Up until last week, I had never missed a plane, train or automobile in my 20-plus years. It's not that I operate on a schedule of rigid timeliness and punctuality. Anyone who has agreed to meet me at TDR knows this. It's more about sheer luck.
But alas, I was due. So my journey through Poland last week began not with the presumed 14-hour train ride bang, but the whimpering "chooga chooga" sound of a locomotive leaving without me.
I thought that missing the train to Krakow would be some kind of omen for bad things to come. The Berlin Marathon happened to be on the same day as our departure, but my absolutely saint-like host mother decided to drive me to Zoologischer Garten station. We got tangled in closed streets and huffy German policemen with only 15 minutes before my train left. I was deposited at the nearest U-bahn stop and arrived at the right platform only to see the train pulling out. There is truly nothing more painful than watching a week's worth of plans roll away at a snail's pace.
Fast forward to 10 p.m. that night. I reclined on a small bed in a night train to Krakow. In my car was a timid, quiet girl backpacking through Eastern Europe, speaking only German and Japanese. Naturally, we really hit it off. I had only a vague idea of where my group would be, knowing that my arrival in Poland was only 15 minutes before these 40-some people got on a bus to leave Krakow for the day.
My train pulled into Krakow Glowny literally seconds before our bus was to leave for Auschwitz/Birkenau. My friends stole a spoon so I could eat lukewarm yogurt and process the fact that I was suddenly in another country, a language full of consonants but seldom any vowels and letters with randomly placed accents. Did you know that an L with a line through it is pronounced like a W? Oh.
I am going to omit the Auschwitz/Birkenau trip from this recount of my Polish adventure. It was truly the most disorienting physical, visual, visceral, metaphysical and emotional experience of my conscious life. It was far too complex for the simplicity of words.
Anyway, Poland is one of the various countries on this planet that I never really imagined myself being in, much less absolutely adoring. It is an offbeat place that really couldn't be prouder of its peculiarities. Oh Poland, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
All television seems to be dubbed by the same gruff old man. The saucy ladies of "Desperate Housewives" sound like the aged mailman or crotchety econ professor. You can just barely hear the English behind the haggard voice, thus making movie-watching a much more complex, pleasurable experience.
For some reason, at any given restaurant, napkins are actually small squares of tissue paper rather than anything resembling cloth or cloth-like paper. Patrons can be seen fumbling with the lithe sheets only to settle for wiping a finger or two on the tablecloth after a particularly messy kielbasa. This includes the 4-star, Âber-classy Pizza Hut in Wroclaw (please don't ask why I was there, but do know that it was incredible).
The Polish people respect and admire early '90s jams to a degree unheard of in the U.S. When some prom-like club was pumping En Vogue like it was an episode of "Fresh Prince," I knew I had found paradise. The people around me were begging for Beyonce, but I was just wondering if I could hear some early Janet Jackson. Ask and you shall receive. But my world of fabulously almost-ironic music came crashing down periodically as some jerk would suddenly start playing the "Grease" soundtrack.
And Zlotych! The Polish currency! Four Zlotych is approximately 1 Euro and literally no meal in Poland was more than 20 Zlotych. Now that I am back in the land of the Euro, I keep calculating what I would be paying if it were in Zlotych. "That kino ticket is six Euro! That's like 24 Zlotych!! I THINK NOT!!!"
Furthermore, the pronunciation of "Zlotych" provides a whole bunch of opportunities for making hilariously crude jokes, mostly involving the word "slut." And what does the "dollar" have? It's only worth three Zlotych and it certainly doesn't feed my eternal need for immaturity.
I originally thought my Polish adventure ended before it even started, with the whimpering departure of the initial train. But with a week full of feisty pigeons an a near-obsession with Pope John-Paul II under my belt (think trading cards), I am left wondering why people even bother with Western Europe in the first place.
