Posted on December 10, 2017
Today there was the annual running of the mostly nude Santa Clauses through Back Bay. What?? You missed this? You weren’t aware that something so weird, delightful and downright insane was going on? Well, it was.
Every year a ragtag bunch of people gets liquored up at a bar in Back Bay and then runs out into the street, where a bunch of people with camera wait for them. Then they do a circuit around Back Bay and run back to the bar. I even thought about doing this a couple of years ago, but I didn’t want to get hypothermia. I prefer to get frost bite and hypothermia when I go skiing, like you know, a normal person.
I guess this is the spot to get slightly philosophical and give me minute while I do. The Santa Speedo run signifies the beginning of the holiday season, where one hopes for good gifts and thinks about what the new year will bring. I think of the same.
As a kid, like most kids, I loved Christmas. When I was a teenager, I started hating it, but then again, most things went dark at that age. When I was 14, we went to spend some kind of post Christmas time with my uncle. Now this was kinda revolutionary, considering all of my family lives in Poland. My uncle was here with his family temporarily. I had really wanted some Guess Jeans that year. That was kind of the rage that year of course and my uncle said he had some Christmas presents for us. It turned out to be markers and different types of highlighters, with the price tags still on them. I learned at that moment to never rely on Christmas to make me happy.
Somehow in the past few years, Christmas has become a very happy time for me after a long time of it not exactly being that way. Christmas was for me for a long time an excuse to go home for a few days and not generally be too happy for too long but that all changed a couple of years ago. I started to participate a lot more in the planning and just celebrate the holiday a lot more. I also realized that giving gifts is a lot better than receiving them.
Anyway, enough Christmas. Let’s look at some pictures of some mostly unclothed crazy people running through a snowstorm, shall we?
Posted on November 13, 2017
November gets me contemplative because it is so close to the end of the year. Here I am trying to decide what I’m going to do for the next few months and planning what I’m going to do for the next phase of my life.
Honkfest is an annual Boston event that I love. These photos might be coming up here a bit late, but whatever. The message of the fest and the whole thing is to do things with joy. In fact, I ran into a student of mine watching the Honkfesters and she remarked as much. I guess I need to take that into my next chapter, whatever that may be. Always do everything with joy, like my beloved Honkfesters:
Posted on November 3, 2017
The tenth anniversary of having this blog is making me super nostalgic seemingly. In this entry I’m going to write about my beloved grandmother Maria Radziejewska.
I came to the United States from Poland when I was so little that I had few memories of being with my grandmother. After seven years in the United States, my mother and I returned to Poland, a singularly bewildering experience that probably deserves its own well annotated blog entry. But this isn’t that entry. I’m just going to write about my grandmother here.
I had two grandmothers, a city grandmother and a country grandmother. Both of them were strong women who were not shrinking violets. My city grandmother from Łódź, where I was born, was a career woman.
Babcia Marysia, as my country grandmother was known for as long as I knew her lived in a place called Kalisz. I honestly don’t know very much about how she grew up or what her life was like when she was very young. She was born in 1912. From what my father has told me, she was educated as far as maybe sixth grade. In those days though lack of education wasn’t a real impediment to success as most people went to work as soon as they could.
The part of my grandmother’s life that I do know about is when it gets tragic. She married her first husband and a had a child, my uncle in 1939. The happiness from that first marriage was short lived. Her first husband died in the Auschwitz concentration camp, something that I truly believed haunted her for her entire life.
After the war, she remarried to my grandfather and my dad was born.
My grandmother was part of a large clan whose name was Pecold, a name many of my cousins now carry on. Inevitably she was on the outs with all or some of them at one time or another.
My grandparents lived in a house that she had inherited from her first husband. The next door neighbors were a family called Jaszkiewicz.
My uncle left home very early, at 18, off to be educated far from Kalisz. That left my dad and his parents in the house.
The house was spartan. It still had an outhouse when I visited in 1988. It did have one incredible thing. My grandmother maintained a wonderful garden in the backyard with a pear tree. My dad always describes many happy moments of sitting under the pear tree reading books in the summer. Life before Instagram, Facebook, computers I guess.
My dad also left at 18 to seek his education in science. I often wonder if it was at my grandmother’s urging that both of her sons left so early. Perhaps her early experience made her drive her sons to seek a greater fortune beyond Kalisz.
I didn’t really start spending time with my grandmother until I was 11. In 1988 my mother and I returned to spend an idyllic summer with my grandparents. For me it was the chance to get to know my grandparents and my Pecold cousins and my uncle’s children, my first cousins who I really had no knowledge of.
I still remember the summer of 1988 as one of the happiest in my life. I got to know my cousin Natalia, my equivalent in name and as it turned out personality as well.
For a city kid like me, the garden my grandmother’s was heaven. My grandparents had terrifying things like rabbits that I eventually learned not to be afraid of.
There’s one story that illustrates perfectly who my grandmother was. Near my grandparents house was the river Prosna with its own swimming hole. The swimming hole was filled with mud. One day my cousin Natalia and I started throwing mud at one of the Jaszkiewicz cousins. He was a glasses wearing nerd and throwing mud was fun. The boy’s mother ran to my grandmother right away to report our ill deeds. It was then that my grandmother uttered the immortal words — my granddaughters do whatever they want. Gold.
My cousin also told me a story of my grandfather feeding us homemade wine after we’d been caught out in the rain. We ended up sitting under a table giggling. Typical grandparent antics with their dear grandchildren.
Six months later my father was finally able to return to Poland. I remember this emotional scene of my father seeing his parents for the first time in nearly a decade.
A year after that my grandmother was gone after enduring an illness that almost 30 years later is too painful to recount here.
We’d return periodically to the house in Kalisz. The Jaszkiewicz clan remained on the other side of the fence. At any point in time, three generations could be found living on the other side of the fence. It always amazed me how close they had stayed and how far the family on my grandmother’s side went in every way.
All Souls’ Day just passed and it’s a tradition in Poland to pay tribute to the dead on that day. My uncle shared a photo of his mother on Facebook and I shared a photo of my grandmother that got me thinking of her.
Yesterday I was at the gym in Brookline. I uploaded the photos using my pocket baby television (thanks Dana Carver) attached to this blog entry to social media. It was kind of fun to show my grandmother to this global audience.
I wonder a lot what she would have thought of how my life turned out, living in Boston, a place she’d probably never even heard of. What would she have thought of me teaching English, meeting and interacting with people from the entire world. Maybe if my grandmother hadn’t been such an influence on her sons, we’d be there with Jaszkiewicz and his family. I guess I’ll never know. I only know how the story turned out from our side of the fence.
Here’s my grandmother, looking fabulous and glam. This is how I like to remember her:
Posted on October 16, 2017
Well the day has come. I’m actually going to talk about faith and God and all of the rest of it on this blog. If you read the entry all the way through, you will see why this was all pretty unlikely until recently.
Recently I started going to a bible study group. I was invited to go by a dear, dear friend of mine. I initially joked that I started going because my friend has two adorable children and had a dog until recently. The dog upped stakes and moved to Canada. I mean without thumbs or anything. Arranged a moving van and moved himself to Canada. Nah, I’m kidding. The dog went to live with my friend’s brother while she deals with the toddlers.
Every week we gather for the bible group and its meant a lot to me. We support each other and we talk about general themes and get comfort from one another.
I joke a lot about what it even got me to get into the door of the bible group. I did not grow up with faith and neither did my parents and what I saw of it growing up and later as an adult did not sit well with me to put it mildly.
As a kid, I’d go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York for mass sometimes, more sporadically than anything else. It wasn’t something we did on a regular basis, religiously if you will. My dad used to like to listen to the organ music. I kinda couldn’t wait for it to be over.
Sometimes when I went to Poland as a kid, I’d go to church with my country grandmother. I had a country and a city grandmother. The city grandmother was an atheist and the country grandmother went to church sometimes because she wanted to be buried in the cemetery next to the church. All the right people, I guess.
Generally the Polish churches were gloomy places filled with what my mother termed as “klecha,” which is this pejorative term for clergy. This sort of clergy that was backward, stuck in the past and generally close minded.
Through the years, I attended church, most of the time at the behest of a friend or a relative. I never got anything out of it to be totally honest. Every service I went to involved some talk of the afterlife, after we all went to heaven. Oh that wonderful stuff that we will all experience when we are dead. Most of the time, I wanted to stand up and say “what about now padre?” What about the here and now?
I have plenty of negative stories from my years of going to church. One in particular was when my grandfather died when I was 16. The whole situation deeply upset my father and we went to this Catholic church in Valhalla, New York where we lived at the time. My dad wanted us to go to light candles for my grandfather and I think in a way my dad was hoping to get some kind of comfort from the church.
Well, comfort my father did not get that day. First when I walked into the church, I realized that every single person I went to high school with went to that church. These were people who spent the weekdays talking about the drinking and drugging they had done on the weekend. Here it was Sunday, so I guess it was time to go and repent. Worse, nobody even smiled or came to talk to me or anything or wondered why we were even there in the first place. Oh well. I mean it isn’t as if I expected them to talk to me in the first place.
The service started and it got yet worse. The priest spent the entire sermon going on about how expensive the gutters in the church were and how expensive it was to replace them. I’m not sure what this even had to do with God, the church, the holy spirit, Jesus or anything else.
I always pointed to this as an example of how ridiculous the whole concept of religion even was in the first place. People told me over the years that I had to go to a different church, but this to me was the perfect illustration of what was wrong with going to church in the first place.
I also saw so much hypocrisy with respect to religion. I saw people doing awful things, acting in horrible ways towards people and then sort of hiding behind religion as some kind of justification. I had a college roommate who was heavily involved with the Christian students group at the college I attended. She kept her entire life a secret to her parents. She smoked, had tons of boyfriends and generally acted un-Christian but yet she hid behind the religion thing. Another hypocrite. Another reason to turn my back on religion in general.
The final nail in the religion coffin for me came in 2012. My parents have periodically invited my cousins to the United States over the years. Generally my cousins were well behaved and made me look bad in the chore department!!!!! Nah, again, kidding. They were nice but that all changed in 2012. A cousin who I had some small amount of contact with over the years came to stay in the United States. I offered to let her stay in Le Minuscule Chez Kelton for the duration of her stay.
My cousin made me go to mass with her during this time. A friend reminded me that churches usually had pretty good bakeries nearby, which is a pretty good argument for church attendance. I enrolled my cousin in the school I used to work in and I would take her around Boston after school everyday. Now I’m biased. I will never say anything against Boston. I took her to different places that I loved in the city. I took her to the Public Garden one day and I said “this is my favorite place in Boston.” She goes “they are all your favorite.” Ok well, bad me for loving the place I lived in.
One day I took her to Harvard Square, where I have passed many a pleasant afternoon over the years. She had the same weak reaction to the place that she’d had to every other place we’d visited. I asked her what she thought of Harvard Square and she goes “my religion teaches me that the greatest rewards are in heaven.” Now excuse my French, but that is the largest load of bullshit I have ever heard. It felt like to me that I was being told that I was some fool for enjoying Harvard Square as much as I did. It was kind of awful and further turned me against organized religion in all forms.
Which brings me back to the beginning of the entry. Until recently, I was on team atheist, further team anti-religion. Opiate of the masses. I did however always think that I would explore the whole religion thing, but I thought it would be when a great crisis had struck my life. The last two years haven’t been that great crisis, but they aren’t a time I will look back on with unadulterated fondness.
So, this past summer I started going to a once a week bible study. My friends started talking about the ideas and I thought “wait. Open yourself up to this.” We explored further. I realized that I had always believed in some kind of greater power, call it God if you wanted. My friends showed me how to pray and what to pray for.
This past weekend I went on the first church retreat I have ever been on. It was in New Hampshire. It was like a ski trip without the skiing. We went to services. The pastor was this jovial older man who told wonderful stories. We were encouraged to share our stories. No judgement. The tears flowed. Everyone seemed to be going through some kind of difficult stuff in their lives. It was really refreshing to be in an environment like that.
Whatever path leads you there:
Posted on September 20, 2017
There’s an extremely pleasant and very soothing documentary I watch when I want to relax. Its called New York by Ken Burns. I’ve watched it many times. I was interested to find out the history of the city I grew up in of course, but on further watchings, I’ve come to enjoy the music in the documentary and its gentle pace.
There are a lot of great authors and intellectuals in the documentary. There is also the faux English quasi Boston Brahmin, high preppy intellectual voice of George Plimpton, talking about how everyone has a New York in their mind. I think about this a lot, because I grew up in the city and it wasn’t just a picture in my mind. It was very real.
Two weeks ago, I went for my annual one day extravaganza of a trip to New York. I went there to meet a friend who I haven’t seen in five years. He was late, I got angry, hilarity ensued but really all was well at the end.
While I waited for my friend, I sat in Times Square and I saw the faces of the people coming into the city for the first time, the wonderment they had on their faces, how enthralling it all was. At times I felt like my relationship with New York was more like this photograph:
That’s me and New York is personified by Death.
But as I’ve aged, my point of view on the place has softened. I enjoy it a lot more and most of all, I enjoy looking at the people there and how people react to the place.
We all have a New York in our mind:
Posted on August 29, 2017
As I write that date, it strikes me. It seems at once recent and yet far away. But what makes it significant?
On that day, twenty years ago, I departed the relative safety of my parents house, my life as a college student in New York to some place called Denmark.
Let’s go back a ways, to the year 1997 exactly. Even writing it now it doesn’t seem so long ago, but of course it is. The internet was still pretty much a thing you had to go to an office or a library to get. I had an email address that I seldom used or even checked. Cell phones were something maybe businessmen had. I had only seen two cell phones in my entire life at that point. But that’s history stuff.
That year I was a sophomore in college in Albany, New York. At the beginning of the college term, I went to the university’s study abroad office to talk to them about going abroad. The head of the study abroad office was really serious and grilled me extensively about everything to make sure I was serious. What was I studying? Where did I want to go? What were my plans for when I was done with college? It was all done very officially.
I went to the office and said I wanted to go to England. My parents and I had visited two years earlier and I had liked it. Truth be told, it was the only other European country I visited besides Poland. I just picked it for that reason.
The study abroad advisor had other plans for me or fate intervened. I don’t know what it was but he steered me towards the university’s program in Denmark. I was kind of skeptical at first because I hadn’t thought of that as a place I wanted to study but I looked at the brochures and said OK, let’s give this a shot.
I filled out the paperwork, got accepted and off I would go in a few months. I still remember going to the mailbox at my parents old house to get the mail and receiving an envelope that said I was to live in a place called Albertslund. Oh Albertslund….
So on the fateful day, August 24 1997, I boarded a plane to Copenhagen from Newark airport. I had been away at college for a while so I knew separation but not to degree that I was about to experience it. I remember walking down the sleeve to airplane and feeling like turning around at the last possible moment but I knew I couldn’t. I had committed to do this and I was going to do it. Why do I remember the day I left so clearly? I kept my boarding pass. See:
These boarding passes have gone with me to every place I have ever lived since then. On the flight, I sat next to a Kenyan student from St. Lawrence University. There were other students from the same program on the plane with me. I thought by the time I returned home in four months, I would probably know all of them really well.
So we land in Copenhagen, exhausted. We are taken to Copenhagen University to pick up our bags, just to load those bags onto another bus.
On that bus came my first surprise. The school had given us a book with the name and picture of every participant in the program. Looking for my name, I find ANOTHER person whose name is Radziejewski. Now basically my entire life, all the Radziejewskis I had known I could count on one hand. Now here was another one — Grzegorz Radziejewski, a rather serious looking fellow from the Warsaw School of Economics who I was sure not to like at all.
So we get to Albertslund, which looks something like this:
Well, I guess not exactly like that. It’s more like that is how it exists in my memory. It did look like this on the mornings when I’d be standing on the train platform ready to go to school, but I’ve given it a glamour it does not have in real life. It looks more like this:
This photo (that I did not take) believe it or not confers a glamour onto the place that it does not have in real life. I know. The place looks like barracks.
There I was with my giant suitcases greeted by a group of rather unfriendly looking people that were to take us to our barracks, I mean dorm blocks. None of this particularly boded well at that moment.
I walked into my dorm block, 7 West, or 7V as I would know it and I was greeting by two very friendly students who were speaking a language that sounded like it had been turned inside out. I was thirsty. It was the first day. I was really tired.
I walked by a door that had this image on it. NO JOKE:
Yeah. That is a woman hitting a man with her hair.
Oh and the other thing that struck me. I sat with the two students and we chatted for a bit. One brought me a cup of water, while the other one showed me around. All the while, nobody opened their door. Nobody came out of their rooms. Nothing happened. Did anyone actually live in this place? Where were the other people?
To paraphrase Ayrton Senna, it was way too late to change my mind.
That night we were shown around downtown Albertslund which resembled a concrete outdoor mall. We were given dinner that night that purported to be pizza but somewhat resembled cardboard with cheese on it.
The next week we were to have orientation. The program was called Denmark’s International Study Program or DIS. I came to call this week DISorientation week.
We were taken around to the school’s city campus off the City hall square. I passed by this beautiful structure on the way to school in the morning:
Alas I also did not take that photo, but even then I knew that from that point on whenever I saw this photo, I would think of going by there in the morning everyday on the way to school.
The school itself was in an old merchant’s building and tiny compared to the sprawling university I attended. There were students in the program from across the United States and from Eastern Europe, including Poland.
During DISorientation week, I finally met the other, very serious Radziejewski, whose name turned out to be Grzegorz Radziejewski. He did not, despite what I had thought, play the piano and he was not generally serious. He turned out to be a very nice fellow who initially encouraged me to speak Polish and who turned out to be one of my best friends not just during the program but thereafter for many years. Because of him, I spoke Polish with a person I wasn’t related to who didn’t criticize me around every turn and just let me talk. I was so grateful for that. Years later, the guy tells me that he was just sick of speaking English everyday and that’s why he wanted me to speak Polish!!!!!! But it did turn out to be a very valuable friendship and a valuable person to me.
So school was squared away but then we had the subject of this strange place I had chosen to live in. Most of my classmates lived with host families. I had chosen a dorm or kollegium. Now in an American dorm, you had a cafeteria and shared bathrooms. In the kollegium, you had a kitchen and a shared TV room that life kinda revolved around.
For the first few weeks I would come home and cry. I mean I would just ball my eyes out. My parents called me once and I told them I couldn’t understand why I had ended up in this godforsaken place. I would come home, sit in my room alone and just cry. I was supposed to be having the time of my life there on my term abroad and I was sitting in my room crying most of the time.
The program had given us booklets on how to survive in the dormitory. One booklet said that you had to leave your room and speak to the residents. Just get over your shyness, go over and talk to people. After yet another day spent crying in my room, I did it.
What I would do is I would go my little fridge in the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I would converse with the people in the kitchen as long as it took to drink the glass of orange juice. The first day I did this, I walked into the kitchen and I saw two shirtless guys hanging out in the kitchen. Those two boys then started making animal noises. Now you had to understand that two years earlier I had been a high school student. What greeted me was well, kinda astounding. Let’s have a look:
This is my friend Thomas, still my friend now. Now honestly when I first met the guy I couldn’t believe he was actually speaking to me. Let’s just say that this guy did not look like the boys I had met in my backward suburban New York high school.
Thomas seemed to inhabit a more interesting, urbane and cultured world. Here I was this person who had always been derided as being weird or too smart or too whatever but there was a person who not just appreciated it but also had his own wit and urbane commentary to contribute to it. As I got to know him as well, I found this deeply vulnerable side to him that made becoming his friend even easier. I had absolutely no idea that this friendship would endure twenty years.
As the time in Denmark wore on, I found myself socializing more in the dorm and spending more time with the Danes that I did with my classmates. The conversation with all of them flowed really naturally. We seemed to make the same jokes and enjoy the same things.
Two months in, another guy who lived there started talking to me. His name was Allan and like Thomas, we are friends to this day. Here’s a photo of him:
Allan proved to be as interesting of a character as Thomas. His grandfather was Polish and had changed the family name from something full of consonants to something more Danish sounding. I will never forget what Allan said to me when he decided to start speaking to me — you never seemed to have anything interesting to say. How very Danish of you my friend!!!! But I never took it seriously.
Allan’s life had also already been marked by sadness. Allan said something to me that stuck with me for twenty years. One night we were just sitting in the dorm sipping some warm beer. I realized I was the only one there who wasn’t a Dane. All around me were people speaking a language I could not speak or even understand but I felt completely at home. I remarked upon this to Allan and he said “you are not one of them. You are one of us.” I had never been one of anything in my entire life.
A lot happened during those four months. At the beginning of my stay, Princess Diana was killed in a car accident in Paris. This was before smartphones and the internet being everywhere so I didn’t even find out until a day or two after it happened. Thomas and I watched her funeral on CNN with Swedish subtitles in the dorm common room. But again, that’s historical.
A lot happened that semester. Thomas got so sick that he almost died. I got involved with a guy I met in the dorm who showed me that sometimes you fall for an illusion. We all got close that semester and then it was time to go home.
Here I had thought it was just going to be a semester away from home. I would learn some culture, go to school, make some friends and then forget about the whole thing. Instead that time in my life remains in my memory. It took me a long time to process and its impact is felt on my life every single day. Denmark isn’t just a place I went for a few months in 1997. It is a second home for me and a place that I always think of fondly. Moreover, it’s the place where my life really started. It is the place where I found people who understood and accepted me for me and did not try to change me.
It was just four months but that four months has stretched out to twenty years and hopefully a lifetime. Copenhagen as it is in my memory. Beautiful, sepia toned and pure:
And finally for the first time ever in the history of the blog, I will post a photo of myself on here. No, it is not a shadow and I am not covering my face with a newspaper or something. My face is to be revealed up here.
This is a photo Thomas took of me in Denmark in 2004, when we took a motorcycling trip to Dragør, an area in the south of Zealand, the island where Copenhagen is located. Thomas and I took his motorcycle out there. I remember this trip very fondly because it was lovely and peaceful. Here I am wearing my best friend’s jacket looking contemplative:
Posted on August 20, 2017
A lot of kids probably grow up hearing about life in a previous generation and how it all used to be. My version of that was a bit different. My parents grew up in the shadow of World War II. It wasn’t a historical event to them or abstract. My grandparents had lived through it and suffered as a result. One of my grandmothers went to do forced labor in Germany during World War II. My other grandmother lost her first husband in a concentration camp.
I often wondered what it was like to live just a normal life, to just be at the start of your life and to face what my grandparents faced. They were in their early to late 30s when World War II broke out. That’s the age I’m at now. What must it have been like to see the rise of Adolf Hitler and to see their countries get occupied. I can’t even imagine.
Last weekend in Charlottesville, Virginia, the United States saw a flash of what my grandparents experienced. The images of those men carrying those tiki torches from the Home Depot deeply angered me and made me think that long standing tensions have risen to the surface recently in the United States. Long simmering tensions.
A group of similarly minded people tried to stage a rally in Boston Common today. The police department gave them permits but also shut down the train stations around and told the food vendors to stay home. Oh and an angry mob assembled around Boston Common as counter protest, um 15,000 to be exact.
The rise of these groups troubles me and makes me feel like I’m living in some kind of a civil war. Is this where this country is going?
Some words spoken during a terrible tragedy came into my mind today. “This is our *&%#ing city,” a great philosopher named David Ortiz said after the marathon bombing. Boston may not be perfect, but leave your racism at the door. Nobody wants it here.
This is our *&%#ing city: