At the price of .01 Euro, James 'Jimbo' Theinart, Patrick 'Peabody' Boyd and myself flew to the Polish city of Lodz (pronounced Woodge); our goal? Adventure. We'd already been on the road for 12 hours, with a three hour bus to the Shannon Airport here in Ireland, 'sleeping' on a bench for another 5, then a 4 hour flight. Now, we knew next to nothing about Poland; they attacked the invading Nazi's on horseback, and Krakow is 'The New Prague'- that was about it.
The information desk (labeled in both Polish and English) couldn't speak english. The bus driver couldn't speak english. Now, we didn't expect heavy conversations, but one does expect a basic level of understanding given a degree of pointing and hand gestures, but no; the people of Lodz seemed almost vehemently opposed to making the effort, almost as if it was insulting. We had though, 'hey, lets check out Lodz on our way to Krakow, see two Polish cities'. Create in your mind, if you will, an image using the following words: Communist - Eastern - Europe. Congratulations, you just took a trip to Lodz. Industrial apartment complexes, dirty streets, oppressive weather, billowing factories, and the most recent paint on every surface, the graffiti. We decided to give it a pass. Luckily, two Poles (on their way out of Lodz as well) took pity on our wide eyed American faces and let us follow them to the bus station; they even put us on the bus to Krakow. The seven hour bus to Krakow.
Before we continue our little narrative, you should know that, though Poland is in the EU, it still uses it's native currency, the Zoltych (or Zoley, Zoltar, or Zoltan, depending on our mood). Zoltych to Euro: 4 to 1. And yet, nothing is marked up; a 40 euro per night hostel will cost you 40 Zoltans in Krakow... keep this in mind.
Krakow is one of the oldest cities of Europe to escape the ravages of The War. It's the home of Copernicus, Pope/ Saint John Paul II (JPII, to the Polish, more Rockstar then clergyman), and Wavel Castle, one of the 8 'chakra points' of the world, along with Mecca and Jerusalem. The streets are old, the buildings, older, with most pubs in forgotten gothic cellars, and parts of the original city wall still poking out of the grass. We Love It!
How do your describe an Awesome Weekend? To recount it minute by minute wouldn't be dull, such was our fun, and yet we both have lives beyond this journal that we must be returning to all to quickly (it’s free bowling night with purchase of a pint; what a deal!). So, in the interest of brevity, let me present you with a series of select short stories and captured moments, the choice cuts of entertainment. May I present Collin, James and Patrick in...
------------The Really Awesome Meal-------------
Our first night, we're bleary eyed, tired, woozy, and forefront on our minds is our stomachs, which haven't been filled in over 20 hours. We decided to treat ourselves to something nice. Swanky, though we were in our t-shirts and jeans. We chose a real class place, Italian or French, not too far from our hostel.
"Djen Dobre" (Hello)
"Err.... Hi?"
"Ah, Englesh. Hello. Ta-bowl fort Tree?"
After Lodz, any english was good enough. Smiles all around, we sit down. Our waitress (what a cutie) couldn't tell us the size of the steaks they offered; she could only make a shape with her hands; larger then a human head.
"We'll take three".
Carpaccio, soup, bread, Steaks (Porterhouse, about 20 oz. i'd guess, drizzled in a mushroom sauce), roast vegetables, potatoes, 2 rounds of beer, 3 rounds of Jagermeister, and for dessert, Tiramisu, with complimentary glasses of champaign. The price? 120 Zoley each, 30 Euro, about 45 American. We felt like Kings, Mad Tyrant Kings who could have anything they desired for pennies, and we lived the rest of the weekend accordingly.
---------- Patrick gets the Pole's Pole--------------
We're walking back to our hostel, a walk which cuts us through a parking lot, complete with traffic cones. James leans over to me, and slurs, "We should steal them"
"Wha? ....No" I reply.
My opinion apparently doesn't figure highly in James' rational, because he grabs one and sprints for it. I roll my eyes in disgust, until I see from the corner of my eye a 50 year old, burley security guard, wielding a large plastic pole like a club; I run like hell. Patrick, unfortunately, wasn't privy to any of this. All he realized was that his friends were gone, and an angry man was bearing down on him wielding a club and screaming in Klingon.
100 yard's away by now, I hear screams of "GOBBTY FLURGITY GOOK!!!" and Patrick’s plaintive "It wasn't me, it was HIM!", over and over, followed by the thud of a blunt object against squishy human parts. I run back (can’t leave a man behind) and return the cone; Pat is in battle mode, ready to start something, which from mild mannered Paddy was quite a shock. I scream at him through his rising blood lust to “walk away!” (I think the Guard liked that, my yelling at Pat) and make supplicating gestures to the guard while backing away, like one would deal with a wild cougar, or madman.
Patrick had a bruise on his arm for a week. Good times!
Epilogue: When I got back to the hostel, the Germans who were staying in our room with us had these pissed and disgusted looks on their faces. "Err, what's up guys?"
"You friend? He vomited on the wall."
James had crawled into bed (top bunk), but after a bit had felt alittle off, so he spit on the wall, no big deal. Except it wasn't spit; it was vomit. To his credit, after I woke him up and explained the situation, he helped me clean it up; we did a pretty good job actually, using various cleaning tools and soaps.
Now, it's not good to vomit on a wall. True. But you know what? Sometimes it happens. The German's didn't seem to understand that. In fact, I believe the quote of the night was, "Americans. The only things they do well are making war and vomiting". Right then was when I stopped caring about their sensitive little noses; they almost got a quick history lesson- Americans do one other thing well; kick European tush.
---------- Trips out of the City---------------------
It wasn't all debauchery; I swear it wasn't. We spent a day in Wavel Castle, and took two day trips while we were there, out to the Salt Mines, and to Auschwitz. I really don't want to talk about Auschwitz too much; it's everything you think it is, and then worse. James said it best by tagging it, "The most evil place on Earth", and I in no way disagree.
The Salt Mines? Not evil at all. In fact, fairly jolly. They're these incredibly deep mines that Polish peasants had been working for something like afew hundred years. They'd spend so much time in the mines that they carved statues, rooms, and even chapels out of the salt itself. Once the mine was closed, two artisans turned one of the larger caverns into a cathedral, which you can rent out for parties, weddings or concerts. "Where are you guys playing tonight?" "Oh, you know, The Salt Cathedral".
For some reason, I couldn't stop licking the walls; while unsanitary, the guide had encouraged us to give it a try, and well, i couldn't stop. It was like walking through a house of candy, only the candy was.... salt. 
And Wavel Castle, well, was also cool, two highlights being the Armory and the Dragon. The Armory was filled with what you’d expect from a European collection, though my eyes were particularly drawn to some excellent fencing blades, and a curiously large number of gun/sword hybrids, which i thought had been condemned as utterly impractical; no one told the Polish i guess. The Dragon? Well, take a look: 
-----------Poland Wants us Gone------------------
It was weird, but the city that had welcomed us so kindly, after three days, excluded almost a palpable malice. Maybe the Polish just really hate mondays, but by the end of our time there, frankly, we wanted out. We went to a dessert shop; my chocolate tort was uncuttable by knife or fork, nearing the consistency of leather. While we were eating, this little boy offered to sell us postcards. Of course, we declined, to which he took a moment, perhaps searching for just the very best answer: "You Motherf@ckers". And then he just strutted off, while our less then stellar desserts fell from our agape mouths. Leaving our shopping to the last day, all the souvenirs that had seemed so enticing turned into the cheapest of knockoffs, and the salesmen, charlatans and con artists; "This is two hundred year old Polish sword" "... since when is Honk Kong in Poland?".
And then, even on the train as we made our escape, the ticket collector comes buy, and harangues James and Pat for having their feet on the seat (not me though, I guess I'm just too class). He asks for their passports; he's going to write them tickets. He drags them away, and then, rather then give them a ticket (which he had apparently just scribbled on a piece of scratch paper), he rubbed his fingers together and slurred like a stereotype; "Money Money". Get us out of here!
So, that was Poland. Three weeks ago. What's happened since then? How did Paddy's day go? Find out, err... Soon!
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