Daily life

We made a road trip with our daughter Lisa last week. The subject of sunscreen came up, and we were surprised to hear her say that her boyfriend doesn’t wear sunscreen. He feels that sunscreen is something moms make their kids wear, but that it’s not something adults need to be concerned about. I said that he needed to hear the faux commencement address that used to be played on the radio almost 20 years ago called “Wear Sunscreen.” Lisa didn’t remember it, so I googled it to share the words of wisdom. As I read the essay, being almost twenty years older, the words rang so much more true!

Originally written by columnist Mary Schmich in the Chicago Tribune, these words have mistakenly been attributed to author Kurt Vonnegut. They became the popular spoken word song by Baz Lurhmann that I remembered.

In case you’ve never heard it or it’s been a while, here it is. I’ll bet it rings true with you too!

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

 

 

 

Before we left Poznań, I was interviewed for a coming issue of the Poznan International Ladies Club (PILC) newsletter. The questions, as you might expect, had to do with my experience with the club, looking back at my time in Poznań. Sometimes it helps you get a clearer picture when you step back and look at the past few years.

From the outside looking in, many PILC gatherings are large events. For example, a monthly meeting of 25-30 women, fund-raising parties with 100 people, not exactly comfortable for an introvert like me, but I have loved doing things with the ladies individually. As we talked about it, I realized that the one-on-one meetings I’ve enjoyed with other club members were only possible because I had stepped outside my comfort zone and attended the big meetings. That’s where I met the individuals with whom I’d had so much fun.

It started early. My first function was an Irish luncheon hosted by two Irish members for the club on St. Patrick’s Day. They had a huge turn out. So I found myself thrown into this new feminine subculture.

New things to learn, always take your shoes off when entering someone’s home, or at least start to and maybe they’ll tell you it’s OK to leave them on. And everyone is greeted with hugs and kisses. That’s wasn’t at all natural for an American. The hugging and kissing has become second nature for me over the years, and have caused me to startle more than one old friend when I’ve been back in Tucson.

It was at that first luncheon that I met Elzbieta, who has become my dear friend. I have learned many new recipes hanging out in her kitchen. We’ve had fun adventures in the great outdoors too — biking to the dairy farm to see their newborn twin calves, paddling around the Swardzęz lake.

One day at a breakfast meeting, Joanna asked what I was doing after, and invited me to check out the design event at the trade center. It was a fun time, and we both left with a new handbag.

Barbara invited me to join her for the culinary part of the Transatlantyk film festival, something that had always interested me, but I just hadn’t been able to figure it out by myself.

The cooking lesson at Gosia’s house where she taught the three foreigners in the book club to make pierogi were just the beginning. After that, I would get emails from Gosia’s with suggestions on how to prepare traditional Polish produce as it came into season.

All this got me looking back through photos. My memories have grown from the wonderful, rich view of Poznan that these ladies have shared with me, to the fun we’ve had sharing it with family and friends from the states.

The advice for new expats in Poland that wrapped up our interview:

• Don’t expect it to be like home
• Don’t expect to change them
• Enjoy the adventure!

There were a couple of blogs that I loved following early on (one of them Butteryum); that’s what made me decide to start writing one. It’s kind of strange feeling in the beginning — putting your thoughts out there for the whole world to see. Part of you hopes that people magically find you and connect with what you’re saying, but there is also a small part that hopes no one sees it (I’ve gotten over that).

Few of us enjoy the readership of the big name blogs. I think that’s why so many blogs are short lived. Just because you write it doesn’t necessarily mean that readers and revenue will follow. It’s sad to find a blog you’ve cared about hasn’t had a post in ages, but it’s understandable too. Blogging takes time, and as lives change that time can be hard to find.

What makes an influential blog?

I’m here to make the case this morning that a blog can be one of influence and rewarding for the blogger even if you’re not a household name. The question is, “have you said something that someone somewhere needs to hear?”

I had a letter last week from a young Army wife. She and her husband are being transferred to Poland later this year. For the average American (that would have been me back in 2009), this can be unsettleing. We had no idea what to expect, and all kinds of questions crossed our minds back then. Will it be grey and dingy? Will you be able to buy things you’ll want and need? Will anyone speak English? Will our home be freezing in the winter? The letter said that reading about our experience had given them some peace of mind.

It’s always nice to hear from a reader, but to hear that you’ve inproved someone’s outlook or given them confidence about the future, well. . . it touches my heart.

When you’re a foreigner, it’s natural to feel that you’re always being judged — not just personally, but judged on how your nationality reacts in a given situation. I find myself doing crazy things just to avoid being the ugly American.

1. Avoid Being the Ugly American – the Perfect Tenant

As we were moving out of our flat and cleaning up before turning the keys over to the landlord, it occurred to me that I was cleaning with a frenzy that bears little resemblance to my somewhat laid back approach to housekeeping. When my late mother-in-law paid her first visit to our new home, she asked how to clean under the burners as we were tidying up after dinner one night. I had to fess up and say that I had no idea!

 

So as I scooted around the floor on my bum, mopping under the cabinets in our bathroom and drying the tile so there wouldn’t be mineral spots left by the water. I knew that I was doing more than was natural for me. I realized that I hadn’t turned into a cleaning machine just to be assured of getting our deposit back. I was doing it for you, my fellow Americans. I was doing it for us. So that at least one Polish family would say Americans are a tidy lot, despite the popularity of American TV shows like Hoarders: Buried Alive on Polish TLC. I also made a trip to IKEA to replace a few things that had been broken in the kitchen during the five years that we lived there, replace the cutting boards, etc. It might have been more than was called for, but it made an impression on them. As far as our landlords are concerned, we’re a responsible, generous nation, not looking to take advantage of anyone. . . you can thank me later.

2. Avoid Being the Ugly American – the Perfect Customer

As I come around to this line of thinking, I can also see a change in my behavior as a customer. I think it’s an American pastime to evaluate service. We sometimes spend more time thinking about the service when we’re dining out than enjoying the meal and our companions. My friend, Rob, is the owner-chef (James Beard semi-finalist, I might add) of The Curious Kumquat, a small restaurant in Silver City, New Mexico. One of the things I have heard Rob lament on facebook is that people fail to register their complaints in person and on the spot, especially when dealing with small businesses, like his restaurant. He would much rather a customer tell him what is wrong and give him a chance to fix it, to make amends, rather than bash him in an online review after telling him everything was fine. I try to follow Rob’s suggestion, but not in Poland.

After gently pointing out short-comings in a meal, from foreign objects found in the food to a meal that is inedible, the response from servers has ranged from “it’s not my fault” to “I didn’t cook it.” At dinner the other night, my friends, Polish and Dutch, said that if you don’t teach them how it should be, they’ll never learn. I beg to differ.

I’ve realized that pointing out the flaws just makes me a complaining American. If the owner of the business was interested in my feedback and making improvements to the business, they would train their staff in how to graciously receive and convey these comments. I’ve seen from Ed’s work with the Polish military that information doesn’t travel up the chain of command in Poland. Why would a waiter carry complains back to the chef or owner if it might cost them their job? They are paid to take orders and carry plates. That’s what they do. So like any good American, I vote with my dollars (zloty) and feel OK about leaving an objective review online.

3. Avoid Being the Ugly American – the Perfect Patient

The third and final (for this post anyway) thing I’ve done in an effort to represent myself, our family, and our part of the world in a positive light came about while Ed was in the hospital. I was staying in the hospital room, and they served us both three meals everyday. The midday meal was huge and freshly cooked, not institutional food at all. Breakfast and supper always consisted of a slice of cheese, two slices of deli meat and six slices of somewhat stale sandwich bread. Besides being boring after the third day, it was way more bread than we wanted to eat, but we didn’t want to leave it on the plate and appear to be picky eaters.

Think I’m overreacting? When I started bringing in takeaway meals of steak and shrimp when Ed’s hemoglobin count was very low, the doctor said to me, “what’s wrong with the food here?” So rather than waste 20 slices of bread everyday between us, we wrapped them up and hid them in a drawer. When I went out, I smuggled the bread out in a shopping bag, leaving them in places where I’ve seen people searching for food. Looking back on it now, it seem ridiculous, but it made perfect sense at the time.

It Works Both Ways

I used a taxi to take Benson to his groomer appointment today because my knee has been bothering me enough lately that I’m walking with a cane. You know this judging an entire nation by the actions of a stranger works the other way too. My Polish friends and acquaintances all stand on their own merit, but today, and hopefully just for today, my perception of Poles I don’t know is colored just a bit by the taxi driver that refused to bring Benson and me from his groomer appointment back to the hotel. “No dogs!” were his words to me as he drove away leaving me standing in freezing weather with a dying cell phone battery. When the next taxi I called didn’t show after 25 minutes, we hobbled off to the tram stop. I think I’m ready to leave now.