Trevor and I finally decided what to do with our lives once our time in Poland is over. We're flying back to the States on August 11th. Soon after that, we will move all of our stuff to Los Angeles, where Trevor will begin a master's program in film directing at the American Film Institute Conservatory.
While we're sad about leaving lots of good friends, good food, and fun memories in Poland, we're very excited about all of the new adventures coming our way. We'll obviously keep you updated on the trip home and the move and, well, probably everything else.
Also, I've never actually been to LA. Lots of other cities in California, but not LA. Anyone have any advice, humorous anecdotes, or fun things we should do there?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Come again?
While Trevor and I have been in Poland, there have been a few instances that have gotten lost in translation, where what we were intending to say in Polish did not exactly cross the language barrier in a favorable way. It's just business as usual when you live in a different country, I guess, but we've gotten quite a kick out of them.
Like the time I desperately tried to explain to someone speaking to me that I don't speak Polish. When I later related to Trevor the extent of our conversation, I realized that I had been telling the man, "I don't speak Polish not very well." We laughed and then Trevor said, "There's probably not a better way you could have said it." (Really, this was just an instance illustrating my poor Polish skills more than a translation problem, but it still makes me laugh.)
The latest moment happened in church last week while Trevor was teaching Sunday School. I walked into class a little late after dropping Anna off in nursery, just as Trevor announced the number of the hymn we were going to sing. I quickly opened the hymn book to the right page, and when Trevor saw that I understood what he had just said in Polish, he laughed in delight and pointed out to everyone in class that I understood what he said and that I must be very, very smart.
And then, instead of saying how beloved I was, he told the class that I was such a good lover.
Awesome.
And it's even better that I had to find out what he said through my friend who was translating for me. I had noticed that things had gotten a little quiet, but I still had no idea what he said. After a silent pause, things got a little more uncomfortable as people in the class tried to decide whose responsibility it was to inform Trevor about what he had said. (Apparently the word has a little more of a promiscuous connotation in Polish. Thanks. Just when I didn't think it could get any better.)
Like the time I desperately tried to explain to someone speaking to me that I don't speak Polish. When I later related to Trevor the extent of our conversation, I realized that I had been telling the man, "I don't speak Polish not very well." We laughed and then Trevor said, "There's probably not a better way you could have said it." (Really, this was just an instance illustrating my poor Polish skills more than a translation problem, but it still makes me laugh.)
The latest moment happened in church last week while Trevor was teaching Sunday School. I walked into class a little late after dropping Anna off in nursery, just as Trevor announced the number of the hymn we were going to sing. I quickly opened the hymn book to the right page, and when Trevor saw that I understood what he had just said in Polish, he laughed in delight and pointed out to everyone in class that I understood what he said and that I must be very, very smart.
And then, instead of saying how beloved I was, he told the class that I was such a good lover.
Awesome.
And it's even better that I had to find out what he said through my friend who was translating for me. I had noticed that things had gotten a little quiet, but I still had no idea what he said. After a silent pause, things got a little more uncomfortable as people in the class tried to decide whose responsibility it was to inform Trevor about what he had said. (Apparently the word has a little more of a promiscuous connotation in Polish. Thanks. Just when I didn't think it could get any better.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Potato, puhtahto
I was helping Anna eat some soup last night and she was having a hard time pronouncing the word "potato." She has said it fine before, so I was helping her to fine-tune the pronunciation, as this time she happened to be calling them "tomatoes."
And this is how our conversation went.
Anna: (seeing an incoming bite of potato) "Tomato!"
Me: "No, this is a potato."
Anna: "Tomato."
Me: "No, puh-tay-toe."
Anna: "Tomato!"
We pause so she can eat a few more bites when I see this conversation isn't going anywhere.
And then I give it another go.
Me: "Say potato."
Anna: "Tomato."
Me: "Silly girl. Say puh-tay-toe. This is a potato. Potato."
Anna: "Yam!"
Priceless.
But I guess it would only be fair to tell you that "yam" is how Anna has been saying "yeah" lately. I don't know where the "m" came from, but, while it still makes me laugh that she was agreeing with me after all that, it made this little conversation an absolute gem.
And this is how our conversation went.
Anna: (seeing an incoming bite of potato) "Tomato!"
Me: "No, this is a potato."
Anna: "Tomato."
Me: "No, puh-tay-toe."
Anna: "Tomato!"
We pause so she can eat a few more bites when I see this conversation isn't going anywhere.
And then I give it another go.
Me: "Say potato."
Anna: "Tomato."
Me: "Silly girl. Say puh-tay-toe. This is a potato. Potato."
Anna: "Yam!"
Priceless.
But I guess it would only be fair to tell you that "yam" is how Anna has been saying "yeah" lately. I don't know where the "m" came from, but, while it still makes me laugh that she was agreeing with me after all that, it made this little conversation an absolute gem.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Garden party
Last week, our dear friends Maria and Orlando Arzapalo invited us to Maria's mother's house for a delicious strawberry lunch and a walk to her "garden" — more on why that's in quotes later.
We ate strawberry-filled dumplings (yum) and a tasty bacon-cabbage dish. We also had strawberry apple juice to drink.
After lunch, Maria and her mother showered Anna with gifts. They have been SO kind to us. Seriously. This day alone, Anna walked away with probably 5 new outfits, two books, a Flintstones lunch box, and a big bag of chocolate, yogurt, and other snacks.
Maria's mother lives next to a park, so we walked through it to a plot of land where her garden is. Since most people in Poland live in apartment buildings, there are areas around the city (like near parks or in other remote areas) where people can build a little cottage and/or plant a garden to work in.
Maria's mother's garden is beautiful. There was a little cottage with a living room, kitchen area, and a bathroom. There was also a great covered patio to the side.
One of Anna's new favorite pastimes is washing. That girl loves to wash. And she'll wash anything: her hands, her toys, my papers. After we washed her hands when we got to the cottage, the only way to persuade her to come out of the bathroom was to give her a big tub of water to play in outside. Here you can see one of the dresses Maria's mother gave her . . . and some cherry juice on her face.
The flowers were beautiful. It was so peaceful and so nice to imagine ourselves away from the noisy city for a while.
We had such a fun time. The food was delicious, the company was wonderful, and it was cool to see how Polish people like to relax and get away.
This is me and Anna before we left. Even when pressed, I couldn't tell you why I have such a freakishly huge smile on my face.
We ate strawberry-filled dumplings (yum) and a tasty bacon-cabbage dish. We also had strawberry apple juice to drink.
After lunch, Maria and her mother showered Anna with gifts. They have been SO kind to us. Seriously. This day alone, Anna walked away with probably 5 new outfits, two books, a Flintstones lunch box, and a big bag of chocolate, yogurt, and other snacks.
Maria's mother lives next to a park, so we walked through it to a plot of land where her garden is. Since most people in Poland live in apartment buildings, there are areas around the city (like near parks or in other remote areas) where people can build a little cottage and/or plant a garden to work in.
Maria, Trevor's behind, and Orlando in the garden
Maria's mother's garden is beautiful. There was a little cottage with a living room, kitchen area, and a bathroom. There was also a great covered patio to the side.
One of Anna's new favorite pastimes is washing. That girl loves to wash. And she'll wash anything: her hands, her toys, my papers. After we washed her hands when we got to the cottage, the only way to persuade her to come out of the bathroom was to give her a big tub of water to play in outside. Here you can see one of the dresses Maria's mother gave her . . . and some cherry juice on her face.
The flowers were beautiful. It was so peaceful and so nice to imagine ourselves away from the noisy city for a while.
We had such a fun time. The food was delicious, the company was wonderful, and it was cool to see how Polish people like to relax and get away.
Monday, June 30, 2008
A hearty welcome back to Poland
A rare post from Trevor:
I needed to go to Ukraine. Our options were 1) apply for a visa extension and pay a few hundred PLN and much unneeded legwork, or 2) make a lengthy and unneeded trip to cross the border
into Ukraine but spend only 60 PLN on a weekend ticket to anywhere in the country. The major drawbacks to the eventual choice of going to Ukraine (1. the chance of having to eat some more Ukrainian food, 2. the possibility of being threatened by guns and violence again, 3. no shiny new visa extension form in my passport [I don't know why, but I really like them], 4. massive amounts of time on the train with little relief, 5. far less time to get my home teaching done by the end of the month) couldn't compare to how much sweeter 60 PLN sounded to the few hundred alternative.
The final and best plan was to catch the 6:15 train to Krakow, then have one minute to change trains to Przemysl, then take a bus to Medyka, and cross the border to Ukraine. Return and get home by 4 AM in time to sleep a bit before going to church, where I would be speaking on Elder Bednar's much-needed, much-neglected talk on 'less-actives' and being offended, and speaking during the combined Relief Society/Priesthood meeting about the PBS documentary recently shown on Polish TV, then Branch council, a meeting with the missionaries, and hopefully two home teaching visits.
Well, that 6:15 train was really a 6:11 train and me missing it by 3 minutes was compounded by the near 35-minute wait from my first call to the taxi company to the arrival at the train station (something that usually takes 10 to 12 minutes took 20 minutes longer than usual). So missing that train made an already long trip even longer. Leaving my house at 5:45 (I'm counting it from there even though the taxi didn't come for those 20 minutes), the soonest I could make it back to Lodz was 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. That means 5 hours too late for my talk, 3 hours too late for my combined meeting talk, 2 hours too late for Branch council, and no-real-sleep-for-2-days-aside-from-the-15-minutes-here-and-there-in-the-all-night-cafe-and-the-train-station too late for the home teaching (plus I didn't even really confirm one of the visits). I did end up doing one visit, but I gave up on the other, and decided to count the one I did do even though I was alone.
However, Ashley had had a rough few days as well and I'm more selfish than any of you know (even if you think you do), so even though she had agreed to go get my colon-cleansing medication from the pharmacy (which had to be special ordered at the last minute on Saturday because the original medication was discontinued and I had to have it on Sunday for my 8:00 a.m. colonoscopy on Monday, so that's why we had to get it on the sabbath—though the ordeal did lead to two discussions about the church and my doctor promised to watch the PBS film on 'The Mormons'... but he's also promised to do a lot of other things that haven't happened), I decided to go get it after changing my shirt and putting on some deodorant.
And on the way back from the pharmacy is where our story begins.
I was walking back when, about a block from our apartment, I saw a man who appeared to be drunk. A couple tried to pass him and their glance at me confirmed my suspicion. As they walked by, he stepped into the street, missing a speeding car by less than a foot. In my weakened state, I tried to keep my head down and walk by quickly, but I noticed that on top of his drunkenness, his face had been cut by glass recently, the cuts still fresh with blood. I heard him start to yell as I passed, but I tried not to pay any attention as I've learned from experience that such situations only get worse when you acknowledge them. I hoped he was talking to someone else, as his language was foul and tone violent. I heard the phrases, "Who do you think you are?" and "What do you think you're looking at?" decorated with obscenities, while I walked all the faster. I heard him behind me with heavier steps that muffled his words. I finally heard "What are you, Jehovah!?" I turned back to make sure he was following me, and he in turn started pursuing me even more vigorously.
Instead of out and out running from him (I thought that would only make him madder), I thought I might diffuse the situation. "Excuse me? Can I help you, sir? Is there something wrong?" He started swearing so much at this point that the only words I understood were "you" and "oh you." Not wanting to run, I'm sure I looked silly with my bag of medication, switching between an intense speed walk and a light jog. I think this man was too drunk to run, but I could hear his pounding steps behind me.
Suddenly two girls, who I thought were asking me for a light, stopped me and asked what I was doing to their friend. Both of them, drunk as well, pushed me up against the fence. I started to say, "I don't know your friend, I don't know what's wrong with him" when I was interrupted by the man, who had finally caught up to me, and he promptly head butted me in the face. I pushed him away from me and he grabbed my bag of medication, ripping it in two. He then punched me twice in the face and then once in the neck. I pushed him away twice more and he finished with one more punch to the stomach. I'm sure I said much more in the middle, but the only thing I remember concretely, as I picked up the torn bag, my receipts, and medication, was repeating, "I don't know you. I've never seen you. I don't know you."
Now the man wasn't a trained fighter and drunks are never at the top of their game, but I can't remember ever being punched in the face before. (This is especially interesting considering the post I just wrote about how Latter-day Saints should be interested in Fight Club). After I walked away, the only sensation that lingered was shock and a little adrenaline. (Though there was a couple with a baby passing by whom I warned not to go down that way but they ignored me, assuming that I too was drunk. I realized people saw the whole thing and did nothing.)
I don't have any cuts or bruises, and, if anything, it wasn't nearly as exciting as the four liters of diarrhea juice I drank later that night. But it still makes for a good story, and so much so that the 74-year-old woman I went home teaching to an hour later decided to walk me back home, just so I'd be safe.
I needed to go to Ukraine. Our options were 1) apply for a visa extension and pay a few hundred PLN and much unneeded legwork, or 2) make a lengthy and unneeded trip to cross the border
into Ukraine but spend only 60 PLN on a weekend ticket to anywhere in the country. The major drawbacks to the eventual choice of going to Ukraine (1. the chance of having to eat some more Ukrainian food, 2. the possibility of being threatened by guns and violence again, 3. no shiny new visa extension form in my passport [I don't know why, but I really like them], 4. massive amounts of time on the train with little relief, 5. far less time to get my home teaching done by the end of the month) couldn't compare to how much sweeter 60 PLN sounded to the few hundred alternative.
The final and best plan was to catch the 6:15 train to Krakow, then have one minute to change trains to Przemysl, then take a bus to Medyka, and cross the border to Ukraine. Return and get home by 4 AM in time to sleep a bit before going to church, where I would be speaking on Elder Bednar's much-needed, much-neglected talk on 'less-actives' and being offended, and speaking during the combined Relief Society/Priesthood meeting about the PBS documentary recently shown on Polish TV, then Branch council, a meeting with the missionaries, and hopefully two home teaching visits.
Well, that 6:15 train was really a 6:11 train and me missing it by 3 minutes was compounded by the near 35-minute wait from my first call to the taxi company to the arrival at the train station (something that usually takes 10 to 12 minutes took 20 minutes longer than usual). So missing that train made an already long trip even longer. Leaving my house at 5:45 (I'm counting it from there even though the taxi didn't come for those 20 minutes), the soonest I could make it back to Lodz was 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. That means 5 hours too late for my talk, 3 hours too late for my combined meeting talk, 2 hours too late for Branch council, and no-real-sleep-for-2-days-aside-from-the-15-minutes-here-and-there-in-the-all-night-cafe-and-the-train-station too late for the home teaching (plus I didn't even really confirm one of the visits). I did end up doing one visit, but I gave up on the other, and decided to count the one I did do even though I was alone.
However, Ashley had had a rough few days as well and I'm more selfish than any of you know (even if you think you do), so even though she had agreed to go get my colon-cleansing medication from the pharmacy (which had to be special ordered at the last minute on Saturday because the original medication was discontinued and I had to have it on Sunday for my 8:00 a.m. colonoscopy on Monday, so that's why we had to get it on the sabbath—though the ordeal did lead to two discussions about the church and my doctor promised to watch the PBS film on 'The Mormons'... but he's also promised to do a lot of other things that haven't happened), I decided to go get it after changing my shirt and putting on some deodorant.
And on the way back from the pharmacy is where our story begins.
I was walking back when, about a block from our apartment, I saw a man who appeared to be drunk. A couple tried to pass him and their glance at me confirmed my suspicion. As they walked by, he stepped into the street, missing a speeding car by less than a foot. In my weakened state, I tried to keep my head down and walk by quickly, but I noticed that on top of his drunkenness, his face had been cut by glass recently, the cuts still fresh with blood. I heard him start to yell as I passed, but I tried not to pay any attention as I've learned from experience that such situations only get worse when you acknowledge them. I hoped he was talking to someone else, as his language was foul and tone violent. I heard the phrases, "Who do you think you are?" and "What do you think you're looking at?" decorated with obscenities, while I walked all the faster. I heard him behind me with heavier steps that muffled his words. I finally heard "What are you, Jehovah!?" I turned back to make sure he was following me, and he in turn started pursuing me even more vigorously.
Instead of out and out running from him (I thought that would only make him madder), I thought I might diffuse the situation. "Excuse me? Can I help you, sir? Is there something wrong?" He started swearing so much at this point that the only words I understood were "you" and "oh you." Not wanting to run, I'm sure I looked silly with my bag of medication, switching between an intense speed walk and a light jog. I think this man was too drunk to run, but I could hear his pounding steps behind me.
Suddenly two girls, who I thought were asking me for a light, stopped me and asked what I was doing to their friend. Both of them, drunk as well, pushed me up against the fence. I started to say, "I don't know your friend, I don't know what's wrong with him" when I was interrupted by the man, who had finally caught up to me, and he promptly head butted me in the face. I pushed him away from me and he grabbed my bag of medication, ripping it in two. He then punched me twice in the face and then once in the neck. I pushed him away twice more and he finished with one more punch to the stomach. I'm sure I said much more in the middle, but the only thing I remember concretely, as I picked up the torn bag, my receipts, and medication, was repeating, "I don't know you. I've never seen you. I don't know you."
Now the man wasn't a trained fighter and drunks are never at the top of their game, but I can't remember ever being punched in the face before. (This is especially interesting considering the post I just wrote about how Latter-day Saints should be interested in Fight Club). After I walked away, the only sensation that lingered was shock and a little adrenaline. (Though there was a couple with a baby passing by whom I warned not to go down that way but they ignored me, assuming that I too was drunk. I realized people saw the whole thing and did nothing.)
I don't have any cuts or bruises, and, if anything, it wasn't nearly as exciting as the four liters of diarrhea juice I drank later that night. But it still makes for a good story, and so much so that the 74-year-old woman I went home teaching to an hour later decided to walk me back home, just so I'd be safe.
Flashback
I was going through some old photos and videos on our computer and found this little gem. I thought I'd post it just so you could all be reminded of what a cutie Anna was at 10 months. I love the constant blinking, how she sticks her fingers in her mouth after almost every bite, and the flirtatious head-tilt-and-wave combo that was loved by all.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Mice tales
Everyone has a good mouse story. Or a bat story. Or one with a rat. I, in fact, have several. What with that time the bats were dive-bombing our heads as Jen and I tried to sleep at Lake Powell or the time my brother threw a pesky mouse off the houseboat and into the water, again at Lake Powell, only to have it swim back to shore and hop right back on, I've got rodent stories coming out my ears. (Sick.)
My friend Kimber recently posted a great mouse story on her blog and held a contest for people to submit their own rodent encounters as a comment and then she picked a winner. While I'm not exciting enough to make it a contest or nice enough to send a prize, I thought I'd put my favorite mouse story up just because I like it. (I don't actually like hurting animals, but I do feel like it's pretty top-notch when it comes to these kinds of stories. Just for clarification.)
_______________
So here goes. When Trevor and I were first married, we lived in a small old house that's in somewhat of a remote location. One afternoon, I was doing some baking and noticed a small flurry of fur run out of the pantry and then back behind the fridge. I kept my eyes peeled, waiting for the mouse to come out from behind the fridge so that I could do something (I don't know what) to take care of it.
Finally it did and, after meeting face-to-face with the broom, it scurried behind the oven and stayed there. I had to get back to whatever I was doing and then I eventually left the house to run an errand. When I came back, I saw the mouse on the stairs just sitting there. I thought it had died right there and was thoroughly grossed out.
But then I saw it move . . . really slowly. It was so bizarre. When are mice ever slow?
I then realized that since it got caught behind the hot oven, I probably cooked it a little bit! Ew!
I believe I put a bucket over it and then I made Trevor take it outside so it could die out there in its natural element.
_______________
Be they about mice, rats, spiders, bats or other creepy creatures, I know you've got stories. So let's hear 'em.
My friend Kimber recently posted a great mouse story on her blog and held a contest for people to submit their own rodent encounters as a comment and then she picked a winner. While I'm not exciting enough to make it a contest or nice enough to send a prize, I thought I'd put my favorite mouse story up just because I like it. (I don't actually like hurting animals, but I do feel like it's pretty top-notch when it comes to these kinds of stories. Just for clarification.)
_______________
So here goes. When Trevor and I were first married, we lived in a small old house that's in somewhat of a remote location. One afternoon, I was doing some baking and noticed a small flurry of fur run out of the pantry and then back behind the fridge. I kept my eyes peeled, waiting for the mouse to come out from behind the fridge so that I could do something (I don't know what) to take care of it.
Finally it did and, after meeting face-to-face with the broom, it scurried behind the oven and stayed there. I had to get back to whatever I was doing and then I eventually left the house to run an errand. When I came back, I saw the mouse on the stairs just sitting there. I thought it had died right there and was thoroughly grossed out.
But then I saw it move . . . really slowly. It was so bizarre. When are mice ever slow?
I then realized that since it got caught behind the hot oven, I probably cooked it a little bit! Ew!
I believe I put a bucket over it and then I made Trevor take it outside so it could die out there in its natural element.
_______________
Be they about mice, rats, spiders, bats or other creepy creatures, I know you've got stories. So let's hear 'em.
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