From: "Zachary Foreman"

Date: Wed, 23 Oct 1996 17:12:27 GMT+2

Subject: Three weeks...

Author's Preface: I know that I have a tendency to wax prolixic when overseas, as well as abuse the English language and run cliché's to exhaustion. Still, I hope that portions of the following prove informative, and perhaps, humorous. If you don't want to read it, delete it or save it for later. There actually is important stuff near the end though (send me your address). If you're reading this now, it means that your life at one time intersected mine, perhaps intimately, or perhaps only for a moment or at a distance. Whatever the case, I thank you for making my life so rich. Introduction I apologize for being so infidelicious in writing. I will attempt to make up for it by coining new words and using British spelling. (just kidding) Anyway, what can I say? (<--rhetorical device)

I left Stanford on the 24th of August. I got to Frankfurt early on the 25th and in Berlin by that evening. I finally hooked up with Zareen, (I mean, visually contacted her) at around 6. After a few fun- filled days in Berlin, I moved on to Krakow

Chapter 1: In which the story of the stolen bag is explained. So, I get to Krakow at 6:43 in the morning. It's raining. I'm carrying over 100 kg of stuff (about 230 lbs.). I drop it off at the train station (except for my powerbook and toiletries but including my guidebook), and seek out Garbarska street. I find it but I am an hour and a half early. I read. Then I see the other students for the first time. Then the opening speech. I nearly fall asleep. There are various other orientations throughout the day. At 7 there is a party. Drinks, chatting, all very nice. I leave at about 9:30 because I think that the baggage counter might close. I go and get my bags and try to find the right tram to take me to the dorm "Piast". I don't really know where it is or how the tram works but I am confident in my abilities (first mistake!).I am also exhausted. After a comical series of mishaps (taking the tram the wrong way, stopping to far, etc) I finally get off at what I believe is my stop. It isn't but I didn't know that. I ask a passerby and they say two blocks. A block is about 500 yards though. So after carrying 250 pounds of poorly packed stuff about a half mile, I get tired. I start alternating: taking on bag about 30 meters and then going back to get the other one. There are very few people about as it is past 11, and, yes, still rainy. I finally come to what I believe is my dorm. I set my bags down at the corner and go to take a closer look. Just when I ascertain that it is not, in fact, the object of my quest, two pedestrians walk (of course) by and tell me that if I want to go to the Piast I should follow them. I know that I couldn't explain that I have a 140 lb. duffel bag sitting on a street corner but I figure that it can't be too far and that none will take that big thing in the brief moment I am gone. (Mistake #4 (I forgot to label mistake number 2 or 3, you'll just have to debate amongst yourselves)). You can see what happens. When I get back, I am running and praying at the same time. Alas, not there. I look around, hoping that my memory is playing tricks on me or that I somehow overlooked a 6x3x3 foot bag. It's gone. I go back to the Piast (I just wanted to know where it was and then went back to get my bags) and then returned to the corner. I get very upset. I decide that if the bag, by some miracle, is recovered then I would stop dilly-dallying and become a priest asap. I write a note (in English) on the lamp post, asking for it to be recovered. I revile myself and all of my shortcomings (you can imagine the length of time that took). I then sat down by the lamp post and prayed in desperation and despair.

Chapter 2: In which the writer encounters the police. Suddenly, a police car, interested in why someone is sitting by a lamp post at 12:30, drives up. They talk to me in polish. I ask them if they speak Russian. They say that they do a little bit. I try to explain that I had my bag stolen. Then I say that it happened an hour ago. They leave. I wander around a bit and then return to the Piast.

Chapter 3: In which the writer describes his room and the dormitory. I live on the fifth floor of the Piast, a tribute to efficiency and Stalinist architectural vision. Apparently these are the best dorms in Krakow but they still leave much to be desired. The double (I had no roommate at the time) is about as big as a freshman double in Lag. It shares a bathroom and a common entrance way with one other double. It also has a balcony. There is one small bed, a table, a chair and a bookcase, as well as a wardrobe. A chandelier, a desk lamp, windows and a glass door lend just enough light to make the dust visible. The Piast is an amazing place. Everyday I find out more of its wonders. It has a bar with a small snack store, another more general food store, with cafe, a post office, two magazine/book stores, a copy center, a general amenities store and a large cafeteria. About a week later, I discovered a salon. Then a Chinese restaurant opened up (it's not bad from what I hear). Just yesterday I found out that on the top floor there is a library and a bar. Oh yeah, in the basement there is a second hand clothing store, and a pool table. Anyway, it's a bit outside the central part of Krakow but all in all a good place. And I have a spare bed if any of you want to come by.

Chapter 4: In which the writer discusses the essence of the program The School for Central and Eastern European Studies is great. If anyone gets the chance, I recommend it strongly. There are 23 undergraduate students from Hobart and William Smith Colleges in New York as well as a bunch from Stevens Point. The rest are either Tempus students or individual students. Tempus is a sort of an European Union exchange scholarship program. There are some from Ireland (Dublin area), England (London, Bristol, Suffolk), some from Belgium (one is Flemish the others are actually American or Taiwanese) and a couple from Germany. I will talk about the people in a later chapter. ...except for the director and the International Relations Coordinator, it seems appropriate to include descriptions of them here. Kasia is the coordinator and is very beautiful. She always has a Mona Lisa-esque smile and speaks English with a slightly Polish, slightly alluring accent. Many students were disappointed when it later turned out that she was married. In fact the surprise was greatly heightened because she was married to...Marek Kucia, the director of the School. He is a very unassuming, and brilliant professor. He speaks in a clipped manner, ending every sentence with a smile, creating an odd feeling that he is there to swiftly execute your every whim. I guess that is a left over of communism where subordinates not only had to do as they were told without questions but also to do it with a smile. Kasia looks about 28 but exudes energy and youth. Kucia is balding and very quiet. None of us could believe it when the rumor was told that they got married, secretly, this past summer. Apparently, they left for 2 weeks and returned with wedding rings. The clincher, though, was that they were spotted purchasing dairy products together. There is no more damning evidence of matrimony than consulting the other's opinion on cheese.

Well that's all for today, stay tuned for the next riveting chapters: in which the writer discusses the people in the program (including who's available), Poland (the reason why the writer is here), classes (something that all of us must endure), things to do in and around Poland (just in case you're thinking of dropping in), and of course the writer's metaphysical quest through mind and meaning and rainy streets seeking the Ultimate. Anyway, feel free to write back. I would especially appreciate any addresses (surface mail) at which you can be reached. I have about 40 postcards and I want to scatter them to the corners of the earth. I guarantee a postcard from Krakow to everyone who sends me their address. I hope this wasn't too long. I'm sure I had a lot more fun writing it that you did reading it. Still, don't you think this is better than seeing me in six months and asking "So, Poland, how was that?" and me answering "Good, uh, yeah, I liked the people and had a lot of fun." You can always delete it.

Zach "semesters=too much time" Foreman