The Evolution of Pink Soup

"So you got any deals with any of these airlines?" I say as I pull out this incredible stack of frequent flyer mile cards. I wave them like I am playing poker and just waiting to see what is tossed out before I select one.

The young girl who is wearing a Polish Airlines (LOT) uniform pauses and says with an apology, "It will come."

I don't understand. I don't even pretend to understand because Poland is part of Eastern Europe. Part of a big black box in my mind that contains almost no detail, just a big empty map that starts somewhere in Europe and melts into Asia.

I recall something about the term Eurasia that now seems almost comical. Like it's another sad attempt for the Americans to label it all into one culture, one country, one place with the same set of values. (Yes, how 'bout that Eurasia? Have you been to Eurasia? Why, how IS the economy in Eurasia? And those Eurasians, boy they sure do know how to drink.)

The only country that really comes to mind is Russia when I think of Eastern Europe. Russians are my childhood enemies, my adulthood charity. That for me is Eastern Europe. My charity.

I land in Warsaw, having just a minor heart attack as the pilot decides at a low level there's really too much air traffic to land so we do another lap around. (Really, don't you think he could have phoned ahead instead of just trying to land?) Then the Marriott plucks me from the airport to their fine hotel, to my western room on the 35th floor that overlooks a fairly large ugly city.

The hotel has a couple of bars, restaurants, shops, and a gym with a sauna, lockers, a weight room, and even a TV blasting American shows. The Marriott workers all greet me with hello. Everything is in English, German, French. All so you can pretend that you are not in Poland.

At the office, I meet endless people with names I can't pronounce, spell, or even recognize on paper. Names like Alicja Juszczyk and Bogdan Szychiewicz. I make no attempt and I feel completely stupid as we sit down for lunch. We are served cold soup, bright pink that is made from "vegetables of the earth" and spiked with green dill. It seems almost neon, especially compared to the french fries.

The soup I decide would go well with the kid's doll, Barbie. I laugh and think of a live version of Barbie in her pink outfit serving this pink soup to Ken. I think of her saying with a giggle, "Oh Ken, I got it just the right color."

The business in the afternoon is out in Warsaw visiting customers. The first customer is the old style Warsaw with the office down in a basement of a public library. Yes, just go down the block, shimmy between a few buildings, rap down and around a few flights of stairs, and then through a suspicious entrance, and you will find the customer. Computers everywhere in a small crowded room with posters glued to the wall like we are in a college dormitory.

And the second customer is the new Warsaw, the palace built of steel doors and pillars with granite brick and lots of glass. It's in a style that's a clash of modern architecture with one main objective; to leave you with absolutely no doubt that this is a company of great wealth and therefore great importance. It even comes with a matching prince and princess, a sort of Ken and Barbie, that could not be more proud, more excited about the status of their building. They seem more interested in showing us all around then asking any questions that remotely have to do with business.

At night, we wander through Warsaw to "old town" which really isn't about it being old. Nothing in Warsaw is old in Europe standards because the whole city was destroyed during the war. And so the tourist area is an incredible street that just feels old because it was built from pictures of what was old. It's a confusing place, like Disney World that was built for the purpose of selling Mickey mouse ears. Only they are selling cosmetics, French and British fashion, and American fast food. No country ever escapes McDonald's.

My contact, another one with an impossible name, tells me that the thought of going to America this summer is "science fiction" that has somehow come true. He's going to Orlando to the same hooplah event that I will attend and the thought begins to worry me. Will he think that all of America is about more fast food, tacky amusement parks, and endless billboards? I tell him to skip Disney and head straight for the Cape. I imagine the space industry will fulfill his science fiction fantasy.

As we wander through "old town" and then back to what I guess should be called the "new town" the transition begins. It's backwards because new town feels like old town. Like an old tired communist country. At the end of the walk is this amazing building which was a present from Russia after the war. It's a large "wedding cake" building that IS the symbol of the past, of Russians and communism.

At the end of the night, I think of the neon pink soup and then of the flight attendant. "It will come. It will come." She seems to whisper to me.

Yes, I suppose it will come. Maybe one day, Poland will be Poland. People will know it's different than Russia, the Czech republic, or Slovenia. And who knows, maybe one day Barbie will serve me up some pink soup that is made of 'vegetables of the earth." Maybe.