Instructions, retold

I brought two books with me on this trip: Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None and Neil Gaiman's collection Fragile Things. Gaiman's book is an anthology of poems and short stories that I have torn through at least eight times over on this trip alone.

In that collection there is a poem called Instructions. It is, aptly enough, a list of instructions you would need in a fairy tale. If fairy tales are a glimpse into the true soul and character of man, then this Poland adventure has been the truest fairy tale I've lived and hope that I have told in kind. Here is my list of instructions, an imitation of Gaiman's poem.

Instructions

Step into a car with a driver you've never seen before.
Drive for miles - kilometers.
That's what they call them here.
Don't say a word; don't sleep; don't hum.
But if he offers you chocolate, take it.
If he makes a joke, laugh.
If you don't understand him, try-
if you can.

He will take you to a place where the tree bark is auburn.
Step out and shake his hand - you were only along for the ride.
Miss him when he drives away, but not for too long.
In the clearing your new charges wait.
Greet them.
Smile.
Then stand back and watch their games you've never played.
Learn their faces and their voices before you learn their names.
This is your first step into a
brand new world-
Theirs.

The next morning a woman will wake you
in a house made of wood.
Lie in bed, pray in the sunshine,
until you remember where you are.
Forget who you are.
They will teach you.
At breakfast you will miss good coffee and tea.
They will be sweeter the next time you taste them.
But not yet.
First walk around the lake with a student
who's at least twice your age.
She will be nervous, so steady your breath.
Remind her that without her effort, you would not be able to speak at all.
Be humbled.

You will go with your charges
where the sun cuts between the trees
that surround the white sand.
They will dress you in contraptions
with no other purpose than to make you look stupid,
and perhaps keep you safe.
Climb the trees.
Catch your breath.
When you see a rope, reach for it.
You will not fall.
When you can't hold on, let go.
Something will catch you.
Something always does.

And when you find yourself on ground again,
lie back. Look at the sky.
Be glad it is so big and you are so small
and that is the way it's meant to be.
Sleep until you are ready
to face your next task.
These trees will be harder
and higher
although they will leave you no scars.
Not, anyway, that you can see.

Do not use ugly words,
even for ugly things.
They are a waste of language-
that is, a waste of your soul.
Remember that your charges are awkward and young
and are trying too hard.
Be patient with them
(because they are with you-
though not with themselves).
And when your patience is over,
tell them.
And make sure they look right in your eyes.
Use the words you were told
by those who taught you when you'd gone too far.
But say them more kindly.
Remember again how much they'd hurt.
Not that you'd ever forget.

He will apologize
and you will go off to your beds
on one side of the glen and the other.
The next morning you will hear he couldn't sleep;
that his guilt kept him awake
and then he had nightmares.
But you drifted off smiling
and dreamed of the men they will be
when their growing stops
(if it ever stops- pray that it won't).
When you wake you will still feel
the smile that gave new shape to your face.
When you hear of his fears
from the mouths of his friends
be more certain than ever of the great things to come.

Pour out your frustrations as you sit by the lake.
No. Don't vent.
Pour them out and let them wash away.
Because they don't matter.
They never have.
Fill yourself to the teeth with the things you will say
when you meet them in class.
Remember your world is not theirs
and what this dream is to you
your words will be for them.
Don't waste them.
Just tell them the truth.
There are heros and monsters across the ocean
and always have been
calling young boys from time immemorial
to face them and stand.
They are already brave when they raise up their hands.

On your last morning
stagger into the bathroom
where you'll step into puddles made on the floor by the leaking sink.
Bite your tongue and look down
and see the light has scattered rainbows across the water.
Still. Wash your hands
because you swear something lives in the water tank
and you don't want to know what.
When you're dressed and you're fed
say goodbye to the lake,
but that's all.
Follow your charges into a van
and listen to them laughing behind you
in a language you don't understand.
Not yet.
But you know their faces and their voices
and you've learned all their names.
And given them new ones.
They get your jokes.
Mostly.
Enjoy your last hours with them
traveling home
(their home, not yours).
Enjoy that now you are all the same:
not here, not there,
not anywhere, really.
And sooner or later you'll all be home.

At least, when you pile out of the car,
Find home. Or make home.
Or rest.

If I Were a Fruit, I Would Be A Writer

The days are long here.

In no way am I complaining about this. I wake up sometime around seven or eight, dress quickly, wake the boys in the cabin next to us, walk through the woods to the lake, walk around the lake to breakfast, head back for my first lesson with the mom of one of my campers. After an hour I prepare my next lesson. (Yesterday I had extra time, so I painted my nails. Humanity restored.) When the campers return from the beach we have two hours of lessons about American things, like NASA or apple pie. They learn to say 'Boo, Yankees suck!' I learn that more miles of highway were destroyed by Mt. St. Helens than there are miles of highway in Poland. We go to lunch. They have activities. I plan the next day's lesson, sitting by the lake. There is one table in the corner of the hotel patio that I like. (Though I no longer think of it as walking to the hotel. I think of it as walking to the internet.) I never order anything, but no one cares. We meet for supper, then we have a game. They like Mafia, and they got the hang of Fishbowl. Somehow Skribblish turned into an all out Yankees vs. Phillies war. I have another adult student from 9 to 10. By eleven I am unconscious.

Between 10 and 11 the girl's cabin is silent. (The boys are up all night, as far as I can tell. It's exactly like the dorms at TMC, almost laughably so.) Silently we shuffle in and out of the only bathroom to brush our teeth, take a shower, change into pajamas. The lights are out in forty minutes. Everyone is sleeping. In those quiet moments, when everything slows (my mental processes, primarily), in the dark as I fade to sleep, I realize all over againthat this adventure is, ultimately, directed to vocation. I exhaust what's left of my energy trying to untangle the knot that is my life's calling. I am asleep before I have an answer. Maybe I dream it in the night.

Like most kids, when I was an itty bitty baby person, I wanted to be everything. I especially wanted to be Indiana Jones, who could do anything. As I got older, the idea fixed itself in my mind that I could only be one thing. We have one calling, and the rest is filler and fodder for the meantime. None of that for me, no meantime, no waiting. I would cut right to the chase.

Since I could read and write my name, one very loud voice has repeated over and over again that I should teach. I have resisted. Once, I was told I should never teach. I wasn't happy about that, either. Mostly, all I've wanted to do is write, travel, and host fantastic dinner parties. During these travels, when my hosts have asked what I want to do, I tell them host dinner parties. They laugh, then ask what I study.

Philosophy. Literature. History. Theology. Aristotle.

What, they ask, can I do with that? One even happily announced, Oh, you will teach, then.

Well, I told her, I want to write.

It is fascinating to watch the look break on her face, the calm reserve with which one explains No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. She patiently mentions that I will have to make money somehow. I don't point out that we have talked at great length about how teachers make almost no money at all.

When I arrived here on Friday, my only class consisted of an interview, in which the students asked me questions and I asked a few back. I asked them, If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be? This question fascinated my host. Later, she asked what kind of fruit she was; we decided guava, because it's exotic but not overpowering, and very content to be guava. Her daughter, we determined, is a dorian, because they're pleasant looking but spikey and the peels are tough to break, but they're sweet, once you put the work in.

She laughs for a moment, then says, That's it. You have described her exactly. You should be a writer.

She found me out, I guess. I've been exposed. I'm here teaching English, and believe me, I care about teaching these kids. Not, however, because I care about teaching, or English, but because I care about these kids. They are funny, intelligent, good natured; they're sarcastic, competitive, and challenging. They're the kind of people I could write about forever. They're the kind of people I have written about and it's a dream come true to meet them.

I have spent this entire post talking about me for a reason. I have been thinking about my vocation. But if I really want to determine my vocation, I should be thinking about them.

And then this happened...

So Friday night I arrived at my new camp.

This one is an actual camp.

You know. With cabins. And trees. And mosquitos. And lakes.

The change of scene is beautiful. I have privacy almost never (okay, kind of have privacy right now, but this is next to never...also, I'm at a crowded outdoor cafe), but I'm back with Marta and the gang! As always, this means adventure.

First adventure. For the first time in my life, I am teaching teenagers. Eleven boys, 14 to 16.

They're great. Really. Their English is much more advanced than my last two camps, so we fly through the material. They're fun, witty, good-natured... Pretty perfect, for teenaged, acne-ridden, bad-hair-sporting, hormone-addled boys. (Okay, only one has bad hair.) But still a challenge because I came with NO material prepared. When I read the email about this camp, somehow I interpreted it as 16 eleven year olds, not 11 sixteen year olds. So my material is way too basic for them. Which involves a lot of running to the lake when no one's looking to use the hotel wifi and prepare my lessons last minute.

Second adventure, wifi hunting.

Third adventure, a misguided attempt to win their respect. Yesterday there was a ropes course activity, and I thought, why not? The boys knew enough English between them to translate for me, and I'd be wearing a harness, so... what could go wrong?

First course, walking across wooden logs suspended several meters in the air, assisted by a green rope. Not so bad. Second, walking across a rope suspended several meters in the air, with the aide of a green rope. Still not so bad. Third course, no green rope, walking across a thinner rope, holding onto loops about a meter apart. Getting difficult. Shoes starting to slip. Losing pace. I can't even remember the fourth course, but I was starting to fly out of my comfort zone at lightning speed.

Then the Tarzan course. Looping your legs from rope to rope, at least two meters apart. The boy infront of me turned around and shouted, "This is hard."

How the hell am I going to through this one?

Well... I ended up dangling from my harness, waiting as a team of non-English speakers roped me down. Somehow, I got a doozy of a bruise on my left arm.

They all saw me dangling. Bridget-Jones-with-a-parachute dangling. And my shirt was riding up.

Okay. So maybe I didn't win their respect. But I did find a way to stress the importance of learning foreign languages: when they are on a ropes course in America, and they're dangling in the air, they should know enough English to say, "Excuse me, but I can't breathe." That way, the person assissting them won't smile understandingly and say, "No problem."

Finding new ways to test my limits (and put my faith in things outside myself, like harnesses, and the strength of Polish trees, and Dear Lord get me down now) every day.

Waiting, Watching, Praying

I will confess something.

When I arrived at my new host's house this week, I was anxious. Baudelaire-children-meeting-their-new-guardians anxious. (That comparison is so ridiculously accurate for this experience, except the Unfortunate Events have been swapped with miracles and pierogi.) For one, I loved my stay with the last host and did not want to leave. Two, my confidence was shot from the rough experience in the last camp, and this new woman is director of the English school who organizes these camps. I was terrified I would not be up to snuff. Three, she gave me an uneasy feeling upon meeting.

Everything this week seemed, initially, a trade off. I cast off my terrible campers for a brilliant group of bright eyed bushy haired kidlets who really wanted to have fun; but I also was passed from an unbelievably wonderful host family to something... something. Where as I was with the family all the time the week before, this last week I had my own floor, and rarely saw the family downstairs. I traded comfortable home life for privacy. Everything on the surface was more or less  the same. Husband, wife, son, daughter. Drive every day to camp, come back every evening. Prepare in the morning, discuss in the evening. But my last host's son showed me his shell collection first thing; this boy didn't want to make eye contact. My last host's husband took shots with me and sang Metallica as he made breakfast; this guy didn't want to say hello.

And then, my host herself. I will confess I was intimidated beyond all reason, and historically I have never done well with superiors who intimidate me. The feeling was not right. Admittedly, the first thing I did was write to a few people asking them to pray for me because I was mortified that we wouldn't get on and this week would bring its own horrors.

Every week has brought its own horrors; each week came with its own call to be brave.

After I asked my friends (and mother, of course) to pray, I remembered that the first week I came to Poland, my first host openly prayed during the family Rosary that I receive the graces necessary for this experience. I was, at the time, humiliated. I couldn't believe she could already tell how unprepared I was. But each morning I have prayed for the same things, and each night I have prayed that I didn't screw up badly. And in between... I tried.

I tried to make conversation.

I tried to make light. I tried to make jokes.

I tried to find things in common.

It felt so awkward I wanted to scream.

But little by little, it changed. When I brought up reading, and how I had finished the books I brought with me, my new host gave me a stack of beach reads in English, to have something to keep me occupied when I retreated, each evening, to the balcony. 

Sometimes she would ask about my last host, because they are good friends, and I think that despite my best effort to hide it it was clear whose home I found more comfortable. It was terrible. I stalled and stammared, trying to find something genuine to say that wouldn't sound ingrateful or hurtful to this hostess. In the end, I mentioned the Crazy Dog story. She conjured a bottle of wisniowka; we had a drink.

If I tried, she tried, too.

I must confess that I take my cues on how to be from where I am, which is appropriate sometimes and not so great other times. Throughout this week, I realized part of the reason why I was so nervous, so awkward, so intimidated is... So was my host.

Last night my two hosts and my coworker in this week's camp took me out to celebrate. My coworker gave me a bottle of wisniowka, to recover from two weeks with crazy Polish kids. This host gave me another bottle of wisniowka, which she said is the key to learning Polish. And my last host gave me her old copy of James Joyce's Chamber Music, his only remaining work that I don't have, with the English in green print and the Polish translation on the opposite page.

My next host will pick me up from camp today, and drive me to my next camp. This morning, this last host sent me off with a pack of sandwiches, a small carton of cherry tomatoes, an apple pie she baked herself, and a literal pound of chocolate. As we made our camp commute for the last time, she asked why my first host had given me Joyce. When I explained that my two favorite things are Joyce and Poland, she paused for a second, then laughed for a solid two minutes, and cried, "You're crazy."

I think she saw me then for the first time.

We said good bye, thanked each other, and both agreed we hoped I would be back. And we meant it.

Never write any experience off.

Meals

The summer of 2010 was the first time I worked with children in a setting similar to these camps. My parish day care needed a pair of knees that didn't creak and crack upon standing. I needed a summer job. (Exactly why I needed a job I can't remember now, but I always seemed to have a lot more money back then. Probably because I had fewer standards concerning whereby to acquire it and less things demanding it.)

At the daycare, lunch time was by far the most demanding time. Fifteen children who could barely hold their own spoons all insisting they be fed immediately, before everybody else, and if they are not fed they will express their dissatisfaction with the service by chucking their Cheerios at the ceiling, or each other, or me. Lunch was also prime observation time--- a lot can be learned about a family by how and what they eat. Meals are a microcosm of greater human interaction. That being said, here goes my past week and a half... in meals.

Mon, 7/7. First day of camp in Błonie, described in the last post. After an exhausting and extremely sunny day (on which I felt it appropriate to dress in all black, like an idiot), my host carted me home. I peeled off my clothes, bathed, changed, and after Babscia (Polish for Grandma) came to watch the kidlets, my host took me to a lakeside restaurant to eat perch pike caught in said lake. There is nothing more satisfying than eating a fish at a picnic bench, perfectly aware that all but a stone's throw away it's cousins are unsuspectingly swimming in circles. We talked about the kidlets and the teaching system in Poland, the inner workings of my strange little school in the woods, and after a pot of tea, a gorgeous sunset, and a few dozen mosquito bites, I began to realize not only how much I love this country, but how much I care about this job. Went home after sundown and a quick amble around the lake. At home, my hosts offered me my first glass of wisniowka (vish-noov-ka) and a shot called Crazy Dog (wisniowka + juice + tobasco). They kept asking if I had ever tried Mad Dog; thought they meant MD 20/20. One crazy dog later, my concern was replaced with unbridled affection. These people know how to live.

Tues, 7/8. Ended the work day with a red neck and farmer's tan. We walked around Błonie (bwohn-yeh), made a stop at Tesco, picked up some ice cream, some fruit, and some sunscreen. Necessary. Ate zucchini and tomato au gratin. Discovered that tea with meals is actually a great idea.

Wed, 7/9. Walked around the garden at Żelazowa Wola (zhe-la-zova- vola), Chopin's childhood home, where according to legend his talent was discovered when early one morning the whole family awoke to beautiful piano music playing eerily in the morning light, only to discover its player was three-year-old Fritz Chopin. Next door is the restaurant formerly known as Polka; now it's called something about treasures from the garden or some such nonsense. We ordered chłodnik, cold beetroot soup (zupa!) that may be the greatest thing ever. A middle-aged man walked around the otherwise empty restaurant with a small boy. Per usual, I couldn't help but smile as the little boy pounded across the wooden floor, fascinated by the sound of his own feet. The man noticed. He sent over a birthday cake in the shape of an alligator and made the stuffy waiter who wore an unreasonably large, chunky watch (my host and I both agreed- compensation) bring us dessert plates and forks. We made the mistake of wishing his 'grandson' happy birthday; he then felt the need to explain that the boy is his son, who just turned three, and then introduce us to his oldest son, who is thirty-eight. Host and I giggled all the way home.

Thurs, 7/10. The camp kids have begun to wear me down; host firmly decides that after work we will go to a small town the name of which I have entirely forgotten where there is a cafe that serves the best raspberry meringue in Masovia. The slices are huge; the meringue is perfect. The fruit is perfect. The espresso is perfect. We discuss teaching, how Polish teachers are expected to work 2 hours a week for free and generally make $400 a month. We discuss parents who coddle their children and the way those children suffer, and the silly excuses parents make for their lack of discipline. My host encourages me to teach; she is not the first person to do this. She is the first person in whom I confide how much the idea of teaching scares me. My heart is a little wounded after one week; I can't imagine devoting the rest of my life to this. It starts to rain; we run to the car, and see a peacock strutting around the church. She asks about my studies and my thesis (in the works, about the Odyssey and two later reimaginings of it), and tells me about hers. (She studied American culture; her thesis was The American Attitude Toward Death. This woman is my hero.) When we arrive home she offers me coffee; her husband rolls his eyes at runs out to buy beer. We eat a proper dinner Spanish-style: several small courses, starting around 9-o-clock, with beer and wisniowka and coffee on top of that.

Friday, 7/11. The week is over. I am exhausted in ever way. We pile into the car wordlessly; my host turns to me and explains, in the voice a doctor might use to offer experimental treatment to a terminal patient, we will order pizza with mushrooms and finish our beer and ice cream. Her husband is out seeing Metallica.

Saturday, 7/12. The husband is home by breakfast. Super concert, he says, making extra strong coffee. We watch Scooby Doo with our large Polish breakfast. Polish breakfast is not like American breakfast: we eat cold herring with cream, bread with butter and a spread made of large, apples, and carmelized onion, topped with green onions. There's a spread of cold cuts and cheeses; the only hot dish is a big pot of beans that look like supersized edemame and taste something similar. As always, there are tomato slices, cucumber slices, and raddishes. We drive out to Niepokolanow, Arkadia, and a palace not far away. We take long walks through the mud and the Romantic ruins constructed entirely to be ruins. The irony builds an appetite; we stop at three restaurants, but they are all booked for summer weddings. Shame; it's been raining the entire day. Finally we find a road side restaurant that served the best food I've had since the Milk Bar in Krakow: fried pierogi, wild mushroom soup, potato pancakes with pork goulash. The waitress brings the two kids their own dishes of crepes with chocolate and whipped cream and fruit. I don't know why we clapped, but we were very enthusiastic about the while thing.  I didn't realize until I was full this would be my last meal with these hosts. I cried as I packed my things.

My new hosts offers me Twix and wisniowka. Perhaps I will manage.

Sunday, 7/13. Perhaps I should explain the Polish sandwich. It goes like this: one slice of bread, generously buttered. One slice of cheese, one slice of ham, a slice tomato and a wedge of bell pepper. I've also had a sandwich of butter, soft cheese, and honey, likewise open-faced. There will be many sandwiches this week. Next door my host's sister is celebrating her birthday with a barbecue; the sister and I are the only ones drinking. We polish (haha) off a bottle of wisniowka (this is my life blood), a couple shots of raspberry vodka, and a bottle of Chardonnay from California with a twist off cap. Then we practice tongue twisters in English and Polish. I go to bed feeling ready for Monday.

Monday, 7/14. I am to nervous about the coming week to eat much breakfast; instead I drink three cups of tea (tea with sugar, even; never have I drunk tea with sugar, and yet, it's become a habit) and a sandwich. The meal is silent. The drive is silent. I am silent as the kids begin to trickle in. By lunch time, I am in love. These kids are entirely different from the last crop: the only thing about the camp they don't enjoy is the meal. I bribe them with marbles to finish their soup. Thus begins the practice of Zupa Champione.

Tuesday, 7/15. The week is going so well I'm afraid that I may jinx it, so I fall asleep at seven-thirty without eating dinner.

Wednesday, 7/16. I offered to make my host spaghetti carbonara; later I find the left overs in the trashcan. Her husband (who happens to be the saintly handy-man mentioned in the previous post) decides to say his first word to me: in the evening, when I wander downstairs for the first time that isn't a meal to prepare the next day's craft. (I have the top floor of the house, a balcony, bathroom, and bedroom, to myself. However, there is not a pair of scissors to be found.) It is hot in the kitchen, I am sweating like a pig leaning over the table, tracing a plate for the circle's we'll need. He smiles, makes eye contact for the first time, and says, Beer?

I doubt we'll need to ever speak again. He is up for canonization in my book.

Tonight my current host and previous host are taking  me out for good bye drinks; tomorrow after lunch, I leave for a new camp.

Zdrówko. (Zdroovko.) Cheers.

Blogging on the job...

So this may be a huge no no, but the kids are watching a video, I have filled up water balloons in a preemptive afternoon cool-down strategy, and the handiest handy man to ever live is setting up the sprinkler. Get your internet when you can, I say. I am blogging on the job.

This past weekend was an adventure. Saturday morning we woke at three to take the 4 30 (as opposed to 16 30, that is) train to Krakow. In the evening we rolled through Polish mountain country by train, heading to Zakopane and the Tatra mountains. If I have ever felt something like peace, it was in the Tatra mountains. They are the most beautiful part of Poland I've seen. If I had to pick up my things and go anywhere, forever, without going back, I would go to the Tatra mountains.

My host called the people who lived there Mountaineers, and said she loved them for their character. From the train I saw sheep and cows and goats and mountain dogs, women piling hay into bales, men building houses and cutting wheat with scythes. Actual scythes. Like the grim reaper, but not grim. Just reaping.

I've yet to meet someone on this journey who lacks character, from Warsaw to Ząbki to Zakopane to Błonie. Every person I've met has offered me coffee and tea and fruit and cake and after that, they offer thoughtful, serious discussion. They don't hold back, and yet they hold their conversation with levity and patience. I don't know. They all claim that things in Poland are not so good, but their standards of living are noble. Nothing short of noble.

More on the camp later. For now, lunch and water balloon battles!

Independence and a Trip to the Zoo

Not the zoo or the Uprising Museum. 

As today is my first Independence Day apart from American soil, it is naturally the first time I am really, truly thinking about what we call independence.

It started yesterday with a trip to the Warsaw Uprising Museum.

Today featured a trip to the zoo.

Independence, I think, is a tricky, slippery thing if you think about it too long, or if you don't think about it enough. There is a lot of crying and carrying on today, in city centers and chat boards and whatever other platform people can find, over rights that, last time I checked, have never existed. Marriage is not state-sanctioned. Gender is not state-sanctioned. And if you demand a right from someone, it isn't your right at all. What someone else gives to you, they have the power to stop giving.

These are the truths I hold to be self evident. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are not rights. Life is a gift that will one day deplete. Liberty is a disposition, an acknowledgement of truth, and it does not come from outside. The pursuit of happiness is a responsibility. By and large, and with many and sundry exceptions, these things are taken for granted by people who think that once we are born we are entitled, free from restriction, to the things that we want.

These people have not listened closely enough to The Rolling Stones, that's what I say.

My Polish host told me yesterday, as we walked through the Uprising Museum, that an old woman who had survived Auschwitz said in an interview that even in Auschwitz, there were good times. Goodness is not a finite resource. Goodness cannot be trampled or killed or burned or bombed. Warsaw is a city that was utterly destroyed after Hitler gave the order to burn it to the ground as punishment for an insurrection that had already failed. And yet, I sit comfortably, a few kilometers from the city, well-fed after a long day at the zoo. I owe this entirely to good people, who refused to abandon something they believed to be good. They were brave people, proud for all the right reasons of all the right things, but it wasn't fighting with weapons that rebuilt their city and restored their nation. The Warsaw Uprising failed in every way but one: its memory survived. No one forgot the Warsaw buried beneath its own ruins, and over time, they brought it back to life.

I went to the zoo this morning before class, which afforded a rich exercise in vocabulary with my student this afternoon. We discussed the elephants, the giraffes, the tiggers (the best mispronunciation to date), and the seals. We talked about the bear exhibit outside the zoo in Warsaw, and the otter exhibit at the zoo in Philadelphia, and the tiggers on display at the zoo in Hanover. Then after a time, she looked down at her lap, and said, "To be frankly, I don't like the zoo."

After correcting her "frankly", I asked why not.

"Because animals," she said, in her high, shaky, and yet confident voice, "are children of freedom. When I see the tigger, I am sad to see that stare. He had such a stare."

Entirely by myself, in a foreign country, with no maps or road signs in English at all, I felt strangely akin to the animals today. They are out of their habitat, and so am I, but I am free and they are not. So I thought. I was struck, at the end of the day, by two animals on display. One was a lion, who just laid down for a nap. He flicked his tail and looked right at my camera, and I knew that without the bars around his make-shift grassland, and the steep drop between his perch and mine, neither of us would have any mistake about which one was on top. The other was a seal. There were three seals, two fat, lazy, and laying in the sun in shallow pools. The other, I think, was maybe a she, and she swam around in circles, diving down, diving up, flipping over, swimming around. She did this maybe four or five times, not hastily, but not lethargically, either. She moved at the pace of something perfectly at ease, and if not for the giggling Polish children, I think we might have heard her whistling, so contended she seemed. After her final lap she saddled up on a rock and flipped onto her back, letting her plump little seal belly soak up the sun.


What struck me was this: the lion did not seem happy, but he did seem to know exactly who he was. That seal didn't seem to know exactly where she was, but she knew exactly what she was doing, and she didn't mind at all.

Liberty can look like that lion, and liberty can look like that seal. Liberty is acknowledged, not given, and is true in all conditions, and so is happiness, at that.