Wednesday 29 December 2010

Starbucks junkies


Remember that scene in You’ve got a mail, when Tom Hanks writes to Meg Ryan  : “The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is, for people with no decision ability whatsoever, to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, de-caf, low-fat, non-fat…So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, or who on earth they are, can for only 2,95$ get not just a cup of coffee, but absolutely defining sense of self . tall!! De-caf!! Cappuccino!!!”
For me Starbucks is a personal, and worldwide phenomenon. It is a bit better quality fast-food for coffee. Anywhere in the world, if you pop in Starbucks it looks more or less the same, tastes the same, speaks the same language. It’s called Dolce Latte language. Special marks  : wooden chairs, if you’re lucky,  a couple of deep armchairs; cups, thermoses, cans of tea, bags of coffee, on black shelves, cakes and cookies behind the glass, flavors of coffee written on black board above them. When you add cosy light, and kind of music that doesn’t exactly make a difference if it’s played or not, you get a perfect mixture of sweet nothing. Even coffee itself, compared to the REAL Italian espresso, or cappuccino, served in Italian//French cafés seems as bad, as pumpkin scone for your waist.
There more - not until a couple of years ago did they bring in some changes, Starbucks, seemed to be awful for the environment, with their waste of water, paper cups and napkins, and above all leftover coffee grounds.
I don’t go to MacDonald’s because of the environment, I can’t give up my coffee, I’m sorry. Or deep, green suede, armchair, or tiny round table in the corner, where I look so poetic sipping vanilla tea, reading a book when trains to Grand Central are passing by.
And what’s most important the smell of coffee.
I enter and order, cappuccino//pumpkin latte//plain black. Depends on which stage of diet  I actually am. When I come to write, I always order coffee in a ceramic, (not paper!) cup.  It is a well-known scientific fact, that different things taste differently when served in glass, not plastic. No self-respectable European, would drink their coffee in paper cup if they don’t have to. I make myself comfortable, open my laptop, put books on its side. Headphones on. Jazz, perfect, allows me to focus. Grande cappuccino is gone after five minutes, I just sit there and wish I had a spoon so I could finish thick layer of  foam, that is left at the bottom of my cup. I can hear the rhythm of the base and melody of the trumpet in my ears, watching world go by.
After going to the same Starbucks for a while customer service knowsyou. God, wasn’t I happy when I got four, Outrageous oatmeal cookies, for free, cause they were closing. Anybody fits in here, but if you take a closer look at people around, they seem to have something in common. Students with laptops, girls and boys with books on their laps, a businessman who just popped in for a quick caffeine shot, well-dressed moms with Fendi bags around them and de-caf Carmel Macchiatos in front of them. Even bold weirdo in the corner who keeps staring at me for half an hour now. It is not only fashion, even though, it’s another well known fact, that you DO look cooler with Starbucks cup in your hand, the same as you do with  a cigarette. It is not only addiction to caffeine, but also, to what paper cup with green mark on represents. Strange, kind of surreal unity of Starbucks addicts.
Got a text from M. who is in desperate need of Cranberry BlissBar. She can’t get one herself being stuck at home, sick. I can understand her desperation.
What makes Starbucks so special is its personal character. Because it’s so characterless, you make it your own, as you wish.
I remember first time when I got to New York. I sat in Starbucks on the corner of Madison Av and 42nd St, with fresh Vogue on my lap, and New York Times waiting in the bag on the floor. I felt like I was finally here. Quoting my favorite New Yorker - Whatever Works – Bottoms up junkies !

Tuesday 21 December 2010

John Lennon nokautujący Greenpoint, czyli wizyta Bronisława. K



Polski prezydent Bronek.K i jego wąsy postanowili złożyć oficjalna wizytę w Białym Domu. Prezydent stanowczo zażądał zniesienia wiz dla polaków. No jak to, przecież polscy żołnierze giną w Iraku za ropę, której nigdy nie zobaczymy na oczy.  Barack Obama obiecał zająć się cala sprawa, cudownie - gdyby to była jego decyzja,  a nie Kongresu. Polskie media oburzone - w amerykańskiej prasie więcej uwagi poświęca się rocznicy śmierci Johna Lennona, niż wizycie „naszego prezydenta”. Wszystko to śmieszy mnie niezmiernie. Od pięciu miesięcy jestem polką mieszkającą w Nowym Yorku. Czy chciałbym móc tu zostać i pracować? Jasne. Czy gdybym miała taką możliwość zniosłabym wizy dla Polaków? Absolutnie nie.  Greenpoint i polonie są wystarczającym powodem.
Któregoś jesiennego popołudnia, wiedziona chęcią czerwonego barszczu wysiadłam na Greenpoint Avenue. Wszechobecne napisy po polsku, Polacy wchodzący i wychodzący z polskich lokali. Polskich w najgorszym tego słowa znaczeniu. Greenpoint wyglada tanio i tandetnie jak kraj pod koniec lat 80tych/początku 90tych. Plastik, tektura, napisy drukowane z szablonów. „Mazowszanki” serwujące pierogi w restauracjach udekorowanych „na karczmy”.  Z obowiązkowym gniazdem bocianim na ścianie. Krzyż, papież, wódka – full serwis. Wchodzę do przybytku o zaskakującej nazwie „Polski sklep” w poszukiwaniu karty do telefonu „Dzień dobry, czy sprzedajecie państwo karty do telefonu?” pytam ekspedientkę z uśmiechem - „ nie ma”. „Aha, no tak, a czy wie może Pani gdzie mogę takowe dostać? – kontynuuje natarczywie „ tam naprzeciwko pani kupi – u araba..”. Przypominam ze akcja dzieje się w środku Brooklynu, trzy przystanki metrem od Manhattanu. Zapycham się znajomo smakującą drożdżówką z serem i podchodzę do starszego pana, po angielsku pytam go o drogę do restauracji. Patrzy na mnie ze zdziwieniem i odburkuje „no English”. Polski? – pytam. Okazuje się ze starszy pan mieszka tu od 40 lat. W końcu trafiam do „Karczmy” próbuję złożyć zamówienie po angielsku, ale nie daję rady. Ale te kelnerki nie emigrowały do Nowego Yorku przed wojną. Większość Polaków, która zamieszkuje Greenpoint, przez lata nie raczy nawet nauczyć się podstaw angielskiego. Pracują z polakami dla polaków. Jędzą polskie jedzenie, oglądają polską telewizję. Chodzą do polskiego kościoła katolickiego. Krytykują i odrzucają wszystko, co amerykańskie, tradycyjnie po polsku, jako gorsze. Nie raczą odrobinę się wysilić żeby się zasymilować. Przecież Polska najlepszym krajem na świecie jest, wszystko inne chójowe, a murzynek Bambo w Afryce mieszkał i niech tam wraca. Ale przywozić dolary/ funty z chójowych krajów nie boli. Zdaje sobie sprawę, że każda generalizacja jest krzywdząca, że na pewno gdybym poszukała mogłabym spotkać kogoś, kto reprezentuje Polskę w zupełnie inny sposób. Ale mnie nie chodzi o pojedyncze pozytywne przykłady, tylko o ogólne wrażenie. Nie mam zbyt dużego pojęcia o PRL-u, a przymusowa emigracja i tęsknota za ojczyzną są dla mnie tak odległe, jak koniec świata 2012, ale, no właśnie ale…Greenpoint reprezentuje wszystko dlaczego uciekłam z Polski. Ziemkiewiczowskie „polactwo”. Zamiast pokazać ze kraj w środku Europy pełen jest utalentowanych, wykształconych młodych ludzi, ciekawych miejsc i potencjału, polonia woli się babrać w swoich tak zwanych tradycjach. Zamiast nowoczesnego państwa, które należy do Unii, ma ciekawą historię i dużo do zaoferowania serwuje się golonkę i wódkę. I jakkolwiek zbyt Polski nie lubię, to wkurza mnie to niezmiernie, bo nieraz już, jako Polka zostałam wrzucona w tą szufladkę. Nie jest w niej zbyt wygodnie, śmierdzi przeciętnością, homofobią, ksenofobią, nietolerancją, szarością, a bycie chamem jest ok. Mogę sobie tylko zaśpiewać „Imagine” i zakręcić sarmacki wąs, gdybym takowy miała.

Ninth Ward Impressions






When I was going to New Orleans for Thanksgiving weekend I imagined funny and smart piece, that I would post about Colonial mansions, jazz, French Quarter, coffee and best on earth - Cafe du Monde – beignets. But it wasn’t Garden District that had shaken up my mind. It is difficult, to write about something, that you know so little about. That you just saw once, and most you can remember, are emotions, that it had brought.
Over month after my visit, I’m still thinking about Ninth Ward.
November 26th. Wet, penetrating cold. Heavy, gray sky, as we were crossing bridge covered with rust. Black van was joggling from time to time, as we were trying to avoid wholes in the road. This is the place, where dam first cracked up. Sebastian, my guide and host shows me a huge concrete wall.
District that suffered the most during Katrina and Rita  hurricanes,  after five years, still looks like after bomb explosion. It’s basically extinct. Empty houses. Smashed windows, tattered walls, roofs torn off. Through wholes in the walls you can see furniture, turned over, household equipment, objects. Leftovers of memories. Houses without their owners. Buildings with no future. Interiors without people are becoming only wooden mock-ups. Dirt and overgrown sidewalks. Trees broken apart, bent fences. Ground over here is furrowed. Like earth moved couple of times. On most of the houses you can’t see the level that water reached – cause they were under the water, completely. Inscriptions written by people, who needed immediate help. Sometimes names, dates, crosses. Signs calling tourists to leave the district. Macabre tourism. Now travel agencies are bringing tourists over, in couches, passing through “extinct” district. After hurricane amount of inhabitants of New Orleans itself, has reduced from almost 500 000 to 239 000. Here and there, you can see new buildings appearing. Brad Pitts Make it right foundation hires creative architects, that are designing new, ecological houses. According to official sources Katrina had taken 1500 lives. Officially, cause victims of heat and exhaustion weren’t counted. Unknown number of people, who were shot by the police, while trying to get food and essential stuff from shops. How many of them were dangerous burglars ? Who may know. We stopped for a while. 300 000 people, city. Silence. Not a single sound. Not even a bird. All-embracing, awful  silence. We get off the car, I grab my camera, feeling bad about it. Even worse, when coming to New York, and taking pictures of Ground Zero. First one taken – the view of gray foundations, of a house that used to stand there. Because city is built on a swamp, most houses are built on concrete foundation, [wooden construction would collapse very quickly] Nothing is left over this house, just seven, small, square shaped foundations. Stories of people who drowned, amount of hopelessness that it’s hard to imagine.
Building that used to be Medical Center, now stands empty with furniture thrown out, with huge wholes in brick walls, and glass sticking out of windows frames. Rumor has it that patients were etherized over here. it seems that the doctors didn't have much choice, do it or let them drown" It seems that the doctors didn’t have much choice, do it or let them drown. it seems that the doctors didn't have much choice, do it or let them drown"it seems that the doctors didn't have much choice, do it or let them drown"It’s so unbelievable, that it happened in a country, which spends 100 billion dollars a year, for war, on the other side of the world, and has one of the best trained armies. Five years after, many people can’t come back home, cause there’s nothing to come back to.
Even after unbelievable tragedy like this, New Orleans hasn’t lost its character. People are genuine, the nicest, food is delicious, music still plays on Bourbon and French Quarter is one magic. It seems that Ninth Ward will have its sound back. Made of rare spirit city, for me is another lesson to learn. One of the most important so far.

Monday 13 December 2010

Warholmania/ Wrtitten in April 2010


 I think it all began with New York. Manhattan in the 60s. Pollock, Jones, Lichtenstein. Paint spilled on a large canvas. Capote’s glasses, Sinatra’s hat, Miller’s pen. And jazz. Jazz and rock’n’roll striking down the new city of lights. Small underground clubs and cafes. Thinking of it, I can’t see any specific place, rather a thrilling kind of energy of skyscrapers, restaurants, galleries and of course, a huge amount of extravagance. Atmosphere of the  Factory. Black and white pictures, omnipresent cigarettes smoke, black eyeliner, dance, drugs. Jagger, Malanga, Sedgwick, living life on their own terms. And art of course. “What is it about Warhol? What’s with the can of soup?”- I wondered. I couldn't wrap my head around the thought, that Warhol actually Was a genius as everyone around me claimed him to be. It took me some time to understand, that Andy became a reflection of America at his time. He threw the country back in its face. I used to think that he was a talent-less manipulative pig. I watched Factory girl and I went through the story of life of Edie Sedgwick, one of many Warhol’s muses, a fashion icon, who revolutionised the style on the 60's. Used and betrayed by Warhol, Edie left the Factory, and a couple of years later died at age of 28, cause of overdose. 
At that time I was also reading "On the road" and "Howl". I was listening to Bob Dylan and I was dreaming of what I thought was the essence of freedom - long road trip form East to the West coast. And the South. New Orleans, with its colonial plantations, Blues, gray oaks and endless swamps. Like from Brother where are thou. It had nothing to do with Brillo boxes, amphetamine, suits and the first sounds of The Rolling Stones records. I felt like I couldn't love both, like I had to choose. 
Because both Pop and Warhol bugged me so much, I decided to learn more. I needed to get to the root of it, discover why I couldn't just ignore it. First book, then the second and the third. Films, interviews, I couldn't know it all. I began to wonder, how did a man of Warhol’s high intelligence, could sell himself with expressions like “oh that’s wonderful” or “yeah isn't that great?”. I began to realise that Warhol was his own art. It did intrigued me, was it just a creation or did Andy really become Pop? The book [The life and death of Andy Warhol by Victor Bockris] depicts Warhol as a person filled with humour and absurd. It shows that Andy wasn't serious about anything, especially his art. Perhaps about the money. He was the first artist who had seized nothingness. His fascination of emptiness and death. Death who wears bright colors and mutters “oh that’s wonderful”. He became the  embodiment of emptiness. There’s no one before and after him, who had so many personalities and yet at the same time, had none. In "The Philosophy of Andy Warhol", the artist shows, what seems to be his private, more personal take on life and his obsession with details - cherries on a carpet, pockets filled with phone cards, weakness for kitsch.
In a certain way Andy Warhol and Woody Allen shaped my dreamy image of New York. Something that stays in the back of my mind, and waits for its time, but above all, it’s comparison with reality.

Thursday 9 December 2010

Blog started

 In the land of bullshit and whatever, where police got a right to make you turn the music down in your car, and where having chocolate sent from abroad is illegal.