Biało-czerwona w sosie tabasco / White-and-red flag in tabasco sauce.

Wszyscy wiemy, co się zdarzyło w Gdyni. Według opowieści świadków wyglądało to tak, że 18 sierpnia nad ranem przybyli do miasta dżentelmeni-sportowcy z Chorzowa w liczbie paru setek. Ranek był rześki, do meczu zostało jeszcze trochę czasu, młodzież z Chorzowa, znana głównie z rozlicznych akcji charytatywnych wyległa na plażę. Na plaży przywitali ich liczni lokalni plażowicze, z którymi miłośnicy naszego sportu narodowego śpiewali patriotyczne piosenki. Sielski dzień na plaży upływał leniwie, młodzieńcy zorganizowali pokaz pirotechniczny dla dzieci, maluchy były zachwycone, aż wtem... na plażę wtargnęła banda pokrytych tatuażami meksykańskich żołnierzy z nożami sprężynowymi w zębach, gotowych gwałcić, mordować i rabować. Ale głównie gwałcić. Bandyci rzucili się na nadobne niewiasty, już, już miało dojść do obscenicznych aktów na plażowiczkach, gdy polscy dżentelmeni, brzydzący się przemocą, wobec kobiet zwłaszcza, powiedzieli basta. (zupełnie przypadkowo w dla obu stron zrozumiałym języku). Potem powiedzieli 'kurwa' i jeszcze parę innych rzeczy, które tym razem nie były zrozumiałe i tak rozpętało się piekło. W powietrzu fruwały sombreros i husarskie skrzydła, pierogi i butelki tabasco, kurwy i pendejos. Na szczęście dzięki niewielkiej przewadze liczebnej, jakieś 300 do 17, nasi dzielni dżentelmeni wygrali, cnota słowianek została ocalona, a nad plażą załopotała (fakt, że trochę poplamiona tabasco) biało-czerwona flaga.

Taka przynajmniej jest wersja kiboli. Mimo tak wiarygodnych przesłanek, skłonna jestem uwierzyć w to, że siedemnastu wysportowanych latynoskich marynarzy, creme de la creme meksykańskiej Heroica Escuela Naval Militar, przyciągało damskie spojrzenia. Wiadomo, latynosi są hot, marynarze są hot, latynoscy marynarze są tak hot, że na ich klatach można smażyć boczek. Kibice Ruchu Chorzów natomiast... powiedzmy, że są tak hot jak syberyjskie bory w lutym. Wiadomo też, że przy brakach lingwistycznych jedynym sposobem wyrażenia niezadowolenia z bycia pominiętym na matrymonialnym rynku jest spuszczenie wpierdolu. Dalej wszyscy wiemy co się stało, u nas dym, za oceanem jeszcze do dziś rana myślałam, że mając poważniejsze problemy zleją całą historię. Nie zlali, pisze o tym nawet CNN Mexico. 

Najciekawsze jest jednak to, co zdarzyło się później. Doszły mnie słuchy, że wszystkiemu winne są puszczalskie Polki, zwłaszcza te ze Szczecina, które, ponoć dawały się pukać w każdym hotelu i rozochociły marynarzy, którzy do Gdyni przypłynęli w wiadomym celu. A przecież tak nie można. Puszczalskie Polki mają się puszczać tylko z Polakami (cnotliwymi jak Bolesław Wstydliwy), inaczej przyjdzie chorzowska policja obyczajowa i zbije bezwstydników. Rynek matrymonialny jest mocno liberalny, więc jeśli na towar jest mały popyt to należy go poprawić, bo inaczej można będzie się pocieszać tym, że najlepsza baba to własna graba. Można zacząć od wyrzucenia z wokabularza słowa 'puszczalska'.

Miałam okazję mieszkać w Meksyku przez pół roku. Chamski podryw zdarzał mi się sporadycznie, głównie od wąsatych wujaszków stojących w korku na Paseo de la Reforma, którzy robili to chyba, żeby nie wyjść z wprawy. Całkiem często zdarzało mi się za to dostawać komplementy i spotykać bardzo dobrych tancerzy. Nie wiem czy dla tych, którzy płaczą, że Polki ich nie chcą ta aluzja jest dość czytelna. Wracając do kiboli Chorzowa, to chciałabym zobaczyć statystyki przemocy domowej z Cwajki, Chorzowa II, zagłębia fanów Ruchu. Ogromnie mnie fascynuje to, czy dżentelmenami są w domu czy tylko na wyjeździe. 

Komiksiarz proponuje inne wytłumaczenie tej sytuacji i chociaż mam mu za złe to, że musiałam przez niego czyścić laptopa z kawy, to myślę, że jest ono bardzo prawdopodobne:

____________________________________________________________________________________

We all know what happened in Gdynia. According to the witnesses, in the morning of August 18th a group of few hundreds of athletes-gentlemen from Chorzów arrived to the city. The morning was brisk, there was still some time left to the football match between Arka Gdynia and Ruch Chorzów, so young people, known mostly of numerous charity activities, decided to go to the beach. On the beach local sunbathers welcomed them joyfully and all together they started singing patriotic songs. The day was idyllic, the fans of our national sport organized a pyrotechnic show for kids, who were delighted with it. Suddenly, the beach was invaded by a bunch of tatoos-covered Mexican soldiers, with knives in their teeth, ready to rape, kill and plunder. Mostly rape, as it turned out. Bandits pounced on the ladies, and they were about to perform obscene acts on them, when Polish gentlemen, abhorring violence, especially towards women said basta. (Coincidentially in a language, that was understandable for both sides, since the word means the same in Polish and Spanish). Then they said kurwa and some other things about bandits' mothers, which were not understandable, and that's how the hell was raised. There were somberos and hussar wings in the air, pierogi and bottles of tabasco sauce, kurwas and pendejos. Luckilly, thanks to a small preponderance, something like 300 versus 17, our brave gentlemen won, virtue of slavic ladies was defended and a red-and-white flag (a bit stained with tabasco sauce though) fluttered over the empty beach.

At least this is what hooligans say. Despite having such convincing arguments, I'd be more eager to believe in the fact, that seventeen fit, dark, latino marineros, who happen to be creme de la creme of Mexican Heroica Escuela Naval Militar, coming back home from Szczecin, where they were participating in famous Tall Ship Races on their stunning vessel 'Cuauhtemoc' were turning ladies' heads. Let's face it, marines are hot. Latinos are hot. Latino marines are so hot that one could fry bacon on their chests. Ruch Chorzów football fans are on the other hand... they are hot as deep Siberian forest in mid-February. It's kind of obvious, that with their lack of linguistic skills, the only way of expressing dissatisfaction caused by being omitted at the matrimonial market was beating the shit out of the ones who weren't. We all know what happened next. Till today's morning I was hoping that Mexico has more serious problems and they would ignore all this incident. They didn't, CNN Mexico already writes about it. 

The most important thing is however, what happened on the Polish Internet later. I was quite surprised to hear, that Polish permissive slutty girls are to blame, especially the ones from Szczecin, where Tall Ship Races took place. They were 'letting those Mexican dudes shag 'em in every hotel in the city', so they upped an appetite of Mexican boys, who came to Gdynia for one purpose. And it's not supposed to be like this, right? Slutty Polish girls should be permissive to Polish guys only, otherwise vice squads from Chorzów will come and beat the shit out of profligates. The matrimonial market is quite a liberal one, so if your product has no demand, you should pimp it up a bit, otherwise you'll get blisters on your right hand. You can start with crossing out the word slutty from your vocabulary. 

I was lucky to live in Mexico for half a year, and no one treated me disrespectfully. The worse pick-up line I encountered was eeey, gringa guerita! shouted by moustached old cab drivers, getting bored in the traffic jam at Paseo de la Reforma. I think they were considering it as some kind of a pick-up training and had little to no hope for success. Quite often though, I was getting compliments and I was meeting excellent dancers. I'm not sure if this hint is clear for dudes, who are whining, because they are invisible for girls. Compliments and dance, boys! By the way, I'd like to see domestic violence statistics from Cwajka, Chorzów II, the infamous home of Ruch Chorzów hooligans. I'm curious if they are gentlemen at home as well as at away tie. 

Komiksiarz offers a different view on this situation, and I think it's quite convincing, even though I had to wipe my laptop after I laughed while drinking coffee. The point is that Ola is a female name, coming from Alexandra, and it's pronounced like Spanish hola.

- Łukasz, please, chill out, you don't look like a girl
- I know,  but they  call me  Ola once again and I'm
gonna beat the shit out of them

How to become a Very Bad Couchsurfer in seven simple steps

You have no money, but you want to travel to some overpriced super touristy city in a high season. Barcelona. Or Venice. Or Paris. A friend of yours told you once about a website called Couch Surfing, which is basically about having free accommodation, and, if you're lucky, you can even get laid. Yay! What do you do? Obviously, you become a Very Bad Couchsurfer.

Check out a CS group called Funny Negative References, you'll find there
 ideas on how to be a Very Bad Couchsurfer!

1. First of all, you need a profile, but ain't nobody got time for that, so just add a picture of your dog, who cares. Or add a group picture, your hosts will have fun guessing which one is you. Or, if you really think you're ugly, upload a 100 x 150 px picture of you wearing huge sunglasses. Or just don't add a picture at all, your personality beaming from your profile should be enough. If you're a girl, set a half-naked selfie as your profile pic (boobs or GTFO), this will prevent you from getting invitations from other girls and will encourage dudes who want to score you. If you are a guy, make sure to upload every picture of you accompanied by hot chicks, that you have on your hard drive, it surely won't make you look like a creepo. Describe yourself as an open-minded and easy-going person. Don't include your age, after all, you value your privacy. Include some really cool and unique hobbies, like reading books, sport and music, so people would see that you're a very interesting person. Don't forget about travelling, because it may not be obvious, when you're using a travel-related website. You get three points if you manage to create your profile within 3 minutes. 

2. Now you have a profile. Excellent. You chose a city. Barcelona! There will be many tourists there, and you need to get a free couch. CouchSurfing system will be trying to suggest using a Couch Request functionality every now and then. IGNORE IT. Otherwise you'll have to spend hours on looking for a host, and you keep your motto in the back of your head. Post your request right on a dashboard, it doesn't matter that the Barcelona dashboard is flooded with requests like yours and nobody really reads them. Your sparkling personality will beam from your post anyway! Just write that you are coming and that you are looking for a couch. Here is a tip - you are looking for a couch, not a host. We don't want somebody to get a stupid idea that you want anything more than just a free hotel, amirite? If you're coming with friends, don't attach links to their CS of Facebook profiles, your potential host should trust you enough to let you bring to his house pretty much anybody! 

You may not get many responses for your message. Actually, after 5 minutes, you may find your message lonely, forgotten and relegated to the 4th page of a dashboard by eleventy billion new messages from other very bad couch surfers. Shit happens, you'll probably need to go back to that ridiculous Couch Request functionality. 

3. The nosy system will ask you about what are you going to do in Barcelona. Remember that you value your privacy, so write something very general. You have to use at least 100 characters. If you use words such as 'party', 'hang out' and 'drink', you'll need to use only 83 characters for all 'hahahah' and 'lol' that you'd like to use! Now, the system shows you a list of your potential hosts. Choose randomly. Reading their profiles? Come on, ain't nobody... Once you choose a person and want to send a request, this goddamn system will ask you why do you want to meet this person. Duh, because you have no money? (bonus 5 points for including this) And you're looking for a couch? (next 5 points) Really Couch Surfing, is it that difficult to guess? Click a 'send couch request' button and wait.

4. Wait 5 minutes more

5. No response. Go back to the dashboard, repeat numbers 3, 4 and 5 till you get an invitation (as an additional argument for hosting you, you may add that nobody wants to host you and you have nowhere to go. Add a very sad emoticon). Yay! Some very naive and potentially masochistic barceloni wants to host you, even though you gave more than enough signals of being a Very Bad Couchsurfer. Make an appointment with him, don't bother with exchanging phone numbers though. Get late (don't apologize!). During your stay, keep your things all over the place. Take a very long hot shower. Twice. Don't turn off the light. Eat something from his fridge (+ 10 points), after all you are the guest here. Make some noise in the night. If you're with your girlfriend or boyfriend, have sex on a couch and make sure that not only your host, but also all his neighbors (the ones from across the street too) know about it . (If you leave a condom behind a couch, you get additional 15 points). In the morning take an extra long shower, making sure that your host not only pays huge bills for water, but also gets late for work. If your barceloni host is not particularly smart, make him take you for a party. Get piss drunk, pass out in the middle of the party, it will provide him some additional adventures. (If you manage to puke on his shoes, you get additional 10 points, if you hit on his girlfriend, you get 15 points more)

6. After your surfing don't leave the references, unless you were hosted by a chick and you scored her (+ 5 points). In this case, make sure to include this detail in your reference!

7. Did you get more than 40 points? Congratulations! Go to the mirror, raise your right hand and tap your back. You've just became a Very Bad Couchsurfer. Some people may not like it, but don't worry, you're not alone!

Waking up full of awesome

I found this manifesto long ago, trough Pinterest. The author is a very brave mom, Melissa Atkins Wardy, who decided to give her kids proper childhood. A childhood, that lets girls grow up in their own pace, that lets them be girls, not small, eroticized lolitas. That allows them to play with Matchbox cars if they want or with LEGO bricks or with dolls. A childhood that is about respect and raising kids, who are healthy, bold and full of awesome. I absolutely love it, so I decided to create a small fan-art. Feel free to check out her website.

Znalazłam ten tekst dawno temu, przez Pinterest. Autorką jest pewna bardzo dzielna mama, Melissa Atkins Wardy, która zdecydowała, że da swoim dzieciom cudowne dzieciństwo. Takie, które pozwala dzieciom na dorastanie w ich własnym tempie, i które pozwala dziewczynkom na bycie dziewczynkami a nie rozerotyzowanymi lolitkami. Dzieciństwo, w którym jeśli chcą, mogą się bawić matchboxami, albo klockami LEGO albo lalkami. Takie, które opiera się na szacunku i na wychowywaniu dzieci, które są zdrowe, pewne siebie i pełne zachwytu. Absolutnie uwielbiam ten tekst, dlatego postanowiłam stworzyć mały fan-art. Rzućcie okiem na jej stronę.

Był taki czas, kiedy miałaś pięć lat i budziłaś się pełna zachwytu.

Wiedziałaś, że jesteś wspaniała.

Kochałaś samą siebie.

Sądziłaś, że jesteś piękna, nawet, jeśli byłaś szczerbata, miałaś potargane włosy a skarpetki w twoich utytłanych trampkach były nie od pary.

Kochałaś swoje ciało i rzeczy, które potrafiło robić.

Sądziłaś, że jesteś silna.

Wiedziałaś, że jesteś mądra.

Ciągle to masz, ten zachwyt?

Ktoś ci go zabrał? Pozwoliłaś mu?
Dałaś go sobie odebrać, bo ktoś powiedziać, że nie jesteś wystarczająco piękna, szczupła, inteligentna, dobra? Dlaczego do cholery miałabyś ich słuchać? Wzięłaś pod uwagę, że mogą gadać farmazony?

Czy to nie byłoby zupełnie bez sensu, gdybym powiedziała mojej córce, że za pięć albo dziesięć lat może nienawidzić się za to, że nie wygląda jak głodująca modelka po Photoshopie? Albo jeszcze dziaczniej: że powinna być raczej seksowna niż mądra, raczej piękna niż pewna siebie? Żartujesz sobie?

Popatrz na nią. Jest pełna zachwytu.

Ty też kiedyś byłaś. Może dalej jesteś. Może jesteś w trakcie odzyskiwania go.

Wiem tyle, że jeśli nie wstajesz codziennie rano czując się w ten sposób, to bardzo dużo tracisz.

Task 20: Hike in Bieszczady mountains

(You may want to read the previous post to know what I'm talking about)

I got my sudden clarity moment on my way to our grocery store, when I sensed a smell of sawmill. And then a smell of wet pine forest. And many other smells that are far away from all these artificial, civilized smells that became so familiar for us. Out of sudden I felt an urge to leave everything and go to Bieszczady. Which is peculiar, because I've never been there. 

When you look at the map, Poland has a shape of a pentagon. The bottom, most southern corner, bordering Ukraine is Bieszczady mountains region, wild and remote, a true borderland. Not really fully Polish, but not Ukrainian either. A bit catholic, a bit orthodox. And it's really wild. Like wolves and bears wild. A hut in Bieszczady is a synonym of not giving a crap about civilization, Sex And The City, glossy magazines and holidays in Dominican Republic. If someone buys a hut in Bieszczady, it means that a) he's going to grow a beard, b) from now on you can reach him only by sending a pidgeon. 

Now, imagine Poland in eighties. No, really, go ahead. Google Chris Niedenthal pictures, they tell a lot about this time. Think about constant lack of everything, about long long queues to a shop, where the only thing being sold is toilet paper (and you must be quick, because there are only 500 rolls available!), about every stupid thing being such a big deal. About needing special permission to go abroad or move to another city. But most of all, think about constant misinformation. On one hand there was the official propaganda and no one believed it. On the other hand, there were gossips, much more trustworthy but still, gossips. And, obviously double standards, some people could have exotic holidays and quality food, some couldn't. You and your family couldn't. And you never knew which one of your friends is actually a secret agent, so you better don't tell that hilarious joke about how stupid the government is, because you don't want sad gentlemen in grey coats to knock your door one day. And this ubiquitous sense of hopefulness, a feeling that your reality is grey and difficult, you can't see the world and it's going to be like this forever. 

It's said that all the tradition of Russian author song was born, because of the crisis in the USSR. People could find truth only in open air activities, such as hiking, kayaking or canyoning. After all day of hiking, they would set a bonfire and songs would just come, out of nowhere. I believe, that this is what happened in Poland in eighties. People were just tired with being bullshitted by the government and the thick atmosphere of Martial Law, so they were just escaping to remote parts of Poland to find, well, truth. Authentic experiences. Freedom. Because the rules are clear in the mountains, there is no bullshitting. If you piss a bear, then you need to run fast. No misinformation, no double standards, no bullshitting. 

That's why Bieszczady mountains started attracting young people. Unpretentious bearded guys with backpacks, fit student girls with checked shirts. Lumberjacks, poets, wanderers, sheperds and artists. And Bieszczady. Wildlife, Simple conditions, shelters with cold water only. Sleeping on the floor. Hitch-hiking. Vodka. Quite a lot of it. Guitars. Young, well-read people. Wolves and bears. Quickly a very particular subculture arose. They started composing music for poems and this is how sung poetry was born. If you ever  find a Polish song for guitar, harmonica and violin, talking about wolf's fangs, lost love, sunrise, wanderers and połoninas, then you know that the authors probably were having beards.

Okay, this is not even Bieszczady, it's Barania Góra, but it gives the vibe, right? You can totally imagine a hot bearded lumberjack with a backpack taking this picture. (The truth is that it was probably taken by one of our scouts, long long ago, but still, it's all about the vibe)

Recently I found old pictures of my scout troop. So old, that there is no chance I could remember them. They were taken in early nineties, at the dawn of culture of Bieszczady, but still, had this very special vibe, that made me long for leaving everything, get some old style backpack, a train ticket and just go to Bieszczady. Wear checked shirt and sing poetry about sunrise in Połonina Caryńska and morning dew and golden icons in empty wooden orthodox churches.

I've never been there, there is a whole ethos of Bieszczady, based on the respect towards nature, people and heritage. At least there was. I've heard that it's kinda difficult to find accomodation there in high season and if you manage to find it, it's expensive. I was told that there are more and more tourists wearing flipflops and 'hiking' in Połonina Caryńska. I may go there and then get a Bieszczady version of Paris syndrome. Still, I'd like to go. I'm stuck at home, doing some work that has to be done and I'm super broke. The weather is beautiful, it's Polish summer at its peak, and I'm dying to hitch-hike to some remote part of Poland, see the countryside and sleep in a tent. I was a scout for 13 years. It means that at this time of the year for most of the summers in my life, I was in some remote part of Poland, sleeping in tent for 3 weeks and hiking in the countryside. I'm pretty sure that one day psychiatrist will research on this urge for leaving the civilisation that comes in July to all those who were involved in scouting and they will call it "post scout camp syndrome" or something like this.

If you want to know more about Bieszczady:

• Look it up in the old National Geograpics, there were some good articles, at least in Polish edition. They might be translated, and even if they weren't, you can always see the photographs. 
• Find a book Axing, or the Winter of Forest Folk written in 1971 by Edward Stachura. It's a Bible of people of Bieszczady and a beloved book of generations of poets, lumberjacks and wanderers.
• Listen to the music

A Meh Week and "when was the last time you smelled manure?"

It has been raining for days. You know, one of those pranks of summer, when first you get few days of Cuban heat, you do an inspection of all you summer dresses and start making plans about those wild bonfires on Vistula river beaches. 

And then the rain comes. 

And it rains cats and dogs for weeks. And all your summer days become Meh Days. And you know that you should be doing something constructive, that your tasks are piling up, that you should at least learn some Norwegian or practice playing ukulele if you can't do something REALLY important and urgent, but well, it's a Meh Day. You're craving for something or someone who'd give you a kick of inspiration, motivation and energy, but the only thing that's actually coming are rainy clouds outside your window. 

So this is pretty much how my past week looked like. Has been looking like, to be precise. A Meh Week. There is a golden advice saying "If nothing works, cook a soup, a soup always works". So yeah, I put my purple wellingtons on and went to our local grocery store, to get some spinach leaves. Mainly because I want to believe that my decreasing level of energy and motivation has something to do with a lack of iron in my diet, so even if it's gonna be a placebo, I'm gonna make myself a magical green spinach-iron elixir. I'm pretty sure that this is what Panoramix used to fix in his cauldron. I went out and on my way to the shop I could smell: wet soil, wet pine forest, wet, freshly sawn boards in a sawmill, wet wool and acacia blossom. Because, I must tell you, I kinda live in a countryside. It's still within the city borders but it's more like a little village, all my family lives here, we have pine forest, hedgehogs and wild boars, so you gotta be careful when you're choosing your night run route. 

We have bambis too. I wonder why aren't the prices of real estate a bit higher in my neighbourhood. Come on people, a bambi in your garden! And fierce wild boars on your running route. 

The other thing is that I'm sensitive for smells. My great-grandmother could smell sulphur from the other side of a house when my mom and her cousin were playing with matches. I think I'm the one from all ten of her great-grandchildren, who inherited increased olfactory acuity. 

Today, when I was walking to the shop, I realized I haven't been smelling real smells for a long time. Right now I'm in my room, I can smell coffee and a cinammon candle. I'm (and you're too) closed in a bubble of civilisational smells. A smell of a bus. An artificial smell of cinnamon candles. Toothpaste. Coffee. Printed book. Plastic-y smell of new clothes in H&M. Leather in a shoe shop. Parfumed lady passing by in a shopping mall. And then you go out and smell soil and pine trees and it's something unusual. When was the last time when you smelled freshly-cut grass? Manure? Water in a lake? A tomato? Yeah, I mean real tomato, not this Spanish watery crap you buy in Carrefour. (Sorry Spain, I believe that you grow awesome tomatoes, sadly the ones that you export to Poland are crap.). I love the smell of coffee and a printed book, I don't think I'm alone here, but gee, I love also freshly cut grass and pines and it's better to know where is the exit in my civilisational bubble of parfume and new clothes.

I've no idea how did my brain work during that quest for spinach leaves, and how did it happen that all those smells generated a huge longing for going somewhere I've never been to, but my brain works in mysterious ways sometimes. (Like when I wake up after a super weird dream and I'm all like "WTF brain, seriously!?"). What's more, it also made me listen to a prehistoric music and wear a lumberjane checked shirt. But this is a story for another blog post. 

It's been a year!

When I left home today, I was going to find some peaceful spot in the downtown and a cup of coffee, so I could focus on perfectioning my job application. I ended up cooking delicious Thai food and drinking wine with two strangers. You know, strangers who become your friends in a split of seconds, because something just clicks and suddenly you realize that it's almost midnight and you are passionately discussing about rockabilly skirts and Prussian doctors. That's the magic of CouchSurfing I guess.

I found them on the steps of church in Plac Zbawiciela. First we were proof-reading my job application and then Cole asked Justyna if I can join them for a dinner. I guess that it's the adult version of "she followed me all the way home, can we keep her?"

When I was leaving the apartment of our lovely host Justyna, I felt something. Maybe I felt it just because I just had a great meal and a decent wine in a brilliant company. Maybe it happened because it was one of those balmy nights, when air smells with magnolia and cherry blossoms and birds are singing like crazy. Maybe it happened because it's Friday night and a colorful crowd was filling the streets. Or maybe it's because of a bottle of cat tranquilizer, that my other CS stranger, Cole, claims to always carry on him (he was a chef, I was just chopping, who knows what he poured into coconut milk). I don't know. But I felt like suddenly everything got to where it belongs. That things are going into the right direction, that I'm young, I'm (I like to think so) pretty, and I have whole life ahead of me. Yay.

This reminded me the last April. The time when I started Ten Awesome Years. I was staying at my friend's apartment, cat-sitting. I was alone and the cat was vicious. I was scared, I was overthinking, I felt like my carefree life ended and like I'm trapped in a life I didn't want. All newspapers were writing about crisis and unemployement, particularly unemployment amongst young people, especially those educated in humanities. I was struggling to keep a relationship that had no chance to survive, I had panic attacks and I was PARALYZED with fear. I was so terrified, that for weeks I was having breathing problems, I felt like there is something constantly sitting on my chest, not letting me take a deep breath. If your body tells you that there's something wrong with your mind, you better take it seriously. In the middle of this I decided, that crap, I'm not gonna live this way. No way. I'm not gonna let stupid newspapers itimidate me, I don't agree on having a low quality life.

I didn't know what to do with my life. I knew what I didn't want to do with my life. I sat down and I wrote down all the things that I wanted to do before I die. And then I thought that since I work well under the time pressure, and a whole life is a terribly long time, I should make it shorter. Like... ten years. Ten awesome  years. And that there is a chance that if I make it public, I'll feel like a looser quitting it at some point. And here we go! After I made a decision to have an awesome life, things started to work again. I owe you guys a brief summary of what has been happening in the past year, but it has to wait till the morning. It's 3:32 am, I'm super sleepy and those goddamn birds are still there, singing like there's no tomorrow.

"When one man dies, it is a tragedy, when thousands die, it's statistics"

Okay, so maybe you've noticed, but I had a writer's block in the past ummm... month. Not that I'm a writer. I had like gazillion  things to say, but somehow it didn't look good written down. In past weeks I went to visit my friend in the University of Essex and I came back super stoked, I started planning how to achieve my goal numer four, I had some really cool interviews for my thesis, I even made a short video as a part of my job application. But seriously, none of those things seemed worth sharing. Or they did, but sounded corny either in English or in Polish. (Does any of you experience this? You write a piece of a witty, brilliant text in Polish and when you translate it to English it all sounds like "I be potato". Or the other way round).

 

But there is one thing that got stuck in my mind and I just must write about it, otherwise I'll explode. Now focus, and think about the most important thing that happened last month and got a worldwide attention.

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Mesdames et monsieurs, now my assistant will pick a card, and I'm telling you that first thing that you thought about was Boston Marathon bombings. Did you?

 

Allright. So, Boston Marathon bombings, 5 deaths in total: 3 spectators at the Marathon, 1 police officer and one suspect. Add to it 281 injuried people. We all know about Dzokhar and Tamerlane Tsarnaev, about their mother, about Chechnya, pressure-cookers, about that eight-years-old boy, who died, about that brave man, Carlos Arredondo, who ran in the marathon to protest against the war and ended up rescuing people.

Nine days later a factory building in Bangladesh collapsed. Now, ask yourself: a) how many people died? b) where exactly did it happen? c) who is responsible for this?

 

Can you answer these questions? I couln't, I had to google it. 401 people died, 1000 are injuried, it happened in Savar Upazila in Dhaka and companies, which employed those people (and didn't make sure that the factory building meets safety norms) were Benetton Group, The Children's Place, Primark, Monsoon, DressBarn and probably also WallMart. Inspectors discovered the cracks on the walls of the building just a day before. Some of employees were immediately evacuated, but the managers threatened to withhold the monthly pay from garmets workers who refused to enter the factory. Don't get me wrong, every death is a tragedy, what happened in Boston is just wrong and terryfying, but how come that I knew so many things about marathon bombing and so little about Savar Upazila?

 

Probably, I wouldn't really bother to check anything about what happened in Bangladesh, but I found this on Facebook and I can't stop thinking about it:

 

 



 

This photo just left me speechless. You can watch documentaries, read tons of reports and articles and then a picture like this comes and you feel a lump in your throat, even though you aren't particularly emotional person. And you can't help thinking that  she is a person, she has a name. Maybe it was Chaitali, maybe Devangi. The skin on her arm is smooth, she's young, could she be your age? Or maybe she was your little sister's age? Who gave her this golden bracelet? And him? Maybe he fancied her? Did he try to rescue her or just embraced her because he knew he's dying and just wanted to hold someone? The lump in your throat is still there and you can't get rid of this image and erase it from your head for the rest of your day. The jumper you wear is made in Cambodia, your T-shirt was produced in China and out of sudden they don't feel that comfortable anymore. But on the other hand you know that voting with your (very thin) wallet won't make a change. Will it?

 

I saw this picture in the morning, now it's 5:35 pm and I keep thinking about it. Yeah, Benetton is guilty, Mango is guilty, Inditex is guilty for using other people in different parts of the world. I am guilty and you are guilty too because you're buying their products. But do you really have a choice?