Finding myself illiterate in Poland, I followed a color scheme. Racially, Warsaw appeared to be almost completely white, like me. The parks added a strong element of green.
In the late 20th-century, multinationals had moved into office buildings around public spaces, and the adjacent hotels for business travellers were marketing those recreational zones. The welcome folder in my room included the message that jogging was possible next door in the park. One day, after returning from a meeting, I changed and trotted on out, only to discover that the circuit was very short, and that nobody else was on it. Instead, locals strolled or sat on benches. Others moved briskly along the paths, carrying briefcases, books, shopping bags.
Also green was the luminescent soaking fluid poured into the footbath at a mid-town beauty salon, which I visited during a lunch break in an effort to mesh with daily routine. The manicurist was wearing bright green open sandals. Features on her face, chest and toes seemed to be pushed into points. Her lips were also pursed into a cone. The apron she wore was absolute white, and her hair was bleached to match. She spoke to me in Polish, trying to determine the color of nail polish to be used. I wanted clear polish, but I had trouble convincing her on that point, and finally, after giving me a slow once-over, she made a final offer: "Blue-ski?"
I remembered my friend, the manicurist, while strolling through Warsaw Airport on the day of departure. Turning back for a final look at a gleaming shop, I saw vacuum-packed sausage being sold by women in uniform. Their platinum hair glistened; their long nails were flawless and blue.
In the late 20th-century, multinationals had moved into office buildings around public spaces, and the adjacent hotels for business travellers were marketing those recreational zones. The welcome folder in my room included the message that jogging was possible next door in the park. One day, after returning from a meeting, I changed and trotted on out, only to discover that the circuit was very short, and that nobody else was on it. Instead, locals strolled or sat on benches. Others moved briskly along the paths, carrying briefcases, books, shopping bags.
Also green was the luminescent soaking fluid poured into the footbath at a mid-town beauty salon, which I visited during a lunch break in an effort to mesh with daily routine. The manicurist was wearing bright green open sandals. Features on her face, chest and toes seemed to be pushed into points. Her lips were also pursed into a cone. The apron she wore was absolute white, and her hair was bleached to match. She spoke to me in Polish, trying to determine the color of nail polish to be used. I wanted clear polish, but I had trouble convincing her on that point, and finally, after giving me a slow once-over, she made a final offer: "Blue-ski?"
I remembered my friend, the manicurist, while strolling through Warsaw Airport on the day of departure. Turning back for a final look at a gleaming shop, I saw vacuum-packed sausage being sold by women in uniform. Their platinum hair glistened; their long nails were flawless and blue.
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