Grim blows from the west the remains of Storm Ciara (renamed 'Sabina' in Poland for some reason); wave after wave of dark clouds propelled by howling winds, bearing great amounts of rain. I dodged a shower and got to W-wa Jeziorki without getting wet... would I be so lucky during my stroll to the office?
Below: the area around Rondo Daszyńskiego is climbing skywards. Not good weather for the construction sector...
Outside W-wa Śródmieście station, the rain is chucking it down. So I nip through Patelnia and into the Metro Centrum station, along the shopping galery overlooking the platforms (below). This way I can get to ulica Złota in the dry, and then shelter under arcades of Ściana wschodnia (the old Wars, Sawa and Junior buildings) to get to the south-east entrance of Metro Świętokrzyska. Down the stairs and through the passages and I emerge outside the doors to my office - nearly dry.
Below: not so lucky on the way home; it wasn't raining when I passed the Palace of Culture, but the malignant threatening tower merited a snap.
Onward, not far to the entrance to W-wa Śródmieście station (on this side of Aleje Jerozolimskie from the Polonia Palace Hotel). Within a few seconds of taking this photo, the heavens opened and a tremendous downpour sent people sprinting for the nearest shelter.
My train was delayed for some reason, crawling between stations then stopping for ages; no explanation given (unlike those helpful Tube announcements in London). I arrive at W-wa Jeziorki, miss the 209 bus from the (still after all these years temporary) bus loop 'near' the station, and proceed home on foot in the teeth of the ongoing downpour. Usual story - no pavements, sides of ulica Karczunkowska turned into huge, muddy puddles. So I'm walking along the wet asphalt into the oncoming traffic, which mercifully is driving a bit more slowly and cautiously than usual. Once again, my message for local authorities is get some pavement laid here before someone gets killed again.
This time last year:
The filth and the fury
[Since then the paths to the station have been paved, but still no pavement alongside Karczunkowska]
This time four years ago:
Defining the human experience
This time six years ago:
The City of Warsaw wants you to complain
This time seven years ago:
Czachówek's wild woods in winter
This time eight years ago:
Vistula freezes over downstream of Warsaw
This time nine years ago:
Twilight of the Ikars
This time ten year ago:
Polish TV adverts for parapharmaceuticals
This time 11 years ago:
Jeziorki wetlands in winter
This time 12 years ago:
A week into Lent
Tuesday, 11 February 2020
Monday, 10 February 2020
"I wake up at five and queue for bread and soup"
The night of the 9th to the 10th of February 1940 defined the rest of my mother's life, just as the outbreak of Warsaw Uprising would for my father. She was 12 years old.
On that night, eighty years ago, the apparatus of Soviet repression, the NKVD, came for my mother's family, took the three sisters and their parents by horse-drawn sleigh to the railway station at Antonówka. They had been given less than an hour to gather up belongings. Once at the station, they saw many other Polish families that had also been rounded up at gunpoint; they were put into cattle wagons and the train was taken to Sarny, a significant railway junction town 25km to the east. Here, cattle wagons from across the region, all full of Poles, were joined together to form a longer train that was destined for the labour camps of the Soviet Union.
The train was to take them over 1,800 km north-east to a place called Punduga, in the Vologda Oblast. From the station at Punduga, they walked 8km through virgin snows to a camp, Spetsposylok 17, where in primitive conditions they had to cut down trees in the surrounding forests. There were around 400 Poles there. My mother was judged too young to work in the forest, so she cooked and cleaned for her sisters (aged 14 and 16) and parents who spent all day sawing lumber. They were among 140,000 Polish citizens deported that night. There would be three more waves of deportations of Poles before the Nazi invasion of the USSR, between 500,000 (conservative estimate) and 1,400,000 people (upper estimate).
The first wave of deportees were former Polish state officials, railway workers, and - in the case of my grandfather and his family - forestry workers. They were considered dangerous to the Soviet state, which had been imposed upon the lands invaded by the Red Army after 17 September 1939. Forests, it was believed by the NKVD, is where partisans would hold out; forestry workers knew the forests, and so they were suspect, dangerous - and so were their children in the twisted paranoid logic of the Soviets.
To this day, Russia continues to lie about the reasons for the outbreak of WW2. Had there not been a Hitler-Stalin pact, Hitler would not have attacked Poland on 1 September 1939, nor would Stalin have attacked eastern Poland 17 days later. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs is entirely unable to put a narrative spin on why hundreds of thousands of Poles - including large numbers of women and children, met such a fate.
According to the Russian narrative, Russia was not at war at the time. 'The Great Patriotic War', as Russia insists on calling it, began on 22 June 1941. But before then? Between the signing of the Stalin-Hitler Pact on 23 August and Hitler giving the order to invade the USSR, the two dictatorships carved up Europe between them. Hitler invaded seven countries (Poland, France, Denmark, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg and Norway), Stalin six (Poland, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Romania). Hitler and Stalin could do so with impunity, knowing the other would not attack in the meanwhile. And this was all going on with Germany receiving Soviet raw materials - fuel for the Luftwaffe that was bombing London was coming from the USSR - and timber from the Russian north.
Reparations - I'm glad that Kaczyński has stated that war reparations need to come from Russia as well as Germany. National atonement is key, more important than money. It would be unthinkable to erect a statue to Hitler in Germany. Only a tiny lunatic fringe celebrates him. In Russia is it commonplace to praise Stalin and to see new statues going up.
Below: letter sent by my mother to her friends, still living in Horodziec. This is a photocopy, so slightly unclear, but the gist is there. She describes life in the camp: up at five am to queue for bread and soup, "rye bread 1 rouble 20 kopeks., white bread for 2 roubles 10 kopeks. Soup - a plate of oily water with noodles, 41 kopeks. I have to clean the floors and windows, then go out to forage for berries; lunch is at noon, another queue, then washing clothes then another queue at six pm".
Below: the second side; she describes the buildings in the camp, including a nursery for children "between three months and three years". My mother has lost weight; she'd down to 38kg, "I am like a midge"; she signs off by apologising for her 'scribblings', because one forgets how to write in Polish.
The trauma experienced by my mother in the long winter's journey in a locked cattle truck, from which dead babies were removed, resulted in her living with claustrophobia. She never flew, once London Transport stopped using open-platform buses, she could only walk to work. She wouldn't use lifts nor cars with electric windows or central locking.
On that night, eighty years ago, the apparatus of Soviet repression, the NKVD, came for my mother's family, took the three sisters and their parents by horse-drawn sleigh to the railway station at Antonówka. They had been given less than an hour to gather up belongings. Once at the station, they saw many other Polish families that had also been rounded up at gunpoint; they were put into cattle wagons and the train was taken to Sarny, a significant railway junction town 25km to the east. Here, cattle wagons from across the region, all full of Poles, were joined together to form a longer train that was destined for the labour camps of the Soviet Union.
The train was to take them over 1,800 km north-east to a place called Punduga, in the Vologda Oblast. From the station at Punduga, they walked 8km through virgin snows to a camp, Spetsposylok 17, where in primitive conditions they had to cut down trees in the surrounding forests. There were around 400 Poles there. My mother was judged too young to work in the forest, so she cooked and cleaned for her sisters (aged 14 and 16) and parents who spent all day sawing lumber. They were among 140,000 Polish citizens deported that night. There would be three more waves of deportations of Poles before the Nazi invasion of the USSR, between 500,000 (conservative estimate) and 1,400,000 people (upper estimate).
The first wave of deportees were former Polish state officials, railway workers, and - in the case of my grandfather and his family - forestry workers. They were considered dangerous to the Soviet state, which had been imposed upon the lands invaded by the Red Army after 17 September 1939. Forests, it was believed by the NKVD, is where partisans would hold out; forestry workers knew the forests, and so they were suspect, dangerous - and so were their children in the twisted paranoid logic of the Soviets.
To this day, Russia continues to lie about the reasons for the outbreak of WW2. Had there not been a Hitler-Stalin pact, Hitler would not have attacked Poland on 1 September 1939, nor would Stalin have attacked eastern Poland 17 days later. The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs is entirely unable to put a narrative spin on why hundreds of thousands of Poles - including large numbers of women and children, met such a fate.
According to the Russian narrative, Russia was not at war at the time. 'The Great Patriotic War', as Russia insists on calling it, began on 22 June 1941. But before then? Between the signing of the Stalin-Hitler Pact on 23 August and Hitler giving the order to invade the USSR, the two dictatorships carved up Europe between them. Hitler invaded seven countries (Poland, France, Denmark, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg and Norway), Stalin six (Poland, Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Romania). Hitler and Stalin could do so with impunity, knowing the other would not attack in the meanwhile. And this was all going on with Germany receiving Soviet raw materials - fuel for the Luftwaffe that was bombing London was coming from the USSR - and timber from the Russian north.
Reparations - I'm glad that Kaczyński has stated that war reparations need to come from Russia as well as Germany. National atonement is key, more important than money. It would be unthinkable to erect a statue to Hitler in Germany. Only a tiny lunatic fringe celebrates him. In Russia is it commonplace to praise Stalin and to see new statues going up.
Below: letter sent by my mother to her friends, still living in Horodziec. This is a photocopy, so slightly unclear, but the gist is there. She describes life in the camp: up at five am to queue for bread and soup, "rye bread 1 rouble 20 kopeks., white bread for 2 roubles 10 kopeks. Soup - a plate of oily water with noodles, 41 kopeks. I have to clean the floors and windows, then go out to forage for berries; lunch is at noon, another queue, then washing clothes then another queue at six pm".
Below: the second side; she describes the buildings in the camp, including a nursery for children "between three months and three years". My mother has lost weight; she'd down to 38kg, "I am like a midge"; she signs off by apologising for her 'scribblings', because one forgets how to write in Polish.
The trauma experienced by my mother in the long winter's journey in a locked cattle truck, from which dead babies were removed, resulted in her living with claustrophobia. She never flew, once London Transport stopped using open-platform buses, she could only walk to work. She wouldn't use lifts nor cars with electric windows or central locking.
Fuck the USSR. And fuck anyone that glorifies Stalin.
This time last year:
Getting over this year's flu
This time two years ago:
War and the absence of war
This time four years ago:
Sensitivity to spiritual evolution
This time five years ago:
75th anniversary of Stalin's deportations of Poles
This time six years ago:
Peak Car (in western Europe at least)
This time seven years ago:
Pavement for Karczunkowska NOW!
[I still walk through mud or dice with speeding cars.]
This time eight years ago:
Until the Vistula freezes over
This time nine years ago:
Of sunshine, birdsong and wet socks
This time 12 years ago:
Dziadzio Tadeusz at 90
This time last year:
Getting over this year's flu
This time two years ago:
War and the absence of war
This time four years ago:
Sensitivity to spiritual evolution
This time five years ago:
75th anniversary of Stalin's deportations of Poles
This time six years ago:
Peak Car (in western Europe at least)
This time seven years ago:
Pavement for Karczunkowska NOW!
[I still walk through mud or dice with speeding cars.]
This time eight years ago:
Until the Vistula freezes over
This time nine years ago:
Of sunshine, birdsong and wet socks
This time 12 years ago:
Dziadzio Tadeusz at 90
Saturday, 8 February 2020
Saturday on the działka
Always good to get out of town for a while, take the train down to Chynów and spend some time on the działka. The train has got more expensive - my return with senior's 30% discount has gone up from 8.84zł ( £1.75) to 9.74zł ( £1.94), a 10.2% increase. But that's balanced out by the warm winter, and my daily burn of electricity to keep the house from freezing while I'm away is around 40 grosze (8p). This includes the remote monitoring, burglar alarm and internet connection. Ah - and I just got my local tax bill from Gmina Chynów... it's 55,00zł (£11.00) a year. For a detached house on an acre of land. That's 91p a month (council tax on Cleveland Road is £220 a month).
Below: train-driver's eye view of the tracks south of Czachówek Południowy; double line running ends just beyond the level crossing, then it's single track all the way down to Warka with a passing loop at Chynów. Beyond Warka, still nothing; the work is behind deadline between two and half and eight months depending on stretches. The second line between Czachówek Południowy and Warka, which was meant to have been ready next month, is now due to be ready in June - and I doubt that will happen. Still, one can dream.
Below: just a little bit north of the platforms at Chynów station. It's Saturday, no one's working (last year, Sundays weren't holding back the builders). Today - not a soul about.
Below: view from the station road towards the north-east horizon, just about visible the BP petrol station sign on the DK50, Warsaw's de facto southern ring road.
Below: blessed sight! Jakubowizna. The działka's just up the road apiece. A ten-minute walk from the station. A day of perfect blue skies, my tenth visit this year, by far the nicest weather so far; daytime high today 6C, much the same tomorrow.
It might be sunny, and the day may now be over two hours longer than on the winter solstice, but it's still an early sunset. Before it dips below the horizon, low rays of light illuminate the landscape. Below: the 'road' from Jakubowizna to Grobice.
Below: just outside Chynów station, what I presume to be the station master's barnyard. A bit dilapidated. The railway line lies just behind. Full moon in the trees.
Below: Chynów after the sun's set. Wires span the crushed-velvet sky.
Below: Chynów station, dusk. Note the pedestrian tunnel taking shape; the 'down' track will be built in the foreground, between the new 'up' track and where I'm standing. The tunnel will be extended in my direction and will allow pedestrians to cross safely between platforms - and between the town of Chynów and the village of Jakubowizna.
Below: the road into Chynów, shortly after sunset.
This time two years ago:
The Ilyushin Il-12 'restaurant' disappears from outside my office
This time three years ago:
Walker's London
This time four years ago:
Deconstructing political graffiti - London and Warsaw
This time six years ago:
Europe's peripheral woes
This time seven years ago:
Winter returns to Warsaw
This time eight years ago:
Babcia vs. Roma action, Centrum
This time nine years ago:
Reasons to be cheerful
This time ten years ago:
Skiing in the Beskid Wyspowy
This time 11 years ago:
What's to be done about Warsaw's unmade roads?
This time 12 years ago:
Jeziorki in the fog
Below: train-driver's eye view of the tracks south of Czachówek Południowy; double line running ends just beyond the level crossing, then it's single track all the way down to Warka with a passing loop at Chynów. Beyond Warka, still nothing; the work is behind deadline between two and half and eight months depending on stretches. The second line between Czachówek Południowy and Warka, which was meant to have been ready next month, is now due to be ready in June - and I doubt that will happen. Still, one can dream.
Below: just a little bit north of the platforms at Chynów station. It's Saturday, no one's working (last year, Sundays weren't holding back the builders). Today - not a soul about.
Below: view from the station road towards the north-east horizon, just about visible the BP petrol station sign on the DK50, Warsaw's de facto southern ring road.
Below: blessed sight! Jakubowizna. The działka's just up the road apiece. A ten-minute walk from the station. A day of perfect blue skies, my tenth visit this year, by far the nicest weather so far; daytime high today 6C, much the same tomorrow.
It might be sunny, and the day may now be over two hours longer than on the winter solstice, but it's still an early sunset. Before it dips below the horizon, low rays of light illuminate the landscape. Below: the 'road' from Jakubowizna to Grobice.
Below: just outside Chynów station, what I presume to be the station master's barnyard. A bit dilapidated. The railway line lies just behind. Full moon in the trees.
Below: Chynów after the sun's set. Wires span the crushed-velvet sky.
Below: Chynów station, dusk. Note the pedestrian tunnel taking shape; the 'down' track will be built in the foreground, between the new 'up' track and where I'm standing. The tunnel will be extended in my direction and will allow pedestrians to cross safely between platforms - and between the town of Chynów and the village of Jakubowizna.
Below: the road into Chynów, shortly after sunset.
This time two years ago:
The Ilyushin Il-12 'restaurant' disappears from outside my office
This time three years ago:
Walker's London
This time four years ago:
Deconstructing political graffiti - London and Warsaw
This time six years ago:
Europe's peripheral woes
This time seven years ago:
Winter returns to Warsaw
This time eight years ago:
Babcia vs. Roma action, Centrum
This time nine years ago:
Reasons to be cheerful
This time ten years ago:
Skiing in the Beskid Wyspowy
This time 11 years ago:
What's to be done about Warsaw's unmade roads?
This time 12 years ago:
Jeziorki in the fog
Thursday, 6 February 2020
Holidays delight me not
Many friends are away, going away or just back from holidays - I must say I have no temptation to rush off to warm countries to get away from it all; my last proper holiday was in the summer of 2014 (North Wales), my last winter holiday in early 2011 (Beskid Wyspowy).
I have no desire to visit the Far East or Africa or Latin America. The spirit of the America I have yearned for in a past-life way has long evaporated (David Bowie's prescient lyrics to This is Not America were written 35 years ago). I get strong flashbacks whenever I read about rural USA in the 1950s, but today, I'm expecting it's turned into uniform landscape of malls and intersections. Scandinavia... maybe, but I'm not feeling any great drive to go there.
No, I'm happy enough shuttling between Warsaw and London and deepening my knowledge of my homelands, usually on business but sometimes in my spare time. (Business and leisure overlap, I work in my free time, I enjoy my work.) Asceticism in the sense of living a simple life, unadorned by display through fineries, though in a large, clean, comfortable house, is my way.
For me, the concept of qualia, and qualia memory (or more specifically memory of qualia I have experienced) is crucial. Those unbidden flashbacks that capture the essence of spirit of place and time are a deep part of me, a spiritual part. I am going about my daily routine when suddenly I feel exactly as I did the moment I was there, another time, another place. That road coming down the hill from the woods, somewhere west of Henley on Thames, the scented pines and dunes above Stella-Plage, the spire of a church solitary against a flat Mazovian horizon at harvest time.
Such flashbacks are so precious to me - they are unique to me (the phenomenon itself isn't, but the content of the flashbacks are); they are what makes me different to everyone else. We can all agree to the weight of this desk, the processing power of this laptop, the amount of tea in my mug - but we have no insight, whatever, into each others' consciousness. How I see the blue of the sky may differ from how you see it. Or he or she sees it. Or may be the same - we have no way of knowing.
You go abroad, you come back, money's spent, what's left? Memories and snapshots - and that's all. Over the years a scattered memory image of places you've visited overlap. All-inclusive beach holidays that could have been in Tunisia, Thailand or the Dominican Republic blur into one; that's not my thing. "I'm going to rest," you may say - this fails to move me. Spirit of place must be meaningful, personal; in this respect I am more Cat than Dog.
As the recent past fades, we turn to history. I can summon up a spirit of the age here and there - Victorian and Edwardian England, fin de siècle France, the Pripet Marshes a long while back, medieval monasteries - and that flashback to India, the Raj. Some combinations of time and place are stronger than others, some don't resonate at all.
Sticking to where I know will strengthen and focus future flashbacks to two countries, two geographies in time.
To quote William Wordsworth "For oft when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood/They flash upon that inward eye/That is the bliss of solitude" - the first serious poem I learned by heart, 50 years ago, and that line keeps coming back. I know full well what Wordsworth meant.
This time last year:
Tamka and Smolna in black & white
This time three years ago:
15 years under one roof
This time five years ago:
Białystok: Ipswich of the East
This time six years ago:
Sadness at the death of Tadeusz Mosz
This time seven years ago:
Interpreting vs. translating vs. explaining
This time eight years ago:
More than just an Iluzjon
This time nine years ago:
Oldschool photochallenge
This time ten years ago:
Warsaw's wonderful nooks and crannies
This time 11 years ago:
Viaduct to the airport at ul. Poleczki almost ready
I have no desire to visit the Far East or Africa or Latin America. The spirit of the America I have yearned for in a past-life way has long evaporated (David Bowie's prescient lyrics to This is Not America were written 35 years ago). I get strong flashbacks whenever I read about rural USA in the 1950s, but today, I'm expecting it's turned into uniform landscape of malls and intersections. Scandinavia... maybe, but I'm not feeling any great drive to go there.
No, I'm happy enough shuttling between Warsaw and London and deepening my knowledge of my homelands, usually on business but sometimes in my spare time. (Business and leisure overlap, I work in my free time, I enjoy my work.) Asceticism in the sense of living a simple life, unadorned by display through fineries, though in a large, clean, comfortable house, is my way.
For me, the concept of qualia, and qualia memory (or more specifically memory of qualia I have experienced) is crucial. Those unbidden flashbacks that capture the essence of spirit of place and time are a deep part of me, a spiritual part. I am going about my daily routine when suddenly I feel exactly as I did the moment I was there, another time, another place. That road coming down the hill from the woods, somewhere west of Henley on Thames, the scented pines and dunes above Stella-Plage, the spire of a church solitary against a flat Mazovian horizon at harvest time.
Such flashbacks are so precious to me - they are unique to me (the phenomenon itself isn't, but the content of the flashbacks are); they are what makes me different to everyone else. We can all agree to the weight of this desk, the processing power of this laptop, the amount of tea in my mug - but we have no insight, whatever, into each others' consciousness. How I see the blue of the sky may differ from how you see it. Or he or she sees it. Or may be the same - we have no way of knowing.
You go abroad, you come back, money's spent, what's left? Memories and snapshots - and that's all. Over the years a scattered memory image of places you've visited overlap. All-inclusive beach holidays that could have been in Tunisia, Thailand or the Dominican Republic blur into one; that's not my thing. "I'm going to rest," you may say - this fails to move me. Spirit of place must be meaningful, personal; in this respect I am more Cat than Dog.
As the recent past fades, we turn to history. I can summon up a spirit of the age here and there - Victorian and Edwardian England, fin de siècle France, the Pripet Marshes a long while back, medieval monasteries - and that flashback to India, the Raj. Some combinations of time and place are stronger than others, some don't resonate at all.
Sticking to where I know will strengthen and focus future flashbacks to two countries, two geographies in time.
To quote William Wordsworth "For oft when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood/They flash upon that inward eye/That is the bliss of solitude" - the first serious poem I learned by heart, 50 years ago, and that line keeps coming back. I know full well what Wordsworth meant.
This time last year:
Tamka and Smolna in black & white
This time three years ago:
15 years under one roof
This time five years ago:
Białystok: Ipswich of the East
This time six years ago:
Sadness at the death of Tadeusz Mosz
This time seven years ago:
Interpreting vs. translating vs. explaining
This time eight years ago:
More than just an Iluzjon
This time nine years ago:
Oldschool photochallenge
This time ten years ago:
Warsaw's wonderful nooks and crannies
This time 11 years ago:
Viaduct to the airport at ul. Poleczki almost ready
Monday, 3 February 2020
Knowing what 'good' looks like
How good is good? When I, as a native English speaker and trained journalist, experienced proof-reader and copywriter/editor look at some attempts by Polish firms to sell their products or services to a British market, I weep.
Lovely brochure or website, great design, photography, spot-varnish, paper... but just read that English! It's often comical - unintentionally so. Why? Because there's no one at the top of the decision-making process that knows what good looks like. Yes, everyone can tell that's great design, photography and printing - but unless you're a native speaker of English*, you don't know whether what's been written in English will resonate in the intended way with the target audience.
A fellow London-born Pole, working in a state-owned institution, was upset by the poor quality of English-language output, aimed at businesses around the world. She took this up with Pani Prezes herself, who told her that "sprawdzone było przez tłumacza przysięgłego" (it was checked by a sworn translator). One could scream and tear out one's hair. That's ass-coveringly bad. Should anyone ever challenge her as to why the English was so poor, there will always be a piece of paper with which to protect yourself - your sworn translator's diploma. But that's not the point...
Another fellow London-born Pole runs a language school and was once asked by a producer of building materials to proof-read a short (around 40 words) text that was to go on an full-page advert destined for the outside back cover of a leading UK weekly magazine for the building trade. The cost of the year-long ad campaign would have run into the low hundreds of thousands of pounds. Yet the text was atrocious. Yes, it would have been memorable - but for the wrong reason. When my friend told the producer how much he wanted to get the slogan right, he was laughed at. "A hundred euro for a few sentences?" Yet the cost of not spending that money would have been vast in terms of reputation and lost opportunity. In the end, the producer saw the light and coughed up.
Very often it's a budget thing - translator A is cheaper than translator B. But it's not about translation - it's about transcreation. Taking things apart, getting at the core message, and rebuilding it in a manner that's familiar to your reader. Familiar means trustworthy and therefore persuasive. To do that, you need to know your readers, know the conventions and patterns of language to which they are familiar. This means immersion in that language for decades, if not since childhood.
Below: can you see the difference? If not, you don't know what good looks like, and you need to bring in a native-speaking copy editor.
You need to know how to be creative with the language - knowing the plays-on-words that will strike a chord. Knowing how to break rules for effect. Often a neat Polish phrase carries no meaning when translated literally into English - yet that's exactly what a sworn translator is paid to do - all well and good in a court of law, but not so clever in the context of marketing and advertising.
How many people in Poland are native speakers of Polish? Over 38 million. How many of those 38 million are professional copywriters or copy editors? Several thousand at best. Maybe 0.02% of the population. Now, how many native speakers of English are there in Poland. Ten thousand? How many of those are professional writers (ie. make a living by stringing together sentences in English?) A tiny handful - and most of those are gainfully employed in high-paying gigs.
* Yes, there are some outstanding Polish writers in English in Poland, who are not natives but who have have spent years studying English and applied linguistics and have working professionally for decades - and can do the job well. But again, we are in the realms of hundreds rather than tens of thousands in the whole of Poland.
There would be a gap in the market if only Pan or Pani Prezes knew what good looked like. Then, they'd be prepared to pay a price that reflects the value that decent copywriting and copy-editing in a foreign language delivers.
This time last year:
Sewer system extended up Trombity
This time two years ago:
What Happened at the Railway Inn (Part II)
This time five years ago:
Demand and inequality in the global economy
This time six years ago:
Sorry, takie mamy koleje
This time seven years ago:
Visit to Warsaw's Jewish Cemetery
This time eight years ago:
Under Rondo Dmowskiego
This time nine years ago:
My Most favourite bridge
This time ten years ago:
Street lighting under the snow
This time 11 years ago:
Ul. Poloneza - archival video before the S2 was built
This time 12 years ago:
Aerial juxtaposition over Jeziorki
Lovely brochure or website, great design, photography, spot-varnish, paper... but just read that English! It's often comical - unintentionally so. Why? Because there's no one at the top of the decision-making process that knows what good looks like. Yes, everyone can tell that's great design, photography and printing - but unless you're a native speaker of English*, you don't know whether what's been written in English will resonate in the intended way with the target audience.
A fellow London-born Pole, working in a state-owned institution, was upset by the poor quality of English-language output, aimed at businesses around the world. She took this up with Pani Prezes herself, who told her that "sprawdzone było przez tłumacza przysięgłego" (it was checked by a sworn translator). One could scream and tear out one's hair. That's ass-coveringly bad. Should anyone ever challenge her as to why the English was so poor, there will always be a piece of paper with which to protect yourself - your sworn translator's diploma. But that's not the point...
Another fellow London-born Pole runs a language school and was once asked by a producer of building materials to proof-read a short (around 40 words) text that was to go on an full-page advert destined for the outside back cover of a leading UK weekly magazine for the building trade. The cost of the year-long ad campaign would have run into the low hundreds of thousands of pounds. Yet the text was atrocious. Yes, it would have been memorable - but for the wrong reason. When my friend told the producer how much he wanted to get the slogan right, he was laughed at. "A hundred euro for a few sentences?" Yet the cost of not spending that money would have been vast in terms of reputation and lost opportunity. In the end, the producer saw the light and coughed up.
Very often it's a budget thing - translator A is cheaper than translator B. But it's not about translation - it's about transcreation. Taking things apart, getting at the core message, and rebuilding it in a manner that's familiar to your reader. Familiar means trustworthy and therefore persuasive. To do that, you need to know your readers, know the conventions and patterns of language to which they are familiar. This means immersion in that language for decades, if not since childhood.
Below: can you see the difference? If not, you don't know what good looks like, and you need to bring in a native-speaking copy editor.
You need to know how to be creative with the language - knowing the plays-on-words that will strike a chord. Knowing how to break rules for effect. Often a neat Polish phrase carries no meaning when translated literally into English - yet that's exactly what a sworn translator is paid to do - all well and good in a court of law, but not so clever in the context of marketing and advertising.
How many people in Poland are native speakers of Polish? Over 38 million. How many of those 38 million are professional copywriters or copy editors? Several thousand at best. Maybe 0.02% of the population. Now, how many native speakers of English are there in Poland. Ten thousand? How many of those are professional writers (ie. make a living by stringing together sentences in English?) A tiny handful - and most of those are gainfully employed in high-paying gigs.
* Yes, there are some outstanding Polish writers in English in Poland, who are not natives but who have have spent years studying English and applied linguistics and have working professionally for decades - and can do the job well. But again, we are in the realms of hundreds rather than tens of thousands in the whole of Poland.
There would be a gap in the market if only Pan or Pani Prezes knew what good looked like. Then, they'd be prepared to pay a price that reflects the value that decent copywriting and copy-editing in a foreign language delivers.
This time last year:
Sewer system extended up Trombity
This time two years ago:
What Happened at the Railway Inn (Part II)
This time five years ago:
Demand and inequality in the global economy
This time six years ago:
Sorry, takie mamy koleje
This time seven years ago:
Visit to Warsaw's Jewish Cemetery
This time eight years ago:
Under Rondo Dmowskiego
This time nine years ago:
My Most favourite bridge
This time ten years ago:
Street lighting under the snow
This time 11 years ago:
Ul. Poloneza - archival video before the S2 was built
This time 12 years ago:
Aerial juxtaposition over Jeziorki
Friday, 31 January 2020
A day of the most profound sadness
The country of my birth, the country in which I was raised and educated, the country in which I started my career, has just performed the most monumental act of self-harm upon itself.
For the three years and seven months since the Brexit referendum, I have been asking two questions which Leavers have failed to answer - namely "in what way has living in the EU these past few decades hurt you in your life?" and "how is the UK going to become wealthier after leaving the EU?"
Not a clue.
When Poland left the Soviet bloc - or rather when the Soviet bloc disintegrated and communism fell - it was a time of joy and triumph of good over evil. Anyone could see the old system was rubbish. Shops were empty, your right to travel abroad was at the discretion of the state, if you were not in the party your career path was limited, the economy was crap, history was distorted and lied about. If I asked anyone (who was not a party member of client of the system) why they wanted to leave the Soviet bloc, the answers came thick and fast and were meaningful and direct.
I only know a handful of intelligent Leavers whom I can take seriously. The rest are of below-average intelligence. They gloss over their poor understanding of how the economy functions, using glaring generalisations that are mainly wrong. Their skim-reading of the headlines in papers owned by egregious tax-avoider non-domiciled billionaires has given them the impression that the EU had been doing them down. "The Brits are a glorious nation, victims of foreign deceit," would rail the Sun, the Mail and the Telegraph. Example? "Having to accept European laws!" "Name one." "Straight or bendy bananas! (can't remember which now)".
Brexit cannot end well for the UK. For the next 11 months, while a free trade agreement and a political agreement are being hammered out, the UK will continue to accept the entire corpus of EU law, having no say in it, its MEPs and civil servants having departed Brussels for home. And will continue to pay into the EU coffers. When those agreements are finally in place - let's hope by the end of this year to avoid another no-deal cliffhanger - then what?
If UK business wants frictionless trade, will it get it? Without the UK being in the single European market or the Customs Union, getting this will mean having to swallow EU regulations wholesale, again, with no say in their creation. 'Divergence of standards' says the government. What will that mean? The UK already has some areas such as product safety and food hygiene which differ from EU regulations. But this only imposes costs on UK manufactures and pushes up prices of EU imports.
Imposing friction on trade in goods between the UK and the EU is like imposing sanctions upon oneself - it's a retrograde step that no developed country on earth has ever chosen to take.
The break-up of the UK is only a matter of time - though it's likely to be decades rather than years away. The joke about the Englishman, the Scotsman and the Irishman who walk into a bar and leave because that's what the Englishman wanted carries a weight of truth; 55% of Scots wanted to remain in the United Kingdom but 62% wanted to remain in the EU. Scots will not be happy with being dragged out. And last month's general election saw a historic result in Northern Ireland - for the first time the province voted for more nationalist MPs than unionist ones.
The reason why a small group of people in power with a bee in their bonnet about an issue that has hardly any relevance to most citizens' day-to-day lives - Britain's sovereignty vis-a-vis the EU - got it over the line is because of immigration. Tony Blair's decision to allow citizens of the new EU member states unrestricted access to the UK labour market in 2004 swung it. And the looming prospect of the EU's Anti-Tax Avoidance Directive kicking into force prompted the press barons to ramp up the rhetoric - with success, because registration of offshore money-pots would have started tomorrow, 1 February 2020. In the background, the ever-present barrage of Russian social media trolls, just one part of a massive effort of interference in UK politics. Where is the Russia Report of the House of Commons Intelligence and Security Committee? Then there's the whole Cambridge Analytica/Facebook scandal. Did you see this ad? Unlikely. It appeared on Facebook pages of the dim, the hard of understanding, the malleable, the easily led community.
For Poland, the loss of the UK from the EU is a blow. The UK was a natural counterweight to the Berlin-Paris axis and to the 'club Med' of weaker southern European economies, a force around which the countries of CEE, Scandinavia and Holland could rally around. Most of all, the lack of the UK from the EU will encourage Putin to become even more aggressive in its divide-and-rule activities aimed at weakening the Western world.
Last year, I took part in two massive pro-EU marches, which attracted over a million (some sources say the October one was nearer to two million) anti-Brexit protesters. We lost. Where were the pro-Brexit marches? They never attracted more than a few hundred rather ill-tempered demonstrators. One mass meeting in Westminster attracted maybe a couple of thousand. There's simply not the groundswell of informed opinion to justify leaving the EU. People banging on about 'unelected bureaucrats in Brussels' (like a bureaucrat was ever elected!) annoy me intensely, as do those who compare the EU to the USSR. (Where are the EU's Gulags, when was its Great Terror, its Holodomor, its Katyń etc.)
It is entirely feasible to think about the UK rejoining the EU, in the timeframe of 10-15 years, maybe sooner if Labour chooses Kier Starmer as its leader and not another useless unelectable Trot. Demographics are on the EU's side. The youngest voters in the referendum voted 73-27 to remain. And no one born this century voted for Brexit. The disappointment and resentment at having their rights to study, live and work across the EU taken away from them by the old will gnaw away at their political consciousness. Don't forget that around a million Leave voters have died since the referendum. (UK mortality runs at around 560,000 a year. Multiply that by three years, seven months and one week, then divide by an 83% turnout among the over-65s, of whom 60% voted Leave).
Talking of death, my father, an ardent Remain voter, who died three months ago, would have faced a hard time had he survived beyond 1 January 2021. Would his two beloved Polish carers been allowed back into the UK? My father was a man who never swore. However, he would only use one word in reference to the UK's looming departure from the EU - 'Brexshit'.
This time last year:
Vintage aerial views of the ground
This time three years ago:
Adventures of a Young Pole in Exile - review
This time four years ago:
Ealing in bloom
This time five years ago:
Keeping warm in January
[This year: tomorrow it will be 11C]
This time six years ago:
If you can't measure it, you can't manage it (health, that is)
This time seven years ago:
Sten guns in Knightsbridge (well, Śródmieście Południowe, actually)
This time nine years ago:
To The Catch - a short story (Part II)
This time ten years ago:
Greed, fear, fight and flight - and the economy
This time 11 years ago:
Is there an economic crisis going on in Poland?
For the three years and seven months since the Brexit referendum, I have been asking two questions which Leavers have failed to answer - namely "in what way has living in the EU these past few decades hurt you in your life?" and "how is the UK going to become wealthier after leaving the EU?"
Not a clue.
When Poland left the Soviet bloc - or rather when the Soviet bloc disintegrated and communism fell - it was a time of joy and triumph of good over evil. Anyone could see the old system was rubbish. Shops were empty, your right to travel abroad was at the discretion of the state, if you were not in the party your career path was limited, the economy was crap, history was distorted and lied about. If I asked anyone (who was not a party member of client of the system) why they wanted to leave the Soviet bloc, the answers came thick and fast and were meaningful and direct.
I only know a handful of intelligent Leavers whom I can take seriously. The rest are of below-average intelligence. They gloss over their poor understanding of how the economy functions, using glaring generalisations that are mainly wrong. Their skim-reading of the headlines in papers owned by egregious tax-avoider non-domiciled billionaires has given them the impression that the EU had been doing them down. "The Brits are a glorious nation, victims of foreign deceit," would rail the Sun, the Mail and the Telegraph. Example? "Having to accept European laws!" "Name one." "Straight or bendy bananas! (can't remember which now)".
Brexit cannot end well for the UK. For the next 11 months, while a free trade agreement and a political agreement are being hammered out, the UK will continue to accept the entire corpus of EU law, having no say in it, its MEPs and civil servants having departed Brussels for home. And will continue to pay into the EU coffers. When those agreements are finally in place - let's hope by the end of this year to avoid another no-deal cliffhanger - then what?
If UK business wants frictionless trade, will it get it? Without the UK being in the single European market or the Customs Union, getting this will mean having to swallow EU regulations wholesale, again, with no say in their creation. 'Divergence of standards' says the government. What will that mean? The UK already has some areas such as product safety and food hygiene which differ from EU regulations. But this only imposes costs on UK manufactures and pushes up prices of EU imports.
Imposing friction on trade in goods between the UK and the EU is like imposing sanctions upon oneself - it's a retrograde step that no developed country on earth has ever chosen to take.
The break-up of the UK is only a matter of time - though it's likely to be decades rather than years away. The joke about the Englishman, the Scotsman and the Irishman who walk into a bar and leave because that's what the Englishman wanted carries a weight of truth; 55% of Scots wanted to remain in the United Kingdom but 62% wanted to remain in the EU. Scots will not be happy with being dragged out. And last month's general election saw a historic result in Northern Ireland - for the first time the province voted for more nationalist MPs than unionist ones.
The reason why a small group of people in power with a bee in their bonnet about an issue that has hardly any relevance to most citizens' day-to-day lives - Britain's sovereignty vis-a-vis the EU - got it over the line is because of immigration. Tony Blair's decision to allow citizens of the new EU member states unrestricted access to the UK labour market in 2004 swung it. And the looming prospect of the EU's Anti-Tax Avoidance Directive kicking into force prompted the press barons to ramp up the rhetoric - with success, because registration of offshore money-pots would have started tomorrow, 1 February 2020. In the background, the ever-present barrage of Russian social media trolls, just one part of a massive effort of interference in UK politics. Where is the Russia Report of the House of Commons Intelligence and Security Committee? Then there's the whole Cambridge Analytica/Facebook scandal. Did you see this ad? Unlikely. It appeared on Facebook pages of the dim, the hard of understanding, the malleable, the easily led community.
For Poland, the loss of the UK from the EU is a blow. The UK was a natural counterweight to the Berlin-Paris axis and to the 'club Med' of weaker southern European economies, a force around which the countries of CEE, Scandinavia and Holland could rally around. Most of all, the lack of the UK from the EU will encourage Putin to become even more aggressive in its divide-and-rule activities aimed at weakening the Western world.
Last year, I took part in two massive pro-EU marches, which attracted over a million (some sources say the October one was nearer to two million) anti-Brexit protesters. We lost. Where were the pro-Brexit marches? They never attracted more than a few hundred rather ill-tempered demonstrators. One mass meeting in Westminster attracted maybe a couple of thousand. There's simply not the groundswell of informed opinion to justify leaving the EU. People banging on about 'unelected bureaucrats in Brussels' (like a bureaucrat was ever elected!) annoy me intensely, as do those who compare the EU to the USSR. (Where are the EU's Gulags, when was its Great Terror, its Holodomor, its Katyń etc.)
It is entirely feasible to think about the UK rejoining the EU, in the timeframe of 10-15 years, maybe sooner if Labour chooses Kier Starmer as its leader and not another useless unelectable Trot. Demographics are on the EU's side. The youngest voters in the referendum voted 73-27 to remain. And no one born this century voted for Brexit. The disappointment and resentment at having their rights to study, live and work across the EU taken away from them by the old will gnaw away at their political consciousness. Don't forget that around a million Leave voters have died since the referendum. (UK mortality runs at around 560,000 a year. Multiply that by three years, seven months and one week, then divide by an 83% turnout among the over-65s, of whom 60% voted Leave).
Talking of death, my father, an ardent Remain voter, who died three months ago, would have faced a hard time had he survived beyond 1 January 2021. Would his two beloved Polish carers been allowed back into the UK? My father was a man who never swore. However, he would only use one word in reference to the UK's looming departure from the EU - 'Brexshit'.
This time last year:
Vintage aerial views of the ground
This time three years ago:
Adventures of a Young Pole in Exile - review
This time four years ago:
Ealing in bloom
This time five years ago:
Keeping warm in January
[This year: tomorrow it will be 11C]
This time six years ago:
If you can't measure it, you can't manage it (health, that is)
This time seven years ago:
Sten guns in Knightsbridge (well, Śródmieście Południowe, actually)
This time nine years ago:
To The Catch - a short story (Part II)
This time ten years ago:
Greed, fear, fight and flight - and the economy
This time 11 years ago:
Is there an economic crisis going on in Poland?
Wednesday, 29 January 2020
Late first snow; last snow?
First snow of the season, heavy and wet. First snow of the season at the end of January. Since starting this blog in 2007, there have been first snows in November, a couple in October - the earliest on 14 October 2009. Below: coming out of Rondo ONZ Metro station, I snapped this young woman filming the snowfall on her phone with a look of joy on her face - is winter here at last?
Below: ulica Świętokrzyska, although the temperature never fell below zero, the snow settled for a while because of its sheer mass.
Below: no weather for scooters, electric or petrol...
...and no weather for cycling either.
Below: view from my office window... it puts me in mind of a classic photo, but not even with Google's reverse image search can I find it - anyone help?
Below: going home, Palace of Culture to the left.
There's still fresh snow on the grass, but not on the warmer paved areas.
By the time I get to the station, the snow has been trampled into slush, walking is unpleasant, shoes get soaked through, trousers splashed. Horrible.
Today's daytime minimum was +1C, coinciding with the heavy snow shower. Two hours later, it was +3C. The temperature is forecast to reach +10C by Saturday afternoon. No more snow in January, nor in early February. Gone are the winters in which I could walk home across a frozen lake each evening?
I look forward to a more detailed blog post by Student SGH on Politics, Society, Economy in a few days' time.
This time three years ago:
Nikon Coolpix P900 put to the test
This time four years ago:
A modest proposal regarding the zloty
This time five years ago:
Warsaw Spire getting higher and higher
This time six years ago:
Plac Zbawiciela, lunchtime, winter
This time seven years ago:
Is this winter's end?
This time eight years ago:
The other Jeziorki station
This time nine years ago:
Launching the General's book
This time 11 years ago:
A pavement for ul. Karczunkowska?
[STILL WAITING FOR THE BASTARD]
This time nine years ago:
Taking off over Okęcie
Below: ulica Świętokrzyska, although the temperature never fell below zero, the snow settled for a while because of its sheer mass.
Below: no weather for scooters, electric or petrol...
...and no weather for cycling either.
Below: view from my office window... it puts me in mind of a classic photo, but not even with Google's reverse image search can I find it - anyone help?
Below: going home, Palace of Culture to the left.
There's still fresh snow on the grass, but not on the warmer paved areas.
By the time I get to the station, the snow has been trampled into slush, walking is unpleasant, shoes get soaked through, trousers splashed. Horrible.
Today's daytime minimum was +1C, coinciding with the heavy snow shower. Two hours later, it was +3C. The temperature is forecast to reach +10C by Saturday afternoon. No more snow in January, nor in early February. Gone are the winters in which I could walk home across a frozen lake each evening?
I look forward to a more detailed blog post by Student SGH on Politics, Society, Economy in a few days' time.
This time three years ago:
Nikon Coolpix P900 put to the test
This time four years ago:
A modest proposal regarding the zloty
This time five years ago:
Warsaw Spire getting higher and higher
This time six years ago:
Plac Zbawiciela, lunchtime, winter
This time seven years ago:
Is this winter's end?
This time eight years ago:
The other Jeziorki station
This time nine years ago:
Launching the General's book
This time 11 years ago:
A pavement for ul. Karczunkowska?
[STILL WAITING FOR THE BASTARD]
This time nine years ago:
Taking off over Okęcie
Thursday, 23 January 2020
Too good to skip over
I know little of the north; not much of the south, and far less of the east. "From the Mile End Road to the Matchsticks, Becontree," sang Ian Dury in Plaistow Patricia. The Mile End Road I know, but Becontree and Plaistow are places that I have never been to.
My London is Central - City and West End - and West. Below: Kingsway - a thoroughfare built at the beginning of the last century; it was unique for having under it a subway for trams - double-decker trams. Sadly, it closed in 1957; cars now use it. Tuesday 21 January - a beautiful sunny day!
Below: mystery location - a beautiful tympanum, replete with meaning, over a church door. Anyone know where it is - and what the church is?
Back in the suburbs... below: approaching Perivale station on the Central line.
Below: the lychgate outside St Mary's church, Perivale, its tower visible in the distance, down the footpath. Corpses en route for the church for burial would be kept under the roof overnight, before the funeral service.
Below: the sun sets over the Gurnell Grove estate (visible on the horizon), the river Brent flowing through Ealing Golf Course in the foreground.
Below: Meadvale Road, Ealing, soon after sunset. Pitshanger Park lies behind the houses to the right of the photo.
Below: Cleveland Park bus stop - a 297 and an E10 bound for Ealing Broadway pass.
Back to Warsaw via Heathrow. Although my TfL Rail train from West Ealing to Heathrow Central also known as Terminals 2 & 3 was on time, there was a problem with the (free) connection to Terminal 5, provided by Heathrow Express. For some reason, it was cancelled, the next one would be in half an hour. No good. So I made my way to the Piccadilly Line station, also named Heathrow Terminals 2 & 3 (formerly known as Heathrow Terminals 1, 2 & 3 until Terminal 1 was closed in June 2016). The TfL station and the Tube station are about a ten-minute walk away. Here, I could catch a Tube train to Terminal 5 (also for free). And while here, check out this beautiful mural of Concorde tails (below) by Tom Eckersley, dating back to when the station was opened in 1977.
This time two years ago:
The Hunt for Tony Blair
[Apologies to UK readers - the YouTube link is geo-blocked there]
This time four years ago:
Lux Selene
This time seven years ago:
David Cameron, Conservatism and Europe
This time eight years ago:
Citizen Action Against Rat Runners
This time nine years ago:
Moni at 18 (and 18 months)
This time ten years ago:
Building the S79 - Sasanki-Węzeł Lotnisko, midwinter
This time 11 years ago:
My return to skiing after an eight-year break
This time ten years ago:
Moni's 15th birthday
My London is Central - City and West End - and West. Below: Kingsway - a thoroughfare built at the beginning of the last century; it was unique for having under it a subway for trams - double-decker trams. Sadly, it closed in 1957; cars now use it. Tuesday 21 January - a beautiful sunny day!
Below: mystery location - a beautiful tympanum, replete with meaning, over a church door. Anyone know where it is - and what the church is?
Back in the suburbs... below: approaching Perivale station on the Central line.
Below: the lychgate outside St Mary's church, Perivale, its tower visible in the distance, down the footpath. Corpses en route for the church for burial would be kept under the roof overnight, before the funeral service.
Below: the sun sets over the Gurnell Grove estate (visible on the horizon), the river Brent flowing through Ealing Golf Course in the foreground.
Below: Meadvale Road, Ealing, soon after sunset. Pitshanger Park lies behind the houses to the right of the photo.
Below: Cleveland Park bus stop - a 297 and an E10 bound for Ealing Broadway pass.
Back to Warsaw via Heathrow. Although my TfL Rail train from West Ealing to Heathrow Central also known as Terminals 2 & 3 was on time, there was a problem with the (free) connection to Terminal 5, provided by Heathrow Express. For some reason, it was cancelled, the next one would be in half an hour. No good. So I made my way to the Piccadilly Line station, also named Heathrow Terminals 2 & 3 (formerly known as Heathrow Terminals 1, 2 & 3 until Terminal 1 was closed in June 2016). The TfL station and the Tube station are about a ten-minute walk away. Here, I could catch a Tube train to Terminal 5 (also for free). And while here, check out this beautiful mural of Concorde tails (below) by Tom Eckersley, dating back to when the station was opened in 1977.
This time two years ago:
The Hunt for Tony Blair
[Apologies to UK readers - the YouTube link is geo-blocked there]
This time four years ago:
Lux Selene
This time seven years ago:
David Cameron, Conservatism and Europe
This time eight years ago:
Citizen Action Against Rat Runners
This time nine years ago:
Moni at 18 (and 18 months)
This time ten years ago:
Building the S79 - Sasanki-Węzeł Lotnisko, midwinter
This time 11 years ago:
My return to skiing after an eight-year break
This time ten years ago:
Moni's 15th birthday
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