There's just no pleasing some people

I probably should have made one thing [more] crystal-clear in my previous post: I didn’t and don’t want this blog to become a ditty on finance and the stock markets. I was merely laying the groundwork and giving a bit of background into how I started blogging and how a series of fortuitous circumstances sent me back on the road to continue my quest for never-ending adventure. I don’t intend to continue with a theme as turgid as investing – there are way too many other outlets for that, and like I alluded to, I’m completely under-qualified.

That said, the reviews on the first post were mixed: there were a couple of you who wanted more of the stock market chat, but others who said, ‘enough of that, where are the tales of drunken buffoonery?’ Well, never one to disappoint, let’s talk a bit about drunken buffoonery.

1

September 2002: an absinthe binge in Prague, a mess at the hostel, irate looks from people, a waylaid journal, a 3-day hangover, an attempted mugging by 4 teenage youths, feeling sorry for myself, a soul-searching cathartic trip to Auschwitz in sweltering September sunshine.

2

Nov/Dec 2005: an overnight bus journey, 2 hours at the border, standing outside, freezing my arse off, interminable waiting, a lengthy chat with a lovely Ukrainian for most of the bus journey, the moment I fell in love with Arcade Fire, 6am arrival, stumbling through the frosty, snow-covered streets in a blurry haze, going from café to café in an attempt to rouse from my slumber, drinking vodka from noon to midnight, an angry husband shouting ‘what the fuck is going on here?’, panicking and asking a Romanian and French girl who witnessed it all what I should do, they suggesting I stay with them for the night (nothing sexual), me taking my chances with the Polish one, and somehow surviving to tell the tale.

3

Dec 2005: a similar overnight bus journey (from Lviv) sans Ukrainian lass. More drinking at noon whilst half asleep. Polish vodka drinks are mighty potent and deceptively delicious. Not too many shenanigans to report this time, though I was invited to partake in a threesome at the hostel with a wretchedly ugly American girl and an equally unattractive Australian man. Um, no thanks. Then could I leave the room, in that case? Well, all right then.

4

31 Dec 2005: meet my sister at the airport. Not to sound like a broken record here, but that same epic, overnight bus journey = tired, hazy, cloudy head. Back to hostel where we’re each given a bottle of champagne to say Happy New Year. I drink most of it. Some bar-hopping with more potent vodka cocktails, and then to the square (the world’s largest?) for live music, more champagne, and a chance encounter with Mr Bean. The next day? Hangover. More drinking with Polish friends, including the same one from #2 above (who may very well be reading this – if so, you must know that I have absolutely no regrets!). Another trip to Auschwitz, this one in the freezing grip of winter.

5

[aside]

April/May 2005: Lviv. The French girl from #2 above came to visit me in Lviv. She brought a friend along. There’s no chance they’ll be reading this, so I can reveal their names: Laure and Isabella. Laure witnessed the incident above, said she was planning on coming to Lviv at some point, I gave her my number, forgot about her, then she got in touch months later to visit. She and Isa planned on staying a day or two. We all got on so well that they stayed nearly a week. They also lost the keys to my flat and so we had to spend the night at a disco called Metro. On a Tuesday night. We all fell asleep on some couches in the shisha-smoking room and were woken up and turfed out at 5am.

6

June 2010: Lviv-Przemyśl-Katowice-Bydgoszscz. En route from Lviv to visit my friend Matt in Bydgoszscz, I decided to bypass Krakow. Which is a good thing, since I was sober and somewhat hangover-free.

7

February 2011: evening flight to Katowice. Bus to Krakow. Arrival around 2300. Walk into the old part to watch the Super Bowl. Lots of beers (all expensed, along with a sumptuous meal), back to the hotel at 6am. Up two hours later to go to the Ukrainian consulate to get my visa. Stumbling around town in a stupor, visiting all of my favourite haunts from my Nov/Dec/Jan 2005/6 visits. Back to Kyiv that evening.

Explanation(s)

No, I don’t have a drinking problem. It’s just that I’ve been to Krakow, a place I consider one of my favourite cities on earth, 5 or 6 times, and not once have I ever been in a normal, right state of mind. I’ve either been really drunk, really tired or really hungover. Or a combination of all three.

And so I ask people this: does anyone else have a similar such city? In other words, a place you’ve been to on multiple occasions, but not once in a sober, rational state of mind? If I were to go to Krakow fully-rested and full of my senses, what would I think?

What I’ve heard based on what’s been said

Krakow is the Disneyland of Poland.

Said by: Poles not from Krakow. Teachers working in other parts of Krakow.

Not said by: Krakowians. Teachers working in Krakow.

What I think: I’ve got epic memories of the place. Just the mere thought of Krakow sends shivers of sweeping nostalgia – a good thing – tingling down my spine.

I’m almost afraid to ever go back, unless I arrive inebriated or in the wee hours after an overnight train or bus.

I’m not in the habit of doing this kind of thing, I must say. That is, drinking a lot, and all the time.

And: I’ve not even got any photos of Krakow. I think my sister does, including one of Mr Bean, but on her old, non-digital camera.

Clarification(s), where needed

1

Just before I started my Master’s at Edinburgh, I embarked on a 5 week backpacking odyssey around central and eastern Europe. My first stop was Prague. This was not long after a 5-year relationship came to an end, so I wasn’t in the clearest state of mind to begin with. Prague was a revelation (this being my first visit). The city had just been given the all-clear after devastating August floods, and the Vltava had decimated parts of Prague as well as outlying villages.

Call it immaturity, call it naivety. I was young[er]. I was feeling a bit on the pretentious side. I was a literary romantic. I went out on the town one night, journal in hand, to imbibe in as many absinthe shots as I could muster. I went off the beaten track, away from the touristy side of things, to a real local’s watering hole, the proverbial spit and sawdust dive. I was laughed at when I asked for the sugar and lighter trick. It was straight absinthe all the way, chased down my sweet, acidic honey mead.

Seemed like a great idea at the time: unleash my literary demons.

I’m estimating now, but I do think I had around 8-10 shots in under an hour. I didn’t feel that bad at first. But then it hits you quickly.

I started scribbling away frenziedly. In the ensuing days, I’m not sure what was sorest: my hand, from the writing; my stomach, from the poisoning it took; or my head, from the pummeling I put it through.

I read the results of my musings later the next day. Put it this way: even if I had that journal, what I wrote that night would never see the light of day.

But I do believe that journal is out there somewhere. It’s not in my possession, but I might know where it is.

I don’t think I want to see it.

2

Are more details needed? A fledgling, potential romance doomed from the start. The cuckolded husband who might have killed me.

Another memory comes to the fore: it being a hot, steamy lounge-type bar, my glasses were fogging up. They were thus removed and on a table.

Then: ‘what the fuck is going on here?’ A brief flicker of panic, though not enough time to materialise before my companion ever so calmly introduced me to her -------. ‘D-----, this is P---.’

He responds with ‘nice to meet you mate.’ I can’t see a thing without my glasses. He then asks, ever so politely, for a quiet word outside. With her. That’s when I seek the advice of the only two witnesses to this spectacle, who over the course of 10 minutes discuss the various options. I opt for merely their moral support, and a vague promise from Laure to come and visit me in Lviv, which I expect will not happen.

This has to be said: though I can’t recall the exact date, the day and night remain indelibly etched into my memory. I can see the hazy, foggy back streets of Krakow. I can still picture vividly the French café in Kazimierz in the Jewish part of town where I met my friend. This is when I discovered two of my all-time favourite cafés, Massolit Books and Prowincja (there’s a new and an old). Then the smoky, hypnotic, trancy lounge where I almost met my demise.

3

A solo trip a fortnight later. With just one question running through my mind: to get in touch or not? I didn’t.

4

A great time with my sister, though a rough New Year’s Day. Another rendezvous in Kazimierz with my friends. Auschwitz on 2 January. A must-see if there ever was one. Such a contrast between summer and winter as well. There’s little other way of describing it.

My sister and I complained about how cold and wet we were. It was a nasty, frigid day.

We shouldn’t have complained. We realised that.

Overnight bus to Lviv. We had tickets for seats 52 and 53. The bus had 50 seats. So we had nowhere to sit. Luckily, there were two seats free, the two directly behind the driver. The seats were laden with tools and other items. The driver reluctantly put them onto the floor, freeing the seats, but it meant no legroom. The seat behind me was broken, so it constantly flopped against the back of my seat. There were people lying and sitting in the aisles. A lovely young thing put her head against my leg and slept the whole way. My leg cramped up but I was afraid to move it. My sister kept goading me to ‘get her digits’.  Before setting off, the driver and his companion downed a shot of vodka each for inspiration. I’m pretty sure they downed another one later after a rest stop.

[in Nigeria, before a lengthy bus journey, a pastor or priest would get on the bus and say a long prayer. As in, 30+ minutes worth of prayers. I’m not sure that made me feel too safe – that’s like practically begging God for salvation, and if you have to beg God for salvation, then you start to worry that you might be in trouble.]

Thankfully, going into Ukraine, there’s a very short wait at the border. No one’s really trying to sneak into Ukraine, I suppose.

5

An aside, with only a tenuous Krakow connection (Laure).

6

I went via Łódź, instead of Krakow, an underwhelming and disappointing city. Matt was a splendid host in Bydgoszcz. We were ecstatic over the USA’s injury time winner over Algeria that put them into the 2^nd round, less so over the fact that Polish television wasn’t showing it. So we watched England v Slovenia, and met an odd businessman who bought us loads of drinks.

7

I’ve only missed one Super Bowl and I wasn’t about to miss another one, even if it meant a rough day was to follow. It was a great game, so I can’t say I have any regrets. The next day was filled with glorious sunshine, a welcome respite from the winter blues.

The moral of this tale: don’t ask me what Krakow’s really like. I don’t actually know.

But I love the place all the same.