Mi Casa

Pink Flamingo in Poland

Polanczenia Transferowe

Okay, what the hell did that sign just say?

Odbior bagazu i Wyjscie

Excuse me, how can that even be a word with so many consonants in a row?

I've left my American friends from the Chicago-Warsaw flight, so now I wander. I have no idea what any of these signs say and the English translations are few and far between. The ever-friendly Chris and sleepy Deanna or Leanna have run off to catch their flight to Vienna, so here I am, actually alone and kind of dizzy.

Alas, I have found customs. They check me over and I try not to be too alarmed when the Polish guard yanks my passport from my hands. He nods curtly and hands it back.

Stamp.

Here I am, Warsaw, Poland.

Everywhere I go, the Polish stare at me. I am the lone pink flamingo in this homogenous duck pond. It’s strange being watched, so I ham it up. I hijack a handicapped bathroom and change entirely. I’m going to need some fashion confidence to take on this situation. The girl in the mirror is not as much of a disaster as I expected. My makeup appears to have lasted, though my hair is untamed and threatening to take over Warsaw. I reach into my bag and pull out my favorite green dress. In a flash, the makeup is reapplied, the hair beast is tamed and I’m finally out of my heavy and too-hot travel clothes. Am I brave enough to wear this outside?

I barrel through the door before I can change my mind or dress. Once again, the Polish stare.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Why are my heels so loud?

I’m suddenly so aware of every move I make. I tell myself that I can’t be as conspicuous as I feel. Each step proves me wrong.

I search for vegetarian breakfast and give up, settling for a frappe. Everything in Poland has sausage.

I panic when I pay, Poland doesn’t use the Euro. I swipe my card hesitantly.

What is a zloty?

The coffee boy is nice, I realize I’m terrible for not learning how to say thank you in Polish. I say it in English anyways, more for myself than anything. He smiles. He understood. I think.

Thank God.

I sit and drink my frappe in the open café. I hear little Polish children speaking quickly in a language that sounds more like an exhalation than anything else.

Here I am, alone, on the other side of the world. A pink flamingo in a duck pond.

Bloomability

Tonight is my last Saturday in the United States. It's a reality I've avoided all day long, yet here it is, staring me in the face. Now,I'm fighting the anxiety that comes with leaving the familiar.

I've never been anywhere really. It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school that I even left the state of California. My cousins took me on a camping trip to Oregon and then to Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado. Then I caught a wicked case of the wander lust. By senior year, I was determined to live in another state. Colleges flew me out across the country, but the East Coast wasn't a fit, financially or spiritually. So I ended up in Washington, and now I'm leaving the country.

The last four years of my life have been a whirlwind of constant change. I'm unrecognizable from the poofy haired punkess I used to be and I'm still so very unfinished.

In any case, Bloomability is a word from one of my favorite childhood books. It is a non-native English speaker's interpretation of the word possibility. I like it so much more because it conveys the process involved in possibility. It is something natural, a blossoming of sorts. It's my favorite word.

I'm hoping Italy will help me grow as a person, explore the bloomabilities of the universe. Until then, I'm packing up, saying goodbyes and bracing myself for the ride.