Being Juror #5

By a set of circumstances beyond our control, the six of us were thrown together. A hodge-podge of people, our lives collided, not in an act of volunteerism but not in the way we were willing to "play racist" to get out of it either. It just sort of happened that we six were continually and randomly chosen: first from 400, then from 30, and lastly from 12.

I arrived early at the Arapahoe County Courthouse with my jury duty summons paper and a stomach ache from the unknown that lay ahead. In the 10 years I have been eligible for jury duty, I hadn't been called once, which is actually pretty crazy when you consider my luck and the fact that I lived out of the country for 3 years. But I digress. All 400 of us lucky enough to be summoned on March 12, 2014 gathered in the waiting room. As a wide-eyed new comer, I sat between a few old farts of Arapahoe County who discussed all the times in their lives that they had been summoned, only to be let go early without ever having to sit on a jury. I just assumed that I would join their ranks, and would one day myself be old and wrinkled and complaining about what a waste of time it was for me to be summoned so many times only to be released early. I emphasize here that I assumed.

By the time I sat in one of the 12 jurors seats being questioned by the prosecutors and the defense attorneys for the jury selection, I realized there was no way they were going to let me go. I am indecisive and malleable and easily persuaded, perfect juror material. My dad always told me that if I ever wanted to get out of jury duty, I needed to be super opinionated and the lawyers wouldn't want me on their jury. He was right. It would have been easy. The defendant was black, refused a breathalyzer test 3 times, and wouldn't be taking the stand in his own defense.

[Insert sarcasm here]
ME: "Yes, I believe that someone who refused 3 times to take a test to prove their innocence and won't get on the stand to testify to their innocence MUST be guilty. Oh and I'm racist."
THE JUDGE: "Thank you Ms. Jamison, your service with the court is now complete. You are free to go with the thanks of the court."
[It really is a shame there is no sarcasm symbol or font]

I couldn't lie, neutrality was my only stance. I watched the defendant, sitting there in his newly purchased button up shirt and tie. Sitting there in what I assumed to be a bundle of nerves as the case he had refused to plea bargain and had been fighting for two years now, was all coming to a close. Six of his peers, those of us open-minded enough to assume he was innocent until proven guilty, were about to decide just that.

This brings me to the six of us deemed open-minded enough by the court. Well there's me. Then Betty White's long lost twin: a great-grandmother at 76, complete with a sense of humor, a walker, and the mouth of a sailor. There was an older hippie gentleman, who I imagined with long flowing locks in his golden years, but was now the unfortunate owner of a rather large front-butt. I use the term "front-butt" in its literal meaning. There was Bill Cosby's younger, shorter, book-wormier brother who eventually became our jury's foreman. An older woman whose name actually was Betty, had a New York accent and mouse like features. And finally, a funny woman in her thirties whose only priority was to get the case settled by Thursday afternoon because she was going to Hawaii on Friday. This rag-tag team of justice upholders was the defendant's only chance at redemption. No pressure.

From the beginning of the case it was clear that not everything added up. Between the cop's condescending testimony and the horrible show put on by the inexperienced junior defense attorneys, it was quite the learning experience.

1. Lawyers really do stand up and say "I object" like they do in the movies.
2. There are so many formalities of years gone by that seem alien in our world today, and also just seem inauthentic after seeing it so many times in the movies, it made me uncomfortable.
3. It is the job of the opposing team of lawyers to try and trip up the witness. i.e. Ask the SAME question 15 different ways, all in a row.
4. The opening and closing arguments, if not delivered well, come off as a slightly better version of a high school student's power point presentation.
5. It was a powerful experience to serve on a jury.

With that said, deliberation lasted all of 45 minutes, ending in a not guilty verdict on both counts. I watched the defendant's face as the foreman read the verdict. It felt really good to literally see the justice system work as I saw the relief and happiness that overcame his features. I write this now, only to remind myself that life is funny and hopeful and beautiful and bizarre. I feel lucky that 'Being Juror #5' is another story I can add to my eclectic set of circumstances.

The Elderly Woman In Apartment 32

According to science, scent is connected to memory. According to my canine-like sense of smell, science is correct.

The elderly woman in apartment 32 is a chain smoker and her cigarette incense often wafts into my entry way and bathroom. Honestly, it's pretty disgusting and there is nothing I can do about it, but I have grown accustomed to the smell of stale smoke lingering in the air. 

Most nights I get back to my block of flats around 9 or 9:30 at night. It is just late enough that my neighbors have all finished their dinners, but still early enough for the scent of their meals to hang in the stairway as I walk up 4 flights of stairs to my flat.

At least twice a week, for the few seconds I stand at my front door to unlock it, I get a whiff of the meal that the elderly woman in apartment 32 made. It smells eerily similar to Mexican food. More specifically, Mexcian food from my favourite Mexican food restaurant Señor Rics. Now I know this may sound crazy or even gross, but combine this scent with cigarette smoke, and I think of my dear Grandmother Billie. I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, but when I did, it was usually at Señor Rics and she was usually smoking. 

So thank you elderly woman in apartment 32, for bringing back the handful of warm memories of my Grandmother Billie and her laughter. Oh, and making me miss Mexican food even more than I already did.

The Scariest Thing About Living Abroad

'What's the scariest thing about living abroad?' you may be thinking to yourself. Well, let me tell you, it's not any of the obvious things you might be thinking. The scariest, most adrenaline pumping experience for me is when:

Someone unexpectedly knocks on my door. 

I know what you're thinking, silly right? Let me give you a little background. During my young and formidable days, when my only irrational fear was being the last kid standing in line, I happened to watch a Sally Field movie that would change my life forever. The only scene of the movie, whose title I'm not sure I ever knew, that has stayed with me to this day is probably only 30 seconds long. In the scene the door bell rings and Sally's young daughter runs to the door and opens it to reveal a strange man in black. The strange man in black pulls out a gun, shoots, and kills the little girl. Que Amanda's irrational doorbell phobia.

Fast forward several years later, and every time I hear the doorbell ring or a knock on the door, my heart relocates to my stomach. It happens no matter where I am, if it's unexpected and I am alone, I get scared. This fear has only heightened since moving abroad. At least in Colorado, the person at my door most likely speaks English. Here and in Korea, there is an automatic language barrier that doesn't seem to make the person turn around and move on to the next apartment. Usually they just stay and talk louder, while occasionally trying to act out the reason for their visit. The whole situation might actually be funny if my adrenaline wasn't pumping and my fight-or-flight reflexes weren't kicking in.

Here are a few examples of what has happened to me when I have answered my door here in Poland:

1. A man wanted to check my water meter. Ok, pretty standard.
2. A man asked for milk for his baby. Don't worry, I gave him some, that was sad.
3. A man wanted to check my gas pipes. This is good for my well being.
4. The building manager wanted to give me my new key for the front door. I thought it was something more serious judging by her aggressiveness and volume level. She should smile more.
5. My older and potentially delusional neighbor thought she heard children screaming and being murdered upstairs. She was crying and shaking. This ended with a call to the police, and probably deserves a blog of it's own.

And there you have it, the reason I have stopped answering my door altogether. I am beginning to think my irrational fear isn't so irrational after all...

Old School

A few months ago, around Christmas time I believe, I was puzzled by the sudden onslaught of basketball games being played. Both at home and work, my ears were bombarded by the constant thoink-thoink-thoink of a basketball being dribbled up and down, for seemingly hours at a time. This was confusing for a few reasons:

a. It was winter time; who plays basketball outside in the winter?

b. I had never actually seen any basketball courts around or near my home and work space.

c. I don't know that much about basketball, but I do know that a game would consist of more than a constant dribble at the same pace for several minutes at a time.

d. Would a basketball being dribbled on snow really be that loud?

There was a small chance that, despite all of my reservations, on a street nearby stood a small boy practicing his dribbling skills. But to hear it in 2 different cities at 2 different locations? Ok, that's just too much for me. The jig is up Poland, I know your children don't love playing winter basketball.

Turns out, my Sherlock-like detective logic couldn't have been more spot on. I wasn't hearing a basketball dribbling, but something else altogether. In Poland, they do things old school, and that includes beating their rugs and carpets with tennis rackets to clean them. It is very common that every year before big holidays, people roll up their carpets and carry them to the hanging rack outside where they then beat the dirt/dust/crust off. It's just a coincidence that the sound of the racket hitting the carpet sounds like a basketball being dribbled to this confused foreigner. 

Nerd Goggles - City V

If you wanted to make Budapest at home, it's a simple recipe. Take about 3/4 Eastern European vibes and slowly mix in a dash of Turkey (the country not the meat) flavor. Budapest is clearly European but the Turk occupation definitely left its mark on the city. Or should I say, cities? Budapest is actually 2 cities, Buda and Pest, who decided to combine forces and become one.

Let's start with the Buda side of the Danube river. The Buda Castle is unlike any I have seen. It's gorgeous! Can you see the tile work on the roof?

The stately Chain Bridge connects the Buda and Pest cities across the Danube River. These were all taken on the Pest side, with a view of the Buda side.

The Pest Side of the Danube is where we spent most of our time. The Parliament House is one impressive building. 

It was in Pest that I learned the most about Communism and living behind the Iron Curtain. I really didn't and still don't know that much about it, but I find it fascinating. Life behind the Iron Curtain was highly controlled and manipulated by those in power. You couldn't trust anyone, because you never knew who would inform on you. Brothers told on fathers, neighbors told on neighbors, priests told on their parishioners. Those in command controlled all media and what the people knew about the rest of the world. My tour guide remembers being allowed to watch a James Bond movie. When the line "you dirty Russian Communist" played for the rest of the world, those in Budapest heard dubbed voices say "you dirty Chinese pirate." Small acts like that are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the power of the hammer and sickle. An homage to communism was erected in Pest before the fall of the Iron Curtain. They choose to leave it there today as a reminder of how far they have come in a short amount of time.

Nerd Goggles - City IV

Prague, the Bohemian Gem, survived both WWII and the Iron Curtain virtually unscathed. For this area of Europe that is no small feat, and that may explain why it holds a certain charm. It has a gorgeous atmosphere that both Hitler and the communists went out of their way to protect.

The Charles Bridge is the main walking bridge that connects Prague Castle with the old town across the Danube river. All along the bridge there are different symbolic statues, mainly of the religious variety.

Prague Castle has it's own stunning, gothic-style cathedral. St. Vitus Cathedral is probably the scariest looking cathedral I have ever seen.

Now let's head across the river to the old town square. Gorgeous buildings by day and by night. Period.

In the old town main square there is a clock. But this is not your everyday, run-of-the-mill, old town square clock. This one is special. 

The Prague Astronomical Clock not only tells the time in modern roman numerals, but also in ancient Bohemian time. The clock also shows the sun and moon phases as well as the astrological calendar. It is easy to be unimpressed by all of this mumbo jumbo in today's world of technology, but what if I told you this clock was built by an engineering genius in 1410? Got your interest peaked? Now that you're interested, let me tell you of the demise of this genius engineer. The king of Bohemia feared that this engineer would take his clock design to other cities, thus taking away Prague's one-and-only astronomical clock status. So he lured the engineer over for dinner and had his guards remove the engineer's eyes and cut out his tongue, so as to silence him forever. The distraught engineer, unable to live a life worth living, poetically climbed to the top of the tower and threw himself into the gears of the clock, breaking the clock and killing the only person who would have been able to fix it. It remained broken for a few hundred years, awaiting the birth of an engineering genius who would be able to fix it. Luckily for us, it is all put back together again. Every hour, on the hour tourists gather to see the show the clock puts on. Knowing the back story really does make it a magnificent wonder.

A Priest Walks Into a Bar

I am going to attempt to put my own twist on the classic 'A Priest Walks Into a Bar' joke. Here's how it goes:

'A Polish Priest, a retired Polish French Teacher, and an American English Teacher 

walk into a middle school to judge an English-Song Singing Competition.'

The punch line? This is a true story. That's the punch line.

This week, I was asked to judge the annual English-Song Singing Competition at a local middle school. Sitting between a retired French teacher, who also happens to be one of my adult students, and a Polish Priest dressed in civilian garb, I witnessed young Polish students present well-practiced songs in English. I was told to judge their pronunciation and overall performance. Cue Simon Cowell reference here.

The performances ran the gamut from 'If You're Happy and You Know It' sung by the cutest 5 year-old you have ever seen, to Adele's 'Skyfall.' One of my own beloved middle school student's belted out Adele's 'Rolling in the Deep' so amazingly that I got goosebumps. I was most baffled by the performance of 'You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman' soulfully crooned by a mere 13 year-old girl. Needless to say, my jaw hit the floor more than once.

In the deliberation room, the Priest seemed to be running the show and he clearly knew who he thought should win. Despite my attempts to tell him who I thought was the best, he wouldn't waver. I gave in to his opinions fairly quickly, because really, who is going to argue with a priest who doesn't speak their language? Not this girl. Thereafter, the only time I opened my mouth was to put a delicious chocolate pastry into it.

Overall, I had a great time playing the token English speaker. The kids were great, and I admired their courage at even attempting to sing a song in a different language, let alone singing in a room full of their peers and one very opinionated Priest.