And something just came to me. The first night I was here, I went to sleep and woke up because the sun was shining all in my room. I looked outside and panicked because it looked like it was 11 o'clock AM and thought I had overslept. But when I checked the time, it was only 4:30 in the morning. I thought I must have set my clock ahead wrong, so I kept looking at the time and back at the sky... Think of this during that weird time where you're not sure if you're really awake or dreaming.
Then I had to accept that the sun rises at four in the morning here...
Thank God I have no sense of time anyway.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
So... Where's the Microwave?
Due to unanticipated internet problems, I have not been able to write anything until now. I would have killed to write something about the bizarro world while I was in Copenhagen, but sadly, Chapel Hill's wireless is unfriendly to Europe.
First... flying is kind of surreal to me. I thought it would feel different from what it actually is, but no, it really does feel like you're lifted up and, well, chilling out in the sky for a little while. I wanted to throw up at one point, which I don't think the pregnant girl next to me would have appreciated, but that was only from Raleigh to D.C. Let's see. From D.C. to Copenhagen was the only memorable flight of the three; that's when things began to get European. I was on this huge plane with about a hundred people, 98 of whom were blond. And all these people who had been speaking accent-less English in the airport suddenly turned Norwegian on me. How was this woman beside me Swedish? And that family in front German? Even the flight attendants assumed I was Norwegian (the Swedish woman identified the language for me) and kept asking if I wanted "Tee-ah" (tea). The flight was eight hours across the Atlantic but I didn't have the window seat, so I just saw this cartoon image of the plane flying very slowly over southern Greenland for like five hours on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I was actually glad to be on the aisle since it was such a long flight. I kept getting up just to walk around or go to the bathroom (which are tiny... tiny... tiny... And scared me half to death when I flushed since it was so loud).
I slept for only an hour, but when I woke up, time had jumped from midnight to 6:00 AM, so it was kind of like my schedule at school ha. (Note to Elaine: "Jet-lag" is nothing more than a post-UL morning). And when I landed in Denmark an hour later, I had five hours to kill before my flight. There were a lot of stores in the airport (which is huge), so you think I would not have a problem being occupied for so long. But when you don't speak Danish, have no Danish money, and don't know a single person, regardless of whether you are officially in Europe for the first time, you can get bored. So I people-watched as I usually do and hoped no one could tell I was an American (so I would get neither robbed, abducted, bombed, or offended). I saw a middle-aged business woman fly by on a scooter which threw me off guard. I saw a few other people riding them, so I guess it's not as weird as it would be in the United States. Or maybe I'm clueless and people actually do fly by on scooters in crowded places in the U.S. People dressed kind of like they do at the Weaver Street Market. Nobody had old jeans or ---INTERRUPTION: I just looked out my bedroom window and saw a neighbor with a side part and small little black moustache --- ratty T-shirts. Just imagine a picture you've seen of a street filled with well-dressed Europeans, and insert Krista into it, then you have the idea. (Elf up...).
It was a lot of fun, but you really do feel awkward when you are the foreigner. At least, I do. It's exciting but then also, you have no idea how to do some very simple things. For instance, in the airport I had to go through Passport Control. Keep in my mind I have no idea about all the technicalities involving flying to another country, I just knew I had to have a passport. So I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it or anything. So when someone directed me to the Passport Control box I kind of creeped up to the window and prayed to God the guy spoke English.
"So, um, yeah, is this where I go to ... show my passport?"
"Okay."
I showed him my passport, he stamped a page. I stood there expecting him to say something like, "What are your reasons for travelling? Have you anything to declare?" (What that last one means, I have no idea, but it appeared in my Polish phrasebook).
When he didn't, I realized I should probably go around the stand, but when I did it looked like a big glass window blocking the way. I tried to go around to the other side, but the guy gave me a weird look and kind of glanced at the "window." I went a little closer to this "window" before I realized it was an automatic door that looked different from any other one I had seen. I just sort of quickly walked through and hoped no one saw. Then, when I went to the bathroom, I couldn't figure out how to flush the toilet for the longest time (yes, this is the second time I am mentioning bathrooms). There were these two little metal button things and finally I pushed one and walked out, ashamed. Copenhagen ate me alive...
I changed some money at the airport which I hear you're not supposed to do and got some Polish zlotych and a few Danish coins with some holes in them (oh the sweet earrings!...). I was paranoid about leaving anything unattended (for good reason, I'm sure), so I was lugging my laptop, purse, and a very heavy black duffel bag throughout the airport for five hours. I got creeped out because this dude kept looking at the duffel bag pointedly and then to me, and I saw him maybe four times while walking around. (No, I am not giving the Copenhagen drug exchange symbol by taking out a piece of gum from my purse. You have the wrong girl with the wrong black duffel bag!) But it was pretty awesome, the whole experience of being surrounded by pale people who looked like me, with funny eyes and weird bone structure.
By the time I was on my last flight, I was exhausted. I had consumed probably eight Red Bulls in three days (which is just gross) without eating very much, and had slept about five hours in those three days. I fell asleep as we were taking off (how I managed to fall asleep knowing I could die on that airplane, I don't know) and woke up as we were landing. And getting off the plane, I somehow managed to feel no compulsion to get my luggage that had travelled below the airplane for twelve hours off the belt until I had passed through the Doors of No Return and saw Ms. P.
Ooops and a great first impression. She had to explain to some huge Danish guard wearing fatigues (and looked as though he should be named Ivan) that I am a stupid American and somehow managed to not get my checked luggage. It was all the Red Bulls and lack of sleep! Really! So I was personally escorted back through these gates by "Ivan" and with no dignity left, stood for ten minutes watching luggage go by until my embarrassingly bright neon yellow tags showed up. Then he asked to see my "Pish-pid" (five minutes later: oooh! Passport!) and I could leave. No lost luggage, but the self-respect just hasn't come back.
And those have been the most complicated parts of my adventure so far, but it's all been fun. The family is really nice and the kids are adorable. They are just like those British children you see in the movies, only Polish. They don't watch much T.V. and like traditional things, which I like to see. Lots of knights and swords and castles (Kasper has a map of Sherwood Forest on his wall) and they ride bikes. The youngest, Marcel, is four and is just learning to read Polish, and goes around for hours sounding out words letter by letter, and then saying the whole word. He'll read an entire book this way. They are learning some English words, and I am trying to learn Polish. They laugh when I try to say Polish words... "Truskafka." They don't understand that we don't have three different ways of pronouncing the "ch" sound in English. I tried to teach Cecylia the word "bear" but she could only manage "Brrrr!" I forget that I haven't had a real conversation with them. It's a lot easier than it seems, somehow.
And God, the Sound of Music connections. Carrie, you would love it all. The kids called me and their parents into the living room for a little performance after a meal, and Kasper started beating on this huge drum and Cecylia and Marcel had a choreographed dance routine to go along with it. Not to mention I had this fleeting urge to become a nun when we were picking up the kids from kindergarten (the equivalent of our preschool), and there was the nicest young nun who worked there. I thought for a moment that I too might like to rid myself of this material world and don the robes of the church, but I realized 1) I'm not Christian, 2) I (really) like the Smiths, and 3) this really was getting to be a little too much like the Sound of Music, which I don't even like. So for now, I am still the American au pair.
Some points of interest about Poland might be that the roads are terrifying. I am going to have to learn to drive stick-shift (my worst nightmare) and all the roads are very, very narrow, with only one lane. People pass all the time, there are never cars in a row. People pass even when you are on a country road and there is oncoming traffic. And they slam on their brakes. I am more scared of being on these roads than riding an airplane... And I will have the joy of transporting children via this deathtrap. Lord.
Umm.. and I walked around the large city of Poznan yesterday for a few hours, which was really nice. There are a lot of cafes, pubs, museums... It's the biggest city I've been to, and there were so many people. But the roads are crazy there, too. Mr. P pulled over to drop me off and was talking about where to meet him when we heard this ringing sound. I looked up and there was this huge train face-to-face like five feet from the front of the car. It just came out of no where. Then Mr. P. moved a few inches over and the train inched ahead. Then it went flying by... It was just like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter. I looked outside my window and there were people looking out the bus window just a foot or two away. It was crazy. I almost stepped out in front of another train later, walking around.
I wish I could at least speak enough Polish to have a conversation with a stranger so I could make some friends... There are only so many ways you can go about randomly speaking English to people without being weird. I don't want to not try things because I'm too scared, but I couldn't even tell what the shops were from the outside so it was hard to tell whether I should go in the buildings (they are all converted old buildings, some of them palaces/castles). So I would take my chances on whether a place was a bookstore, a gym, or an erotic store (yes, an erotic store, but that store had its name in English too, thank God). I ate spaghetti and bought a drink from a little window store (I paid with 10 zlotych and got all coins back... I stood waiting for some more change in bills until I looked down and realized there are such things as 5 zlotych coins...). I sat by a fountain and nearly got attacked by black pigeon things which were being terrorized by this two-year-old boy. Then, just a few minutes before I was supposed to be picked up, it started raining, so I asked these two guys standing outside a backdoor to a theater (it was the only close place with an awning) if it was okay if I stood under there while I waited for my ride. One spoke very good English, so I found out these guys were Polish dancers on a smoke break who were putting on a performance called The Dance of the Bat or something. They invited me backstage but unfortunately I had to leave, otherwise I would have had yet another typically me odd encounter. I guess meeting Polish dancers for the Dance of the Bat performance is odd in itself, so we will leave it at that.
And I am kind of tired of typing and trying to remember things so maybe later another weird thing will come to mind.
P.S. - Thank you Jenny and Laura for your letters... I read them between my prayers to God to not let me die on an airplane. I will send postcards as soon as I found out how to buy stamps.
First... flying is kind of surreal to me. I thought it would feel different from what it actually is, but no, it really does feel like you're lifted up and, well, chilling out in the sky for a little while. I wanted to throw up at one point, which I don't think the pregnant girl next to me would have appreciated, but that was only from Raleigh to D.C. Let's see. From D.C. to Copenhagen was the only memorable flight of the three; that's when things began to get European. I was on this huge plane with about a hundred people, 98 of whom were blond. And all these people who had been speaking accent-less English in the airport suddenly turned Norwegian on me. How was this woman beside me Swedish? And that family in front German? Even the flight attendants assumed I was Norwegian (the Swedish woman identified the language for me) and kept asking if I wanted "Tee-ah" (tea). The flight was eight hours across the Atlantic but I didn't have the window seat, so I just saw this cartoon image of the plane flying very slowly over southern Greenland for like five hours on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I was actually glad to be on the aisle since it was such a long flight. I kept getting up just to walk around or go to the bathroom (which are tiny... tiny... tiny... And scared me half to death when I flushed since it was so loud).
I slept for only an hour, but when I woke up, time had jumped from midnight to 6:00 AM, so it was kind of like my schedule at school ha. (Note to Elaine: "Jet-lag" is nothing more than a post-UL morning). And when I landed in Denmark an hour later, I had five hours to kill before my flight. There were a lot of stores in the airport (which is huge), so you think I would not have a problem being occupied for so long. But when you don't speak Danish, have no Danish money, and don't know a single person, regardless of whether you are officially in Europe for the first time, you can get bored. So I people-watched as I usually do and hoped no one could tell I was an American (so I would get neither robbed, abducted, bombed, or offended). I saw a middle-aged business woman fly by on a scooter which threw me off guard. I saw a few other people riding them, so I guess it's not as weird as it would be in the United States. Or maybe I'm clueless and people actually do fly by on scooters in crowded places in the U.S. People dressed kind of like they do at the Weaver Street Market. Nobody had old jeans or ---INTERRUPTION: I just looked out my bedroom window and saw a neighbor with a side part and small little black moustache --- ratty T-shirts. Just imagine a picture you've seen of a street filled with well-dressed Europeans, and insert Krista into it, then you have the idea. (Elf up...).
It was a lot of fun, but you really do feel awkward when you are the foreigner. At least, I do. It's exciting but then also, you have no idea how to do some very simple things. For instance, in the airport I had to go through Passport Control. Keep in my mind I have no idea about all the technicalities involving flying to another country, I just knew I had to have a passport. So I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it or anything. So when someone directed me to the Passport Control box I kind of creeped up to the window and prayed to God the guy spoke English.
"So, um, yeah, is this where I go to ... show my passport?"
"Okay."
I showed him my passport, he stamped a page. I stood there expecting him to say something like, "What are your reasons for travelling? Have you anything to declare?" (What that last one means, I have no idea, but it appeared in my Polish phrasebook).
When he didn't, I realized I should probably go around the stand, but when I did it looked like a big glass window blocking the way. I tried to go around to the other side, but the guy gave me a weird look and kind of glanced at the "window." I went a little closer to this "window" before I realized it was an automatic door that looked different from any other one I had seen. I just sort of quickly walked through and hoped no one saw. Then, when I went to the bathroom, I couldn't figure out how to flush the toilet for the longest time (yes, this is the second time I am mentioning bathrooms). There were these two little metal button things and finally I pushed one and walked out, ashamed. Copenhagen ate me alive...
I changed some money at the airport which I hear you're not supposed to do and got some Polish zlotych and a few Danish coins with some holes in them (oh the sweet earrings!...). I was paranoid about leaving anything unattended (for good reason, I'm sure), so I was lugging my laptop, purse, and a very heavy black duffel bag throughout the airport for five hours. I got creeped out because this dude kept looking at the duffel bag pointedly and then to me, and I saw him maybe four times while walking around. (No, I am not giving the Copenhagen drug exchange symbol by taking out a piece of gum from my purse. You have the wrong girl with the wrong black duffel bag!) But it was pretty awesome, the whole experience of being surrounded by pale people who looked like me, with funny eyes and weird bone structure.
By the time I was on my last flight, I was exhausted. I had consumed probably eight Red Bulls in three days (which is just gross) without eating very much, and had slept about five hours in those three days. I fell asleep as we were taking off (how I managed to fall asleep knowing I could die on that airplane, I don't know) and woke up as we were landing. And getting off the plane, I somehow managed to feel no compulsion to get my luggage that had travelled below the airplane for twelve hours off the belt until I had passed through the Doors of No Return and saw Ms. P.
Ooops and a great first impression. She had to explain to some huge Danish guard wearing fatigues (and looked as though he should be named Ivan) that I am a stupid American and somehow managed to not get my checked luggage. It was all the Red Bulls and lack of sleep! Really! So I was personally escorted back through these gates by "Ivan" and with no dignity left, stood for ten minutes watching luggage go by until my embarrassingly bright neon yellow tags showed up. Then he asked to see my "Pish-pid" (five minutes later: oooh! Passport!) and I could leave. No lost luggage, but the self-respect just hasn't come back.
And those have been the most complicated parts of my adventure so far, but it's all been fun. The family is really nice and the kids are adorable. They are just like those British children you see in the movies, only Polish. They don't watch much T.V. and like traditional things, which I like to see. Lots of knights and swords and castles (Kasper has a map of Sherwood Forest on his wall) and they ride bikes. The youngest, Marcel, is four and is just learning to read Polish, and goes around for hours sounding out words letter by letter, and then saying the whole word. He'll read an entire book this way. They are learning some English words, and I am trying to learn Polish. They laugh when I try to say Polish words... "Truskafka." They don't understand that we don't have three different ways of pronouncing the "ch" sound in English. I tried to teach Cecylia the word "bear" but she could only manage "Brrrr!" I forget that I haven't had a real conversation with them. It's a lot easier than it seems, somehow.
And God, the Sound of Music connections. Carrie, you would love it all. The kids called me and their parents into the living room for a little performance after a meal, and Kasper started beating on this huge drum and Cecylia and Marcel had a choreographed dance routine to go along with it. Not to mention I had this fleeting urge to become a nun when we were picking up the kids from kindergarten (the equivalent of our preschool), and there was the nicest young nun who worked there. I thought for a moment that I too might like to rid myself of this material world and don the robes of the church, but I realized 1) I'm not Christian, 2) I (really) like the Smiths, and 3) this really was getting to be a little too much like the Sound of Music, which I don't even like. So for now, I am still the American au pair.
Some points of interest about Poland might be that the roads are terrifying. I am going to have to learn to drive stick-shift (my worst nightmare) and all the roads are very, very narrow, with only one lane. People pass all the time, there are never cars in a row. People pass even when you are on a country road and there is oncoming traffic. And they slam on their brakes. I am more scared of being on these roads than riding an airplane... And I will have the joy of transporting children via this deathtrap. Lord.
Umm.. and I walked around the large city of Poznan yesterday for a few hours, which was really nice. There are a lot of cafes, pubs, museums... It's the biggest city I've been to, and there were so many people. But the roads are crazy there, too. Mr. P pulled over to drop me off and was talking about where to meet him when we heard this ringing sound. I looked up and there was this huge train face-to-face like five feet from the front of the car. It just came out of no where. Then Mr. P. moved a few inches over and the train inched ahead. Then it went flying by... It was just like the Knight Bus in Harry Potter. I looked outside my window and there were people looking out the bus window just a foot or two away. It was crazy. I almost stepped out in front of another train later, walking around.
I wish I could at least speak enough Polish to have a conversation with a stranger so I could make some friends... There are only so many ways you can go about randomly speaking English to people without being weird. I don't want to not try things because I'm too scared, but I couldn't even tell what the shops were from the outside so it was hard to tell whether I should go in the buildings (they are all converted old buildings, some of them palaces/castles). So I would take my chances on whether a place was a bookstore, a gym, or an erotic store (yes, an erotic store, but that store had its name in English too, thank God). I ate spaghetti and bought a drink from a little window store (I paid with 10 zlotych and got all coins back... I stood waiting for some more change in bills until I looked down and realized there are such things as 5 zlotych coins...). I sat by a fountain and nearly got attacked by black pigeon things which were being terrorized by this two-year-old boy. Then, just a few minutes before I was supposed to be picked up, it started raining, so I asked these two guys standing outside a backdoor to a theater (it was the only close place with an awning) if it was okay if I stood under there while I waited for my ride. One spoke very good English, so I found out these guys were Polish dancers on a smoke break who were putting on a performance called The Dance of the Bat or something. They invited me backstage but unfortunately I had to leave, otherwise I would have had yet another typically me odd encounter. I guess meeting Polish dancers for the Dance of the Bat performance is odd in itself, so we will leave it at that.
And I am kind of tired of typing and trying to remember things so maybe later another weird thing will come to mind.
P.S. - Thank you Jenny and Laura for your letters... I read them between my prayers to God to not let me die on an airplane. I will send postcards as soon as I found out how to buy stamps.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Ron the Customer Service Guy
Okay, this little blog about Poland has to start somewhere. I originally planned to begin it on the airplane once I left RDU, but I think I have found a more appropriate starting place. I guess it's kind of pathetic I haven't even left the U.S. yet and I'm already trying to find something interesting to talk about. But this interesting thing happens to be about a person so I think that makes it okay; this is the story of a customer service representative for United Airlines named Ron.
Elaine laughs about the random people I somehow end up talking to, and I suppose this is a good example of what she means. I don't know why, I guess it's because I'm bored all the time, but I end up talking to people I don't know for quite a while sometimes.
Today's interesting person came about through my paranoia. Planning a big trip by myself kind of provokes this paranoia. I get scared I'm forgetting some big detail or I start worrying that I'm not understanding English the way someone intended. So when I started checking carry-on baggage requirements and read that I can carry a bag with the dimensions up to 9 x 14 x 22 inches "or" with combined dimensions that do not exceed 45 inches, I was confused. Does that mean I couldn't carry a bag with a side 23 inches long? Even if the other sides are shorter than 9 and 14 inches? I've got this black duffel bag I got from some Quiz Bowl thing (shh) that is longer than 22 inches but all the dimensions add up to less than 45 inches.
So the voice in my head said I'd better call. I did and was connected to an "agent" after failing miserably at communicating with Robot Man (Robot Man kept apologizing - "My mistake" - when he couldn't understand my Sanford accent as I said my flight confirmation number).
Agent: [bored voice... the one that telemarketer has on T.V. shows where he talks real slow and sarcastically] This is Ron Somethingsomething... What can I do for you? [in his head, You, the moron who can't even communicate with Robot Man...]
Me: Um, like, see, I had this question. About carry on baggage dimensions. [my wonderful way of explaining myself]
Ron: Combined dimensions, 45 inches.
Me: Yes. I saw some other dimensions...
Ron: 62 inches for checked baggage.
Me: Something else. Like... 9 inches or something. What I mean is, can I have a bag that's longer than 22 inches? Like... 23 inches?
Ron: They're not going to make you check luggage because of an inch. [What he means: "They're not airline Nazis"] Is there anything else I can do for you?
Me: Oh.
Ron: Yeah.
Me: Oh. Well, I wasn't sure how strict they were. See, I've never flown before. I just wanted to make sure... Because this is my first time travelling... [Then comes my habit of rambling, trying to make explanations for my stupidity which just gets me into more trouble all the time]
Ron: Really? Where are you going?
Me: [surprised... Ron is expressing genuine interest in my future? How nice of Ron!] Poland.
Ron: Poland? [in a supposed to be Polish accent... more like Italian] Po polsku!
Me: [completely thrown off by this total change in attitude. But someone who does an accent right off, I respect that. No worrying about seeming weird. And suddenly it was like we were long lost friends...] You speak Polish?
Ron: No.
Me: Me neither.
Ron: What are you doing in Poland? Just going... on a whim?
Me: I'm going to be an au pair.
Ron: [laughs] How many kids do you have to take care of?
Me: Three.
Ron: [snickers] Have you had Polish food?
Me: Um, I've had pierogi.
Ron: [the Italian accent again] Pierogi! What flavors?
Me: Potato and sauerkraut.
Ron: The best kind. [a customer service representative who knows his pierogi... that's qualified!] So you're going to be sitting around... eating pierogi. Where are you flying out from?
Me: RDU.
Ron: I have a daughter who went to State.
Me: I go to Carolina.
Ron: Do you play sports?
Me: No. [haha... haha]
Ron: Well, you can be the pierogi queen instead.
Me: Excuse me?
Ron: You know, like that little Japanese girl who eats all the hot dogs. You think it'd be one of those big men who wins the competition. But it's the little Japanese girl. And so you can be the pierogi queen. Come back with a tiara and sash...
Me: Well, okay... [in head, "Don't they record these customer service things? What will his boss say when he hears this dude talking about pierogi?"]
Ron: Yeah, have you thought about asking the family if they "need" anything?
Me: ... What? ... [in head, Okay, this is sounding weird. What does he mean? Sex, drugs? Oh God Krista, this is what you get for talking to random people!]
Ron: You know, if they "need" anything ... like blue jeans.
Me: ... What? ... [Blue jeans...?]
Ron: Yeah. They're like a commodity. You can sell them for like $500 over there.
Me: Really? [now I really wonder what his boss would say]
Ron: Oh yeah. Let me tell you about this time I went to Germany. The wall was still up. Checkpoint Charlie. You could get from one side to the other, but you had a time limit. You stay out for longer than that time limit, they send out a search party. Now, I was trying to get back in, but this customs guy who looked at my passport kept saying something to me, PLAYbuh?. I just wanted to get back in but he kept asking me, PLAYbuh? PLAYbuh? Finally I get back and the people I'm working for ask if I had any trouble getting back in. I say, "No, just this guy kept saying PLAYbuh and I don't know what he meant." "Oh, that's just Franz. He was trying to see if you had a Playboy. If you would have had one, it'd have been like gold." See? So pack up your Jordache's. Write that down, remember to ask if the family needs anything.
Me: Wow. That's a good idea... [imagining me the au pair trying to hint at the Piskorcies... Do you need anything? Like... blue jeans?]
Ron: Do you plan on drinking over there?
Me: Well, not when I'm watching the kids. [Note to Carrie - I hope you understand that now]
Ron: Eh, just load 'em up with a few shooters, they'll be fine. Just kidding. Ahem. Just don't let the Polish talk you into drinking some of the vodka, like [long list of Polish drinks I know nothing about]. Just don't let let them talk you into it.
Me: You seem to know a lot about that.
Ron: [fondly] Yes, I do know a lot about that. What'd you say your name was again?
Me: Krista. And yours was... ?
Ron: I'm Ron. Well, Krista, I hope you have a fun trip. When you're taking a shot with the Polish, remember me back here.
Me: Yes, I will say, "This is for Ron."
Ron: Ah, yes. You do that. Good night, Krista.
Me: Have a good night, Ron.
I checked the time on my phone when I hung up. I talked to this guy I don't know for over 20 minutes. I don't even talk to my brethren for that long sometimes.
And so I see this conversation as the real beginning of my trip to Poland. Ron the Customer Service Guy symbolizes all my hopes and dreams for a memorable future. So when I'm chowing down on pierogi or throwing back a shot, it's all for Ron, the bored father from Chicago - yes, I also learned he's from Chicago.
Elaine laughs about the random people I somehow end up talking to, and I suppose this is a good example of what she means. I don't know why, I guess it's because I'm bored all the time, but I end up talking to people I don't know for quite a while sometimes.
Today's interesting person came about through my paranoia. Planning a big trip by myself kind of provokes this paranoia. I get scared I'm forgetting some big detail or I start worrying that I'm not understanding English the way someone intended. So when I started checking carry-on baggage requirements and read that I can carry a bag with the dimensions up to 9 x 14 x 22 inches "or" with combined dimensions that do not exceed 45 inches, I was confused. Does that mean I couldn't carry a bag with a side 23 inches long? Even if the other sides are shorter than 9 and 14 inches? I've got this black duffel bag I got from some Quiz Bowl thing (shh) that is longer than 22 inches but all the dimensions add up to less than 45 inches.
So the voice in my head said I'd better call. I did and was connected to an "agent" after failing miserably at communicating with Robot Man (Robot Man kept apologizing - "My mistake" - when he couldn't understand my Sanford accent as I said my flight confirmation number).
Agent: [bored voice... the one that telemarketer has on T.V. shows where he talks real slow and sarcastically] This is Ron Somethingsomething... What can I do for you? [in his head, You, the moron who can't even communicate with Robot Man...]
Me: Um, like, see, I had this question. About carry on baggage dimensions. [my wonderful way of explaining myself]
Ron: Combined dimensions, 45 inches.
Me: Yes. I saw some other dimensions...
Ron: 62 inches for checked baggage.
Me: Something else. Like... 9 inches or something. What I mean is, can I have a bag that's longer than 22 inches? Like... 23 inches?
Ron: They're not going to make you check luggage because of an inch. [What he means: "They're not airline Nazis"] Is there anything else I can do for you?
Me: Oh.
Ron: Yeah.
Me: Oh. Well, I wasn't sure how strict they were. See, I've never flown before. I just wanted to make sure... Because this is my first time travelling... [Then comes my habit of rambling, trying to make explanations for my stupidity which just gets me into more trouble all the time]
Ron: Really? Where are you going?
Me: [surprised... Ron is expressing genuine interest in my future? How nice of Ron!] Poland.
Ron: Poland? [in a supposed to be Polish accent... more like Italian] Po polsku!
Me: [completely thrown off by this total change in attitude. But someone who does an accent right off, I respect that. No worrying about seeming weird. And suddenly it was like we were long lost friends...] You speak Polish?
Ron: No.
Me: Me neither.
Ron: What are you doing in Poland? Just going... on a whim?
Me: I'm going to be an au pair.
Ron: [laughs] How many kids do you have to take care of?
Me: Three.
Ron: [snickers] Have you had Polish food?
Me: Um, I've had pierogi.
Ron: [the Italian accent again] Pierogi! What flavors?
Me: Potato and sauerkraut.
Ron: The best kind. [a customer service representative who knows his pierogi... that's qualified!] So you're going to be sitting around... eating pierogi. Where are you flying out from?
Me: RDU.
Ron: I have a daughter who went to State.
Me: I go to Carolina.
Ron: Do you play sports?
Me: No. [haha... haha]
Ron: Well, you can be the pierogi queen instead.
Me: Excuse me?
Ron: You know, like that little Japanese girl who eats all the hot dogs. You think it'd be one of those big men who wins the competition. But it's the little Japanese girl. And so you can be the pierogi queen. Come back with a tiara and sash...
Me: Well, okay... [in head, "Don't they record these customer service things? What will his boss say when he hears this dude talking about pierogi?"]
Ron: Yeah, have you thought about asking the family if they "need" anything?
Me: ... What? ... [in head, Okay, this is sounding weird. What does he mean? Sex, drugs? Oh God Krista, this is what you get for talking to random people!]
Ron: You know, if they "need" anything ... like blue jeans.
Me: ... What? ... [Blue jeans...?]
Ron: Yeah. They're like a commodity. You can sell them for like $500 over there.
Me: Really? [now I really wonder what his boss would say]
Ron: Oh yeah. Let me tell you about this time I went to Germany. The wall was still up. Checkpoint Charlie. You could get from one side to the other, but you had a time limit. You stay out for longer than that time limit, they send out a search party. Now, I was trying to get back in, but this customs guy who looked at my passport kept saying something to me, PLAYbuh?. I just wanted to get back in but he kept asking me, PLAYbuh? PLAYbuh? Finally I get back and the people I'm working for ask if I had any trouble getting back in. I say, "No, just this guy kept saying PLAYbuh and I don't know what he meant." "Oh, that's just Franz. He was trying to see if you had a Playboy. If you would have had one, it'd have been like gold." See? So pack up your Jordache's. Write that down, remember to ask if the family needs anything.
Me: Wow. That's a good idea... [imagining me the au pair trying to hint at the Piskorcies... Do you need anything? Like... blue jeans?]
Ron: Do you plan on drinking over there?
Me: Well, not when I'm watching the kids. [Note to Carrie - I hope you understand that now]
Ron: Eh, just load 'em up with a few shooters, they'll be fine. Just kidding. Ahem. Just don't let the Polish talk you into drinking some of the vodka, like [long list of Polish drinks I know nothing about]. Just don't let let them talk you into it.
Me: You seem to know a lot about that.
Ron: [fondly] Yes, I do know a lot about that. What'd you say your name was again?
Me: Krista. And yours was... ?
Ron: I'm Ron. Well, Krista, I hope you have a fun trip. When you're taking a shot with the Polish, remember me back here.
Me: Yes, I will say, "This is for Ron."
Ron: Ah, yes. You do that. Good night, Krista.
Me: Have a good night, Ron.
I checked the time on my phone when I hung up. I talked to this guy I don't know for over 20 minutes. I don't even talk to my brethren for that long sometimes.
And so I see this conversation as the real beginning of my trip to Poland. Ron the Customer Service Guy symbolizes all my hopes and dreams for a memorable future. So when I'm chowing down on pierogi or throwing back a shot, it's all for Ron, the bored father from Chicago - yes, I also learned he's from Chicago.
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