“Polish writing looks like what you would type if you just started mashing your palms down on the keyboard” Mike quipped as we walked around the Rynek, the central square in Wroclaw. It might not have been the most enlightened of statements, but I had to agree.
We had been in Poland for only a few hours and already it was becoming clear that we were hopelessly lost with the language. The town we were in, Wroclaw, which we attempted to pronounce more or less as written, something along the lines of “Row-claw”, was not pronounced in any way similar to that. As far as I could imitate, it was actually pronounced “Vrots-wahf” or some muttering to that extent. Hell if I could figure it out, and the same went for just about every other Polish word we encountered. I had begun the trip with hopes of picking up bits and pieces of each language from the countries we visited. I gave up on this goal in Poland after about 20 minutes.
Luckily we were fluent in English, the world’s premiere international language. And, should we need more information during our visit, we also just so happened to speak the second most international language as well: also English, but spoken louder, slower, and with an exasperated flair. Travelers, tourists and explorers alike, this is the way in which the world communicates these days.
We had crossed into Poland from the Czech Republic over the Sudeten Mountains by bus earlier that day, a mostly pleasant ride that featured a fair amount of quaint, rural European mountain scenery. The mountains were old and worn, much like the cottages and villages tucked away amongst their aged peaks, and they provided at least a little bit of entertainment for a window seated wanderer.
For as much as I felt prepared and knowledgeable about what to expect in Prague, the opposite was true upon our arrival in Poland. Though not exactly known as a hot spot destination, I was well aware that the economy had been doing well of late, one of the few bright spots of Europe in the current recession era, and I was curious to see how this manifested itself throughout the country. Would the communist era Poland of the middle 20th century that forced the emigration of tens of thousands of Poles to the United States be most evident? Or would the Poland with the highest GDP increase within the European Union in 2009 show signs of an ever strengthening Eastern European Nation?
The truth proved to lie somewhere in the middle. As our bus made its way towards the center of town we passed through alternating neighborhoods of glistening post modern offices and drab, communist era apartment buildings. Within a few blocks the scenery beyond the window could change from that of suburban, prosperous Germany to that of economically depressed Belarus.
But none of this mattered, because upon taking two steps into the Rynek, the large central square of Wroclaw, I was instantly in love with Poland.
It was a truly beautiful and near perfect setting. The square, lined with 4 and 5 story stone, brick, and wood buildings, was completely populated with bars, cafes, and restaurants. It was off limits to vehicles and therefore filled with pedestrians on a warm and gorgeous Wednesday evening, many of whom appeared to be there for nothing more than to stroll around the square over and over again. All of the establishments had large, outdoor seating areas that were full of people out enjoying dinner, drinks, and perhaps some ice cream. It felt almost as if they couldn’t ever think of leaving such a place until at least well after the sun goes down.
Wroclaw had seen extensive fighting and damage during WWII, causing almost 70% of the city to be rebuilt. Luckily, through hard work and unified actions, the charm and history of the square was very well preserved. Even though many of the buildings lining the square were built only about 50 years ago, most had been designed and decorated to resemble the 17th and 18th century edifices that would have stood there before.
The square was large enough that the interior actually contained two additional blocks comprising a church, town hall, and a few adjacent buildings. This meant that as you walked around the square, you were completely surrounded on both sides by people, cafes, beer, and a general feeling of conviviality.
We quickly dropped off our stuff at the apartment of Deante, a friend from college who we would be staying with, and then made haste back to the square for some dinner.
As in the Czech Republic, we were still reaping the benefits of a strong exchange rate, and with food and drink prices quite reasonable we spent the first part of the evening simply strolling the square and sampling food and drinks at a number of the bars and restaurants. Later that evening we would be joined by Deante and Mark, who had been at practice for the American football team they were playing for in Poland. I’ll explain a little bit later.
The night continued with more Polish beers, though I did not fancy them as much as the Czech Pilsners we had enjoyed just before this, and some general conversation about life in Poland and the “beauty of the square” (I’ll also explain that a bit later), and then some more beers. At this point Mark headed home while Deante, Mike and I decided to head to a nightclub for some entertainment, and some more beers.
This seemed like as good as time as any to make our first excursion to a Polish night club. There was the usual mélange of American music styles rotated or mixed with electronic/disco stylings as well, and of course the scantily clad women who looked like they were 14, but who were actually probably 14. And then there was some more beer, and some shots of vodka, the liquor of choice in Poland, to conclude the night. Tequila would have been the only worse option, but it wouldn’t have been as appropriate.
There was no next morning.
At about 1pm we awoke with groggy faces, pounding headaches, and a general sense of “what the hell just happened?” Our trip, on which we had behaved fairly responsibly thus far, had been taken to the next level: the drink until you throw up on a couch in Poland kind of next level. I felt terrible in every way possible. We were deathly hung-over in Poland, yet it felt appropriate.
For lunch I ordered Hunter’s stew, attempting anything that I thought would help settle my stomach. This was not the right choice as the stewed mix of beef, onions and cabbage only too much resembled the half digested meal that had once again presented itself a few hours ago. I managed to put it down, but felt absolutely no better afterwards. I don’t remember what Mike ordered as I didn’t care then and therefore don’t care now. I was glad that he felt as bad as I did. It is true that misery loves company.
We only had one full day in Wroclaw, but first we needed to go check train schedules and buy tickets to Berlin. We decided to walk back to the station as a means of seeing more of the city, but outside of the central area most of the city proved to be unremarkable. The sky was grey and dreary. In the rain the city appeared infinitely more depressed and resembled more of the Soviet era Poland that I had thought of. By the time we reached the train station the rain was beginning to come down pretty hard.
We weren’t sure what to do with ourselves until the rain relented so we headed towards some nearby food stands. I ordered an espresso from a cute young Polish girl who spoke English well enough but with just the slightest accent that came off very attractive. My hope had been that the caffeine would help fight against my still raging hangover, and to my surprise it was. As my energy level and morale both lifted through sips of an effective though fairly mediocre espresso, I flipped through a Polish tabloid, pleased to see that the Poles obsess and stalk their celebrities just as much as we do.
Fifteen minutes passed and still no let up in the downpour. We decided to press on through the rain rather than spend our whole day browsing Polish gossip magazines and drinking coffee, as enjoyable as it sounded. Fifty yards down the road Mike motioned behind us and I turned to see the girl from the coffee stand running up through the rain, my forgotten train ticket in her hand.
She quickly handed it to me and I had barely managed an embarrassed “thank you so much” before she turned and headed back through the rain.
“I love you” I quietly added, though by this time she was already out of earshot and back to her life in a Polish food stand.
It was hard to pinpoint what exactly it was with Polish girls, but something about them just seemed so nice. Perhaps it was the semi-Eastern European facial structure, which had gave an exotic appearance without the defined and intimidating bone structure that characterizes many women from the Slavic and Russian regions. Or perhaps it was the fact that they all were razor thin with huge boobs. It was so difficult to tell.
In the end I reasoned that it was probably some combination of the two, but regardless there was no denying the plethora of beautiful women walking around the streets of Wroclaw. When we had arrived, Deante mentioned that they enjoyed just sitting and having a beer on the square while “people watching”, which I found a curious thing for two American men in their mid twenties to do. It was after we had spent a night doing the same that we realized he had in fact chosen his words quite carefully.
Our last night in Wroclaw some of Mark and Deante’s teammates came over for drinks before we headed out for some Thursday night festivities. If your wonder still persists from my earlier statement that they play for an American football team in Poland, then allow me to explain.
American football, which it is called to distinguish it from another popular sport in Europe involving feet and a ball, does exist in Europe, even after the collapse of NFL Europe. Most of the Western countries have some form of a league, usually made up of amateur or semi-pro players who continue to work normal jobs, treating the sport more as a hobby.
Recently, these teams have begun to discover the advantages of employing American players with either some professional or collegiate experience, as even college football in America represents a much higher caliber of play. While there are limits to how many foreign players can be used, simply having a few American players on the team can make a huge difference. Through some contacts of other players who had started playing in Europe, both Mark and Deante were able to connect with the team here in Wroclaw.
I didn’t ask, but I felt fairly certain that the teams can’t offer the players much in monetary compensation, seeing as how even the league championship game was expected to draw only a few thousand spectators at best. I supposed that the assistance of a place to live and a reasonable part time job was the way in which the international players were supported.
And so, Mark and Deante, two players with Division 1 collegiate experience but without the skill set to be able to earn a living playing professional football in the US, find themselves playing semi-pro ball in Poland. And they love it.
The Poles like to party, and have a tenacity for binge drinking that feels very much aligned with Eastern Europe compared to the western half of the continent. We mixed whiskey and cola together and spent an hour or so talking to some of the Polish football players, mostly about football and US culture, but with the occasional comparison to life in Poland as well. Sparing the details of a bunch of young males in their 20s heading out into the streets of an evening looking for fun and entertainment, for these purposes it is enough to say that we arrived back at their apartment sometime around 4am, though the precise time was sadly not recorded.
The rain had abated on Friday as we made our way towards the train station, though the skies remained overcast and dreary. We passed a final time by the miniature brass troll sculpture welded to the window bars on a nearby building. When we first arrived Mike had commented on the troll, pointing out the small sculpture that I otherwise would have surely missed.
“There’s one of those trolls I read about” he remarked.
“What did you read about them?”
“That they exist”
“Oh”
I was saddened when I recalled this exchanged, realizing that it represented well the depth of our cultural experience in Poland. We had come with hopes of exploring and understanding a new culture, one often neglected in the US, and instead we had just been drunk or hung-over the whole time. We hadn’t managed to see more than a tiny fraction of Wroclaw, and had done nothing cultural whatsoever.
But then again, we had talked to and hung out with more locals than I was sure we would in any other country, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. The cultural exchange from listening to Polish guys usie explicit phrases from “South Park” or comment on their favorite American Football teams and players might have been worth far more than any day of sightseeing could have ever brought us. In fact, I was pretty sure that this was the case.
At the train station we each purchased a large schwarma sandwich served in a big pita pocket. The true evidence of the homogeneity of Poland was thrust upon me when I realized that all of the employees of the ethnic food stands at the train station were Polish. I had not seen this in any European country so far, and doubted I would ever encounter it again either.
We were heading to a new country with yet another new currency, and I had managed to ration my Polish currency well enough that the purchase of one schwarma relieved me of the last bit of the now useless to me Zloty. I accomplished my goal too well though, and did not have enough money to purchase a drink along with my meal, which at the time only meant making several “too poor to buy water in Poland” jokes. Little did I know how much this would mean.
Our exit from Poland did not come without trouble though, as with only a few minutes before our train’s scheduled departure, Mike and I approached the platform to find absolutely no indication anywhere of any train to Berlin. We rushed around looking for signs, information, or even someone who just spoke English, but to no avail. It never fails that everyone in Europe speaks English, yet when you finally need to locate such a person, none can be found.
Five minutes past the departure time and we had no idea what was going on. There was no sign of our train, and no employees around either to ask. I was stumped, not to mention tired and not pleased with the thought of missing our train to Berlin.
Just then I heard the voice of an American, oh sweet America! I turned to a young college aged kid and his friends who were backpack adorned as well and trying to figure out the situation as were we.
“Are you headed to Berlin?” I asked.
“Yes”
“Do you speak Polish?”
“A little, apparently the train is delayed by 20 minutes.”
“Ok great! Thank you. We don’t speak a word of Polish and had no idea what was going on”
“Yeah it’s a difficult language, and the whole Luneberg thing doesn’t help either.”
Luneberg! The town of 70,000 people in between Berlin and Hamburg where our train would finish its trek, this is what all signs identifying the train said. Of course! It made so much sense now. Why would a train make reference to Berlin, a city of 3.5 million people, when the final destination was instead a much smaller, wholly more insignificant town just further down the tracks?!
Sometimes the Germans are just too damn literal.
The train pulled in and we hurriedly boarded as the stop lasted no longer than a few minutes. There was still a unnerving lack of identification of where we were actually headed, and neither Mike nor I was convinced we were on the right train, but the restroom signs inside the train were in German, so we figured it was close enough.
accurate illustration of eastern european girls. i found the polish ones much more pleasant.
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