War of the Worlds (why can’t we just all get along?)

Little girls in Morocco, Saudi Arabia, Syria or Egypt don’t play with Barbie dolls anymore – writes “New York Times”. They used to, but somebody, somewhere decided that Barbie dolls are too “western” with their clothes a la Hilton sisters, covering less than 5 percent of their rubber bodies and Christian values written all over their tiny plastic faces. Little Muslim girls wanted to play with Barbie dolls – but their religious parents wouldn’t let them. So one day somebody thought of a Muslim-Barbie doll. Of course, she’s got dark brown eyes and black hair. She looks just like her Western sister, only shares “Muslim values” with little girls’ parents. All Barbie dolls disappeared from the shelves of toy stores in the Middle East – instead, they are filled with brown-eyed Fullas. Fulla’s got the same size, shape and proportions, but wears a modest outdoor black abaya with matching hijab, or a white scarf and long coat. Of course she’s got beautiful, shiny wardrobe (sold separately), but for the public’s curious eyes, she’s coated and scarfed. The company that sells her also sells accessories – Fulla’s got her own praying rug, and a special cotton scarf, all in a trademark “fulla pink”.

So – dare I say it – could it be that after all, all little girls, Muslim, Christian, Hindu or Tutu, are the same all over the world? That we live in a global village, which is homogenized, pop-cultured and all the same in the core, but nobody seems to admit it? What’s the difference between me, wanting to play with a Barbie doll in the eighties, wanting to go to America and fulfilling my big American dream, and those little girls, who pray at the sunrise along with their Fulla dolls wearing the same exact pink as her older sister, Barbie, and dreaming of going to America someday, and being a teacher or a doctor?
Could it be a metaphor of the whole holy war that is going on between West and East? Is it possible that we are so similar we can’s stand it anymore, so we need to tell ourselves we are different? Who, when, and why told us that? Why Barbie doll and Fulla can’t just get along, have tea together and do some old-fashioned gossiping? They wear the same pink – they could exchange wardrobe and flirt with the same Ken (or Ahmed, for that matter). They could say their separate prayers and then meet somewhere and talk about whatever little and big girls usually talk about.
Or maybe I’m just being naïve.

One bridge too far

(Photo of a Swietokrzyski Bridge in warsaw, by Arkadiusz Ziółek)
There’s a new Warsaw tour guide in stores. Written by three journalists set in Warsaw, it’s supposed to be an alternative to the boring Pascal-style “Warsaw at night” kind of a book. I didn’t get it in my hands, but read a review in Wyborcza, written by a guy whose opinions I respect, though not agree with most of the time. The guide is called “Warsaw – looking for downtown”. And from what I read, it’s got something to it – yet again, “something” very similar to New York – because obviously there’s no “downtown” in Warsaw. Most of the European cities have a distinctive “center” – call it downtown if you will – that is “it” – everything interesting, culturally, socially, and what have you, is going on in this part of town. In Warsaw, there’s downtown but, just like in New York, it’s a financial center, or a shopping mecca, not “the scene”. Where is the scene then? Nowhere, and everywhere, spread around in spots. Just like there are cool neighborhoods in New York, and not-so-cool tourist areas. What is downtown though? For some – East village, for others – Greenwich Village, yet some other others would choose Chelsea, with its Meatpacking district. Spread around, huh? Nobody in a healthy state of mind would say that Times Square is “the” place to be – most of people living in NY, hate it – just like nobody would risk calling the square of Jerozolimskie Ave and Marszalkowska St in Warsaw “downtown”, nor would they call it the Old Town.

New York is a city of neighborhoods (some say, disappearing neighborhoods – but isn’t it significant for NY to be changing all the time? I remember a couple looking for a church on Elizabeth Street, where their parents got married good 40 years ago. They were walking back and forth, checking the numbers on the buildings million times, and there it was – a huge apartment building, that replaced the Italian church) – when you cross the Vistula River (smaller, but dare I say it, prettier and dirtier than East River) you enter another world, old school, typical Warsaw, known for its character, and its pickpockets. Parts of Brooklyn seem like the old New York – parts of Praga seem like the old Warsaw. In some places in Praga, when you don’t know your way around, you can expect to get killed, or at least robbed, just like in parts of Brooklyn. There is a huge difference in the amount of bridges of Warsaw vs NYC - 8 against 28 – pretty big, I must say. But on the other hand, New York’s got two rivers, my lost city – only one, narrow in comparison.

I would love to get the tour guide in my hands – thanks to the authors for making an effort – and pay no attention to the critic – you write as you see it. Somebody will always bitch about it, especially when it’s not written by his friends ;-).
(to compare: Williamsburg Bridge, one of the 28 bridges in NYC)

Summer's almost gone

And I want a bicycle. I want to feel the wind in my ears, I want to sweat and know it's for a reason. I want to go on a long trip with Him, explore the unknown. Well - we, as humans, want a lot of things, but a lot of things keep us from doing it. I want to have a bicycle, but: a) I'm afraid to ride it on the streets of NY b) don't want to buy it c) am afraid to ride it on the streets of NY.
Next to the bar, there's a memorial of a guy who got killed on the corner - he was delivering Peking Duck, when a truck cornered him, pressed against its huge body, and crushed unforgivably. When I was walking to work, I saw "Police line do not cross" all over the place. The body was long gone, truck driver went to cure his trauma to the hospital, and only witnesses were the broken poll with a parking hours sign on it, and a big brown stain. It was raining the next day - gently and mercifuly, nature cleaned the sidewalk as if nothing happened. The very same day somebody has put a white-painted bicycle on a corner, as a memento. Flowers were changed daily.
I'm afraid to ride a bicycle in NY.