London Calling

I received this message on Facebook this morning: 

Hey Ann, it's Sam here, Jessie's friend in London. Still remember me? Anyway, random question...are you in London??? I thought i saw someone on the tube today that looks incredibly like you. Please confirm I'm not going nuts...

Big city.  Small world.  Sam is not going nuts.  I was in fact in London.  Upon further communication, it turns out that Sam spotted me on the Northern line, where I got off at Borough at 8:30 pm on Thursday to surprise my friend Dan at his poetry event,

Bang Said the Gun. 

It was a last minute decision.  I had mentioned that maybe I had wanted to go in an email to Jurga a few weeks ago, and by the time I got to Lithuania, she had purchased a ticket for herself.  There is a doctor there that helped her with her thyroid 10 years ago.  The problem has resurfaced, Lithuanian doctors told her the only option is to cut it out, and so she wanted to see this Chinese doctor in London again.  She also wanted company.  And so my plan to surprise my poetry-riddled friends on the weekend of the London Teenage Poetry Slam was hatched.  We'd stay with Andrius' cousin, so no need to tell any of my friends I was coming.  I knew when the major events were, so no need to phone anyone to make plans.  Just a weekend of surprises.  

Most of these turned out brilliantly, with only one great disappointment.

The disappointment taught me a valuable lesson in writing thank you notes.  My friend Marty had sent me a t-shirt around Christmastime from the spoken word club that he and some of his students started at their school.  I immediately went out and purchased one of these postcards that he really likes where you can cut out the pieces on the front and make a little 3D creature.  I affixed an airmail stamp to it, and then proceeded to put it in my notebook where I found it yesterday.  After surprise number one on Thursday night, where I showed up at the Roebuck and in the middle of his poetry set, Dan announced, "My goodness, Ann!  You've come a long way, any requests for the last poem I read?" I asked for Marty's phone number as I had half-expected to see him at the event, and was mildly disappointed not to, and Dan informed me that he was in Australia for his bast mate's wedding.  As he is a teacher to one of the team's competing in the slam, I never imagined this possibility.  Dan said he was "gutted" by the decision to go the wedding, and I had a similar feeling in the pit of my stomach at the news he was not there.  

But I shall not dwell on the negative.  I miss him, but our paths will cross again if they are meant to.  In the mean time, I love love surprising people, and I got the others pretty damn good.  Dan's wife was the first to spot me in the pub.  Then I came out of the WC to see

Bismark ordering a Coke at the bar.  It took him a few minutes to register and believe it really was me.  Then I got a surprise myself when I went upstairs to the event and saw that Oak Park's own Adam Levin and David Gilmer were the guest poets.  Here I learned another valuable lesson.  This one about the differences between Chicago poetry and London poetry.  Chicago= very serious.  London = all about sex.  Now this may have something to do with the age and experience of the poets (Chicago = 2oish, London=39ish), and the characters Dan runs around with in London, but for now I will generalize.  

Friday was not quite as magical as Thursday night.  First to the doctor for Jurga, which meant a good 3 hrs round trip on the tube, but I was happy to support and accompany her.  Then to Camden Town for lunch, which I had not been to before, and will admit, is quite a site.  I briefly contemplated getting another tattoo, wolfed down a giant calzone for just 3 quid, and wandered for an hour or so through the vendors soaking in the multitude of characters strewn

 throughout.  Oh, and everyone was playing Michael Jackson, like everyone.  Even the leather shops and chinese food stands.  Then, she wanted to find good deals at the shops on Oxford street. I begrudgingly agreed.  I hate Oxford street.  I didn't remember that so strongly until I got there.  It makes me want to crawl into a dark corner, close my eyes, put my hands over my ears, and rock back and forth until the world goes away. Too many people is an understatement.  And it was hot this visit (can't complain too much, was snowing last time I was there). That led to a series of almost arguments that led me to question why it is that I am so bad at traveling with other people.  

But Saturday made it all worth it.  The London Teenage Poetry Slam was brilliant, and so were the looks on various faces as I made my way though the poets, students,teachers, and organizers as they readied for the event.  First, Kieran.  He was on the winning team that came to Chicago two years ago when I met Dan and Marty.  He is now a "shadow" or a student helper for his school, Kingsford's, slam team.  He has also grown about another foot since I last saw him, putting him around 6'6" or so.  Then Bianca, also a member of that team, back to help coach the younger students. 

 Esme about had a heart attack and quickly whipped out her camera phone, claiming that Lauren and Zara would never believe her (I was hoping to see these two lovelies from last year's winning team who stayed with me in November, but they were not there).  Fahro barely said hello before she started yelling at me for not telling her I was coming because how were we going to have a proper chat if I was running off to the airport away from London in the middle of the slam. She also solved the "I don't have a ticket and the Slam's sold out" problem by assigning me the job of timekeeper.   Ugochi didn't

 seem so surprised as she did genuinely happy to see me.  Her lack of surprise may have come from the fact that she had JUST flown in from Chicago and like me, was only in London for a few days. Peter was last.  He was busy preparing for his duties as a judge.  But upon seeing me, he briefly forgot how to speak and then called me Ms. Petroliunas as if we were at school, before hugging me and quickly filling me on his affairs of the heart whilst in London. My last surprise came when about 2 hours into the event, I looked across the theater to see a man who looked an awful lot like the head of the English Department at OPRF, where I teach.  Not five minutes late the MC announced that we did indeed have Steve Gevinson, head of English at the high school that hosts the slam winners, in the audience.  Chicago was well represented to say the least.

Cheesy as it may be, the energy at that event was like a drug.  The students excitement was infectious, never mind I couldn't understand half of the poetry through their adorable accents. And my friends in this world are the kind that can show you their appreciation and affection with a single sentence that's enough to last until the next time your paths cross. I think that may be the true beauty of this exchange that Peter and Fahro started.  The people involved in the project are so different, yet exactly the same.  My scheme to surprise was extremely well-received, and although my time there was short, is was packed full of friendship, passion, and exhilaration. Sometimes I wonder what we could accomplish if we all lived in the same place, but mostly I know that the beauty of it all is that we are worlds apart, yet united in our vision and our belief in our students.  

Family Portraits

June 25, 2009

The silence was heartbreaking.  First, he tried Lithuanian.  Then silence.  Then, “Parlez vous francais?”  Only enough to answer, “no.”  Then silence.  German? No. Anything, but English? Spanish, yes.  Him, no.  After a few minutes, he motioned us inside in defeat.  There was so much love in his soft eyes.  For me, perhaps.  Or for the memory of his dead sister that I invoke.  Or, perhaps I have mistaken this love for sadness, as Jurga later explained to me that he has been having major depressive episodes lately and cannot care for himself in Vilnius.  He cared for me though, in the Lithuanian way I came to know from my grandmother, his sister.  I was never with an empty glass of apple juice, he frowned when I wouldn’t have a 3^rd helping of dinner and I couldn’t leave before a 2^nd piece of cake. 

A funny thing about traditions is that they really are timeless.  We disputed whether if it had been 8 or 9 years since I had last been there, but we argued while sharing the same meal, in the same chairs, finished by the same cherry cognac we shared 8 or 9 years ago. 

His sister, Zuza, the caretaker of the 3 siblings still living, slipped into Russian once in her attempt to communicate with me.  She then laughed like a child at her mistake, and perhaps the ridiculous-ness of it all—that here I was, linked to them in DNA and named after their mother, unable to communicate except through smiles, nods, and “thank you”s . Then she turned to the cabinet and dug out her tools for story telling without language.  This was the last

 photo of all her siblings together—in the 40s before Jonas was killed and Albina fled.  There was the photo of my grandmother at 14, sitting in the doorway of their family home and another of the horse and carriage outside their first house.  And then came the photos of Siberia.  Zuza’s first child was born there, while Vytautas was barely an adult.  Albina was no longer with them—1^st in a work camp in Germany, and then finally to the U.S.

Back to his loving eyes.  His sad eyes.  He is almost 83.  As he clears out the garbage left for weeks in the studio, and shoos flies away from rotting fruit, Andrius explains that he cannot take care of himself anymore, and that is why he is in Kacergine.  Ignas reassures me with “he has lived a good life,” as he waters that plants and empties the half finished cups of kavos hidden away under books and tucked behind easels.  A good life, yes, but you can still see Siberia in all of his paintings.  From artists and actors who actually were in Siberia, to Mindaugas, only King of Lithuania in the 1200s, long before Russia stole Lithuania’s livelihood. Even the one he did of my mother when he visited Chicago when she was ill. Cancer eyes look like Siberia eyes. 

He never married.  It is my understanding that he toyed with the idea of becoming a priest, but after a month or so, he left the seminary as he knew his true calling was in the arts.  He returned to the family farm to work, as his father had died and his brothers were eventually called to the army.  In 1944, an Art school was opened in Kaunas, and he attended for 4 years, under some false pretenses created for him by a priest in their village.  He was able to avoid the army by being enrolled in school, but in 1948, the truth of his situation was revealed and he was removed from the institute.  Soon after, his apartment was surrounded and seized, and he was sent to Siberia.  I don’t fully understand the reasons why my family was sent to Siberia.  I believe it has something to do with them all being intellectuals (doctors, etc) and some of them revolutionaries, fighting with the Lithuanian Underground Army.  In Siberia, Vytautas had a two year sentence of hard labor in the pine forests.  He lived in a room with some 70 odd others and would try to draw portraits of them to keep art in his life.  After a few years, he met a professor in Siberia who helped him get a job in a theater there, doing scene construction (this brings to mind Gregory Hine’s character in White Knights). 

After regaining his freedom, he was eventually admitted to the Art Institute again and finally graduated in 1961.  He was invited to teach at the MKCiurlionis Art School and did so for many years.  He is a portrait artist.  To me it seems he has painted almost every important historical figure in Lithuania.  During our first trip here, he dragged us on an extensive tour of Lithuania’s churches, many of which have his portraits hanging in them. 

Last Saturday was “culture night” in Vilnius.  It was the shortest night of the year, and hundreds of events happened all night long throughout the city.  The National Gallery of Art celebrated a re-opening after some renovations.  I read about the event in a magazine yesterday as the guest list was full of Lithuanian VIPs in the art / entertainment world.  Wandering though the museum, I found myself frozen when I came to the wall that displayed two of Vytautas’s pieces.  I guess I was looking for them, but was still mesmerized by the reality of them hanging there.

I could pretend that I was invited to the opening because I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, but really it was because Andrius worked on the installation of the Ciurlionis exhibit, was invited, and snuck me in.  Still, I am the grand-niece of the great Lithuanian portrait painter, Vytautas Ciplijuaskas, who lovingly stared at me throughout dinner from the seat next to me with the same sad eyes shared by the subjects of his portraits that drew me in from the wall at the museum.

So then DNA and family history, why am I such a terrible painter?

Naked with Strangers

Within 24 hours of being here, I learned that in Lithuania, it is rude to fill your own glass.  I also learned that hostesses NEVER want to see a guest’s glass empty, and that if said guest is a foreigner, say from the US, then the hostess NEVER EVER wants to see that guest’s glass empty. I have been to other parties, dinners, and such events in Lithuania before, but always with a certain hesitancy and awkwardness.  This was different.  Jurga said that one of her friends was having a “girl party” and that I was invited as well.  She was pretty insistent that I join her, and so I obliged.  The party started at 6, so I imagined a nice leisurely evening of bread and cheese and wine and beer.  There was bread and cheese. And smoked salmon. And olives.  And salad.  And fruit.  And nuts.  And sausages.  And egg salad sandwiches (made the British way).  And that was the first course. Then there were grilled things and later, pie.  And there was wine and beer. And cider.  And vodka.  And whiskey.  And something in a can that said “Gin and cactus flavor” in English that I didn’t understand and couldn’t bring myself to ask about, because I knew I would then find myself with a full glass of it.

            While I know that the majority of people in Lithuania speak some English, especially those who attended University as most of Andrius and Jurga’s friends have, I also know that many are embarrassed to speak it as any of us are with an unnatural second language.  Lucky for me, the hostess, a bubbly woman named Ruta, was excited for the opportunity to practice, as she is going to an advertising seminar this week in Morocco that will be held in English.  That opened the door for me to be included in almost all conversations as the night progressed, either by someone translating, slowing down their Lithuanian, or speaking to me in English.  These women seemed fascinated with the idea that I am only half Lithuanian and yet want to return here to learn more about that half.  There came a lot of jokes about things Lithuanians do (like lie!?!) and how as a half-Lithuanian, I must be a half-liar.  Funny, yes, but a rite of acceptance in it’s own way too.   I am also beginning to wonder if being loud and talking fast are genetic traits.  If they are, I most certainly inherited them from my father’s side.

            While sharing food and drink and good conversation are all ways to acclimatize to a culture, I think I may have stumbled upon the fastest way.  A little bit like ripping off the band-aid, yes, but well worth it.  Get naked.  The purpose of this “girl party” was that Ruta’s work is somehow connected to a fancy spa in the city center.  Ruta also has a sauna in her backyard.  So, she invited a masseuse from work to work and all of her girlfriends over to enjoy massages, salt and honey scrubs, and the sauna.  We’ve all had those awkward moments in locker rooms where you think, “do I keep this towel on?” or “Should I wear my bathing suit into the steam room?”  Well, in the interest of cultural sensitivity, I had no time to fret over these questions.  When in Rome. 

            I spent the remainder of the evening as less of a foreigner and more of a friend.  I had a few real conversations with very interesting women and my guilt about not being able to speak their language disappeared for a while.  And well, in addition to a small victory for me in my struggle with belonging to a culture I can’t fully access, I have softer skin and lighter shoulders.  

More on Communist Block Architecture Later, but First, a Tour......

I am living with my cousin Andrius, his wife, Jurga, their daughter Meta (who called me teta-aunt today), and Mashka, the dog.  They bought their flat from my dad's cousin Albinas, who is living in Russia now.  This was the first place we ever stayed in Lithuania when my dad brought us here in 2000.  It looked very different then. Andrius is some kind of a designer, I still don't fully understand what he does, but he and his brother 

did most of the interior themselves. One of my favorite things about it is that there are old mirrors everywhere that they got from a theater's storehouse.  In Soviet times, only film studios and theaters were allowed to bring in goods from other countries, so these mirrors are warm vintage.  Most home furnishings in Lithuania are either super "modern" or 195o's USSRish.  

Like being home

For anyone that was worried, I did indeed make it to my intended destination today.  It is once again, midnight, and I am currently in bed in what will be my home for the next 6 weeks. (Props to my cousin's wife for insisting they get wireless internet since I have taken over their office for most of the summer). 

Here are a few thoughts I recorded over the last 24 hours of my journey....

            It took me the last few days to realize why my cousin Andrius was so concerned with the fact that I was stuck in Canada.  I told him that Laima and Ramunas live here, and not to worry, they’d take care of me. When his last text said he’d have a hot bath and lots of food waiting for me when I got to Vilnius, it finally clicked for me.  In my world, getting stranded in Toronto meant seeing family I don’t get to see very often and exploring a new city.  In his world, it meant 48 hours in an airport.  As Americans, there are so many things we take for granted that we don’t even know we take for granted.  I walked backwards through security despite the fact that the customs agent thought I was on my way to Germany and spent two days in Canada without a blink of an eye from a government official.  I can do that.  I am American. (It’s also possible that I just discovered a way to illegally immigrate to Canada).  My cousins would have spent a brutal night or two in the airport.  They need a visa to go anywhere.  At least now Lithuania is part of the EU, and the borders to most of their neighbors to the west in Europe have been opened to them, but not US.  It is a strange world of privilege we live in. 

            I’m always impressed with how poor security in the states is despite the fact that we started the whole “everyone’s a terrorist-fear, fear, fear” mantra among travelers.  I got through security checkpoints in the US and Canada without a second glance.  It wasn’t until Frankfurt that anybody questioned my knitting needles or travel mug (which, as the security agent showed me, is quite the suspicious canister in their x-ray photos.) 

            Employees in the Frankfurt airport get around by bicycle. It’s gotta be one of the biggest airports in the world.  I should look into that.  They also have smoking boxes, sponsored by good old Joe Camel of course.  It was kind of a sad and desperate sight to walk by.  I wonder what Skinner would have thought of the boxes. I am also quite impressed by the masses of people here at 8:15 in the morning, and among those people, the not small number of them that are drinking beer.  When I was 20 I would have thought this was awesome.  Now, it just makes me think too much.

            My bags were waiting for me in the airport in Vilnius.  I am quite relieved to be wearing clean underwear.  

Toronto Rocks my Socks (or at the least the 1 pair that was in my carry-on luggage)

Top 5

5. Toronto has food that is not potatoes.

a. There are street vendors aplenty.  Highlights include soft serve ice cream trucks and the fact that every hotdog guy had a veggie dog option and the most impressive condiment bar I’ve ever seen accompanying street sausages. 

b. I got to have sushi one last time before 2 months of potatoes and conversations in which people try to convince me that just because something has pork in it doesn’t mean it’s not vegetarian.

 c. There are coffee shops everywhere.  This is a much healthier respite than the Eastern European afternoon option.  There are bars everywhere.

4. Canadians are nice.  Really nice.

a. Take the subway for example.  First try, token doesn’t work.  Tell the guy behind me to go ahead.  He tells me to try it a few times, sometimes they don’t work right away.  I get nothing.  He waits patiently and then says, alright, then come on, and we make our way through the turnstyle as a twosome.  Illegal, perhaps, but really nice.  Then a 7-year old boy gets up and gives me his seat.  This would happen in Chicago if I were 95.  Maybe.

b. Everybody here either talks with a French accent or says “eh” all the time.  Both of which are highly entertaining. 

3. Toronto cares about the planet.

a. It is impossible not to recycle on the street.  There are no free-standing garbage cans, only receptacles with 4 compartments labeled for mixed paper, bottles and cans, Styrofoam, and trash.  There is even a written explanation of what can go into each. 

b. Their buses are all hybrid and they run electric streetcars.

c. Their home disposal program comes with 3 bins - one for trash, one for recycling, and one for composting materials.  These get collected every week and then in the spring, trucks come through the neighborhoods and drop off big piles of fertilizer made from the compost for people to use in their gardens.  How on earth does Chicago make it on to "Green Cities" lists?!?

d. You have to pay for plastic bags.

2. Toronto has a shoe museum.

a. The goal in foot binding for Chinese women was 3 inches?!!? 

b. The Dutch not only made clogs for walking, they made clogs for roller-skating. And yes, they are called roller-clogs.

c. Those Dutch again….during WWII they made clogs that had heels carved into the front of them so they could smuggle rationed goods across the border to Belgium.  Tricky.

 

1. Toronto is not an airport bench in Frankfurt.

a. Toronto has beds and showers. This point is self-explanatory.

b. Toronto is new, international, and not what I was expecting; yet directions, signs, and menus are all in English.  This was about all the exploration of a foreign land I could handle in the mental state brought on by the thought that ¾ of the things I need for my work / family in Lithuania is lost forever.

c. Toronto has Lithuanians.  The most notable among them is my “Aunt” Laima. She took good care of me these last few days and I dare say our visit was worth the flight fiasco.  She even made my favorite Lithuanian soup for dinner.  I bet I won’t have a better version, even when I finally get there.  Oh, irony.

Grounded

I arrived at O'Hare airport in Chicago a little before 12 pm today (Monday) complaining about the 17 hours of travel time I had in front of me. I was looking forward to about 11 1/2 hours of flying and another 6 or so in airports before arriving in Lithuania. Well, here we are half a day later, and I have spent exactly 1 hour and 3 minutes on an airplane. It is 12:03am Eastern time right now, and my flight to Germany is supposed to be landing in Frankfurt in about 45 minutes. That plane however, is nowhere to be found (really, I have no idea what happened to it) and I am writing this from the attic of my dad's brother's wife's brother's house in Toronto, Canada.

I could complain a good deal about how things went down (or didn't) in the Toronto airport, but we've all had bad flight experiences, so I won't waste your time. What I will say is this, that whole thing about making lemonade from lemons, it's really quite profound. Instead of standing in line to be rerouted for 4 hours with my arms crossed over my chest, grunting at the world, I spent 4 hours in line to be rerouted talking to Evan, Cristina, Thea, and Nikola. Evan is 17. He was born in Canada, lived most of his life in Norway, has spent the last few years in Singapore, and is returning to Norway to go to a sports boarding school. Cristina likes to dance in airports. Well, I'm not sure she actually likes it, but after a few hours in line, and no playing cards to be found, she resorted to making her own entertainment. Polish and in her late-4os, she reminded me of Irene, the caretaker who lived with us when my grandmother was sick. The bleach-blonde hair and mismatched painted-on eyebrows really sold the resemblance. Nikola could not stand Cristina. They had been in line together before I joined them, and well, she did talk nonstop. He was in his 60s or so and on his way to visit family in Croatia. He seemed to think that Toronto is turning into the crime capital of the world. Andlast but not least, Thea. She is a Greek woman, need I say more. She'd been in line since 11am, not because she was travelling, but because her husband was and "he doesn't like to get the ticket out of the little machine." She really doesn't like her middle son's girlfriend and her oldest daughter would be mortified that she was telling me all of this.

I chose the right line. While I was last in it, the man standing near me in the next line spent the entire afternoon throwing darts with his eyes and grunting if someone tried to move their baggage. My line mates would have clearly pulled out the vodka and the guitars if they hadn't been lost with the luggage. The minute I stepped into that line, I was adopted by my fellow wayward travelers and we become a micro-support system for each other. I'd put being stranded in an international airport among the top 10 spots with the potential for the worst in human nature to come out, but I got the best of it. So safe travels to my new friends, I won't be joining you tomorrow am, as doing so would just result in me being stranded another night, this one in Germany. So I am staying in Toronto until Wednesday when I can get from here to Frankfurt to Vilnius as originally planned. Now let's just hope they find my luggage....