Library

The searing glass tower loomed like a monolith, threatening to overwhelm the scurrying fur blobs crossing the pockmarked street. I stood before it open-mouthed, pulling my scarf around me and attempting to decipher the Polish on the paper signs taped to the door. Arrows seemed to be everywhere, pointing in opposite directions. I took a deep breath and a brave step and walked forward. The automatic doors opened. A large police officer turned. Shouting in Polish. Hostile hand gestures. I steppe back and walked away.

20 meters further on, I found the real entrance. Another police officer eyed me over suspiciously but said nothing. I walked in and found myself in a sparkling clean lobby with a large desk labeled "Informacja" and a glass elevator. I am tempted to see if the information desk speaks English but am too timid for interpersonal contact after my run in with the guard. I instead walk around pretending to read the signs. I get the impression the books are upstairs and step into the elevator.

I browsed langorously through the shelves labeled "Historia," excited at the many books which, if I had only access to them two months ago, would have formed the backbone of my research, and negated the need for a thousand roundabout evasions. A sharply dressed young woman taps me on the shoulder, and begins speaking in rapid Polish. I understand a little but not much; luckily, that is a sentiment I know how to express. I was only half-way through my elaborate apology for being a stupid foreigner when she interupted me with perfect, Irish-accented English. "Oh, I'm sorry. No worries, do you want to use the Internet? No? Ok, well enjoy yourself then."

Across the hall, I spy Thomas Jefferson. Startled, I investigate. He's sitting in the "American Corner," the most disgustingly patriotic office I have ever seen. Two computers and shelf after shelf of American magazines, documentaries about the Founding Fathers, and large print guides to the National Parks. I address myself to a young secretary reading "The Guide to the Library of Congress Numbering System." I ask her, in English, if I can drop off one of my flyers here, thinking perhaps people interested enough in America to visit this place would be willing to pay to talk to one in the living flesh. She agrees, but informs me that it would be even better to leave one with the main information desk.

I do not go there directly, but stop to check out a room labelled "Czytelnia Głowna." Head reading room, I roughly translate, sounds fun. I take three steps in until a fat and officious-looking fellow sitting by the entrance rises and stares at me. I ignore him, and continue to look around nonchalantly, until he grunts and asks, "Słucham?," literally, "I'm listening?" I stutter out something like "I just-- like-- look and-- reading. Books. I look for?" He is not impressed. His response was quick and incomprehensible, but something in the tone signalled that I should start walking out. I caught that my coat was bothering him; I guess he doesnt like khaki, or maybe, like most Polish people I talk to, he is sure I am going to die of some illness for not wearing a fur lined trench coat reaching my ankles, and feels obligated to scold me for this gross oversight. At any rate, I leave.

Two weeks later I came back. This time, with Agata. She guides me through the elaborate dance of deposing my coat at the coat check, negotiating for a locker key and taking only a single pen and paper with me. Then we must bounce between a series of secretaries to get me a library card, for which they need to see my passport, birth certificate, and hernial scars in addition to a photo of my parents and a pint of blood. Now, I have a right to look at (but not to borrow) that vast majority of the libraries books which are not left willy-nilly on shelves where people can access them but safely secured behinds a series of locked rooms guarded by hordes of red tape and surely librarians, ensuring the precious information will be shared with only the dedicated few. She even deflects the ire of the fat guard, convincing him to let us both in on one card. I few hours later they finally bring me my books, and I can spend the afternoon hurriedly reading them and copying down salient facts by hand, as I can see no photocopier I would be free to use without having to deal with one of the Nurse Ratchetts.

Navigating modern institutions is a Kafkaesque experience, no matter where one has the misfortune of making the attempt. However, imagine how much all the horrors of the Trial are compounded, when the unfortunate victim has to navigate a hostile labyrinth through the fog of being a foreigner with limited grap of the language and culture.