A sad, sad post

After my previous frivolous post there is time for serious reflections. I have been recently reading serious books, thinking serious thoughts, saying internally good bye to somebody departed who had been important in my life. Consequently, my reflections and thoughts have been a bit morose. Then, I saw a post  with a cheerful title Are Europeans sadder? I decided that this is something very appropriate for my current mood.  With each year passing, I feel more and more European, the post content caught my attention and interest. What do I think about it? What is my experience? Maybe Europeans are sadder, but in relation to whom? My observations tell me that the south Europeans are a cheerful lot but Scandinavians and Germans not so much. Poles are somewhere in-between, perhaps. I would place French and Spanish, on my personal happiness scale between Poland and Southern Europe. It makes me think that maybe weather and sunshine have some influence here. In addition to reasons given in the mentioned post, I wonder what influence European literature has on emotional predispositions of people. I have just finished biography of Herman Hesse and I would not call it a happy story. Deep and meaningful but not happy. Hesse was a strange, complicated man and a brilliant writer who influenced thinking of many generations of Germans in particular. Sure, his books are read in all countries of the world but I would risk an assumption that Europeans are in majority of his followers. His books do not cheer the readers up.

When I was at school, I had a great teacher of literature. At some stage of my education the time has come to read and study one of famous Polish writers of an unpronounceable name, Żeromski. He was called a conscience of Polish literature and his books were a mandatory reading at high schools. They cover serious, difficult subjects and I can not remember any funny parts in his novels. My teacher used to say : Be careful reading Żeromski. One novel – will not do you any damage, but if you read two in a row depression will follow, three books in a row may lead to a suicide. Perhaps the jurors of Nobel price committee in 1924 were aware of the danger and selected another Polish writer who was also on a short list this year – Reymont.

Żeromski - Looking at the man one can see that he wrote about serious matters

                                                

One of my Polish friends who is a literature teacher recently suggested that I read a new international bestseller – The Struggle by Karl Ove Knaussgaard. The first one of the six parts of The Struggle is called – A Death in the Family. This is the book that I just finished. Great book, full of meaningful reflections. The story is also very good and based on the life of the author. Being under influence of the dark wisdom of the book I feel sad. I am waiting for the next two parts to arrive by post. Was is a wise move to order more? Perhaps not, my literature teacher would most likely object and worry about my well-being.

The picture on the cover is of the author

Since I decided to unburden myself by damping all my current sadness in this post, I have to mention my recent visit to the local nursing home. Nursing homes are generally sad places, but I decided to volunteer my time to spend it with people who live there. I know that they have caring families but maybe sometimes the families are too busy to visit and I could make a positive difference, however small.

I must confess I expected a warm welcome but instead I was coldly and briefly informed that my enthusiasm to help can not be used in this establishment and that I should turn to the local council. When I wanted to find out if the council could potentially direct me to the nursing home I was told that they are very busy, too busy to chat with me and that they have paid qualified staff and families to support the patients. Wow, that made me sad! Sad for failing to help, but most of all sad for the patients who may be deprived of company they might want to have.

I did go to the local council to offer my help and this was a very happy story with a promising outcome and as such does not belong to my sad, very sad post.

French are amazing!

This s my long promised and long postponed an almost X-rated post. I am not a frivolous person, some would call me even prude, but my sense of humour does not allow me to keep such am amazing story untold. You may find the story unbelievable and even I have difficulties to believe myself and my memory. All of it is true though and my memory serves me right. I have even a witness of the events. So here it goes…

One Sunday afternoon, my partner and I were coming home after a golf game and to our surprise there was a police van parked in front of this respectable building we thought we lived in. There must have been about ten policemen in front of the gate to Rue Tronchet 27. Some were walking around the van, some were sitting inside. I felt really worried and scared.. The building did not seem to be safe to enter. However the policemen looked happy and even amused. Maybe the danger was not that great after all so we decided to try to sneak into safety of our apartment. As we entered the gate, we met a very angry man shouting and gesturing angrily. Alas, in French! Walking along the man there was a policeman, judging from his very elegant uniform, of a high rank who tried to settle the man down. It did not seem to help and the man was still shouting while leaving the parameters of the building. Things were really not to his liking.

It is difficult to blame us for being curious what the story was all about. Through the windows we could observe the policemen. They seemed really amused. There was a lot of laughter and shrugging shoulders French way. The high ranked policeman went back through the gate and walked into one of the courtyard staircases. In the past it must have been a kitchen staircase of the house. Our kitchen door opened to this staircase but at the time of the events, I was not aware of who might have lived there and why our apartment had a second staircase at all.

The police van was still in the street and the men seemed to have a really good time. After some time the commandant appeared in the street again in the company of a young woman I often thought in the courtyard before. She looked like a schoolgirl. White, starched blouse, black pants and a pony tail of long black hair. Very neat. 

She looked a little like this. You must agree that it was something schoolgirlish about her.

Now everybody was smiling and looked friendly. The girl gave the whole squad a friendly wave and walked away down the street. All policemen got into the van and the street looked normal again. Hardly anybody there, till Monday morning.

We were very puzzled by the whole event and could not even start guessing what it was all about.

Next morning I met in the courtyard our concierge who was Polish and we had a common language. I was still curious about what the Sunday afternoon story was all about. I asked her. She looked a bit embarrassed, waved her hand dismissively saying “Ah… it was nothing. The girl apparently promised the client deux fois pour 200 Franks and did not quite delivered as per agreement”.

Modesty does not allow me to translate it to English. I thought that it was a strange and rather minor offence. If it was an offence at all. That the client called the police is difficult to comprehend, at least to me, I am not French after all. What he really expected? 100 Franks back? Or delivering the service as promised?

Another point is that my observation made me believe that Parisian police typically ignores calls. Opposite our building was a Cacharel shop with either many bakes in or a faulty alarm system. We were woken up many times in the middle of the night with a very loud alarm system that was set off. I never saw any police coming to check up what was the matter.

Isn’t France wonderful? Aren’t values a bit different to the rest of the world?

 I am not sure what the readers may be reading into the story but just for the less experienced in life, the shy school girl was actually a person working in the oldest profession. 

Samba - I had to see this film after all

Quite often we form opinions without having sufficient data. Sometimes we even make decisions not having good enough basis for it. Recently, I experienced a life illustration that assuming without good reasons for it may prevent good experiences or positive things to happen. Then we need coincidences to help us to get on the right track.

My story is about a coincidence that helped me to so I got to see a great film – Samba.

I have written lately quite a bit about the Sydney French Film Festival. I thought I finished the subject at least for some time. The festival is a yearly event and I am sure I will not stop liking French films so there is big probability that I will be impressed, amused, fascinated by some of them and write about my observations.  It happened earlier than I had expected. Samba, a film of illegal immigrants in France was not on my list of films to see, I was not interested in the subject and I did not see the film the festival time. However, it became popular with Sydneysiders and has been screened in my local cinema for quite some time now. I was firm in my decision of not seeing it. The prolonged screening even annoyed me as few times I wanted to see a movie at a particular time and instead it was Samba shown then.

Yesterday my friend and I were going to see a movie. We selected Boychoir with Dustin Hoffman and Kathy Bates and were very much looking forward to see the film. We bought the tickets and put ourselves in the queue to the cinema number 2 as we were instructed by a cashier. We were chatting waiting for the cinema to open for our 3:30 screening. When the time came we went in, showing our tickets to the usher.

After long and boring ads the film eventually started. It started with a wedding reception held in a fancy restaurant. It did not fit in with my idea of the start to the film Boychoir. Something was not right here. Was it the right film? No it was not. It was Samba! 

We decided to stay and watch it to the bitter end. This did not happen as it was nothing bitter about the film. Life of illegal immigrants is not fun, but the film was. It was a comedy with a good story line, charismatic actors and a lot of warmth. I greatly enjoyed it and was grateful to the mishap of landing up in the wrong cinema. Yes, we went to a wrong cinema, our intended film screen 5 minutes earlier and the cinema was just around the corner.

I am so glad I have not missed the film after all. It is a funny, warm and well acted film.

One of my favourite actresses ugly in a beautiful way, Charlotte Gainsbourg, plays an executive suffering from a burnout and doing social work while recovering from her problems. This way she meets a group of immigrants and social workers of different social background to herself. The main character Samba is played by handsome Omar Sy, a man with a warm, shy smile and great physique. Finesse of the film’s sense of humour is wonderful, plenty of sharp one liners make one watch for what is coming next not to miss any funnies. My favourive scene is a party of the illegal immigrants and social workers. There is a lot of camaraderie between the lot of them, after initial reserve in behaviour. An older social worker dances to a Bob Marley song. Surprisingly, she is skillful at this type of dancing, she obviously loves the moves, so does the audience of the party and the film. There is also some great dancing from Charlotte Gainsbourg. This comes as a surprise to a viewer, but there are many angles to the character of Alice. A complex woman, the type I like.

                                     

That I have seen Samba in spite of my initial reluctance was a gift of coincidence. I am grateful and hope that I will not miss too many great experiences due to my bad judgment. Of course I am bound to miss some but I promise myself not to be too stubborn and set in my ways.

By the way, I recommend Samba to all who like French films and finesse of French sense of humour. It has 8 out of 10 in my book.

Musing on the Anzac Day

Today is the Anzac Day and I am in Sydney. It is very difficult to avoid the hype of the day in Australia and I never liked that aspect of the commemoration. I must confess that my Polish ego compared the numbers of people cruelly affected by the wars. In numbers, Poland suffered by comparison much more than Australia. Has Poland won? Nonsens. I  know that numbers do not mean much when people lives are concerned. One life lost unnecessarily is one too many. But why do we and especially media pay more attention to events that include higher numbers of people who suffer or loose lives? This is a different issue though. This statistical approach to suffering and giving lives is  wrong in my mind.

Sometimes, I think that Gallipoli was really about young boys who wanted an adventure and ran enthusiastically to enlist as a fulfillment of their heroic dreams. They did not know that it was going to be that horrible, that they will most likely die and that to be a dead hero is not that glamorous. Once crossing the line, they did not have any choice, there was no way back.

Was it an act of patriotism on their part? Here Ray from Mummulgum and our discussion of patriotism come to mind (http://acobserves.blogspot.com.au/2013/05/about-patriotism-and-ray-from-mummulgum.html). He would not like Anzac day all that much, I suppose. Ray convinced me, after all, about the futility and danger of patriotism, even if it took me some years to see his point of view. Thank you for the lesson, Ray, werever you are.

On reflection, the most commendable part of Australians’ involvement was an aspect of service. Service not directly to Australia but to the Allies – people of the United Kingdom, France and the Russian Empire.

Next year I, a grateful new Australian, will participate in a morning Anzac service to pay my tribute to the war heroes and their families. 

Parisian memories

I have been flaneuring through my memories. For some reason my thoughts often went to Paris. Maybe it was a result of the French Films Festival?  Or maybe it is because they were really good times, that I spent in Paris. It was so much to discover and absorb and I was so young. Hmmm….Whatever the reason, my Parisian memories suddenly became vivid and I enjoy recollecting the times. Sometimes, I stop and think about something I experienced there, the details flood my memory. It seems to be a little like flaneuring. I look around the pictures that pop up to my mind and then go a bit further in the recollection process. New pictures and new memories... It is quite fun, I want to capture my thoughts. At one stage I thought of writing about a very French event, almost X-rated and quite unbelievable.  I know it was true and I also know that not many will believe me. This post is to set the scene; the next one will be a juicy one. How about that for building up expectations? I wonder if it will work.

I lived in Paris only one year. It was going to be a three year assignment of my husband who worked for IBM. My first foreign country, I moved to a completely different life style from that I was used to. In Poland I had a very interesting job that I loved, friends, family and familiar surroundings. I had a good life in Warsaw even if my Western friends did not quite believe me.

At that time, I loved France and all French things. My love became more realistic with time, like one may experience in a good long lasting relationships. With time illusions fade, one is not infatuated any more, we see imperfections and get sometimes irritated with the object of our affection but the fondness is there even if the eyes are wide open. This is how I now feel about France; love it but not blindly.

So, some years ago I landed up in Paris without knowing the language, no friends and husband working IMB hours. These mean very, very long hours. I had a lot of time on my hands. Even if I had qualifications and a will to work as a programmer, I was not granted a French work permit.  It was my first disappointment with French ways. But it was not all bad, far from it. Paris is Paris. It has Louvre, parks, rue St Honore, Monmartre, many museums and streets to flaneur along. I was very lucky which I forgot to appreciate at times and sometimes let myself feel miserable in this foreign country that was interesting but sooo foreign after all.

This is Rue Tronchet in the XIX century, a busy street even then. La Madeleine in its full splendor at the end of the street. We lived in one of the buildings on the right side of the street.

                         

 We lived at rue Tronchet 27. Not exactly a place people live in Paris but since the assignment was only one year my wise husband thought that living in a very centre of Paris would be a good thing for us. And it was. The place was next to the big department stores Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. I could see La  Madeleine church if I leaned out of the window a bit. It was about 5 minutes walk to the Opera. Boulevard Haussmann about 100 meters from the gate of our building. The Louvre and Tuileries Gardens in a walking distance. It was a fantastic shopping and cultural location.

Window shopping started just when I left the gate of the building.

Being so centrally located, the place was noisy! To open the windows was almost out of the question. Even when the windows were closed it was difficult to hear sound of television in business hours. It became quiet when shops and offices closed. Then the place was deserted.

Sundays were quiet days, hardly any traffic or people walking the street. Spooky.

My next story is about a Sunday afternoon at Rue Trochet 27.

Woollahra Revisited

The other day, I spent a very nice afternoon in Woollahra, one of the most elegant Sydney Eastern Suburbs. Woollahra has been going through some years of decline and now has regained its attractiveness even if it has changed its character considerably.

Some years ago I used to spend some weekend time there, looking at antique shops that Queen Street was famous of. Martyn Cook Antiques were an object of admiration and envy of other antique dealers. Sometimes, I used to go to the same auctions as famous Martyn Cook. I still remember one very special auction held in Ramada Hotel. It had some very attractive pieces that I was very interested in. One of them was a clock set in a Blanc de Chine case. It was very unusual and very beautiful. Maybe not everybody’s cup of tea, but it was mine. Unfortunately it was also Martyn’s Cook. Would I have won a bid if I tried? I do not know, but the problem was that I even did not try. Somebody like me was not to compete with such an antique authority as holly Martyn. I still remember the clock even it was such a long time ago.

I sidetracked a bit and I only wanted to say that there is no Martyn Cook Antiques on Queen Street. In fact, there is only one antiques shop left there. The numerous others moved on to different suburbs or oblivion.

This time I found a different Queen Street. Looks that it is still in transition from the old antiques dominated street to another look and profile. Will it be a street for those interested in gourmet cooking? Maybe? There are  two very interesting new shops. One is a Polish delicatessen combined with a coffee place selling and serving Polish specialties. This is Wieczorkowski showing Sydneysiders and of course selling European decadence. We had lunch there and it was fantastic. Being born Polish, we had to order the country speciality – polish dumplings. For some time now I have been disappointed with the dish and I ate it for patriotic and nostalgic reasons only. However, at Wieczorkowski we were served, a dish that I really liked. If any of my readers find his way to Queen Street at Woollhara, I would warmly recommend a visit at Wieczorkowski Caffee.

                                

Another nice surprise was Victor Churchill, the butcher. His shop drew my attention with its window decoration that did not look like a butcher shop at all.  Australia is preparing for the 100 anniversary of the battle of Gallipoli, day of remembrance for all soldiers who fought and died for their country. To join in the spirit of the special occasion the window of the shop looked like that:

The door of the shop is adorned with brass sausages. 

Display of various meats 

Display of the meat cuts one can buy in the shop is most impressive.  Fabulous recipes come to mind when one looks at what is available and taste of the most beautiful dishes created out of this magnificent meats. 

The friendly butcher who was happy to show us the shop and answer our questions said that even if all those special cuts are available the mostly bought meat was eye fillet. Not very adventurous really.  

Things and people passing on

In the last weeks and  even months I my experiences have been marked by changes and departures. While I do not want to dwell on the negatives, I feel that I want to reflect on the events.

Changes in friendships have always been a big thing with me. I wanted them to last forever.  I thought that this was a rule, once you like somebody you like the person forever. But it is  not like that. As years passed I noticed that marriages finish, friends move away, close people die, dreams do not come to be....  Many good new things start at the same time and I find it important to keep track of them as they often slip away from my emotional radar. Rick Hanson, a leading neuropsychologist,  says  that our brains are like Velcro for the bad and Teflon for the good. So the trick is to Velcro the good experiences. This is challenging at times, especially when the bad is coming at you with increased speed.

My most painful of recent events was a death of somebody once very close to me. Our ways had parted and we both moved on with our lives, but I knew that we could talk, even if sporadically, exchange views on interesting things and help each other when needed. This chapter is now totally, definitely, painfully closed. I will not be able to exchange my impressions on Herman Hesse biography, that I just finished reading, with the big fan of the writer. And the book made a big impression on me and stirred me up. I will not find a warm homemade bread at my door, left for me as a surprise. 

Wow, I am getting too sentimental...

In a particularly challenging for me time, I had to part ways with an older person I had been supporting for some years . Dealing with rejection and ungratefulness was difficult for quite some time. I tried to find an explanation or a justification but eventually, not finding any satisfactory ones,  I had to except that one of the “beautiful friendships” has finished and I do not know why.

Corny? Yes, but cute.

I think it is time to stop listing my sorrows and focus on some lessons and compensations. Acceptance is the name of the game. We need to accept what we are dealt and play the game to the best of our abilities.  Like my favourite pastime – bridge - sometimes  we  have right cards for a game or even a slam at others cards are not good at all. Professional players do not get overly excited or upset, they just bid and play the best they can with the cards they have. Sometimes they lose even with the best of hand but they play on. If only I could be that philosophical always!

Once I have accepted the experience there is time for Reflection. This is what I am doing right now. New thoughts come to mind, new observations...sometimes even Learning. Then, there is time and opportunity for  Selection of Memories like creating a treasure chest of good memories. The chapters are closed, no new events will interfere and I am free to remember what I want without paying attention to memories  I want to blank out. This way I retain only the best of the past.   Is it realistic and will it work? I do not know, but I feel better already.