and as they did I heard them for the very first time, and not through some sort of translation or veil in my head, the way I usually heard English. No, I heard them instantly, just as they came out of my mouth. It was a wonderful experience. A beautiful, thrilling moment.

“To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, 


Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, 


That bear in them one and the self-same tongue,


Either of condemnation or approof; 


Bidding the law make court'sy to their will: 


Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, 


To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother: 


Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,


Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. 


That, had he twenty heads to tender down 


On twenty bloody blocks, he'ld yield them up, 


Before his sister should her body stoop 


To such abhorr'd pollution.


Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: 


More than our brother is our chastity. 


I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request, 


And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.”

Measure for Measure, Act II, scene 4

"Isabella" by Francis William Topham (1808-1877)

Tebok or Repairing the Damage

These lemon and poppy seed brioches are easy to make but take time, so beware! They are perfect with jam. I found the recipe here.

Living isn’t easy, that’s for sure, but when we consider the alternative, most of us find we don’t have much of a choice. Trials and tribulations tend to make us all a bit bruised; yet here we are, hanging on.

My early childhood wasn’t exactly happy, and as a preteen I used to walk home from school wondering when life was going to begin for real. I used to wish life were different. Or elsewhere. It actually took me some time to realize that life is right here and right now, and that “good” or “bad” are just labels I give it, not necessarily the true state of things. I also realized that there’s no more life in London, Paris, Tokyo, or on some island in the Caribbean than where I happen to be, and that if I want some sort of satisfaction, I’d better make the best of the here and now, no matter what it looks like. It may sound silly, but it took me years to understand this on a level that isn’t just intellectual. And there are still days when I don’t.

But what if you cannot come to this realization? Or what about those days when you struggle with this concept? When you are stuck? As I grew older, I knew I wasn’t alone in having these nagging thoughts of could haves and should haves and grass appearing greener somewhere else. I saw people battling these same issues all the time. People who weren’t quite happy with how things had turned out. People who felt there was something more out there. People stuck on the What Ifs of life. Many of those people drowned their disappointments in alcohol, drugs, gluttony, depression, jealousies, envy, and a whole slew of other destructive behaviors.

According to the old Chinese classic the I Ching or the Book of Changes, there’s help in numbers. I Ching contains 64 hexagrams, and each comes with a special word of wisdom and a text that will give the one seeking advice guidance in life. Throughout the years, these hexagrams have been used to interpret different kinds of divinations.

The 18^th hexagram, also known as Gu, focuses on the very issue of repair. If you ask I Ching for advice and Gu comes up, that means you have to address the damage in life in order to continue with confidence. Instead of camouflaging past pains through addiction or by sweeping issues under the carpet, you need to take time to deal with past obstacles or problems. Confront and overcome them. The question is how do you do that?

Nobody can tell you how to climb your personal mountains or fight your battles, but the advice to be in the moment, living in the here and now, is the best advice I’ve ever received. To live in the moment, we have to stop focusing on ourselves and look at what’s going on around us and appreciate it. One thing might be to listen to another person. Really listening to another person is sometimes all it takes to turn a day from sour to sweet. It can repair damages in your life like nothing else.

I’m going to give an example:

Last night, last evening actually, when my son and I were alone, an 11-year old boy came knocking on our door, asking if he could use the phone to call his mom. He had forgotten his key at school. His name was Tebok. After he called her, I asked him to come inside and wait for her to come home. He was here for an hour or so. He told us about school, about competing in ballroom dancing, about a dog he had had, about a kitten with a broken leg, about being stung by jellyfish one summer, about maybe moving to his grandmother in Michigan, about maybe going to Hawaii with his mom. As he talked, I forgot about the load of laundry sitting like a mountain on the sofa, my son forgot about his homework. We just listened to this 11-year old boy. After he left, it was as if the evening took on an altogether different hue.

“I wish he could come again,” my son said when we ate supper.

“Me too,” I said.

It’s still winter here, but spring is around the corner. Spring is associated with renewal and revival, with life. Spring carries with it hope and the opportunity to resuscitate that which we have abandoned as beyond repair.

I hope you have a great weekend. See you again on Monday.

On Luck

I love grapefruit, so when I came across the idea of a baked grapefruit on Amy von Sydow's Instagram page, I knew I had to try it right away. It's delicious! I mixed 2 teaspoons of brown sugar with a few dashes of cinnamon and ground ginger and sprinkled the mixture on top of the two grapefruit halves, after which I baked them in the oven (350F) for about 12 minutes. I topped the grapefruit halves with greek yoghurt and a mix of seeds, nuts, and raisins.

I’ve never been particularly lucky in life. I’ve won exactly two things: A wall clock (when I was 12) and a flat-screen TV (when I was so broke that I had to sell it immediately). I tend to miss trains, lose gloves, displace keys, and I can’t seem to be able to remain vertical for long when it’s slippery.

My husband on the other hand, never misses a train, wins at least a dollar on every scratch and match he buys, and last winter, when he needed new outerwear, someone left a brand new Barbour jacket his size at his work place. See what I’m talking about here?

Let’s take the business with trains. When I’m running late to the train station, there’s this voice inside of me that says:
“You won’t make it. You won’t make it. You won’t make it.”

And while it keeps repeating this, I curse those last moments at home when I tried to finish everything: Doing the dishes, ironing the shirt, scooping up the cat poop, rummaging around my bags for a ChapStick. Sometimes I swear someone somewhere has made a voodoo doll out of me.
And then when I – naturally – miss the train, that same voice snickers:
“Well, well, what did I say?”

My husband on the other hand, walks briskly and surely to the train station, absolutely certain that he will make the train even though he is 5 minutes late. At the station he greets the loudspeaker’s
“The 10:36 train to Grand Central is running approximately 10 minutes late,” with a shrug and a smile. As if he expected that to happen.

How infuriating is this? I’m a sensible woman, I believe in logic. But my beliefs are nothing compared to my husband’s fatalistic optimism. I decided to take a closer look at this phenomenon. And now, after having studied his behavior intently for a few years, I think I discern what makes him lucky and me not. The first thing is that he takes his luck for granted. That’s right. He takes it for granted; he doesn’t beg or cry for it, nor does he hold on to it too tightly for fear it will disappear. While I fluster and hesitate and bring a truckload of angst to everything I do, my husband bravely steps out there like it’s nothing, or rather, as if it was all his to begin with.

Here are some other things my lucky husband seems to be doing naturally:

1. He doesn’t think too much (while I’m pretty much constantly in my head).
2. His goal is clear and he’s focused (unlike me, he doesn’t scramble to finish up doing ten thousand things before leaving the house, so while the apartment is cluttered, his brain is not).
3. He doesn’t come apart if faced with an obstacle (unlike me who have a mini breakdown at the station every time I miss the train).
4. He admits to not being smart all the time and by doing so gains in flexibility (unlike me, who is a bit of a smart aleck and therefore also more rigid).
5. He is optimistic (unlike me, who is rather pessimistic).
6. He listens to his gut instinct (unlike me, who was definitely brought up on the adage “use you head, why don’t you?”)
7. He believes in fate (unlike me. And if fate says “no” he just shrugs his shoulders and accepts it).

To conclude: Luck is yours when you expect it, when you believe it’s yours, when you focus on one thing at a time, when you keep a clear, uncluttered mind, and when you don’t freak out if you run into obstacles.

Let today be our lucky day. As James Dean said: “You gotta try your luck at least once a day, because you could be going around lucky all day and not even know it.”

Hollywood - Poland

Another favorite breakfast: Wasa crispbread with guacamole, red onion, cilantro and dried cherries. Orange juice, kiwi slices, and pomegranate seeds on the side.

I once had a plum job as an assistant to an up-and-coming movie star in Hollywood. That is to say, it all looked plum from the outside. From the inside of my room at Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills, from which I could see the Hollywood sign at the top of Mount Lee, it was less plummy. I didn’t know why I was there in the first place. It didn’t feel real.

I had interviewed for the job in New York City, and that’s where the job had begun, with the beautiful star gliding about on long, anorectic legs in her suite at Ritz-Carlton, barely saying “hello” or “good bye”. Soon, however, the job took me to California via a short stint in Texas. As we made out trajectory out west, stopping for a rest at La Casa del Zorro in the desert, I could feel myself waver.

The job was easy enough; all I had to do was check the fiber content of the star’s orange juice and order her pizza without cheese and bread (everything is possible in LA) from the room service guy, and read dull, meaningless scripts with lots of explosions in them. At the end of my “work day” I ventured out into the lush garden and dove into the cool waters of the pool. I always had the pool to myself. All the stars and starlets sat in deck chairs, nursing their water bottles, which they carried in bags made specifically for water bottles. Their bodies were sacred vessels that could not tolerate chlorine. They all looked bored and nobody ever smiled except the busboys. 

Once a famous producer gave the star an expensive hand bag, which she flung into the back seat of the car:

"Another piece of Prada garbage!"

Nothing could alleviate my boredom. Not seeing Kim Basinger in the lobby at Chateau Marmont, nor sitting next to Johnny Depp, or ordering sandwiches at Greenblatt’s with Richard Gere. My hotel room was next to Juliette Lewis’, who at the time was dating Brad Pitt. They played Tracy Chapman’s songs all night long, while I stared out the window and wondered about the purpose of life. It all seemed so pointless. I didn’t have a bank account, so my checks kept piling up. I didn’t have to spend much in the first place, since the star's salary covered both room and board.

One day I called the agent guy back on the East Coast. His name was Alan; he had gotten me the job and negotiated a good contract for me. I liked Alan a lot and didn’t want to disappoint him, but I started crying on the phone, and I cried and cried and told him I didn’t want to be there anymore. And the next week, someone at the hotel reception let me cash all my checks, which left me with a thick wad of money. With that money I bought a ticket to Poland.

Poland was a salvation! The gloomy aftermath of the communist years lay like a gray fog over the entire country, beet fields and cities alike, and it felt soothing after the bright yellow California sun. The people were wonderfully real, unlike the thousands of Barbies I had encountered in Beverly Hills. I didn’t speak a word of Polish, of course, but not even that was a problem. I felt like I was being born again. Nobody knew who I was. I was nobody’s assistant, I was myself, finally. I got a teaching job in a smallish town near Lublin, about an hour away from Warsaw.

One problem was that I had never taught before and had no clue what teaching entailed. Now I faced a bunch of high school kids who were eager to learn English. There was a desperate lack of English teachers in Poland at that time, since the country had just about shifted from teaching Russian to English. But I didn’t worry too much, I was too happy.

My room was very small and located on the school’s premises. Lunch, obiad, was served in a canteen. I learnt to drink my kawa czarna from a glass instead of a cup, I learnt to dip slightly while dancing the Polonaise, I learnt to put up the right amount of zlotys at the train station to buy a ticket to Krakow and say:
“Do Krakowa po proszę.”

And of course I learnt all the bad words – daj mi spokoj, kurwa, dupek, cholera…

One day the local movie theater showed the movie with the star whom I had worked for. I went to see it. It wasn’t terribly bad. It wasn’t terribly good either. It had that stupid glamorous Hollywood sheen. I recognized the sets, because I had been there. I remembered what had transpired between the different takes. I thought perhaps it would make me sad to see it and to think of all that, which I had left behind. But when I walked out of the movie theater, I just thought to myself:
“Oh, Hollywood! Daj mi spokoj! Just leave me alone.”

Me in front of Wawel Castle in Warsaw, Poland, at some point during my two years as a teacher there.