I'll find my own bravado

Recently I watched a movie that I had never seen before, expecting it to be another dull and forgettable film that was similar to the other wannabe "indie" films out there at the moment. Turns out, my judgement was way off and i quickly found myself quite drawn to the unexpected twists it had to offer. It wasn't predictable, or boring - in fact, it resonated quite a bit. I'm not going to talk about the film, because that's not the point - what stood out to me was a single moment somewhere in the middle where the protagonist is having a debate with another pivotal character, who is older and has more life experience. After some back and forth debating he stops and declares that your 30's are the worst decade in your lifetime. That statement really made me stop and think, is that true? As I near closer and closer to the end of this chapter of my life, I can't help but reflect on the whirlwind that has been the last couple of years. Many good days, quite a lot of bad ones too - but would I take it back? Not a chance. The way I see it, your 20's are the time when you make mistakes. It's when you realize who your real friends are, who deserves to stay and who needs to be cut off. You still rebel, but not in the same way you did when you were a teenager (which was a crazy adventure in of itself). You stand up for things you're passionate about politically and otherwise. Most importantly you find yourself and your calling, whatever it may be. It takes a while but you get there eventually. It's the ten year frame where you discover who you are as a human being and what adulthood truly entails. Granted this is all subjective, I know, but I have always viewed the 30's as that bliss point where you're still young but you have everything figured out (well, the important stuff at least). Yes, every decade brings its own struggles and hardships, but if we were to take a collective average, what decade is the so-called "worst"? Is there really such a thing? Again, it varies from person to person. In any case, if we were all the same, how boring would that be? What do you think? What has been the worst year or years of your life, so far? Tell me your thoughts.

vera x

Home

My family history is complex and and would certainly take a long time to explain. As in any other family, we can all drive each other up the wall and there is never a shortage of drama, however at the end of the day we are there to support each other, no matter how scattered across the globe we are. Since I am mainly of Polish and Russian decent, my ancestors have endured a vast number of tragedies, and I suppose I have inherited that trait of being able to start over in a new place. Having moved so many times in the past, it has become almost second nature to be able to pack up at short notice and leave to someplace new. For that reason I believe that although having a physical place to call “home” is always a privilege, to me home is where my loved ones are. After all, going back to an empty flat, etc. and just being filled with memories isn’t quite the same as having dinner with the whole family, or going to see snow for the first time. 

    It’s these small events and milestones that make us who we are as humans. It’s the accomplishments and the downfalls that test to see who is there for us. Friends of course play a huge role in this, however the difference is that not only do you choose your friends, but they tend to come and go. Family is something that defines you, and that sticks with you for the rest of your life whether you like it or not. Despite some hardships, my life has been pretty blessed. In short, when I think of the word “home,” I don’t think of the places where we gather once a year to have our own reunion of sorts, whether for the endless Christmas festivities that last for days, or exploring the city of Torun during the warm days of summer. Instead I think of the people who surround me, and how humble and loved they all make me feel. No one knows you more than the people who helped bring you up, so the saying goes, and in this case I find that to be true. To me, home is going to get ice cream at the infamous local ice cream place with my older cousin and my step grandfather on hot summer afternoons, it’s going to the beach with my grandmother and braving the cold morning water. It’s waking up to the sound of that strange next door neighbor (who has known my family for decades) knocking loudly on our front door every morning at the crack of dawn with some pointless newspaper that we end up tossing right after he leaves. It’s being at midnight mass and hearing very off-key singing, only to turn around and see my cousin and his friends laughing because they are already making plans to invite me to their all-nighter festivities right after the sermon. It is going to the local renown bakery at 3 o’ clock in the morning and watching the employees through the big window bake the bread and take it out fresh from the oven. It’s having the mayor of the city of Gdansk coming up to me at one of my aunt’s infamous parties and seeing if my Russian is still any good. It is reuniting with people, friends and family alike, after a long period of no contact, and being able to pick up and as if it had only been yesterday. The long and short of it is, without my family, Poland and any other place in Europe would just be a beautiful country that I come from. With them there, it is home, and there is no place I’d rather be.

The One Where Vera Gets Arrested In Zurich, Switzerland

This is basically the so-called "story of my life", even though I'd like to think that if people will ever talk about me or reminisce about my past, it will be more than just about this single event . . . because of its infamous and somewhat tragic yet hilarious "it could only happen to me" nature, I've been asked to write it down, lest I ever forget the details (UNLIKELY!). Just FYI though, I was very young at the time so I have a somewhat selective memory from this situation and probably forgot one important detail or another, so please bear with me.
 
 
"The One Where Vera Gets Arrested In Zurich, Switzerland"
 
It all happened a while back, I don't remember the year exactly but I believe I was around 9 or 10 years old at the time. My uncle and aunt-to-be had invited the entire family to their wedding, which was to be held in St. Petersburg, Russia. From what I knew, it was going to be very elegant and "royal-esque" and of course a big deal, not to mention I had maybe at that point only been to one wedding before in my lifetime so I was beyond excited.
 
The plan had been for me, my mum, my aunt and cousin to travel to Zurich, Switzerland for about a day or two, and then from there to catch a connecting flight and arrive in Russia, and afterwards take a train straight to St. Petersburg.
 
The whole trip to Zurich and our stay there went rather smoothly for the most part, although from what I recall I had insomnia and for the life of me couldn't fall asleep in that hotel we stayed in. I also remember (unintentionally, of course) angering the hotel staff with my cousin - what can I say, boredom lead to rebelliousness. Regardless, our shenanigans kept us very entertained - from racing each other down the corridors and stairwells to playing hide and seek by the front desk, amongst other things.
 
For the record, my mother has a knack for losing important things, and is unfortunately prone to having mishaps during trips she takes (thankfully I did not inherit this trait).
 
Fast-forward, we landed in Russia, got off the plane, and were about to go through customs when my mum noticed she didn't have any of our documents (passports, boarding passes, etc.). We explained the situation, but were still not allowed back on the plane, which of course made us all go instantly into a state of absolute panic (my cousin in a fit of rage almost threw his glasses on the floor). In the end, they gave my mom a choice - either be arrested on the spot, or go back to the airport in Zurich where we came from and then be "dealt with" there. Knowing the nature of Russian prisons, we all decided it would be best if the two of us would just fly back to Switzerland so we bid a tearful goodbye to my aunt and cousin, who had to tell my grandmother and step-grandfather what happened, and we left.
 
What of our documents? Well, we figure they were probably stolen by the cleaning crew . . . after all, American passports could be sold for a lot of money.
 
Upon our arrival to the Zurich airport, my mother frantically started making phone calls. It was a hopeless case - her boss thought she wasn't being truthful about what happened and that she only wanted have an extended vacation, and the Polish consulate basically told us that since I was not yet a Polish citizen my mom could not prove that I was her child, to which he added: "You don't even have ANY documents . . . you're nothing, you don't exist."
 
During our 4 to 5 days at the airport, we were kept in a tiny room with no windows, bright fluorescent lights, and a few bunk beds. We were not allowed to go out of the airport. Frankly, no one knew what to do with us. We couldn't leave, and we couldn't stay. We didn't have an identity.
 
Our "cell mate" was a big fat cheerful Russian lady, who had also somehow gotten her documents stolen on a group tour. I remember her cheering us up, saying, "I have been through the war. This is nothing." I gave her English lessons in exchange for her company.
 
I got sick very quickly, since they didn't provide us with any food or drinks and I barely ate, and when I did, it was old refrigerated airport food. Did I mention that our suitcases had gotten lost? That was decidedly the cherry on top of an already horrible situation.
 
On one fateful occasion we came across one of the police/security people who worked there, and he took pity on me because I was so ill and exhausted. I remember him giving me fresh oranges that I would immediately take into my hands and bring up to my nose to fully soak up the scent (perhaps, in hindsight, this is where my fondness of orange juice comes from? food for thought). Out of curiosity my mum asked him why he was helping us, he replied "I have a daughter about her age."
 
What happened next was a miracle - that police man said that he would give us permission to go out for a few hours to the city of Bern in order to get temporary passports, but only under the condition that we kept quiet and that we came back as soon as possible . . . after all, he was risking his career for us.
 
Thanks to our guardian angel, we got the documents we needed after a heavy day of traveling around Switzerland, and we came back. We said adieu to our former roomie, who decided to move to some sort of hotel, and we flew back to Poland, where our suitcases were waiting for us.
 
A few years later, a movie came out. I never did see it, but from what I've been told, it's about a man who is stuck in an airport. Coincidence? I think not.
 
v x
 
P.S. To that police man - you helped me and my mum so much. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking pity on me, and for saving us. I will always remember your kindness . . . you give me hope. To this day I still have this little tiny angel doll that I found laying on the sidewalk the day we were allowed out of the airport, and it makes me think of you.