I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

Before I forget…not everything is so heavy and dark over here in Warsaw.

Thanks to Liz, life is a bit lighter at the moment. Like my mother, she gets me out of the house. Makes me laugh. Encourages me to be good to myself. And thanks to my, ehem, Viennese episode, I’ve realized that my penchant for self-destruction just isn’t worth it. So, I’m trying to be really aware of keeping the bad out and letting the good in.

So, we’ll start with the massage! I honestly never thought I’d have a fascinating anecdote about getting a massage…but this—well this was quite an adventure.

Liz and I found a spa just down the street from where we live. It seemed very familiar, reasonably priced. The receptionist spoke English. And so we ordered two 60-minute massages for the following day. Then we proceeded to walk to a nearby butcher, where we bought an inappropriate looking piece of kielbasa and made a Polish-Viennese feast. Yes, the appetite is back.

The next day, we arrived back at the spa at noon and the English-speaking receptionist quickly shuffled us into our dressing room. She quickly pointed out our robes, some hospital-ish slippers, and what I thought she said were “underpants.” I pulled down the “underpants” – which looked like tissue paper wrapped in plastic and looked at Liz.

“Did she say those were pants?” Liz asked.

I unwrapped the package to find a disposable, gauzey g-string. I held it between my fingers in shock. “There’s no fucking way I’m putting these on,” I said.

Liz shook her head in agreement. “Yeah, no way.”

Weird "Pants"

So, we undressed, dismissed our band-aid fabric g-strings, and put our robes on. When we were done, the receptionist then led us to a big room with two masseuses – a man and a woman. Liz got the guy, I got the girl.

“Please, take off your clothes,” the woman said to me.

I stood there, looking around, thinking, Aren’t you gonna leave first. But as she stared at me, it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere. Liz and I looked at each other and silently counted to three before untying our robes. And then we stood there naked, back to back, for what seemed like an eternity.

You are in Europe, I kept telling myself. This is what they do in Europe. This is Europe…

We got on our tables and were finally relieved once the blankets were placed over our exposed, puritanically American bodies. And then the massages began. And they were normal for a while. Until the blankets were pulled down to our waists and the boob massages began.

Yes. Liz and I were fondled for up to 10 minutes by strange Polish people. Now, I wasn’t totally freaked out. In fact, I kinda liked it. My breasts have never received that sort of attention – not from a boyfriend, bedfellow, or husband. It was sorta…relaxing in an incredibly awkward way? But I just kept thinking about poor Liz – lying there, with her full breasts being fondled my some strange man and I wanted to start convulsing with laughter.

After our hour was up, the masseuses left us alone. We both peeled our faces off of our tables and began laughing hysterically.

“Oh – my – fucking – God!” Liz said. “That was totally insane!”

As we put our robes back on and headed out of the room, we saw Dorota sitting there, drinking a coffee waiting for us. Dorota is the woman I’m renting my apartment from and is one of the most charming, fascinating ladies I have ever met. She was in the area, and hoping to say hello before heading off. “So,” she said. “How was it?”

And we told her. And even Dorota, a woman who knows Warsaw and Polish culture well, couldn’t believe it. “Wow!” she said. And that’s all she really could say.

Then Dorota told us that just a week after I got my call from Patrick, she and her partner also broke up. He’d written her from New York. They’d been together for fifteen years, always on and off and on and off. And now, it was over. So we planned a very healthy, boy-bashing night out for Thursday with plans to gussy ourselves up and forget all about these terrible creatures.

Later that day, we ended up making plans to meet up and go out with Dorota’s neice, Pola. I am completely enchanted with Pola. She is a 30-year-old artist with the body of a ballerina and the voice of a dreamer. Everything she says sounds so soporific and kind. And honest.

I’d first met Pola on August 6. It was not a good day. I had gotten three hours of sleep. I hadn’t eaten anything in over 48 hours. And I was a shaky, crying mess. But I had to keep my meeting with Pola, who I’d be renting from for September. She met me at my building at 10 a.m. and we walked to her apartment, where we sat and talked about her work, my work, shared the names of our favorite books and artists. I tried to avoid any discussion about my divorce, when Pola said, “So! Dorota says you are married already! I’m so jealous!”

I looked at her like an injured puppy. “Don’t be so jealous,” I said. “He called two days ago and he wants a divorce. And there’s some girl he’s seeing. And it’s all…so…I don’t know.”

Then I laughed. “So funny, right? Here I am, thinking – look at this amazing, beautiful woman. Single. Dedicated to her work. And I’m thinking why hadn’t I done that with my life. And then you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Oh! She’s so lucky!’ The grass is always greener, right?”

And then we laughed together. And we kept in touch.

So, on Tuesday, Pola agreed to take Liz and I to her favorite hangout – Chlodna 25, a sort of café-bar where they host after parties for art shows, small indie rock concerts, and plenty of good conversation and people watching.

We got there at around 9 p.m. and it immediately felt right – as though we’d been coming to this creaky, low-lit haunt for years. And I could even smoke inside! Yes! I’d found heaven. Of course, Pola, being the amazing artist and personality she is, knew the owner, who in turn, had reserved us a table and told us that everything was on the house. “But you don’t drink alcohol?” one of his friends asked. “Never? For health care?”

“No. Never,” I said. “For mental health care.”

And he laughed.

We then proceeded to order our coffee and tea and sandwiches and we talked for four hours. About bad hip hop. Good hip hop. Polish hip hop. Love. Hate. Alcoholism. Friends. Life. Coping. Falling apart. Dreams. Men. How we loved them. How we hated them. Art. Writing. The male ego and how we all needed to stop trying to date such ego-driven men. It was time to find...carpenters? Lawyers? Or nothing at all. Just ourselves.

And then it was 1 a.m. and it was time to leave. So Pola drove us back, and suddenly, my stomach ache crept back in. And I started to feel sad. And I started wondering where Pat was. What he was doing. How he was feeling. And how it was all over. And how mad I was at him for doing this. This way. Ever. For what? And how I hoped to never talk to him again...sort of.

And then I got back to the apartment and made a mix of bad 90s hip hop, pathetic indie pop, weepy country songs, and hateful punk. And I put on Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” and Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” and The Magnetic Fields “All The Desperate Things You Made Me Do,” and I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. So I slept.