Thankfully, it was a Lublin-bound train, so I settled in with my book and enjoyed the clickety-clack of the wheels against the track. I made a little chitchat with a Polish student on her way to Warszawa to visit friends, but she was too shy and the call of Steig Larsson was too great for us to talk much. At Lublin I got off to change trains, and, still immersed in my book, a young lad came over and began speaking to me in Polish. I gave him my best "Sorry, no idea" look and he went off and asked someone else, who promptly gave him a cigarette. He seemed slightly enebriated, so I was slightly annoyed when the train arrived and the cigarette-bumming drunk and his two buddies ended up sitting in my carriage. I dug my nose in my Larsson and pretended they weren't there.
But of course, thanks to the Harry Potter carriages and natural human curiosity it wasn't long before we were making conversation in their halting English. Turns out the three of them work together in a insurance sales call-centre in Lublin and they were off to Kraków to "celebrate" drinky-boy's (Marek's) stag party, who was getting married that weekend. I offered him my heartiest congratulations, but the poor sod just took a pull of his cheap Polish beer looking more miserable than ever. His mate Konrad explained to me he had got his girlfriend pregnant and was being forced to make an honest woman out of her - and so the drowning of the sorrows. Thankfully his friends were sober, and we chatted amiably all the way to Kraków, punctuated by hearty Polish drinking songs which Marek insisted on singing, very loudly. I sang the "We Love You Conrad" song from "Bye Bye Birdie", while sweet Konrad blushed red as a beetroot. Marek was studying Law, he told me, Konrad Psychology and Marcin IT. We took silly pictures of each other sleeping, talked about Polish beer and vodka, football, and they taught me the Polish gesture for drinking a lot (make a palm, and make a chopping motion hitting the pinky finger side on the side of your neck below the ear). We also shielded poor Marek from the train conductor when it looked like he was about to get thrown off the train, thankfully the conductor glanced at me and clearly decided either that I would keep him in check, or that he didn't want to make a scene in front of a lady.
Marek and Marcin:
It was dark when we arrived at Kraków Glówny, and after hugging the boys goodbye, I realised I was tired, and the only thing I wanted was to be taken to the hostel without further worrying about maps, public transport, ticket buying, and all that palaver. Best thing about travelling alone? Doing whatever you want, all the time! I hailed a taxi and was home in 10 minutes.
Got in, checked in, and the first thing the receptionist gave me (before the key to my room) was a voucher for a free beer in the hostel bar. Though I was tired, I didn't feel like being alone, so I went upstairs, dumped my bag, and headed down to see what the story was. Just a quick drink, then bed. The bar didn't look very promising, but I stood next two two Aussie girls talking to a Kiwi and tried to make conversation with them. Unfortunately, the current topic of conversation was their pets' mysterious and gruesome deaths (I wish I was kidding). Also, they were resolutely ignoring me. I made chitchat with the barman while regretting my decision to be sociable and willing my beer to evaporate so I could go upstairs and crash.
Then I felt something scratch my back, right around my brastrap. Instinctively, I whipped around to find a half-drunk Irishman with a merry grin standing behind me. "You've a sticker on your back", he informed me laconically in a thick Dublin brogue. I reached around to my back and sure enough, I located and extirpated one Iberia luggage tag which had somehow affixed itself to my shirt. Oops. But since he had already (unwittingly) fumbled my brastrap, the least we could do was make some polite conversation so Darren (for that was his name) and I began to share Dublin experiences, travel itineraries and life stories.
After a while, he turned and introduced me to his friend Rob, who, unnoticed by me, had been standing next to us the whole time. How I failed to notice the six foot nine, impossibly handsome, sixties-style brown haired, carribean ocean blue eyed man 30 cm away I'll never know. Just another example of my amazing lack of perception. In any case, when my heart remembered to start beating again I managed to make what I hoped was semi-intelligent conversation about everything from back dimples (only 1 in 20 people have them, according to their friend Kev) to metegol. I got thorougly beaten the crap out of by Kev at the metegol table - why do I have the love of the game but none of the relevant talent? I think Kev even let in a couple of pity goals to make me feel better. Who said the Irish aren't gentlemen?
But of course, being Irish, they weren't inclined to stop drinking when the hostel bar closed, so we headed off into the Kraków night, picking up Chris from Pittsburgh, PA on the way. We ended up in one of many of Poland's basement bars, rockin' it out to the music while the boys tried to find an acceptable woman to pick up from the array of very exposed flesh available. I soon tired of this and retired to a couch where Chris told me his story - Pharmacy student by day, rabid anarchist by night. Well OK, not anarchist, but far from the right-wing middle America sterotype. We talked travels and loves and lives and he bought me drinks and treated me like a lady, until our group decided to make tracks back to the hostel. I lost Chris somehow, and ended up chatting with Ronan on the way home, another of the Irish lads. Joy Division fan and musical encyclopaedia, he suggested a thousand awesome groups I should check out of which the next day I remembered exactly none. I should have listened to my mother when she said I should never leave the house without pen and paper...or was it a clean handkerchief?
Back at the hostel it was time for the night to finally end and I dropped thankfully into my bottom bunk.
But of course, thanks to the Harry Potter carriages and natural human curiosity it wasn't long before we were making conversation in their halting English. Turns out the three of them work together in a insurance sales call-centre in Lublin and they were off to Kraków to "celebrate" drinky-boy's (Marek's) stag party, who was getting married that weekend. I offered him my heartiest congratulations, but the poor sod just took a pull of his cheap Polish beer looking more miserable than ever. His mate Konrad explained to me he had got his girlfriend pregnant and was being forced to make an honest woman out of her - and so the drowning of the sorrows. Thankfully his friends were sober, and we chatted amiably all the way to Kraków, punctuated by hearty Polish drinking songs which Marek insisted on singing, very loudly. I sang the "We Love You Conrad" song from "Bye Bye Birdie", while sweet Konrad blushed red as a beetroot. Marek was studying Law, he told me, Konrad Psychology and Marcin IT. We took silly pictures of each other sleeping, talked about Polish beer and vodka, football, and they taught me the Polish gesture for drinking a lot (make a palm, and make a chopping motion hitting the pinky finger side on the side of your neck below the ear). We also shielded poor Marek from the train conductor when it looked like he was about to get thrown off the train, thankfully the conductor glanced at me and clearly decided either that I would keep him in check, or that he didn't want to make a scene in front of a lady.
Marek and Marcin:
Konrad and I:
Got in, checked in, and the first thing the receptionist gave me (before the key to my room) was a voucher for a free beer in the hostel bar. Though I was tired, I didn't feel like being alone, so I went upstairs, dumped my bag, and headed down to see what the story was. Just a quick drink, then bed. The bar didn't look very promising, but I stood next two two Aussie girls talking to a Kiwi and tried to make conversation with them. Unfortunately, the current topic of conversation was their pets' mysterious and gruesome deaths (I wish I was kidding). Also, they were resolutely ignoring me. I made chitchat with the barman while regretting my decision to be sociable and willing my beer to evaporate so I could go upstairs and crash.
Then I felt something scratch my back, right around my brastrap. Instinctively, I whipped around to find a half-drunk Irishman with a merry grin standing behind me. "You've a sticker on your back", he informed me laconically in a thick Dublin brogue. I reached around to my back and sure enough, I located and extirpated one Iberia luggage tag which had somehow affixed itself to my shirt. Oops. But since he had already (unwittingly) fumbled my brastrap, the least we could do was make some polite conversation so Darren (for that was his name) and I began to share Dublin experiences, travel itineraries and life stories.
After a while, he turned and introduced me to his friend Rob, who, unnoticed by me, had been standing next to us the whole time. How I failed to notice the six foot nine, impossibly handsome, sixties-style brown haired, carribean ocean blue eyed man 30 cm away I'll never know. Just another example of my amazing lack of perception. In any case, when my heart remembered to start beating again I managed to make what I hoped was semi-intelligent conversation about everything from back dimples (only 1 in 20 people have them, according to their friend Kev) to metegol. I got thorougly beaten the crap out of by Kev at the metegol table - why do I have the love of the game but none of the relevant talent? I think Kev even let in a couple of pity goals to make me feel better. Who said the Irish aren't gentlemen?
But of course, being Irish, they weren't inclined to stop drinking when the hostel bar closed, so we headed off into the Kraków night, picking up Chris from Pittsburgh, PA on the way. We ended up in one of many of Poland's basement bars, rockin' it out to the music while the boys tried to find an acceptable woman to pick up from the array of very exposed flesh available. I soon tired of this and retired to a couch where Chris told me his story - Pharmacy student by day, rabid anarchist by night. Well OK, not anarchist, but far from the right-wing middle America sterotype. We talked travels and loves and lives and he bought me drinks and treated me like a lady, until our group decided to make tracks back to the hostel. I lost Chris somehow, and ended up chatting with Ronan on the way home, another of the Irish lads. Joy Division fan and musical encyclopaedia, he suggested a thousand awesome groups I should check out of which the next day I remembered exactly none. I should have listened to my mother when she said I should never leave the house without pen and paper...or was it a clean handkerchief?
Back at the hostel it was time for the night to finally end and I dropped thankfully into my bottom bunk.
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