Welcome to Warsaw or the Irony of Intercultural Competency
December 11, 1994: I arrive in Warsaw from Frankfurt to present a
paper at the 20th Annual Meeting of The European International Business
Association on the topic of Cultural Competency. Little do I know at
the time that I will experience a very real test of intercultural
negotiations.
After settling into the Hotel Europesjie, I phone Andrew and
Romauld, two Polish friends who had lived in the U.S. as students. We
go for coffee and then I proceed on to the Victoria Hotel just across
the street to register for the conference.
It is there I meet Jennifer, an attractive young American woman,
who not only speaks some “beginning Polish,” but has been in Warsaw
before. Her warmth and friendliness over the next few days will prove
indispensable. We discover in our opening conversation that we are both
staying at the same hotel. Involved in some research work in Poland,
she knows the area, and asks me to join her for dinner in the very
quaint Old Town. Of course I say yes.
Absolutely charming, it reminds me of the plaza in Brussels, and
the activity resembles 1988 Berlin, though not nearly so
decadent. Carolers are singing. We stroll through the area while I
clutch my purse, having been warned by many people that purse-snatching
is easy in most big cities. Tutored in Polish this past year in Salt
Lake City, Jennifer tells me that it is a difficult language, but she
is eager to practice as much as possible on this trip. We browse for
awhile in a few of the shops, then stop for dinner in a small warm restaurant.
The hostess takes us to a small table for two against the wall.
Still conscientious of my purse, I decide to hang it over the arm of
the chair against the wall. No one would be sitting next to me on that
side and, draping my coat over the chair as an extra precaution, I sit
down.
With Jennifer sitting across from me, we study the menu, order our
food, and continue our energetic conversation. Talking a mile a minute
as new friends often do, neither of us leave the table at any time
during the meal. Halfway through dinner, I grow conscious of two tall
men arriving and seating themselves at a nearby table. I do not turn to
look at them; I just have a sense of their presence. Jennifer can see
them both very clearly.
Well into our meal, I sense the two men departing and a dark,
eerie feeling comes over me. Thinking it odd that they had not ordered
anything, I immediately slip my hand under my coat to feel my purse. It
is not there.
“Jennifer, they have taken my purse!”
Though they are not quite out the door, a stunned Jennifer quickly
bounds out of her chair and pursues them, shouting at the hostess in
broken Polish and pointing to her own purse to explain the commotion.
She and the hostess continue into the street and see the men enter
another building. Pursuing the thieves is to no avail. I am stunned but
not in tears, and for some reason I don’t quite understand, not
panicked. Jennifer considers the reasons for her pursuit and has no
clue what she would have done if she had caught up with them.
Immediately, I feel naked — no purse, no money, no passport, no
credit card.
My first night in Warsaw, and I have been cleaned out! Stupidity,
anger and even a bizarre humor play with my better judgment. Humor will
repeatedly surface until I leave Warsaw. Every now and then, I slip
outside myself and view the entire situation as if transported.
Physically inside the restaurant, I can simultaneously see the whole
picture as if through a camcorder, and it begins to look a bit like a
Laurel and Hardy movie.
When the police arrive, Jennifer tries to tell them in broken
Polish what has occurred. At this point I remember that my hotel key
(bearing the name of the hotel and the room number) is in my purse.
Eventually, we communicate this to the hostess, and we call my
hotel. Perhaps used to such an event, they assure us that they will put
security on my room immediately. While the police are explaining to
Jennifer that we should get to the precinct to report the crime, I am
thinking that doing so would pretty much be a waste of time, but since
we are full speed into this adventure, we might as well carry it out.
Although I am greatly impressed with Jennifer’s Polish as well as
her persistence, communication breaks down. Frustrated, the police
decide it will be easier just to load us in their van and whiz us over
to the precinct. Once again, I slip outside myself. It is a dark, wet
night in Warsaw, and we two American women are rolling through the
streets on a trip to a Polish police station. I am wondering what Stell
(my husband) will think when I tell him the details, and I even
consider the possibility of never getting out of Warsaw.
Intrigue. Someone else has my full set of identification. I’m not
seriously fearful, but I am beginning to feel like I’m in a great spy
movie.
Jennifer tells me more about the men who took my purse. They are
tall, handsome, and she thinks they are not Polish. They were smartly
dressed -- the thief in a nice black silk shirt. In the last year, she
has seen men like this who mug people on buses. Some call them the
Russian Mafia. My mind toys with how they managed to get my purse
without my feeling any movement in the chair. I finally realize that
the man must have used a razor blade or something sharp to cut the
strap. Voila! Slipping my purse quietly beneath his long wool coat, he
is gone. How very skillful.
Now we are at the police station. One lonely black plastic couch
in the waiting area bears a police officer on one end and a man (who
for all we know is a criminal) on the other. We wedge ourselves between
them. Like all of Warsaw, the room is hazy with cigarette smoke.
We don’t wait long until a woman motions us to her cubby to take
the report of the crime. She and Jennifer exchange some nouns, but she
soon determines that an interpreter is necessary. With a lot of hand
signals, she tells us this won’t take long. She has called him from his
home. We simply do what we will do innumerable times until the end of
this adventure: we go through the events of the evening over and over
and over again.
In about fifteen minutes, a lively young man plops down in the
cubby and in perfect Chicago-style English requests the details of the
crime and the contents of the purse, all the time interjecting details
of his vast “American experiences.” When I ask him how long he lived
in the States, he says he’s never been in the States. I cannot believe
he has not been to the U.S. His English is perfect. He is extremely
alert to my situation.
First he advises me to cancel the credit card, which he does by
calling some group called Polcard. Then I get a friendly lecture on the
importance of traveling with Traveler’s Insurance. However, if he were
me (and believe me I’d be most willing to change places with just about
anyone else at this point), I should check with the University and my
HomeOwner’s Policy, since he explains insurance in the U.S. is much
better than it is in Poland. This guy knows everything about our system!
Jennifer gives a very detailed description of the criminals -- the
shape of their faces, the texture of their hair, at which point the
interpreter tells us that these type of men are very attractive to
Polish women. He double-checks the hotel to make sure that security is
placed on my room, but he tells me that the chances that these men
would come to the hotel are very slight. After the reports are
completed, the woman who phoned him writes them out three times in pen,
then types a report. I am given copies for both the American Embassy
and my insurance agents. They are in both English and Polish. The
interpreter explains that I will not be able to go to the Embassy until
Monday morning, since it is not open on the weekends. This is okay with
me, since I need some rest!
This portion of our ordeal behind us, Jennifer and I begin the
long walk back to the hotel. The hotel has secured Room 344 and gives
me a key for a new room, 353. Jennifer helps me move in, then hands me
some Polish money, remarking, “It is not wise to be without money.” I
told you she is a saint. I’m doing pretty well. I have a nice hotel
room. I have a little money, but believe me I am unable to sleep much.
My mind is a broken record, playing and replaying this evening’s ordeal.
On Monday, the dreary, rainy weather offers a depressing sympathy
for my dismal dilemma. I take a taxi to the embassy where the most
surreal segment of my ordeal begins.
Dismayed at first by the long, l-o-o-o-o-ng line of people waiting
to go into the Embassy, I am told that these are Poles in line to
obtain Visas. I am allowed to bypass them to get to enter another door
for American citizens.
Inside, an attractive receptionist asks how she can help. When I
tell her that I have had my purse stolen, she gives me a paper that is
a list of “bad situations.” The one that applies to me is “stolen
passport.” I’m instructed to put my satchel through a metal scanner
like the one at the airports while a metal detecting wand is waved
across my body. I enter the next room with four stations for receiving
people. The first is marked “Cashier” with instructions telling me to
insert my paperwork into a slot and wait for assistance. As I do this,
an older, not-very-smiley woman comes forward.
Her first words stun me: “You will need three passport
photos.” She doesn’t ask me what has happened. She doesn’t ask me if I
have been hurt. She simply says I will need three passport photos. I
explain that I have no money (though that isn’t exactly true -- I have
the little money Jennifer gave me, but I’m trying to hang onto it,
since it is less than $25 and I may need it for emergencies).
The woman now tells me that if I don’t have money, I will need to
wire some family or friends in the United States for money. When I ask
her where to do this, she pulls out a map written in Polish and
attempts to show me where to go. The Embassy apparently does not help
anyone make contact for money. When I ask where to get the photos
taken, she hands me a flyer that is also completely in Polish. Again,
she tries to show me on the map where I must go for the photos. She
gives me a couple of forms to complete requesting information that will
help them get clearance to issue me a new passport.
She then explains that I will need $70 cash for this
passport. This is unbelievable! The American Embassy, apparently a
big business for promoting the sale of passports and passport photos,
offers nothing to suggest any interest in the welfare of its American
citizens. No one ever inquires, “Were you hurt?” or “How are you doing?”
I notice a man in the back of the office who looks American to me,
and by some luck I get his attention. It turns out he is the Consulate.
He tells me that the Polish police have sent a report of the crime, in
the tone of “Oh yeah, we got something on this.” I find out he is from
Dayton, Ohio. Great, I think, I can make some connection here, since
I’m from Akron, and I work with the Kettering Foundation near
Dayton. He’s not rude. He’s just not terribly interested in my
plight. I decide I should try to find Western Union, reach Stell, and
have some money wired immediately. The Embassy is not going to help
with any of this.
I leave and begin my search. It’s only two blocks away, but I pass
it once before I realize I’m at the right place. Two women give me the
form for sending a wire, but then it occurs to me that everyone I know
in the U.S. is sleeping since it is about two in the morning EST.
Leaving Western Union, I decide to find the Photo Express, hoping
I have enough money (which I now wear in the bottom of my boot) to buy
three passport photos.
Inside the photo shop, I ask two women employees if they speak
English. The only other customer, a very nice man, speaks up and offers
to help. He assures me that I have enough money for the photos. They
snap some truly lovely pictures (big joke), and inform me that I can
pick these up at noon. I notice they have a telephone, and since I
still have a little money, I have decide to phone Andrew and Romuald,
my Polish friends from the States. They are not there, but I leave a
message explaining I will be returning to my hotel and would like to
meet them at noon.
I begin the long walk back to my hotel in the rain. When I ask for
the key to my room, I am given a message from Andrew that tells me to
stay put and he will pick me up at noon to get my photos and deal with
the Embassy. He’s right on time. I jump in his car and discover he has
a Greek music tape playing, a fond connection to their days at
Anatollya College. In the very slow noon traffic of Warsaw, Andrew
sallies forth, my heart lightened a bit by the Greek tunes of my
husband’s homeland. Again, I slip outside myself with the thought, “if
only Stell could see this!” I can hear his words inside my head, "Don't sweat things in life that are reversible."
It’s difficult to get a parking space, so Andrew drops me at the
photo shop and says he will meet me at the Embassy. He also has
American dollars for me, since he has a business in Athens,
Georgia. Moments later, we meet at the Embassy with my lovely photos
and are told that the cashier won’t be back for another half hour.
Clearly the compassion of the American Embassy staff is trumped
only by their work ethic. The people in the Embassy offices don’t
appear to have much to do. They are horsing around with a couple of
gooseneck lamps, laughing, joking. Finally the cashier arrives and
opens the curtain to her window. I take one of the $100 dollar bills
from Andrew and put it under the glass.
She holds it up to the light and explains it is not acceptable
because it has two ink marks! This is unreal! I hand her a second $100
bill and she determines that this one is okay and types up a couple of
receipts. At this point, Andrew comes a little unglued and walks to
the her window, making some gesture whose meaning I can only guess, and
in very fiery Polish, letting loose with admonitions I choose not to
guess at. I’m hoping that this heated discussion ends quickly, for
fear it will thwart my desire to be back in Georgia for Christmas.
The cashier doesn’t seem to notice me, however, and remains
calm. Now we must wait for the Consulate (my old “Dayton buddy”) to
sign my passport. It is about two-thirty, and though this part of the
Embassy normally closes at noon, they decide that staying open to
allow me to pay the cashier for the passport and get the Consulate’s
signature might not be too taxing. The Consulate finally appears, signs
the passport, and goes to great length to tell me how to renew my
passort without any additional charge. Andrew, bless his heart, drives
me back to the Victoria where I’m scheduled to do my presentation in a
few hours. The ordeal is finally over and I feel whole and fully
clothed again, the replacement passport tucked carefully inside my
blouse.
At the hotel, I decide to sit in on a few presentations, all of
them delivered in a rather stuffy European style, almost as though an
invisible presenting-template had been thrown across each speaker. My
own topic, “Intercultural Competency” has taken on an ironic twist.
Once my own audience is seated, I decide to deviate from the more
formal format to open with a question: “How many of you were at a
Polish police precinct last night? Raise your hands.” No hands go up,
of course. I explain that since I had experienced this dubious
privilege, perhaps my first 36 hours in Warsaw would be a better case
study of intercultural competency than my paper would ever illustrate.
I deliver my paper sans the story of the night before. Why scare
them?
