The idea of free will is flimsy to begin with, but at least I can often delude myself into believing it exists. In fact, the first thing I do when I wake up is grab my compact mirror, look myself in the eye, and shout, "Life is a boat! Swim it!"[1] Usually this irritates my roommates, Emma and Agnieszka, as I generally get up earlier than they do, but sometimes they murmur, "Watch out for sharks, dillhole," before pulling their covers over their heads.

And then there are situations that remind me that free will is a pipe dream. Life is not a boat, and hence I am unable to swim it in the ever-changing direction of Paradise Island.[2]

For example. The parental units. I love them enough not to hate them, but lord knows I wouldn't have chosen them if I'd had any say.[3] I can say I am choosing to return to San Francisco for a period of two to three years after my stint in Asia. I can say I am choosing to honor the wishes of my parents and sacrifice a hearty chunk of my youth. I can say I am choosing this road as an opportunity to learn to be selfless and to be graceful. There is certainly a modicum of choice - I was the one who decided, after all, to open negotiations. They had no real say, especially once they severed communications with me for three months.

Some of the truth is, I could be happy in San Francisco and I could blossom there, just as much as I do elsewhere. Most of the truth is, my mother wore me down. You think Catholic mothers drown their children in guilt. If she weren't my mother I'd be tempted to deck her.[4] I wouldn't call my return home a choice. What it feels like is exile into my native land.

Case in point number two. Embassies. Fucking embassies. I do not like the Indian Embassy in Warsaw. They are pushing me around and there is nothing I can do about it, because one, it would be graceless to shout at pencil pushers who are cogs of bureaucracy[5] and two, it would be imprudent to shout at pencil pushers who are cogs of bureaucracy, namely because I would like to get into India.

Because of the ineptitude of the system, I have been made to search in the streets for a photocopier when there was one sitting in the adjacent room of the consular's office, in plain view; I have been made to return to the embassy a week after I dropped off my application because they refused to let me leave my passport ("Don't be absurd. You need it, as a foreigner. What a shocking thing to suggest, for us to mail you your passport! We don't care if you live far away and transportation is time consuming and expensive! We don't care if you have to miss work and risk your boss's rage! No, there is simply no other way, you must return next Thursday. What? What?! I'm sorry, miss, but I was under the impression that you want this visa. That's right. Ok, then. Good. Come back next Thursday, and lose the snark.")[6]; and I have been made to miss my free ride home today because the visa is not ready on the day it's supposed to be ready. When asked about alternatives, the representative said, "You can have a courier pick it up and take it to you." I...thought that such a thing was impossible?[7]

So here I am, stuck in Warsaw for another two days. I am damn well tired of Warsaw; there is nothing more for me here. A real traveler would be prepared for adventures in the city, would be making plans to explore and to forge new friendships and renew old ones. A real traveler would make the most of this misfortune, or wouldn't see this as a misfortune at all. It's just a little hiccup, no biggie.

But I? I just want to get back to the forest, away from the traffic, and be anti social and moody there. I just want to begin the next fat duck and granny project: scenes from old school slasher films. I just want to sit on my stoop, in the sun - finally, sun - and listen to the birds singing and watch the dandelion wisps floating along like so much golden floss. I just want to celebrate Agnieszka's birthday with her tomorrow; I just want to make her two favorite edibles in the world - spaghetti with red sauce and mushrooms, chocolate cake - like I promised.

The conclusion. External forces are more powerful than I and the plans I make. Maybe if I were the Dalai Lama...but no, being holy doesn't seem to make things go as he plans either. The universe rolls on. But there is one thing of comfort - and I suppose I can say this because I am, in many ways, privileged; I was born with my lucky earlobes - there is flow, and I trust it.

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[1] In Poland, we "swim" boats.

[2] Hawaii was Paradise Island(s) until some idiots accidentally introduced the non-native mosquito to the islands. Now these instruments of terror are feasting not only on humans but killing off endemic birds. Good job, globalization.

[3] Sigh. Actually, I might love them enough to have chosen them, even though they make me completely miserable almost all of the time.

[4] Violence is bad.

[5] It is also graceless to yell "fucking fucking kurwa mać!" on the street outside the Indian embassy, but, well, I have a short temper, and it was either that or burst into tears of rage. Yeah, it really sucks that I cry when I'm angry.

[6] It's true. Pencil pushers are given to droning, power taunting monologues, due to their feelings of powerlessness within the machine of bureaucracy. I don't blame them.

[7] Admittedly, none of this is as terrible as noellejt's attempts at getting her passport. It's possible I'm just being a whiny little bitch.