Getting to Kraków

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:

Konrad and I:

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.

Zamość

After gorging myself on my dinner of meat, potatoes and apple pie with ice cream, I had gone back to my suite (ahhh) and straight to sleep, which meant the following day I was up basically at the crack of dawn. I opened my eyes, stretched, and wandered sleepily to the window, which looked out on the main square. It was deserted. Obviously Zamość was more sleepy even than I.

In any case, I got dressed and got out of the hotel to have a look around. I wandered around the square and did some people-watching, checked out the court building, the old military arsenal (overgrown, locked-up building), the university, the Lublin gate, and all the buildings around the main square, which took about an hour and a half.

 After that, I thought - now what? Zamość might be listed by UNESCO as a Heritage site, and maybe it is the "Padua of the North", but there is only so long you can stare at seven renaissance-style buildings. I decided to go to the tourist office to see what else was available.

In the tourist office, I had some trouble communicating with the non-English speaking girl-at-desk. In Eastern Poland most of the tourist traffic is national; not too many foreigners are visiting Zamość. Thankfully, I came to expect in Poland, a kind, English-speaking stranger appeared out of nowhere and offered to help translate. She spent almost twenty minutes with me sorting out my train timetable, asking about tours, and making general chitchat about Poland. Thanks to her, I found out that there are no scheduled tours of Zamość, you have to hire a tour guide for 100 zloty an hour. Usually they do tours for groups, which is why they are so expensive. My new friend was outraged - with all the unemployment in Eastern Poland, they should all be out showing tourists around for a reasonable price, she fumed. Since I had already seen all the bits of Zamość I could see without a guide (doesn't make much sense just to look at buildings when you have no idea of the history behind them) I decided to head on to Krakow. After much back and forth by my friend and the tourist office lady, I was informed the only trains to Krakow go through Lublin (necessitating backtracking), and that there was only one train a day, at 13:30. Figuring I would go stir crazy if I had to spend another 27 hours in Zamość, I decided to head to Krakow the same day. I bid farewell to my translating friend, who was also doing a train tour of Poland, but instead of visiting the cities, she was visiting the national parks, lakes, and natural beauty. She said she had spent a week in a rural lodge in a national park with the most amazing views, totally relaxing, clean air, healthy walking every day, and much cheaper than staying in a "city" like Zamość (I couldn't help but giggle at that). I had avoided visiting the more rural parts of Poland because they are not in such easy reach from the train stations, but I think next time I visit Poland I will try and spend more time enjoying the country's nature. After she warned me to pack some snacks for the long train ride, I went off to eat some very overpriced crêpes in the square.

I stayed in town until 12:00 to see the cornet player in the clock tower do his thing. I managed to grab the last little bit:

Following that, I strapped my very big pack onto my back and headed off to the train station. When I got there, I almost walked right past it; it looked like an abandoned building. But my Lonely Planet insisted this was the right place, so I went in to investigate. Sure enough, in the "abandoned building" there was a train timetable in Polish, and a window with the requisite grumpy lady behind it. Summoning my courage, I asked in my best Polsklish for the platform for the Lublin train. "Peron 1", she replied. My Polish is really improving, I thought. I smiled to myself as it occurred to me that the window lady even looked a little impressed at the foreigner with the passable Polish. But the self-satisfaction only lasted until I went out onto the platforms and realised Platform 1 was the only platform - so much for looking intelligent. I waited on the solitary platform, with a Polish mother and daughter, and when a train came along at 13:30 I got on and hoped like hell it was going to Lublin.

Zamość: Arrival

By the time I got to Zamość, it was dark. Well, not so much dark as pitch black. The bus depot was most definitely not in town, in fact it was plonked on a deserted highway with only a few streetlights and lots of shadowy, sinister trees. Not a very uplifting situation. I took comfort in the fact I had very reduced choices regarding what to do at this point - Zamość was either to the left, or to the right. The downside? I had no idea how far the town was, and I didn't particularly like the idea of trudging up the highway alone in the dark for an undetermined amount of time, only to give up and have to go back the other way. My trusty Lonely Planet was of no help, as although it featured a very detailed map of the town square, it was quite useless when trying to locate said square. After floundering for a while, I finally spotted a taxi about twenty metres away and ran like blazes to catch up to it (not that easy with my very large backpack). I reached the door, peered inside...damn! It was full of giggling post-pubescent girls seemingly on the way to a very fun party. So I was surprised when the driver (slightly older girl, probably the older sister of one of the gigglers) rolled down the window and asked me something in Polish. I assumed, from lack of contradictory evidence, that she was asking me my destination. I tried not to sound too lost and ventured "Stary Rynek?". The driver turned to the gigglers and started to say something, I am guessing along the lines of "This poor clueless tourist looks totally lost - we can't leave her here in the dark. Should we take her to the town?" which thankfully was met whith a chorus of "Tak tak tak tak!"s. She motioned for me to get in the taxi, which I did, gratefully.

The girls gabbled and giggled and generally constructed an air of pre-nightlife expectation, while we drove down to Zamość town. Finally, the taxi stopped and I asked, "Stary Rynek?" to which the driver answered, "Tak". Awesome. Extremely relieved at having arrived to civilisation without encoutering bears, serial killers, or other wildlife, I asked "Ceny?", to which the driver answered, "Nie.". No price. She flat out refused to take any money from me. I was astounded and said a million dziękujęs, and the girls smiled, giggled, and drove off into the night.

I checked into the hotel, which further increased my fluency in Polsklish, and went to find some nutrition. My hopes were not high, it was almost 22:00 so my only prerequisite for dinner was "something open". Luckily I found a medieval-type cellar serving "typical Polish food" (yeah right, but unless you get invited to a Polish grandmother's house, this is the most typical you're gonna get). I had a delicious meal and headed off to my suite (yes, after the depressing accommodations of Lublin I needed a bit of a change) for some battery recharging.

Next morning, bright and early, I was up and ready to take in what Zamość had to offer.

Lublin, the up-and-comer of Eastern Poland

Rested and refreshed the next morning, I rose early to visit the Lublin Cemetary before breakfast. I love cemetaries; they are extraordinarly peaceful places. Seeing the resting place of people just like me, who were once so vital and who laughed and loved and ate and made love and now are forever silent makes me mentally revisit what is important in life. The Lublin cemetary was exactly what I had hoped for - leafy, well-kept and almost deserted.







As I ambled I found myself wondering, as I usually do in cemetaries, about the people buried there, what they were like, who their families were, what they looked like, if they liked school, or sport, or building model aeroplanes, or never got a chance to do any of those things. I felt sorry for some of the people there who looked as if had been a few decades since anyone had last stopped by for a chat, so I bought some red orchids from a lady outside and laid them on one of the graves.

My serenity quotient now sufficiently high, I wandered into the heart of Lublin with breakfast on my mind. It wasn't yet 9am and Lublin was still revving up, and the streets crawled with Poles rushing to work and school. I was excited to find, on my way in to the city centre, a long pedestrian street crammed with cafés and bars with terraces just waiting to serve me ham, toast, sausages, cheese and tomatoes.



After some nutrition and coffee, I set out to explore Lublin:

Frederic Chopin street - a prerequisite of every Polish city:



A statue of Jósef Piłsudski, important figure in Poland's regaining of independence in 1918:



Some gorgeous Polish/Soviet style architecture in the main square:



Buildings in the main square with detailing and cozy looking bars underneath:



Me trying (unsuccessfully, again) to take an auto-portrait of myself with the town hall in the background:

Lublin castle, frequented by ye olde Polish kings and converted into a prison:

Courtyard inside Lublin Castle:

The lions, on guard against intruders:



There were gorgeous vibrant colours at the open air market. I spied a white shirt that I liked,but when I picked it up I realised it would only fit Naomi Campbell after a week of particularly aggressive dieting. I wanted to ask if they had a bigger one, but the only language I could manage was hand signals. I showed the man the shirt, and then put my hands wide apart. He pulled one out to fit Luciano Pavarotti. I laughed, and made a sign with my index finger and thumb, indicating small, and pointed to myself. He pulled out another one, more suitable to my size. "Tak, dziękuję". First hurdle overcome, but now how to pay? Usually I would just hand over a note large enough to be plenty, and wait for the change. But I was relaxed, and confident, and I decided to see if I could manage to create some cultural connections.

Me: "Cena, prosze?" (Price, please?)
Him: Something unintelligible in Polish that vaguely resembled "pięć", which is five.
Me: "Er, pięć?" (Hopeful look)
Him: "Nie, nie." More Polish.

I decided to change tack at this point. I held up five fingers, and said "Pięć?", and then 10 fingers, and said, "Pięć-pięć?" He smiled, flashed his hand three times, and said, "Pięć-pięć-pięć". Aha. Fifteen złoty. I took it out of my purse, and he smiled, and said in English, "Twenty-five?". "Nie," I replied, "Twenty-five: Pięć-pięć-pięć-pięć-pięć!"

Laughter all around (no doubt at my atrocious pronunciation), and I was glad that I had stretched my communication skills that little bit, although I shouldn't have been too surprised at my success. If there is a universal language, it is surely the language of commerce.



The simple things in life are often the best - in this case fresh, local, seasonal produce. If only we could get this kind of quality food so easily in Western Europe. Even Spain, supposedly more epicurianally traditional than other European nations, is falling prey to the food industrialisation and globalisation which means our oranges are more likely to come from Kenya than Valencia.



The pedestrian main street, later in the day:



But I had come to Lublin as a detour to Zamość, so it was time to head to the bus station and make my way. I very adventurously decided to abandon my reliance on my map (read: couldn't be arsed to get it out of my bag) and get back to the hostel only on memory, which is quite adventurous of me when you take into account my total geographical disorientation in all situations. Luckily, Lublin is not that big and I made it back to the hostel a) without incident and b) faster than planned. I said goodbye to the caretaker, loaded up my rucksack, my backpack on my front, and set off to the bus station.

As I was walking through the park I got a few admiring looks and nods from the Lubliners, as if to say, "A girl like you travelling alone carrying that heavy-looking bag is pretty brave, so goodonya!". I felt a real connection with them at that moment, like my energy and enthusiasm was the same as theirs, that they had felt that and wanted to acknowledge it, that we shared an appreciation for the out of the ordinary. Perhaps this is too much to read into a smile and a nod, but for once I can be sure they weren't just perving at my chest (backpack in the way). I sometimes think we are so used to relying on words that we underestimate how much an expression or gesture can communicate. Removing yourself from your verbal environment, and submitting yourself to an alien world where the writing is only pretty pictures and the conversations are jumbled syllables, there is no recourse but to pay attention to the other 90% of what people are saying. And it is saddening to realise how many messages pass you by, unheeded, most of the time.

Once at the station, the attendant managed to convey to me that I should wait at Peron 19 (thank goodness the Polish use arabic numerals!) but for all my wandering up and down the station, platform 19 was nowhere to be seen. Unable to ask for directions, I went back to the attendant and said, in my best clueless voice, "Autobusy, Zamość. Peron 19", to which the attendant replied, "Tak, peron 1", in a tone that conveyed her estimation of my intelligence (roughly that of a sedimentary rock). I tried again to get my point across. "Peron 19?" I asked, pointing one way. "Peron 19?" I repeated pointing in a different direction. The attendant finally got the drift and pointed me in the right direction, and off I went. Turns out if you keep going and going, seemingly out of the bus depot, you will find Peron 19. It didn't look as if Zamość was a very popular destination, but I had heard lots of wonderful things about it, so trying to dampen any expectations, I climbed into the minibus and commenced the soaking in of the rural Polish landscape.

Lublin: Arrival

The train to Lublin had arrived right on time, but at first sight I didn't realise it was an intercity train. Although the carriages showed off a fresh lick of green paint, it screeched and groaned into Warszawa Centralna like an octogenarian with a pending hip replacement. Noisy and dilapidated though it was, the romantic in me was enchanted by the "Hogwarts Express" style compartments, openable windows, and the navy-uniformed conductor. It was just like I used to read about in my Enid Blytons when I was a child, and nothing like the sterile, super modern trains of Western Europe. I got on, and realised I had no idea what the compartment protocol is on this type of train. Do you have to ask if there is an available seat or just plonk yourself down next to someone that doesn't look smelly or about to launch into a long-winded description of their recent colonoscopy? Since my ability to ask in Polish about seat availability is absolutely nil, I opted for the plonk option. Thankfully some gallant Polish gentlemen helped me hoist my pack up to the luggage rack and pretty soon the navy-suited conductor (with big brass buttons!) opened our compartment door and demanded "Tickets please" (I assume). Once my interrail ticket had a hole punched in "Day 1", I settled in with my thick Larsson, resting my eyes occasionally on the countryside and peering anxiously at the signs every time we pulled into a station. Apparently the Polish do not see fit to mark all of the train stations with signs, apparently assuming that if you got on the damn train in the first place you already know where you are going. This was worrying, but I figured that Lublin being the capital of Malopolska (Little Poland) the signage for it would be not only existant, but capitalised, headline size and in bold type. And so it proved to be.

At the exit of the Lublin train station, I found the backpacker's dream - an enormous sign containing a street map of Lublin, which I immediately began to study in the hopes of locating my hostel. After a good few minutes of staring at the map and muttering, a nice Polish lady standing near me asked me in English if I needed any help. I admitted that while I had managed to locate my hostel on the map, I couldn't figure out where the train station was. She showed me, and then asked me how I planned to get there. When I told her I was going to walk she said "It's late, and it's going to get dark soon. The walk will probably take you more than half an hour. Wouldn't you prefer to take a taxi?". I hadn't felt unsafe at all in Poland, but when the locals tell me to take a taxi because it's getting dark, I bloody well take it. She advised me not to take the taxis at the station (too expensive) so she called a taxi from her mobile (she wouldn't use mine), took the trouble to explain to the operator exactly where I was going, that I didn't speak Polish, and where to pick me up. In short, my saviour in a skirt and red lipstick. We chatted a bit, she was commuting to Lublin for work, from Warszawa I suppose, but before I got a chance to find out anything else, her taxi whisked her away to her weekday hotel/home. My taxi came and took me to the hostel. You would think we wouldn't be able to communicate, but it's amazing how much you can achieve with only "Yes", "No" and generous use of facial expression and tone of voice. The taxi stopped, and I asked "Tak?", which means "Yes", but using it to mean "Is this the place?". The driver replied "Tak" in a definitive and authoritative tone of voice, which I took to mean "Yep, we're here". It really drives home what you always hear about 80% of communication being non-verbal.

The hostel guy was also lovely, English a little broken but more than adequate. The Polish have incredibly good English, but even when they don't they make up for it with lovely manners, warm smiles and good intentions. The hostel was very depressing, had all the style of a juvenile detention centre from the 60s:



However, all I wanted at that point was a shower and a bed, and for the measly sum of 30 złotys (just over 7 euro) the hostel provided me just that. And I was almost alone in the entire building, which, while adding to the general creepiness of the place, meant I had a dorm room all to myself, which, in my many years of travelling, I have realised is a luxury not to be sneezed at (or snored at).

Beautiful Sunday

Day two wasn't supposed to be Warszawa at all. As I had already visited in 2005 I was keen to fly in and then get out as fast as possible. Plan was to get on a train to Zamość first thing in the morning on Sunday... but, as is not uncommon, the plan unwove in the face of newly aquired information. Fact is, Warszawa city puts on a free outdoors Chopin concert every summer Sunday. How could I resist (and why would I?). So I forgot about the train for the moment and woke up to a gorgeous sunny day. I breakfasted with a couple of Czechs and a Canadian. One of the Czechs was wearing a John Lennon T-shirt, which made me chuckle to myself about my find the previous day. The Czechs had just come from Lublin, and they couldn't stop raving about how much they liked it. Remembering that Gosia had also recommended Lublin, I decided to put Zamość on hold and head straight there. But for the moment, I had a whole morning of lovely sunny Warszawa ahead of me before the concert at noon. First stop? With all of the museums and historical monuments that Warszawa has to offer, the attraction that most caught my eye was the statue of the Mermaid (Syreny). Mostly my reasons for going were literary; the name recalled Homer's terrifying and alluring singers, but also brought back childhood memories of "The Little Mermaid". I remember being sad when I reached the end of the book where the handsome prince married another woman, and the little mermaid becomes foam on the waves. And then being annoyed when I watched the Disney version and they changed the ending (you just can't please some people). But I digress. I set off in search of the Polish Syreny, which had the bonus of being situated just next to the Wisła (Vistula) which I had been dying to see. In the end, the Syreny was more remeniscent of Ariel than terrible man-eating beast, and the Wisła was shallow and murky. But I did see a boat put-putting along and a little kid with a balloon, so all was not lost in the picturesque department. Below you will find proof of the difficulty of auto-photography when you are trying to get yourself and a large, faraway object in the frame (note my perplexed look):




Here is a slightly better look at the statue:


After all that hard statue-gazing, it was clearly time to sample one of Warszawa's famed café bookshops (caffeine and ink - heaven). I decided to visit what is reputed to be Warszawa's oldest, Cuły Barbarzyńca, named in tribute to Czech author Bohumil Hrabal and his book "The Gentle Barbarian". It looked fabulous, crammed with bookshelves which were in turn crammed with thick, hardbacked volumes. I spied the coffee machine - a sleek and modern manual espresso the likes of which I had not spotted since Dublin (the "espresso" in Spain is made at the push of a button. Very disappointing). The top of the machine was lined with glistening white espresso cups, and I could easily imagine Warszawa's literati sipping dark-roasted short blacks atop the gleaming dark wood bar stools and island tables. Unfortunately, it was closed, but my trusty Warszawa tourist map pinpointed Kafka Café, conveniently within walking distance and also in keeping with what was turning out to be a very Czech morning. Kafka Café served the most delicious almond pastry I have ever tasted, and also the best coffee I could remember drinking for a long while. I dug further into "Men Who Hate Women", while sitting outside on the Kafka patio, enjoying the fresh air.

As usual for me, the book swallowed the rest of my morning and pretty soon it was time to head over to Łazienkowski‎ park for the concert. Łazienkowski‎ park is pretty huge, and I had no idea where the concert was supposed to be. But, on reaching the park borders, I simply turned on my best sheep impression and followed the streams of Warszawians until I reached a massive stone reproduction of Chopin, which I took to be the Chopin Monument. I parked myself in the sunshine and waited for the music to begin. What piece was played I unfortunately cannot say, as the announcement was made in Polish (however, they did explain in English at length about the concert series and pianist, who was also Polish). I can tell you that it was in "F molla", which I am assuming is F minor.

I enjoyed the concert thoroughly, though next time I will avoid sitting directly in the roasting sunshine and opt for the shade of a large tree. Warszawians are lucky to have this kind of free cultural event - I can't remember the last time I heard a classically trained professional play in Melbourne or Dublin for free (not counting Irish "fiddle dee dee" music). It seems classical music, literature, jazz and other expressions of supposedly "highbrow" culture are more part of Poland's national consciousness than in other countries, or perhaps it is just keenness to exploit one of their few internationally recognised citizens?

I had purposely not booked any accommodation, preferring to take it one day at a time and book as I went. So I needed to buy a Polish SIM card for my phone, to save precious złoty on mobile calls to hostels and tourist offices. Gosia told me to go to any kiosk and ask for a "Starter". Unfortunately, that was the only word I knew, so I put on my most inquiring tone of voice and said, "Starter, prosze?", to which the first two kiosk vendors replied...well, something long in Polish involving "Nie", so I figured they didn't have any. The third one did, and she handed me a box with Polish written on it, but two numbers (thank goodness for the universality of Arabic numerals!) on it, one of which I assumed was the price. There was a 5, and a 29. I figured 5 złoty was too cheap for a SIM (just over one euro) so I gave the woman 30 złoty, to which she said "Nie nie nie nie!" and pointed to the five. I handed over five złoty and gave thanks for the honesty of the Polish - had that been Spain or Argentina they would have grabbed the 30 złoty without even smiling.

Armed with my new communications device, it was time to make a move. Warszawa had been kind to me, but I was keen to keep moving and get some momentum up. I hauled my rucksack onto my back, slung my backpack onto my front, and, walking very very carefully keeping the "Peru Nose Incident" in mind, I toddled off to Warszawa Centralna. I had my Interrail pass (which thankfully was not still on the kitchen counter) meaning I didn't need to have a scary "ticket buying in Polish" moment just yet. Once I had the train timetable figured out, I was on my way to Lublin.

Welcome to Warszawa

The day finally arrived when I would be boading my Vueling (formerly Clickair) flight to Warszawa, and I was beside myself with excitement. I worried in the weeks beforehand as I was not looking forward to the trip at all - not dreading it, but not looking forward to it. But that was just because of the stress of moving, work, and the fact that I had not-very-conveniently decided, on a whim, to visit a friend in Valencia the weekend beforehand, leaving zero time to pack. Packing was a major logistical issue, mainly because all my stuff was still in piles of boxes, and I had no idea which ones contained clothes. Much like making dinner out of three unlabeled cans at the back of your kitchen cupboard, I packed my suitcase with whatever clothes I found first, threw in a couple of toiletries and extra socks, and away I went. Unfortunately, it was at this late stage I realised that I had no idea in which of the myriad boxes I had put the battery charger for the camera; a disaster for me but a blessing for you as now you only have to put up with the 20 or so pictures I will post for your amusement, and not the 4000 some people come back from holiday with (you know who you are).

On Saturday morning I turned off all the lights, took one last look around my new apartment, put the double lock on the door, and made my way down the four flights of stairs. Running out of the door, I ran through my mental checklist: Passport? Check. Plane tickets? Check. House keys, phone and wallet? Check. Very expensive Eurail ticket essential for my train travel in Poland? On kitchen counter. Damn. Up four fights of stairs, double lock off the door, grab the ticket, and mad rush to the waiting taxi. Finally on the plane with my trusty rucksack, I messaged Gosia to let her know I was on my way, and settled back to enjoy the flight. I had only brought two books, which for me is a ridiculously small amount for a two week holiday, but I consoled myself with the fact that they were each at least 300 pages. First up on the list: Men Who Hate Women, by Steig Larsson.

We touched down at Warszawa and I got the same feeling I always get in new country: what a pity that the first sight I have of this probably beautiful place is the stinking airport. But I got excited when I looked up to see "Citi Handlowy" and the angular face of the security guard. Everything already felt quite decidedly Polish, a breath of fresh air coming from homogenised Western Europe. Taxi to the hostel, I love złotys! It only cost me thirty of them to get from the airport to central Warszawa which is less than €10. Unfortunately, I was running super late to meet Gosia at the Warsaw Rising Museum (Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego), so I dumped my bag at the hostel, asked the reception chick for directions, she drew me a little map, and I sped out the door. Although I hate to be late and keep people waiting, I came to an abrupt stop and stared in amazement when I spotted this little gem out of the corner of my eye:



It was a sign, literally and figuratively. While signalling the entrance of John Lennon street, it simultaneously indicated to me that Poland was most definitely going to agree with me. And I with it.

All we are saying is...

Rushing on to the Warsaw Rising museum with my total lack of geographic ability, I managed to go in completely the wrong direction for about fifteen minutes before I realised and turned back to the hostel. Finding a cab turned out to be tricky, but doable, and I finally found Gosia waiting paitiently for me at the museum door. Lucky I have my Latin blood to blame for my lateness; but in this sense I am very Australian and hate being anything but totally punctual. Gosia took me through the museum, which I had suggested we visit, but unfortunately the ambience didn't suit my mood at all. I was freshly arrived in a new city, at the beginning of my holidays, bursting with happiness, vigor and enthusiasm for exploration. The museum was very interesting but also dark and depressing, hilighting the futility of war and the enormous lengths some people will go to to give another set of people a hard time for no good reason. I saw video footage of a truck just running right over a man and crushing him, like a drink can, without even slowing. Disgusting.

It was a relief to get out into the open air and sunshine, and Gosia and I took a walk and had a good long talk, which was exactly what I was in the mood for. By chance, we walked by the mint, which I had to take a picture of, having visited the mint in Melbourne many times as a girl and remembering how strange it felt to be surrounded by so much money.

 Apparently a 40m2 flat in Warsaw will start around €70,000, which sounds reasonable to me having dealt with astronomical house prices in Dublin and Barcelona, but for your average Polish person I imagine that is quite a lot of money indeed. Gosia took me to a restaurant serving "typical Polish" food, and I ate some kind of potato pancake with a meat filling. Can't remember the Polish name, but it was very tasty and satisfying. Also on the table was a long tall glass of Warka, one of the many Polish beers I was to taste over the course of my trip, with fruit syrup in it (I think it was strawberry). The Poles love to put syrup in their beer. It's not my style, but I'll try anything once. Another Pole-ism: drinking beer out of straws. Never seen that before, but Gosia assures me it's very common. Weird.



Next up, a visit to the Old Town, which we got to walking down Nowy Świat (New World) street. This is the upmarket part of Warszawa apparently, and I did indeed see many well dressed people drinking overpriced coffee. Walking down the street, I was irritated by the roar of helicopters overhead, but didn't attach any importance to their presence until we arrived at the Plac Zamkowy (Castle Square). I was busy admiring the Royal Castle when suddenly hundreds of little pieces of cardboard began floating towards the ground. Gosia and I were surpised to see grown men and women rush about like children, eyes to the sky, as the wind took their prize one way, then another, down into their waiting hands. I finally managed to capture one and we eagerly pored over it to find out what on earth was going on. Each card had a poem on it - it was an initiative by a Warszawa museum, titled "Rain of Poems". I breathed an enormous sigh of happiness. I can't think of another country where people would get so excited about poetry that a rain of poems would cause such a commotion. Since I was expecting some kind of crass marketing ploy, I was elated to find that this stunt was being pulled to celebrate literature, not consumerism. Poland just went up about a thousand points in my estimation.

We took a walk in the Warszawa Old Town (Stare Miasto), which is one of the squillion UNESCO World Heritage Sites of which the country can boast. Unfortunately it was night time and I didn't really absorb fully how lovely it is. In any case, the situation was improved by ice-cream, then we took the tram home, where I fell gratefully into bed.

Poland: Prelude

Anyone who lives near the Mediterranean can tell you - August is a dead month. Opening hours are reduced, some restaurants even close (but don't expect them to advertise the fact, you'll just find a note on the door of your favourite little tapas place to the effect of "Back September 1") and everyone who is anyone goes on holidays. This year is a little different, we have a financial crisis to contend with, and nobody has any money, so most people are just staying with family in other parts of Spain. But my only family either a) lives four blocks from my house or b) lives 13,000 kilometers from my house, so neither of those two options appealed much. Next best option for crisis-friendly travelling: somewhere reachable by low-cost airlines with a favourable exchange rate. 4 złotys to the euro? Destination: Poland!

In truth my original idea had been to go by train from Warsaw to Budapest, via Slovakia, Hungary, Czech Republic, and anything else I could squeeze in. But I was so wrapped up in work, and the paperwork for buying the house, and moving, that I couldn't be bothered planning the itinerary. Besides, I liked the idea of seeing a lot of one country. I tend to say I've "been to" France, when I have visited only Paris and Lyon, and "been to" Germany, having seen only Berlin and München. This is technically the truth, but France is not just Paris, and there is much more to Germany than the Berlin wall and funny traffic light men.  Since the company I work for has a branch in Poland, I felt very connected to the place, and the many Polish friends I had made in Dublin increased my curiosity. Not to mention I was dying to taste pierogi!

Practically all the water cooler talk at the office in July centres around summer holiday plans. "Puzzled" would be the way I would describe the almost universal reaction I received when I told people I was planning a trip to Poland. "I'm planning to travel around Poland." I would announce, with a smile of happy anticipation. "What, just Poland?" was the most common reply. "Who are you going with?", they would continue, probably thinking that at least in good company my vacation wouldn't be so horrendously dull. "Oh, just me. I'm going to interrail, and I couldn't really find anyone else that wanted to interrail around Poland, so I'm going by myself". At this point they were so stunned that a young woman was actually going to backpack by rail around an ex-iron curtain state BY HERSELF, that they almost couldn't think of anything to say. "Er, well, have fun then", they would stammer, before swiftly changing the topic. But I was quietly confident that they were all wrong about Poland, that they hadn't a clue what they were talking about, and that once I got there I would find the proof that I needed that Poland is a special, unique place. And so it proved to be, surpassing even my greatest expectations.


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It Can Be Fun! Promise!

Every time I do it, I swear it will never happen again. The pain and sense of loss is too great. This time, I tell myself, I will just be happy with what I have. But in the end, the itch to change comes over me, and I have to face it again.

Moving house.

Anyone that's done it is intimately familiar with the sense of dread. How, how, how do you accumulate so much stuff? Stuff you like, stuff you need, stuff you neither like nor need...yes, the broken lamps, ripped bags and cables you haven't the faintest idea what to plug into are still somewhere in your living space, although if someone asked you why on earth you still have this rubbish, the only response you can offer is a baffled expression.

Usually, when I have moved house, I have either a) only brought one rucksack full of stuff (like when I moved to Dublin) or b) had help as was moving with other people. This time I have a house full of crap (two people's crap, to be exact) and my loving partner has just departed to Ulan Baator for a six week road trip with three other guys (i.e. 24/7 toilet humour, burping, and talking about boobs). So I am on my own with this one. While this may sound like I got a bit of a crappy deal, let me point out some highlights of this arrangement:

1) I have the house to myself for the first five weeks, which means I get to decide what goes where. When Erik gets back he will be too tired to complain and after that it will be TOO LATE to change anything! Bwahahahaha!

2) I can be absolutely sure all the 500 page hardback cookbooks are not packed in the same box.

3) An across the board reduction of 85% of the nagging involved in the whole operation.

4) Possibly the best part: when I get home from work in the afternoons to pack boxes, I can blast my iTunes at top volume - think Katrina and the Waves, Robbie Williams, Hanson, S Club 7, the B 52's, Jennifer Lopez, the Bay City Rollers, Britney Spears and Ricky Martin. I wish I was kidding. I'm sorry, but La Copa De La Vida is the best World Cup song there has ever been and probably will ever be. It's physically impossible to stay on your butt when that song comes on. It should be a new Natural Law: "Any inanimate sentient being, when 'La Copa de la Vida' is applied to it, will gain chemical energy and subsequently expend kinetic energy". So when the iTunes flips to Ricky, I can interrupt stuffing crap into boxes to dance scantily clad (it's a million degrees!) around my living room without any eye rolling or the sound of hands being clapped forcefully over ears. And when I have packed and danced until the sweat is dripping (it's a million degrees, remember) I can go to the fridge and crack open an ice cold Quilmes without anyone giving me an "it's a bit early in the afternoon to be skulling weak Argentinian beer, isn't it?" eyebrow.

So, although moving is a right royal pain in the derrière, I don't have a driving license for the right side of the road (thank god I have friends) and Erik has vanished in a puff of smoke (let it be said, for the record, that this is Not His Fault, it is just bad timing), so far I am actually enjoying it. I will probably amend this viewpoint after I have lugged all the boxes up five flights of stairs with no elevator, but for now, I'm having a fabulous time.

Easy 7 Step Guide: Taking Out a Mortgage in Spain

Oh man, I'm so stressed out. I didn't even realise it until the other day. This mortgage thing is driving me INSANE, I cannot wait for it to be over. This is how it has gone for us:

Step 1: Here in Spain they won't look askance at giving you a mortgage until you've already paid a deposit on a house. So step one is househunting. Anybody that has ever done it knows how much of a drag that is. I solved that particular problem by setting a "Two viewing sessions a week" rule. No more than two nights a week looking at properties, because otherwise your social life is dead in the water, the laundry and dishes pile up, you only have time to wash your hair once a week, and your blood pressure rises to about 3000 mmHg. So using the very advanced and soon to be patented "Two Nights a Week" system, we managed to find a very well-located, large (for us), and thankfully well priced apartment. After knocking 8 grand off the asking price (gotta love a buyer's market), we had this bit done and dusted.

Step 2: Round one of the banks. In reality this step begins halfway through step one, but I'm not in the mood to make a flowchart, so you're just gonna have to imagine it. You go to all the different banks you can find, talk to the manager, and they give you glossy brochures indicating the conditions of the extremely competitive mortgages they are offering. This step is a pain in the arse in every possible way, and also, we found out later, essentially useless because they tell you the advertised interest rates (very attractive) which they only actually give to extremely rich people or the son of the bank manager. In reality they will find any reason to disqualify you for that mortgage package and charge you a king's ransom in fees and interest rates. Therefore, take note, fellow property investors, next time around I will skip this step, and go straight for step 4, but somewhere in here you gotta...

Step 3) Pay the deposit on the house. You agree to the price, and put down 10% of this amount. In return the vendors promise not to sell it to anyone else. If you don't end up buying it, you forfeit the money. If the vendors sell it to someone else, they have to pay you back double. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal, until you realise that to take out the mortgage, you have to have this signed. So, not only do you have to commit to buying a house you are not at all sure you can pay for, you have to agree to a date by which to have the house bought (in our case, July 31). You don't have the money by then, you lose the deposit, but the sign date is completely out of your control and you are at the mercy of the banks which as we all know, are generally risk-averse, cautious, and very, very slow to get anything done. Why can't you set a date for sometime in 2050? Because after years of property boom in Spain, when some properties were bought within hours of coming onto the market, the system hasn't changed and the expectations of the seller are still the same. So if you ask for too much time, they just tell you to jump in the lake and sell it to someone who will commit to the money faster. It's nonsense, but it's the way it is.

Step 4: Round 2 of banks: Begin taking the mortgage out with several banks, and thus find out the REAL conditions they are offering. If I told you that this step involved a mountain of paperwork, I would be underselling it. Thank god for the 21st century and the prevalence of scanners and Adobe Reader, or I would have felled the Daintree with all the photocopies. Deposit contract, ID, work contracts, registration documents of the property of we are buying, six months of bank statements, work history, job contracts of our two previous employments, three payslips, plus all of this again for Erik's parents who have kindly agreed to be guarantors, registration documents of their assets, on and on ad nauseum. I understand that there will be some red tape involved if someone (or thing) is going to lend you an exhorbitant amount of money, but by the sixth time they come back to you for more documentation, your heart really does begin to sink a bit.

Step 5: Denials. Not that there are not acceptations as well, but the denials come faster. And thicker. Bank employees know a lost cause when they see one, and the Spanish character makes it impossible for them to work on something one second more than they absolutely have to. This means that if you're out, you know it straight away.

Step 6: The waiting game. After you have sent in all the papers (or, what they said was all the papers, just you wait, sucker!) you sit back and wait for Mr. and Ms. Actuary Risk Assessors in the bank to decide whether you are risky business or not. Will you default on your mortgage? Will you go bankrupt? Will you spend your life savings on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Antartica from which you never return? These are the important questions that face the Risks department every day. More often than not the only thing you hear from them is requests for more paper, and other than that communication is scarce. From the beginning of step 4 to here will take 3-4 weeks. Every day within those weeks will be filled with anxiety. Your fingers will tap, your stomach will knot, your concentration at work will wane, and you will lose sleep. But with luck, and a healthy salary, you should be able to make it to...

Step 7: Acceptation! Congratulations, say hello to your brand new baby mortgage! I can't really tell you much about this step yet, but I hope to fill you in once I get there...

The most money I've ever held in my hand

Must be funny, in a rich man's world

We found a house we want to buy! It's in a great, family-oriented neighbourhood, right off the main (pedestrian) street, very close to my workplace and the metro, and about 70 square metres for the both of us. Yes, it's very exciting but it is yet another disheartening anecdote which proves that intentions are not always matched with ability. Of course we would love to buy the place - the banks do not exactly share our enthusiasm, or confidence in our financial situation. Apparently, to be trustworthy in the eyes of a recessionary bank, you have to be working in the same job on a long term contract for two years. Just moved to Spain? Fuggedabadit. So we are busting our chops to prove (via email and internet forms) to the Risk department of several Spanish (and English) banks that we are really reliable people who make plenty of money and will not be losing our jobs any time soon. This is even more difficult than it sounds. It is so much easier to say "No, we won't help you take the first step into the property market" to someone whose face you have never seen, and so much harder to convince someone you are reliable, hard-working and trustworthy when your disarming smile and likeable manner cannot be used as persuasion tools.

That said, should everything work out, I will finally have a good comeback for all those annoying "So, when is the wedding?" comments. 'Cause in my eyes, a mortgage is a way more binding commitment than a marriage. Who needs to trade shiny rings when you share a "think about it too much and you'll break into a cold sweat"-size debt?

The Poland trip is coming along too. I have a vague itinerary, you can look at it here. I have 16 days to squeeze all that in! Anyone who has been to Poland, tell me which of these I can leave out... I would leave out Krakow for fear of multitudes of tourists but cannot resist the lure of the Tartars or miss a chance to visit Auschwitz. I wasn't going to go, after having experienced Dachau and the subsequent depression, but I think it's something one should see and dwell on for a while. Most of all, I'm looking forward to travelling by myself; I haven't done that since the Americas in 2005/2006 and that was one of the best trips of my life. No compromises, suckah! Erik will be rallying it up in Asia, so I don't have to worry about him. Well, I don't have to worry about him being lonely, I still have to worry that he will get arrested in Glormenistan (or something) for making fun of a police officer (or similar "crime") and given a life sentence with no conjugal visits. And that he will have left me to pay the mortgage, which is clearly the important thing here.

And I thought we wouldn't have to do this again in Barcelona...

Another day, another flat. Yes, we're flathunting again. What? Yes, again. Why? We're sick of handing over an obscene amount of rent every month so someone we have only met twice. Might as well pay the money to the big bad banks and have something to show for it at the end of 30 years. So we are preparing to get up to our eyeballs in debt and take out our very first mortgage. I took a lot of convincing, and Erik, my parents, my cousin and his wife all had to work on me for a couple of months before my completely risk-averse self finally came around to the idea that a mortgage is more like a couple of dumbbells tied onto your arms with cord than a ball and chain with a rusty lock whose key has been thrown into the Atlantic. I hate debt, I hate owing people money, especially to mean people who would think nothing of throwing Erik and I onto the street if we can't meet the payments, and are really not very smart, considering they caused the current global financial crisis and are the proponents of the current credit freeze that is making life so difficult for individuals and small business to make it through the recession. At least we are buying in a recession, not in the property bubble of the previous years. With properties losing up to 60% of their value, I think I would be committed to an institution with severe depression right now if I had bought a house this time last year.

But who wants to talk about the recession? Oh, nobody, that's what I thought. Onto happier things. My mate Joanna came to visit me for a whole week! It was great catching up and being able to hang around with an Aussie for a change! While I toddled off to work every day she slept in and took in the sights, in the afternoons we got together and had some lovely walks and dinners (and of course, non-stop chats). The bonus of her visit is that she found a warehouse of a store that I really like, SkunkFunk (Basque brand!) with really cheap stuff about five minutes from my house! Thanks Janna, I will never be able to make it up to you! The only pity is that they don't have any clothes suitable for work, because the trousers I have been using are about two or three sizes too big for me and I just can't deny any longer that they look ridiculous. I look like "Bozo the Clown Goes to the Office". Tomorrow morning I am getting up early and hitting H&M and Zara and getting some pants that stay up. And maybe some shoes (I have been wearing the same pair to work for the last three months. Thanks to Erik's mum, who gave them to me).

The credit card will get a bit of a workout, which should make it super fit thanks to the exercise I gave it the other day on the clickair website. I am planning a trip to Poland in August, two wonderful weeks in this close, but strangely quite unknown land.

Carnaval in the gay capital of Catalunya

This was one of those weekends where I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought "I'm in Spain". I have to admit I have been a little downhearted recently - not really adapting to Barcelona like a fish to water. I'm not sure if it feels like home yet. It's certainly familiar, but I'm still struggling a little to find my niche. That said, on occasion, this country really does an outstanding job of being fun. This is one of those times.

Carnaval.

When I was growing up, I always thought of Carnaval as a Brazilian thing. Now I find that it's a global celebration, with parties stretching from the Americas to Europe. Anglo-Saxon countries either just haven't cottoned on to it yet, or are too stuffy to get into it. Either way, I have been missing out! On Saturday we made sure to wake up late and do almost nothing to make sure that we wouldn't wear ourselves out too much to partake in the midnight madness! In the afternoon we chatted lazily with a pair of Greeks who are here in Spain for the match between Villareal and Panathinaikos. They haven't even got tickets, but came on the off-chance that they can pick some up at the game. Nuts! But I envy them, I've always wanted to do something like that. They are great guys, and I really enjoyed meeting again that culture I have missed for so long. After living in Melbourne, home to the largest Greek community outside of Greece, Dublin brought on a bit of Greek withdrawals. I don't think I ever even saw a Greek restaurant in the whole three years, let alone a Greek person! At about six we headed out to Sitges (picking another Greek on the way) for some pizza and beers to start the night off with.

Sitges is apparently the gay centre of Barcelona. I have only ever seen it at night, but it appears to be a fun and good sized little town, right on the beach. A bit of a train ride from Barcelona, but well worth a visit. During Carnaval it turns into a town-wide costume party, with most of the craziness concentrated in the "Calle del Pecado" (Street of Sin). The streets were fuller than at five in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday, and everyone, EVERYONE, was in costume. Our group had dressed up as pirates, but there were all kinds of animals, Sesame street, casks of wine, angels and devils, all the usual stuff. Lots and lots of crossdressing men too. The star costume of the night went to a guy dressed up as Wally. Poor guy couldn't walk five meters without a drunken reveler poking him in the chest amidst cries of "Look guys, look! WALLY! I FOUND WALLY!"

Of course with all this mess of people and my proven lack of geographic and location abilities, I knew that there was an above average chance that I would get completely, hopelessly lost. So as soon as we made it to the main plaza, I looked Erik right in the eyes, and I said firmly, "Don't lose me". He didn't say anything in reply, but his look more or less said "Yeah, whatever, I'm going to drink another beer". We began to wander down the street, and I began to talk to two girls, Gosia and Joanna (I think). I was keeping a hawk eye out for Erik, thankfully not too difficult due to his height and very round costume (if I can find pictures I will post them - super dumbass here forgot the camera). After about five minutes, Gosia stopped to take a photo and I looked away for like, a SECOND I swear, and then he was gone and so were all the other people we were with and we were all alone. No worries though. They were up ahead, so all we had to do is walk fast, and they would appear. We walked fast. They did not appear. Despite all my best intentions, I had managed to lose myself in the crowds faster than it takes me to make a tuna omelette. What about my mobile phone you ask? A very good point, Watson, but unfortunately my mobile decided that exact moment was the appropriate one in which to die and not turn on again. Super.

The three of us alone now, we walked down to the beach where Gosia and Joanna promptly got hit on by two guys (in less time than it takes Jamie Oliver to make a damn omelette, without the tuna). I had resigned myself to standing alone for the whole night while two half-drunk Argentines tried to remove the clothing of the girls I was with, when Gosia, clearly over the lovely south American accent and the obvious intentions of her suitor, asked me, "Do you remember your boyfriend's phone number?" and pointedly handed me her phone. Here came the first miracle of the night, as I have been trying to memorise those nine digits for the last seven months without success, but for some reason my rusty but sporadically brilliant brain managed to get itself into gear and fire off all the correct neurotransmitters this time in order for me to be able to, for the first time ever, punch in Erik's phone number without having to look it up first.

Long story short, despite my abysmal description of our location, they managed to find us, and thus began the chastising for having lost the group in the first place. I tried my best not to, I swear! Anyway, I might have lost the group, but the group also lost me, right? Ha!

We spent some time hanging out at the beach, chatting and drinking, and then headed for the bars (mainly 'cause we were dying to pee!). The first one had great oldie and pop music, even though the clientele was a little strange. The second one was too full and really awful. We crossed town and ended up at this half full place with a good vibe, until the doof doof music began. At the end of the night a guy from Cork came over to talk to me. He started the conversation in Spanish (which he spoke reasonably well), and I felt no compulsion to put an end to his misery. After we had been chatting for a little while he asked, predictably, "so, where are you from?" to which I replied, "I'm Australian" (soy Australiana). His look was priceless. "What? You knew that whole time I wasn't a Spanish speaker!". Hahahahaha. Anyway he suddenly lost interest in talking to me after Erik showed up. Humph. Sometimes it's nice to be talked to because someone finds you interesting, and not simply because you have two X chromosomes.

We stayed till the bar closed and then headed out to the train. Slept all the way to Barcelona, then a mercifully short taxi ride home, and crashed into bed about 06:30. Bed sweet bed.

Another Christmas, Another Year...

Christmas. It comes but once a year, and thank goodness for that. Most people are surprised when I say I don't like Christmas, it's like saying you don't like chocolate or the puppies in the toilet paper ads (although I am sure these people also exist). But for me it has no special meaning. My family is far away, I'm not religious, I don't have kids to get excited about Santa, so all Christmas means to me is excess consumption (both retail and gastronomic), and pine needles on the floor. Christmas in Spain has its disadvantages (bitter cold) and advantages (first Christmas ever without hearing Bing Crosby even once). I must say though, the public holidays do come in handy, and not surprisingly we hopped in the valiant Picasso for the 600k to Mallabia to spend the holiday season with Erik's family.

The week went basically as expected: Show up, eat, go out for a drink, eat, go out for a drink, sleep, eat, eat, go out for a drink, eat...do I need to go on? We went to a traditional Chrismas fair in Elgoibar but the cold made it difficult to enjoy the stalls. I have never been so happy to see a café au lait with whiskey in it! Erik was disappointed at the lack of livestock; apparently originally that was the whole point of the fair. Kids these days! They just aren't interested in patting sheep and cows any more.

My highlight of the trip was seeing the Olentxero, the Basque version of Santa Claus. To my relief, the Basque people didn't make up some ridiculous story involving flying reindeer, chimneys, and defying the laws of physics, but tell the story of the Olentxero who lives alone in the mountains and makes coal, and would often come down with gifts for the children of the town. One day he got stuck in a burning house, and a lady came and said because he had been so good to the children of the town he wouldn't die. Or something like that. My Basque isn't very good yet, but that is what I managed to piece together. Unfortunately the Olentxero has a large black beard and mustache which tends to frighten the smallest children, but the rest of them ate it up. Olentxero was very kind to me, he brought me socks, a scarf, a book, and perfume. Mmmmm!

Unfortunately after Christmas we had to come home as I had to work; I to show my face at the offial although I had almost nothing to do given that it was Christmastime and most people were on holidays. Fortunately I work on the same floor as the call centre, which means there were people around all the time, and I didn't feel like I was the only one not on holidays! I worked on the 31st and since all our friends in Barcelona are not Catalan, they had gone home to Madrid, Murcia, France, or wherever they happen to be from, leaving Erik and I all by our little lonesomes to celebrate the fact that 2008 was finally over. There was a party happening in L'Hospitalet, but that's a litte far to go for a party that may or may not be any good.

We were resigned to spending the evening quietly at home, and decided to take a walk around the neighbourhood and have a drink before sitting down to dinner. As we walked around the block, we saw a sign about two doors down from our apartment - "Underground Party". Erik and I looked at each other, and agreed, "why not?". It was a private party, €20 a pop, which included three drinks. Hell, if the party sucked, we could drink up our three and head home, which, let's face it, wasn't very far. So we paid out the €40 and went to have our pre-dinner drink. Heading home for dinner, we were already feeling ever so slightly intoxicated (after one beer! what is going on?) so we had something to eat before heading into Plaza Catalunya to watch the big BBVA clock strike 12. We made it just in time with our bottle of champagne and grapes. Erik refused to eat the grapes (you are supposed to eat one on each clock strike, for luck) but I figured I wouldn't take the risk. And I like grapes! In a further attempt attract luck into my life in 2009, I was also wearing red underwear. I don't for a second believe that either of these will make any difference, but I like to cover all the bases. We waited in Plaza Catalunya, we heard the clock, I stuffed my face with grapes (which by the way, I found in the fridge the other day and they were STILL EXACTLY THE SAME AND NOT ROTTEN AT ALL AFTER A MONTH AND HALF...scary stuff) I kissed Erik (my first NYE kiss - awwww) and we tried to avoid the drunken teenagers on the way home.

We went home to kill some time before the party started. I got dressed up into what I suspected would be a top showing cleavage to a much higher degree than the avarage at the party (a hypothesis later confirmed) and jeans (thank god they go with everything). I must admit I wasn't feeling good vibes about this party at all, which I took to be a good sign. Most of the time parties I don't want to go to turn out to be fabulous all nighters where the hours fly by and when it's time to leave I think, what, already? But I'm still having fun! Mostly by 2am I'm already yawning and wanting to go to bed. Again hypothesis proved, as we stumbled home at...I don't remember. Late. We had a great time, we didn't stay at home like lame pathetic losers on New Year's Eve, and it was a happy day all around. 2009 has officially gotten off to a good start.

Somewhat Calmer

Almost exactly four months since I moved to Barcelona, the complete upheaval of my entire life is beginning to settle. The flat is beginning to look more homey (though there is a lot of work still to be done in this area), I am getting to know my new job, which is not as scary as I thought, and the money situation has gone from critical to merely concerning. However, the life refurbishment is still far from completed, as the social aspect has gone untouched since I got here. Now that I have a job to complain about and a salary to spend, I have to find some friends to complain to and spend with! Before I had a job there was no money, after I found a job my parents were here, when I started my job I was too exhausted, and now I have run out of excuses. I have to get a social life before I turn into a hermit.

Just after I got the call about the job, I had the incredible fortune that my parents AND my aunt and uncle (my dad's brother Ricardo and his wife Susi) were all in Barcelona AT THE SAME TIME. Unbelievable. Not only that but I was still not working, but with the reassurance that shortly I would be, so I could really have fun, instead of spending the three weeks with them sending CVs and going to interviews. My parents, predictably, spoiled me rotten. The extent of the spoilage, however, was unprecedented and unexpected. They bought me kitchen grills and ham cutters, fixed drawers and clothes lines, helped me buy a suit (and lent me the money for it) and basically showered me with gifts which I am extremely grateful for because we really needed all that stuff and heaven knows when we would have got around to buying measuring spoons or changing the door on the fridge to open on the right hand side. More stuff got fixed in those three weeks than in the entire three months previous. To be fair, this is because poor Erik was working his little ass off at HP all those months and I am about as useful with a screwdriver as a fish is with a bicicle, but it was great to be able to just cross all those little niggly things off the to-do list. Well, Erik's to-do list.

Besides the handyness factor and the spoilage, it was great to see my parents again. The weather was generally kind to us, and although it was chilly and despite the occasional downpour we wandered around the Ciutadella Park, Barceloneta, El Born, El Gotico, and all the touristy stuff you're supposed to do in Barcelona. Mum was horrified at the museum offering: The Tàpies museum (the one she was most looking forward to) is closed until March 2009, the Museum of Contemporary Art was three quarters empty, the Picasso museum only had early works which were not very interesting and the Dalí museum is in Girona and too far. I think out of all the museums in Catalunya the only one she wasn't pissed off by was the CaixaForum. Art lovers destined for Barcelona, beware.

Perhaps the highlight of the stay was when the four of us piled in the car to visit Erik's family in Euskadi. We visited a winery, a cider brewery, we went to Donostia (San Sebastián), we ate and drank like kings all weekend, we had a great time and we came back swearing we would all eat nothing but salad for a week (we didn't). It was a nice break from Barcelona but next time I think I will try to go somewhere closer! The main aim of the trip was achieved however, so now that our parents have met and they don't hate each other we can breathe easy and continue living the way we always have done (far away from both sets).

The day my parents left Barcelona so did I - to do my training week in their Madrid offices with the COO's ex-secretary. I fulfilled a little dream I've always had since I began globe-trotting: flying business class. How was it? Totally disappointing. The only difference I could see between economy and business was the moist towelettes. They didn't even let us on the plane first.

Once in Madrid, it was a gruelling week of meeting thousands of people whose names and roles I am supposed to remember, and trying to orient myself in this enormous, gigantic multinational. I have only ever worked in small companies, the biggest employed about thirty people but most of these were cleaners and not even in the office most of the time. The company employs about 1,500 people, and I don't even work for and I work for the International part, which means my "work colleagues" are mostly in across Europe, not to mention specific cities in th US, Latin America, Asia and Oceania. Needless to say, the culture shock is quite jarring. Used to fending for myself and using my resourcefulness to solve problems and fulfil requests, the idea of picking up a phone and getting someone else to do things for me is strange. Need a flight? Call the travel agency. Need a computer fixed? Call IT. Need a paperclip? Call General Services. I am more a co-ordinator than an implementor just at the moment, which I am getting used to. There are a couple of juicy projects in the near future however, so I am looking forward to sinking my teeth into those. The fact that my bosses are away most of the time is proving to be more of a help than a hindrance; all secretaries know that when your boss is in the office they just generate distractions. "This mouse feels funny, can you get me a bigger one?". "There's too much light in this office". "This thingy isn't working!" (Solution 99% of the time: plug it in). Ok, this is a slight exaggeration, but running the office is much easier when you are by yourself! I am starting to sound like Sir Humphrey aren't I? "Hospitals are much easier to administer without any patients". Golden!

After I got back from Madrid, I got into bed at about 22:30 on Friday night and I didn´t leave it except to eat and pee until 22:00 Saturday night. I also spent a significant part of Sunday sleeping, which for me is extremely unusual - generally on weekends I am up at the crack of dawn wanting to make the most of the limited time I am not a slave to my paycheque. But my body was telling me, quite sternly, that I needed rest and I was too exhausted to do anything but listen.

After Madrid I had a week in the Barcelona office before I set off for Lisbon to oversee a conference involving people from the US, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Poland, and Brazil. Scary! Thankfully most of the organisation (well, pretty much all) had been done by my counterpart in Lisbon, Claudia, and all I had to do was make sure everything ran properly and fulfil a couple of on the spot requests. Still, it being my first conference, and such a large one, I was nervous, stressed and therefore exhausted when I got home! Thursday and Friday were spent catching up with all the stuff I should have done Mon-Wed, and then BRING ON THE LONG WEEKEND!

This weekend has been rather homey. Erik has been working late shift and has been on call during the nights, which means we haven't ventured far from home. With all the travelling I've been doing and the fact that it is significantly chillier in Barcelona now (though not as cold as Dublin, hahahahahaha!) I was feeling a bit flu-y and relished the domesticity. Friday night I treated Erik to japanese (I had been dying for sushi) and on Saturday we went to Rodrigo's place for lunch and a chat. Saturday night unfortunately was ruined as Erik was called to fix a problem (which should have taken 15 minutes to fix) but the VPN connection to the office wouldn't work - he had to go all the way to Sant Cugat (about half an hour drive out of Barcelona) to fix it and come back. He was furious, and I can understand. I got him in a better mood on Sunday by making scrambled eggs for breakfast (gotta love how easy some people are to please), and in the afternoon we went to the hammam to sweat out all the toxins and relax. Then it was time to satisfy one of my cravings - hamburgers, which I had been desiring since Friday. We made some ridiculously tasty burgers featuring onion, garlic, Worcestershire sauce and fresh chillies. Topped with lettuce and tomato on a sesame seed bun, they were delicious. Thanks Mum and Dad for the electric grill!

Today I had planned to go grocery shopping but since it is a public holiday, the Boquería, Mercadona, Sorli, Carrefour and Alcampo are all closed. Closed closed closed. Cerrado, tancat, itxi, chiuso, fermé. Anything I needed today I should have bought on Saturday. Augh! I understand that everyone needs holidays but enforced holidays for the entire country are just silly! How does anything get done? This is the twenty-first century! I live in a city apartment with limited fridge and pantry space! It is difficult to store many perishable goods and I would like to be able to purchase them on the days I am not working! OK, enough ranting. I am just pissed because I wanted to make peanut cookies and now I cannot buy peanut butter. However, now that I think of it, I do have a huge bag of peanuts and a magimix... ooh, this experiment could go very wrong. I am feeling Tim the Toolman Taylor vibes. But cookies! I want cookies! I'll let you know how it goes...

Drumroll please...

I've been offered a job! Yes, I have finally achieved my goal of re-entering the rat race...ahem, I mean labor market. Well, nothing is signed yet, but the offer is on the table and contractual negotiations begin next week. Woo hoo! The great thing about this offer is that, considering the number of crappy jobs with shitty pay and terrible hours I threw my CV at, it's pretty amazing that when I finally got an offer, it was for one of the most high-end jobs I applied for. Like, the ones you think might be a little out of your league, but you apply anyway hoping for the stars to align and deliver your dream job to you on a silver platter. That's pretty much what happened here. They were looking for someone with WAY more experience than me (like, three times more) but as for the rest of the profile I think I fit it pretty well. The pay is something like what I was earning in Dublin, so for Barcelona, it is quite a decent salary indeed. It is very much like my EA job at Genesis, but in a larger, multinational company where the directors are travelling 99% of the time. Actually, the selection process went a lot like the Genesis one: a positive first interview, what I thought was a horrendous second interview, being completely convinced they were never going to give me the job, them offering me the job, me being completely surprised, and then wondering "shit - can I really do this?". Last time it turned out I could, quite easily, so hopefully things should work themselves out in a similar manner this time around.

The timing of all this couldn't be better. Firstly, I was starting to lose hope a little bit, at least that I would find something soon. Everyone kept telling me to be patient, with stories like "Well, don't worry, it took me four months to find a job." "Four months? It took me six months!" and other horrors that did little to lift my morale. I was just settling into the idea that this was going to take a LOT longer than I originally thought, and yesterday I went around to some restaurants and cafés in the Ramblas area to see if I could get some part time waitressing work to tide me over. To be honest I was even looking forward to waitressing for a little while - I like having a job that requires you to be active, and sitting in front of a computer all day can get boring. I'm sure after two or three weeks I would have remembered all the reasons I hated waitressing, but having been out of work since August, and time healing all wounds, it didn't seem like a bad option at all. I even did a trial for a couple of hours at a café this afternoon, which I think went well, but sod that, I have a real job now! It was nice to be able to earn a little cash in hand though, and it's not like I had anything else to do with my day. Other than sit in front of the computer and send CVs of course, like every other weekday for two months. After I got out of there I scored another interview (I have two now on Monday that I am not sure I am going to attend), and was feeling pretty buoyant. Then they called me and told me I had the job there, and then I went from buoyant to airborne.

The other great thing about getting the offer just now is that it's gonna take about 10-15 days for me to actually start working, what with the contract signing, getting stuff ready, et cetera. Normally I wouldn't really care much about that, although days off are generally a good thing. But now it's especially fabulous as my mum is coming to visit me tomorrow and my dad is coming next week, so I'll even get some time with them before I start working. Is that perfect or what? I can barely believe it. Let's hope the run of good luck continues!