To a Communist

I was going through my journal and found something I had written while I was on a train in Poland this past November. Poland was a very strange place and while Cairo was more foreign, Poland was the stranger. It lurks between the two world of past and present, trying to move forward and yet the past surrounds it. It is not just in a the intangible details of history, but in the streets where most of the buildings are remnants of the Communist era. Only a few places have hidden historical gems, like the old city center of Gdansk (or Danzig, as it is known in German). We were discussing James Joyce's 'The Dead' in my Irish literature class and our professor brought up a poem, 'To a Communist' written by Louis MacNeice, which compares communism to snow. It would have been a perfect read for my trip to Poland.

In order to give a little more context to what I wrote on the train, my host Michael is Polish and his family is quite wealthy. We were their guests at their family home in Sopot and then at the hotel they run in the tiny village of Wiejce (pronounced Vee-et-sah). The hotel was once the estate of a German baron and used as a hunting lodge. Michael is also an ardent believer in true 'libertarianism' and he quickly deemed me a 'socialist'. Unfortunately, he also loves to argue politics (at once point, I accused him of arguing for the sake of hearing his own voice and that in a true political discourse, he would actually listen to what I was saying) and on the train rides which totaled about 12 hours, we were constantly subject to it. Here's what I wrote on the train:

We sit, some beings of ourselves, in our myopic journey of politics. Words flail round, some pretty sound to the harsh consequence of meaning and measure. The landscape calms our dictation in its frost covered world, trees fragile without leaves and the once long rays of the sun mellowing at an early hour.

Our journey had begun in the gilded age of Gdansk, the harbor glittering, reminding of some other time when merchants were hallowed on these streets and ships were a common sight. The snow softens the harbor and the murkier history of an unforgotten past. But on this night, the light is soft and the air quiet as we stroll along the harbor. We dart into a building, the remains of what belonged to some merchant family. Behind the wooden doors hangs a curtain. We step past its folds to what is a small bar. It is tucked away like some forgotten relic, the lighting becoming more blurred and intricate the longer we stand there.

We climb the rickety stairs to a tiny room full of tables and chairs - the decor recalling some past world. We order 'warm beer', beer warmed like cider and laced with cinnamon and cloves. We settle into what feels like our own private world. But after an hour, Michael tells us we must leave and we all rush outside to catch a taxi. We run down the crooked stairs, past the curtain, and into the street where we find that the snow has covered everything. The street is empty - it is 10pm on a Tuesday - the cellar doors that during the day become stalls selling amber are shut, the heavy wooden panels a most intriguing sight. There is a golden haze over everything, as streetlights blend into the fog, and standing in the snow, watching the flakes catch our coats, we forget that there is anything else besides this.

After minutes or hours, we remember that we are cold and that Mrs. Danucia is waiting with our Polish supper at home. Michael is quite insistent, not because we are keeping her waiting, but because food is something a Pole would never miss.

Weathering Colds and the Radio

It's raining and I'm at home nursing some variant of the virus that seems to be ensnaring the student population of St. Andrews. This means I feel like doing absolutely nothing and watching tv all day. Oh, wait! That's what I feel like doing every day!

No, I'm just joshing, as my friend Michael would say. I just happen to be a very miserable person when I am sick. That is, sick enough to still do everything but with a head that feels like it might explode, or already did due to the strange side affects of cold medicine.

I was told by a friend of mine today that the Scottish weather has once again returned and brought us winds predicted to be around 40mph. He was upset as he won't be able to golf. I was more upset about the upcoming walk I will have to undertake to get anywhere in this town. Basically, my residence is a mile outside of town and the easiest way to get there is to go through a path through a field. I thought last week's 20mph were bad enough (there are no windbreaks).

St. Andrews suffers from a microclimate, although far from the legendary La Jolla one, due to its position on the Scottish coast. Unlike the west coast, we escape a majority of storms and end up with one of the more temperate Scottish climates. Until the winds arrive. I can deal with snow and frost and rain and sleet. In fact, I like the cold and varied weather. But when you walk through an empty field with no one in sight for miles and hear the howling wind and a few lone crows, it seems more reminiscent of death. Or in Paradise Lost when the devil is about to appear.

On a better note, I am now volunteering at the radio station as a producer. Last Saturday night was my first show. I don't do any announcing - that's what the DJ is for - but I make sure everything goes out on the air, music, DJ's voice, etc., and give feedback to the DJ for the show. The show I'm working on is called Lucien's Alternative to Alternative, which is broadcast at midnight on Saturday nights (that's 4pm for CA listeners). You can stream it online at www.standrewsradio.com I believe that is enough of a plug.

I had a ton of fun the other night throwing it together. There were a couple of snags - like when one of the CDs wouldn't play - and then when the DJ forgot to give me the right cue for a song, but all in all, it went well. I'm sending the DJ some track suggestions and hopefully he'll play some of them.

I should get back to my bowl of tea - I was inspired by the French breakfast ritual of drinking coffee out of boules. I also uploaded my pictures from Cairo which you can view here and more of the pyramids here.

An Animated History of Evil

I had to post this youtube video on the history of evil for everyone else who enjoys history and parodies as much as I do.

Un Cafe Creme, Milchcaffee, etc.

One of the biggest frustrations from living here in Scotland is the absymal lack of good coffee. Originally, I thought I wouldn't be drinking it because lattes are around 3 pounds and who needs a $6 cup of coffee? Luckily for me, I am not even tempted by $6 dollar cups of coffee when they are most similiar in taste to the free burnt coffee you get at church socials or other such events. With the exception of Egypt, where they serve turkish coffee, this is how I rated the coffee of each country I've traveled to:

1. Germany
2. France
3. The Netherlands
4. Poland
5. United Kingdom

Unfortunately my coffee drinking in Poland was very limited. But so far British coffee has been the absolute worst. Tea is another story...

Cairo Continued

I keep thinking about other things I want to blog about, so I better hurry up and finish the Cairo posts.

My Cairo trip was filled with the various tourist sites the rest of the week. I went to the Egyptian Museum and saw the everything they had removed from King Tut's burial site as well as thousands of other objects from the Golden Age of the Pharaohs. Compared to the King Tut exhibit that was in Los Angeles a few years ago, the Egyptian Museum supposedly takes months to go through. For me on the other hand, it took a solid five hours just to walk through the entire museum and take a brief look at the objects. In comparison to the travelling exhibit, the museum gives a much better context and was fascinating. I normally am not very interested in ancient art, but almost everything I saw was brilliant in its beauty and awe-inspiring because of the brilliant craftsmanship and sheer age. To think that these were made more than 3000 years ago!

Another interesting place was Coptic Cairo. It is also known as the Roman Fortress of Babylon and is the oldest standing part of the city. However, Duso and I had a bit of an adventure in getting there. Duso told the cab driver where we wanted to go, but I guess he heard something differently. The next thing we knew we were being driven through a slum that was filled with heaps of garbage and garbage trucks navigating the narrow dirt streets to dump more. The neighborhood seemed to be Christian - the women didn't wear headscarves and there were vendors selling plastic Jesuses. Suddenly we arrived at a gate where the guard asked what nationality Duso and I were and when hearing American, he was satisfied. As for the cab driver, he asked for identification and searched his pockets. When this was done, we continued up a very nice white driveway along the mountainside. We suddenly reached a parking lot where there were busloads of Asian tourists and Egyptian school children. There was some sort of church looking building and grass. The mountains formed a wall around us and on the sides of the hill were carvings of Jesus' life. Under one of them, it read, in English, 'JESUS IS THE SECOND COMING'.

We quickly realized that this was not Coptic Cairo and told the cab driver where we really wanted to be. He took us to the real Coptic Cairo, which I think was one of my favorite places in the city. The churches are in a Byzantine style and there are portraits of St. George all over. There were also tons of palm trees (which reminded me of home) and narrow alleys, giving it a very mysterious Indiana Jones-esque feeling. Afterward, Duso and I had turkish coffee, which I adored.

Besides the Indiana Jones moments (no lost ark, though), I got the whole Lawrence of Arabia feel. One evening Duso and I took a horseback ride through the desert at sunset. We galloped through the sand dunes and took a rest at a campfire set up to resemble some sort of outpost. In the distant, we could see the pyramids as well as the Cairo skyline.

There was the night-time Nile boat tour as well. And no, there were neither crocodiles nor lilies. Mainly there were oil slicks and blackish water. Duso told me not to touch the water either - it was known for having tons of bacteria and chemicals in it.

We also went to some of the few bars and clubs Cairo has to offer. There was Cafe Houria, where they serve Egyptian beer, Stella mostly, and tasty bar snacks Egyptian style, which are little yellow bean like things resembling soy beans. They were really good and salty, perfect with the beer. We also went to Odeon, a hotel, known for its decaying colonial style and rooftop bar. There was the Cairo Jazz Club as well which played live music, but with a cover band (no jazz was to be heard the evening we went).

And then there were the Pyramids. Despite the familiarity of them, there were incredible in reality. The structures are massive and despite the years of Egyptian school children climbing on them (we saw many, adults too, climbing up specifically where it said 'No Climbing'), they are still there. Like everything in the Egyptian Museum, it was incredible to think what marvels of engineering they were! And how they still are standing! The Sphinx was the least impressive and the erosion is extremely evident. It was also strange to see the massive fences and hordes of badly dressed Eastern Europeans posing in front of it.

Overall, I am extremely glad I was able to visit Cairo. I'm not sure how much of a hurry I am to return to it - I think Paris wins when it comes to a fabulous city - but it was by far the most culturally different place I've been to. Though as Duso's American roommate pointed out, he was glad he had had the transition of visiting Europe before moving on to Egypt and the Middle East.

The Natural Disaster of Fire Drills

The British are obsessed with fire safety. Well, to be more exact, fire protocol. This morning we had a fire drill at a lovely 7 am and despite being warned the night before, it still came as an unearthly shock. There is nothing more horrifying and jolting than a blaring noise to whisk you from the warm comforts of your bed into the early Scottish morning. Luckily, it now being February, there was some light - unlike December - and it was not raining. Yet I envy all those first year Berkeley students in their flipflops and sweatshirts and lack of frost and frozen ponds. Then again, bed seemed all the better when I did finally return.

I understand the need for fire drills, especially when you live in a housing block of something like 900 students. But my building has been cursed with an unfortunate amount. What was worse was that there is no warden (the equivalent of a Residential Advisor, except usually a grad student looking for cheap housing) specifically assigned to our building and it took one about 20 minutes to arrive the last time. We were later told, after the fire brigade arrived, that the discovered the reason for the alarm. Due to hi-tech software, the alarms record what triggered them. Last time, it was because someone had used too much aerosol deodorant and the fumes had triggered the fire sensor. Today's drill was merely routine.

What I was especially surprised by when I first arrived here was the amount of fire doors everywhere. Not only do they seem to appear every five feet, but they are made from the heaviest wood possible. You must pull to open them if you are indoors (which is the opposite of current California building code, note part d) or as the code states 'in the direction of exit'. The doors in my building often take both arms to pull open and god forbid if you have a laundry basket! Coming from the land of fires, it seems like the British are overly worried. There is a sign in our kitchen about cleaning the hob (the stove burners) as it is a very likely fire hazard. And then we are not allowed to keep our kitchen door open at any time! Another fire hazard! I don't even want to go into the warning we got about leaving our front door ajar and unlatched. Yet, in a four story building, there is only one fire exit - the main staircase. Luckily my window is big enough for me to jump out of and be able to escape with maybe just a broken arm. Too bad for those people on the 4th floor.

I guess there are enough stupid undergraduates at this fine university though. Earlier this week, some fine specimen of British higher education had a candle burning in his room. However, this candle was not very stable and fell over into his shoe and ignited it. It then spread to his laundry, burning his wardrobe and the wall. He's no longer living here anymore.

As for all those poor Berkeley (and St Andrews) undergraduates who live off campus, what happens to them when they don't have a fire drill? Martina and I often had to take down our smoke detector in our apartment last year. The slightest bit of smoke from the oven or a pot boiling over would set it off. Yet at nineteen years old, I think we would have been able to evacuate the building if there was a fire, despite not having a drill. I'm not sure how our neighbor who had just had hip surgery would have done.

I guess the British do have a traumatic history with fire. The fires at Camden Market did not bolster their confidence either. I personally believe they never got over the Great London fire of 1666. (I wonder if Chicago has the same problem after the Mrs. O'Leary cow thing.) Then again, maybe I'm taking too blase a standpoint. But when you are constantly in the midst of natural disaster, you learn to work with it, or at least understand what you cannot do to prevent it.

Although I still wonder if an earthquake just happened every time a lorry rumbles by in a distant street.

First Two Days in Cairo

I am starting to wonder what I did in Cairo - but it is all coming back to me. Having been back in Scotland for over week, I have quickly been returning to my Scottish lifestyle and getting away from worldwide traveler mode.

The first day I arrived in Cairo it was 1am. Duso met me at the airport - thank god! - and we went back to his apartment, which is in the Al Manyal district, close to the city center. The airport was not as horrendous an experience as I thought it was going to be. I did get very confused due to lack of signage and got into the wrong line. I didn't help that all the Germans on my plane were equally confused - the plane had left from Cologne, Germany - and Germans do not know how to form a proper queue. The British do know how to do that right. There is even a joke that Brits will get into a queue for absolutely anything and often they do not even know why they are in a queue.

Eventually I made it through passport control. I had to buy my Visitor's Visa for $15 from one of the many banks next to the passport control lines and then had it stamped by passport control and was set free to try to get my luggage and avoid people trying to sell me stuff. By the time Duso and I made it to his apartment, it was pretty late. We had a quick snack and went to bed.

The next day we did a grand tour of Cairo, visiting the old Islamic citadel and the bazaar. The Citadel was built in response to the Crusades as a military strong point for the city. There is also an absolutely gorgeous mosque there and as the whole complex is on a hill, the view is outstanding. In the distance we could see both the pyramids of Giza and the older ones of Saqqara. There are also a strange assortment of museums there including an old Ottoman palace, a military museum, and a police museum. Like any great country, Egypt believes in Revisionist History and Duso and I found it very funny to see which wars Egypt had actually won. We were also very intrigued to see if the military vehicles parked in the garden were made of metal or plastic. They certainly looked like they were plastic, but they sounded like metal when we hit them, and the signs said they were real.

A sidenote - in Egypt, no one follows the rules. We were going to go into the Police Museum, but the guard told us it was closed. We started to walk away when he called out, 'If you are quick, you can go in'. But then we would have had to give him a 'tip' and we didn't really care that much about a police museum. As for the rules, it is most apparent in the traffic. Although there are lanes painted on the streets, no one actually drives in them, creating their own variety of lanes ranging from 2 to 20. If I had driven like that, I would have been dead in instants. But I guess the Egyptians have figured it out as pedestrians follow similar rules as the drivers. I have learned to be an excellent jay walker since I got to Britain - all motor vehicles have the right of way - but no where as near to as good as those who have lived in Cairo.

Later that day, we went to the bazaar. From what Duso was telling me, there is only one true bazaar in Cairo and it is much more a Middle Eastern tradition than North African. I kept forgetting that Egypt, despite being Muslim, is in fact North African. The bazaar was exactly as I imagined it - narrow alleys with vendors selling absolutely everything imaginable. It is a major tourist destination as well so the vendors speak almost every language and try to lure customers in with their best English phrases (which I mentioned before here). Most of the stuff is pretty useless - need a fake copper Egyptian cat with hieroglyphics on it? - although I think my favorite random stuff was the giant baskets of spices and herbs. For some reason all the vendors kept saying, 'Want belly dancing?' and would gesture to a back room. I kept thinking it was the Islamic version of strip clubs and when I mentioned this to Duso, he laughed. 'They have belly dancing outfits', he said. That explained a lot. Although why would I want a belly dancing outfit? Then again, I saw tourists buying tons of junk.

I did make several purchases in the bazaar. Postcards, for one, but I was planning on buying them anyways. Then I, with Duso's help, bargaining for two beautiful linen scarves, one of which I gave to my friend Kat in Germany to thank her for hosting me. The best thing I bought though was a beautiful pair of earrings. Duso and his roommate have gotten to know a shop owner in the bazaar named Hani. Hani and his brother run an antique shop that sells a lot of interesting artifacts from Iran, Iraq and other parts of the Middle East. Hani also runs a jewelry shop where he handmakes all of his pieces. I bought the earrings which are made from beautiful red stones and a carved wooden scarab with copper and turquoise details. Unfortunately, the scarab fell off when I later went horseback riding, but that's another story.