We Leave Silesia and Mourn Malopolskie

"The Kinder Eggs here are very expensive. The chocolate chickens must be on strike."

Efficient and restful final day. I met my host, Goga, in her palace on Westerplatte. Such a place. Gorgeous floors of reclaimed wood. Massive doors, wide enough to welcome Hannibal's army. Cute, plastic Gummi Bear lamp in my room. Colorful sheets and a huge window looking out into the park.

This was such a place, and Goga, such a hostess. She filled my arms with towels and tea. She told me her best friend was an older man with short grey hair. She told me an English lady would be arriving later, and would I like a map?

I unloaded, stripped, and showered. As I toweled off, I heard a hissing. I had dripped into a power strip, and it was sizzling like an egg on a griddle. Goga. Goga, honey, I done burntcha house, honey. The laundry machine was next to the shower, and a load was spinning straw into blue fire in there.

I found the plug and pulled it out. Then I knelt and dried everything tenderly like I was powdering a baby. Then I positioned myself to make sure my corpse would be found in an attractive pose and plugged it back in. No sizzle. No conversation. Clean of body and conscience, I drifted through her huge halls, curtains flowing, reaching out to me, grasping, caressing.

 I went out for food. One last turn around the stones of Rynek Glowny in Stare Miasto. I was going to buy souvenir wooden eggs for everyone, but the Easter market was long + gone. That equation means no eggs. Y'all gettin' coins this year.

 I had had a mad plan to maybe take the train to Katowice (two hours), so I could film all that heartbreaking heartbreak, spend half of an hour there and get some kawe (that means coffee, ya ignorant heathen), and then take the two-hour ride back. Then I decided not to overdo it. Like, let those images remain in my memory. I can't document everything, and I shouldn't.

Like, that mural in Lodz was stunning. A real gasper and no mistake, and the picture is nice, but... the feeling of turning the corner and seeing it...

Anylodz, somebody on the internet got a good shot of one of the best Katowice murals I saw, so I'll just use their pic.

I'm getting a better sense, not just of my limits but of the reasons for those limits. Like, limits are things you can push past, so in a way, they're false boundaries. The thing to think about is "why were the limits set that way?" Younger Simon would have done it. So, I'll think about that rascal and the fun he must have had. Then I'll make some of Goga's tea and go to bed at 4 p.m.

 Nice nap. Woke up and wrote a little. Woke up and read a little. Out of books now except for a Portuguese artwork called The Book of Disquiet. Should make for a mind-expanding flight home. Expand!

I had it in my mind to wash a smelly shirt. Could have just shoved it in my bag, but I figured, you know, I'm awake. The laundry machine was unplugged from the power strip. Had I done that? Or was someone just done doing laundry and unplugged it? Did I blow the fuse when I did my April Showers routine all over it? Who knows? Decided not to plug it back in. Washed my stuff in the sink. Squished it dryish and went back to the room. I laid the shirt flat on the floor to get all the way dry. I felt like a pioneer tanning an elk! A Banana Republic corduroy elk!

 Dozed some more. Listened to baseball some. Dozed... AWAKENED by roaring Englanders. They stuttered and shouted and knocked unseen things over. A 4:30 a.m. arrival for our heroes from the blessed plot. There is some corner of a foreign field that is forever English dudes on a "stag do" acting like a bunch of hazelnuts.

 Once they found their Hobbit holes, I drifted off again. I dreamed of losing a filling. I dreamed of a cat so long it lived in the roof and it's furry coils sagged close enough to stroke.

Woke to soft light, sifting rain, and the desperate lowing of drunks in the park. They needed to be milked, the poor dears.

 The wet shirt was half-dry and made a terrible stain on the wooden floor. Jesus Christ. Why didn't I trash the awful places? Why did I have to ruin this wonderful place? Goga. Goga, honey, I warped your floor, honey.

Packed up, sacked up and tippertoed into the kitchen to drop off the key. Goga and Greyhair were huddled in front of a laptop watching Breaking Bad. They barely looked up. Must have been Season 4. Thanked them and sneaked back into the room.

The floor stain was receding. Probably totally gone by now. I'm sure. It has to be.

 Exited, got a giant bread circle with salt and marched to the bus station. Why didn't I take a cab? I was out of money and my card has been turned off. For my protection. Also... a final adventure. The buses here are great. All public transport is great. Smooth, convenient, cheap, clean, safe. Just great. Best 5zl I ever zee elled.

Passed a bunch of posters for a symphonic concert of Michael Jackson tunes. I was beginning to worry I wasn't going to see MJ, but there he was. Eastern Europe, your reputation as MJ fuh-reaks remains totally intact.

And... that's it. A good trip full of sights and smells. All the senses, really. I think I used all my senses. I'll miss the gentle calls of "dzien dobry" and the well-dressed birds. A very crafty white and blue species kept sensing and avoiding my camera. Clever thing.

 I'll miss the soaring spires of the temples and the sound of feet on stone. I'll miss hunting for murals and the faces of waiters as they welcome me in. "Yes, yes, is safe, is good, is very good. You will like." - Waiters

 Tried to pack it with stuff and tried to do some thinking and growing. And that's what I like to do. Gonna go home, finish Tulips of Fury and do a good job at work. Gonna try and be better to folks and try not to get trashed at trivia. Gonna try and save up for another trip. Montenegro next time. I hear it's the "New Wroclaw."

 Thanks for reading, fool. That means YOU, reader.

The Holy Grail of Murals

"If only I had been the Madame of a harem. What a pity this didn't happen to me!"

Spent a weird evening in that cold little room with a scratchy piece of cloth for a blanket. There was no light bulb in the socket, so I just... shivered in the dark. There was a room-mate there, and she was nice, but she had some dude over, and they probably didn't have a bulb anyway. Why would they have a bulb?

Couldn't read, no light. Couldn't plan for tomorrow, no internet. So, I looked at some stories about wolf hunters on the Kindle and passed out from boredom.

I decided it was similar to what it must feel like to sleep in the street or outside or something. I kiiind of slept, but also woke up every nine minutes or so when a toe would poke out from under the "blanket." Adventure! Romance! Kinship!

Woke up at the first rosy tickle of dynamite. The moment Geppetto lit the fuse to set the sun to popping, the hissing noise alerted me, and I was dressed and in the little bathroom. Something that might have been a silverfish or might have been a louse was doing something inscrutable behind a cracked tile. I let him live.

Bid farewell to that fascinating, depressing place. The elevator barely opened. I had to walk in sideways. It was like it couldn't be bothered. Up and down all day and never a thank you. This is far as I'm opening. You coming in or not? - Commie-era Elevator

Would really have made a great scene in a movie. Like, I try to be able to observe at the same time as I'm.experiencing.

I was going to try and zero in on some murals I'd read about. Apparently, Lodz invited twenty of Europe's greatest street artists and gave them each a building to do whatever they wanted on. So... I wanted to see as many as I could. I had my pack on and stuff, so I wouldn't be running, but since I've been dumping the books when I finish them, the load has been getting lighter.

Left Just Kids in Torun for some lucky traveler to discover. Left Of Human Bondage in the nice place in Krakow.

So, as quick as you can say, "snik snak, get into my sack," I was moving down Piotrkowska street on the way to see some old paint on some ruined walls. Along the way, I rubbed the lucky nose of a lucky statue. I wasn't the first.

Busy town scrapping to life. Lots of red and yellow trams with lots of sleepy factory workers on their way to the time clock. I pictured them absently tightening the lids of their Thermoses. Stay hot, little soups. Navigated the gravel and started finding the murals. Some of them were decently hidden. It was genuinely thrilling to move down the boulevard and see one manifest around a corner. Or behind me.

A great hunting game. And almost universally rewarding. They were beautiful. I didn't feel the weight of my pack, and I didn't mind switching lenses. I've done a lot of walking on this crazy trip. Constant go go go and get to the train. Meet the new landlord, get the new key, find the new map. Get out into the street.

A really nice combination of writing and seeing and reading. Why am I able to write every day when I'm on vacation? Why can't I write every day anyway? I sure struggle with trying to do well at work and trying to be a good steward to my talents.

A large part of me is like, "Fuck it. Go live in your mother's basement and write for a year. You don't have any bills or a family or a car or anything. You have enough paintings. Just go create."

And another part of me is like, "You're doing so well at your job. They just made you manager, and people like you. Stick it out, and maybe you can afford more paintings!"

Poor me, I'm good at two kinds of things!

Right now, my feeling is, If I can survive at the Coupon Factory for another two years, I'll have enough money to live for exactly one year without working. Do that. Keep cobbling things together for another two years, and then you'll be able to create on your own terms.

Because when you're beholden or you don't have money, you are not at your best.

But, some people who are influential to me are fond of saying, "You could get hit by a red and yellow tram tomorrow. Start writing now and stop wasting time."

So, that's the dilemma. Am I wasting time or am I smoothing the way? I am on the dilemma's horns!

Is "smoothing the way" bullshit? Am I just saving up money to prepare to write because I don't think I can? That makes sense.

If nothing else, these trips show me I'm capable of writing every day if I'm taken away from responsibility or Wi-Fi or vegetables.

Pack got heavy around the time I found the mural I most wanted to see. Got some great shots of it. It sure delivered! And then, though the train didn't leave for two more hours, I got a cab to the train station.

The driver thought I wanted the bus station, so I actually had to make the "choo choo" sound, and he cracked up and took me to the right place.

Got my ticket and finished An Appointment in Samarra. It struck me that I read O' Hara and Salter on the last trip as well. But I wasn't consciously thinking about that when I packed. I guess they're guys I've meant to read, and when I pack for these trips, I take them along.

Train was packed with gangsters and grandmas. A woman next to me kept her feet unapologetically in her boyfriend's lap and first defined his penis and then moved it around. It was surprising to see. No one seemed to care. The dude himself had a stoic face. He looked out the window, and she just texted on her phone while her toes wriggled around like a louse behind a cracked tile.

It was distracting, but I was able to start and finish Concrete by Thomas Bernhard. What a weirdo book.

Some Slavic girls laughed and ran from car to car. They were being chased by the ticket man. They had tickets, but they just couldn't find their seats. That was me once.

As we got closer to Krakow, folks poured into the corridor. The last half hour was singing and shouting. Party train! It was a fun way to enter the city.

These goddamn trains are amazing. It's like $25 a ride, too.

It was nice to get out into the city and feel like I knew it. Like, it was familiar. Dear old thing.

This will be the last day. In the morning, I get back on that big old cardigan-wearing crow and carve my way back to the land of the dollar bill. Almost out of stuff to read!

Holly-Lodz

"I'll sail this ship alone. Between the pain and the pleasure. I'll sail this ship alone. Between the sharks and the treasure."

Pretty exhausted. The wooden hut I'm staying in doesn't have Wi-Fi, so the time I usually use to sort of decompress, I used instead to walk all over the damn place. Which I'm glad I did, but now I'm at a place that sells wheat grass, since it's the only way to check my fantasy baseball scores.

Woke up early and did some press materials for a play I'm writing called Tulips of Fury. It felt good to be productive in that way. Quick little walk to make sure I didn't miss nothin', and then said a nice fare-thee-well to the fairy fays at the Hanza Cafe on Pieraky Street.

They took back the Princess Key, and gave me a nice piece of coffee. I drank it and found some of that gingerbread Torun is famous for. It sure was spicy!

The morning was so gorgeous, I walked across a giant blue bridge. It sure was spicy! I was treated to some beautiful panoramic views of this old, walled medieval town. It dodged the Great War and the War to End All Wars, so keep sticking and moving, Torun, and you'll stay hot forever.

It was a seriously long walk, and my mind started to play tricks on me like, "You aint gonna make it! You read the schedule wrong! You're going to the wrong station! You can't win! You play the black and the red comes up!"

But it was the RIGHT station, and I was invigorated by the walk. Winner, winner, pierogi dinner. I was set up in a train car with three sweet old ladies. One of them was an enormous marble slab of a person. Just an immovable seeming force of grandmotherness. She read romance novels with one eyebrow raised.

I arranged and edited some pictures, and I read An Appointment in Samarra.

Torun was in Pomerania, and Lodz is in Western Mazovia in case I want to make an Indiana Jones-style map later with a moving red line.

We passed so many junkyards. Piles of cubed aluminum, coils of wire, mountains of reflective waste. I pictured robot seagulls circling, red lights flashing on their antennae.

At all the crosswalks, the people of the towns waited for us to pass. The bar was down, and it was our fault. They idled on their bicycles and held bouquets of fresh flowers in their arms.

I drank mineral water and listened to Cat Stevens. Every now and again, I would see one of those crows in the grey cardigans. They're really noble seeming.

Nuns moved up and down the train corridor. They wore little ropes around their waists. A modest order!

Cows ate yellow flowers to give color to their butter.

A scene in Appt. in Samarra reminded me of something, and I couldn't... and then remembered it was Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. I really enjoyed that thing.

Lodz was coming up. Wootch!

I cracked myself up thinking about some kind of alphabet authority being like. We gave you a W, Poland, and you wasted it on a V sound. Now you want a W sound, and we're all out of letters. You can have this L with a line through it. There, that's your W.

A woman named Ergaya met me at the train station. She's a musician/singer who rents out a bunch of apartments. She was very nice, but this place is... I am... I have been in nicer places. The key doesn't work. There's no wi-fi, there's no light bulb in my room, the sheets are dirty, and the pump don't work, cos the vandals stole the handle.

But, whatever. I wanted to pay $16 and not $160, so I got what I paid for.

Dumped off my stuff in the Ergaynomic room, said good-bye to Ergaya, and hit the town.  Finally, a real city! None of your fruity squares selling magnets and wooden shields. This is a place where people work for a goddamn living.

I walked for miles. There's street art everywhere. Tough-looking girls with long braids drank beer in the street, kids kicked colorful balls around filthy alleys. I got some pierogis in a place that wasn't expecting a honky to come honking in. I just pointed, and they gave them to me. They were good.

I couldn't find my way into the Old Cemetery, so I went all the way to the Radagast train station.

A sad place, the departure point for the Jews sent off to the death camps. This place had the biggest ghetto in Europe and when the Nazis kept asking for more "workers," the rabbi in charge suggested they give up their kids first. The parents refused. I guess he thought that was a good idea. Maybe it looked good on paper.

Anyway, the order didn't end up mattering. They put them all on trains one way or another and they went to the place where work would make them free.

There were three old train cars there. The signs said they had been used for this purpose. A tour group from Israel prayed and rocked in front of them. I waited for them to leave before I took the picture, and then I wondered why I took the picture.

Sober walk back. I found an enormous mall called Manufactura, which was just insane. It's pretty stunning. Massive old mill converted into a big shopping area, and it's bigger than anything. Mall of America, meet the Mill of Lodz. Hard to describe how cool and red the shops were. People held one another's sunglasses and took selfies in front of expensive restaurants.

Sprung for a cab and went back to the hot plate. Key didn't work. Sat in the hallway for thirty minutes, exhausted. Calmed myself with sweet thoughts of home. I also thought about kicking the door in and paying the thirty cents it would cost to replace it. My other keys are a pair of Doc Martens.

But some goofy dude who also lives there showed up and opened the door. So, I can save my thirty cents to open my own hotel out here.

Tomorrow, I'll wake up very early, find some more street art and hightail it back to Cracow. My time here is winding down. I miss my cat. I wish the cat lady would send me a pic or something. Dear Ruggles. The dear, dear thing.

The Sunny Stones of Torun

"Well, son, a funny thing about regret is, it's better to regret something you have done than something you haven't done."

Farewell, Wroclaw. Left the key under the mat. I never met the host. It was Easter holidays 'round these parts, so folks were off giving one another the tops of their eggs. I looked at myself in a mirror in the dark and smiled as I sneaked out.

It was a hungover little tic tac toe walk across the cobblestones to the train station. I found my way by feel. Remembered the route and spared the map. Dear old map, the dear dear thing. Had the mildest of headaches from my excess. Willows wept in front of a violet-crowned skyline.

At the palatial station, I bought a salami sandwich, because mama always said salami is nature's band-aid. "Salami is nature's Band-Aid" - Mom.

Got the ticket and some kawe, found the platform, sat on a little slab of wood, and waited. Eventually, the train's breath brought me to life, and I boarded. Right car, right seat. I'm ready for the exam.

The trains in the Southern lands had a little more... life to them. Those train rides through Transylvania were full of characters, politics, and a tacky sideshow of crippled lesbians and silver peddlers. Here, everyone folds their jackets into pillow shapes and sleeps. They don't even talk to one another.

No one bothers you except a ticket taker every three hours.

But, that kind of quiet was what I needed. The hangover was getting a little more, 'ow you say?, insistent. "I won't be ignored, sir. I remain in your system and demand satisfaction" - Buffalo Vodka

Slapped some salami on it and poured some water on it. I think what I mostly needed was sleep. I'm not really eating or sleeping too much here. But I don't feel too tired or hungry.

Or do I? This is the part of the trip where I usually lose track of my body and my needs, and what day of the week it is, and how much longer I have. It's just train tables and UNESCO heritage buildings on a swirling roulette wheel.

Finished Just Kids. Romantic story about commitment to art. Finished the Collected Stories of Breece Pancake. Some great stuff there. He killed himself at age 27, the dope. Based on these things, he could have probably written an awesome novel, but the bullet got him. Grim tales of coal-mining country.

Dozed a lot and smelled the ionic air. Every now and again, I would wake up and see the happy landscape expressing its appreciation for the rain in bursts of green and yellow applause. This leg of the trip was neither industrial nor agrarian. It was just space on a map the game designers didn't put much work into.

And, thus five hours did pass. Started a new book, tried to manage my headache, drifted in and out. Arrived in Torun. The Vistula, Krakow's river, is up here too. Ah, to once more behold its life-giving waters! Hail to thee, shimmering Vistula!

Took a cab to the walled little village where the great Copernicus took his first breath.

It's glorious. Sun-drenched stones in a marvelously preserved town. There must have been field trips a-plenty, because there were kids climbing on every statue while impotent zoo keepers yelled "mushky brushky" at them.

Backed my pack to the coffee shop where my key was being held. Fabulous people. A glamorous woman and her "surprised professor" husband. Huge Coke-bottle lenses on that guy. Or were his eyes just big? I can't remember now. She was like, "You email nice you, so I up your room grade." I was handed a big, chunky key like from a fairy tale.

The prof was like, "Your file says Seattle, yes? We know Seattle. You must return to this shop, yes? During the day tomorrow if you want to make your Instagrams, you must do it here, yes?"

I promised I would. The upgraded room was pretty far away. Gave me a chance to get the lay of the land. Found it, stuck the key in the lock like I was Thorin at the Moon Door, and kuh-rashed.

Some weirdo kid in shorts woke me up to fix the heat. Part of the upgrade, I guess. Then it was blissful nippernaps until around 6 p.m. Woke up with plenty of light left, so I went out in search of food and statues. Delightful hobbles over and around castle ruins and curvy little surprisestreets. Didn't take too many pics.

Found an hilarious little pierogi place where you serve yourself, so I served myself. Hangover defeated. All it took was some native food.

Then back here to the Upgrade Estate to make plans for tomorrow and get some real sleep. I'll wake up early, photograph some gingerbread, Instagram a latte, and walk across the bridge to the train station.

Another ride will take me to Lodz. Should be..... Lodz of fun!

Hee haw!

This joke does not work, since Lodz is pronounced "Wootch" in Polish - Copernicus

Fortress Breslau

"If you steal a button, your coat won't close in Hell."

Got a little wasted earlier tonight. Vacation, ladies. But before any of that happened, I had a fulfilling and very full day. Woke up on the little shelf this place gave me to sleep on, cleaned up, and hit the city in the pre-morning light.

The goal was to explore all the blocks around the Old Town square, redo the square, make my way over to something called "Cathedral Island" and call it a Wroclaw. Mission accomplished.

It's been really nice to explore these cities at dawn. No one's around, and you get to see the buildings stretch and yawn. This was the right place to visit after Krakow, because the cities are sorrrt of similar. They have the two largest medieval town squares in Europe and the "spirit" of both cities is informed by them.

It's not a bad way to set yourself up, to have a big gathering place like that. I mean, it can be a little touristy, but there's enough history and flavor, I think, that the locals still like to get their french fries there.

Wroclaw, being so far West in Poland was once owned by Germany. The krauts called it "Breslau" and after they accidentally shook the hornet's nest that was Russia in WWII, it was a "fortress city" they used to try and keep the Reds from taking Berlin. No one gets past Fortress Breslau!

They did, though. Sacked the place like a bunch of socialist linebackers. But, it's rebuilt now. And the Russians gave it back to Poland. Wasn't that nice?

Bought some yogurt to drink in a little bodega. The main franchise here has a little frog logo, so I look for the frog. And usually, I find it. Cramped places with crowded shelves and shriveled apples. This morning, the machine that pisses out hot chocolate was busted, and the cashier was trying to fix it for some dude who just had to have his hot chocolate.

I was like, "Can I just pay? All I need is this water and yogurt. Two of your Earth seconds to complete the transaction." But she REALLY wanted this guy to have his hot chocolate.

Eventually got my goods and drifted, drifted along curving streets and angled avenues. It's a nice little wheel they have here with some nice bridges for spokes. The word for "bridge" is "most."

"They mostly cross the rivers at night, mostly." - Newt.

Saw some weirdo buildings and some stunning churches gone to seed. Just, everything here is hundreds of years old. It ain't Wisconsin. You get centuries of reverence or neglect. Unlike some other countries, Poland seems to have "moved on" from all the bullshit it's gone through. Like, Romania was still kind of reeling from the Commies. Hungary still had the thousand-yard stare, but Poland's all coffee shops and sausage ceremonies.

Oh, this town has a 24-hour flower market. Isn't that sweet. You never know when you're gonna need them. My landlord in Greenpoint was a florist. It must be a big part of their culture. Like, something they take for granted but isn't a "stereotype." Like, no one's like, "Hey, it's a Pole. Where's your flowers, Pole?" but they could.

Tried to get some eggs, but none of the places were open yet, so I looked at a little map and planned some routes to areas I hadn't been to yet. Made a plan that would take me to "Cathedral Island" and back home and trekked out there. Got caught in the rain.

It was nice. Kind of cold, but not unpleasant. It was cool to feel the world grow dark and then wet. There's something about being on vacation that just makes normal shit seem wonderful. Like, in Seattle, I would have been making the duck face and been like, "Oh, it's raining. What a bold choice, universe. You really put some thought into this one."

But here, I'm like, "Oh, how interesting! I wonder how it shall feel!" and I mean it.

Cathedral Island was very peaceful, and true to its name, it was loaded with churches. What's that place in New York.... the Cloisters!  It was kind of like that without an entry fee. Apparently, at night a dude lights some gas lamps, and it has a real old-fashioned Ben Franklin smell.

I liked circling the big old buildings. Tourist groups gathered and bored one another in Dutch.

Found some cool street art along the way (not on the island) and made my way back home. My map was a butcher's blend. From the rain and the constant, "Now where am I"-ing, I had sent it to crease heaven. Figured I'd just wing it. Found a little walkway that went under the highway, but it was dark and stank. I also wasn't sure where it would let me out. Probably the Jewish cemetery.

I just followed the smell of last night's bender and located my room in South Sketchistan. I reckon I can't judge too much after the Peaches Jubilee I threw for myself last night, but we're not there yet. Threw my cheesy jeans in the wash and took a nap. I'd done the whole town in three hours. Lord have mercy, it was only 9 a.m.

Napped, ate some egg rolls Kristy McNichol gave me, and read a little bit. A cheeky guide book suggested there were some interesting murals in a far-flung area. It had previously seemed too far away, but I'd done everything else, so I put on my wet jeans (Poland aint never heard of no dryer. Oh, sure, they've got a clothesline, but ain't nobody got time for that), and went back out.

Nice, long ramble past a carnival that was being disassembled. I'm sure some folks had some nice times there during Easter. Saw a half T-Rex body there that cracked me up. I'm sure one for cracking up. Went across a long bridge and enjoyed a view of the Oder. Some older dudes were fishing in it. What lives in the Oder? Stinkbass? Smellfins?

Cute little University village on the other side. Everything was still all wet from the morning showers. I cracked myself up again thinking it was some kind of mass Smigus Dyngus celebration. I love everyone, so I'm going to make everyone wet. With rain - Drunk Jesus.

Bunch of skinny scholars moved with purpose across the campus. Interesting to think about them studying and living. Reading and shopping for scarves. The murals were cool, and there was a pretty great crumbly building. It seemed super unsafe, but I saw people living in it. They punch their televisions just like everyone else.

Then, a loooong walk back to the city square. Rynek, they call it. Both towns call it that. It must MEAN something. Like "square." Had a steak at a place called The Sphinx, and read a magazine about the city to see if I'd missed anything. Big lightning storm outside. People ran with newspapers over their heads.

Magazine got me all fired up to try some coffee at a place called Vinyl Cafe and vodka at a place called... um, The Super Long Stairs, or something. I can't remember, because I had the vodka there. The cafe was cool, and I'm sure if I were spending a few days here, it would be a "hangout."

Bunch of locals wearing glasses and tracing the rims of their coffee cups with clean clicking fingers while Sarah Vaughn and Serge Gainsbourg played in the background. You could see the record spinning on an old turntable. The cashier was very careful.

Then I took myself to the stairs place, which was like an old house, and I wrote a shitload of dialog for plays and got wursted on this weird honey vodka and this vodka that they also get buffalo drunk on, and it was just a really nice time.

Then I was like, "Home, James!" and I was James, so I got back, planned out a million trains, passed out (gently), and now I'm up in advance of the Dawn Train to Torun.

I'm certain I'll sleep. Farewell, Wroclaw. I liked you, and I trusted you enough to drink in you.

Buffalo Squeezings

“I like to have a martini/Two at the very most/After three I'm under the table/after four I'm under my host.” 

Drunk in a beat-up old furniture shop. They call it The People Who Live Under the Stairs or something. Whatever, Poland! It's all crooked paintings and jazz. I'm sure it bubbles with Daughters of Joy when the moon starts to winking.

Earlier, I was in something called the Vinyl Cafe. A charming little coffee shop where students choose a record and you have to listen to it. The hostess assumed I spoke German.

Lots of Germans here. It's the birthplace of the Red Baron, after all. And it used to be part of Germany. But so did Paris.

I'm holding my shotglass like I'm a biker and it's my girlfriend's arm. C'mere, woman!

A bossa nova cover of Kraftwerk's Showroom Dummies just came on, and I want to fuck the air around it. C',mere, air woman!

I thought about asking the waitress to cut my hair and paint my boots.

Jesus, did I just have a steak and then get medium rare? I did. If anyone wants me, I'll be at The Sphinx ordering my shotglass around. I'm staring at a cheap chandelier. The music just changed to a bossa nova cover of View to a Kill, and it's so lame it wears a chunky shoe. It sucks like a Commie vacuum cleaner.

If I were watching it live, I'd climb over a row of negresses and punch the lead singer in the lampshade. Then I'd grab the mic and yell "Long live the new flesh!" and pick my teeth with his sister's drumsticks.

The waitress suggested I try a vodka made from grass "buffalo feed on." OK! Old Kinderhook, honey! I drew my eyebrows on, I might as well make an evening of it.

Mixt with apple juice, this drink is called a "tatanka." What the fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, ever. Hey, "when in Romeclaw!"

It came with a straw which I stashed in the couch cushions. Straws are for mudbloods.

Hey, guess what? If you steal a button, your coat won't close in Hell.

I wear a wristwatch here. Can you beat that? I mean, have you ever? In your life?

The drink tastes like apples dipped in honey. It's all Rosh Hoshanah up in this bitch.

Some dude in beige pants just Ikead into the joint. I better cover my mouth, or the words "Ich liebe dich" will escape. I bet he fought with Lafayette at the Battle of Home Depot.

I bet he likes the Rolling Stones.

Actresses are smoking Lucky Strikes from a blue package. They're red at home. You crazy for this one, Wroclaw!  They whisper in their hushy language. It's all "mushky brushky" and "shhh, woman, woman, woman, woman."

C'mon dad, gimmee the car tonight. I want to have a "back of the knee" party with a kielbasa-haired cougar. Hey, streetheart, I'm from the land of the dollar bill.

That's right, brother. Part the curtain with your green umbrella and come on in. You can get all horizonty for about ten bucks. You can get Dumpstered for about no dollars.

Jesus. It's another Eve-less evening for our hero.

Journey to Silesia

"A poem is never finished, only abandoned."

The apartment where I was staying in Krakow was a ten-minute walk from the main train station. You walk out into the street, cross a cute little blue bridge, and there you are. I had written ahead to my hosts in Wroclaw that I would be arriving at seventeen bells, and it's a five-hour journey, so I (does the math, carries the two...) I would need to leave at noon.

I woke up around 9 and finished off my spreadable cheese. My god. I've been trying new cheeses at home from the pricey bucket of blue molds and stuff at the expensive market, but no bold Roquefort gives me a tenth of the pleasure this garbage in the gold foil does. It's heaven! To think the shelves of the Greenpoint grocery stores held them as I passed by in ignorance.

The worried gurgling of the pigeons told me it was Smigus Dyngus Day, Wet Monday, where traditionally you throw a bucket of water on the chick you want to marry. The whole 'burg turns into a wet t-shirt contest. Spring Break forever! I figured, I'd pop over to the station, buy my ticket in advance, percolate over near Coffeeheaven for a farewell toast, and watch some dirndl-soaking tee hee splash splash action in the main square.

At the station, a dude was selling racks and racks of used science fiction novels in the original Klingon. Some real gemstones!

Tried to buy my ticket from machine, but the machine didn't even want to play, so I had to go see the mean old ladies at the counter. The counter is set so weirdly low in the ground, you literally have to go to your knees to order. You supplicate yourself. I confessed to the mean old lady that I wanted to go to Wroclaw, and she looked at me like, "I drew my eyebrows on for this?"

Walked off with a ticket for... 10:30. which meant... I had to run back to the apartment, pack and hurry right back. Could I have asked them to change it to 12? Sure. Did I figure, what the hell, I'm itchin' to get going? You bet.  So, back to the bird's nest, a quick shoveling of the goods, and a snappy return to the station.

Got there in time to feel the train's breath as it rushed past the platform. I bathed in it and boarded.

After the embarrassment of being chased all over that Romanian train, I've finally cracked the code of how they seat you on these things and got it right the first time. I was in a little cage with two other Americans. How did I know they were Americans? Skinny guys with beards.

They were students from Ohio studying in Dresden. They had taken Easter off to crush around in Krakow. We didn't speak much. I read Just Kids, one of them read Oscar Wao, and the other read some dumb thing. They both had working phones, so they apped a bunch too.

The first few days, I kept reaching for my phone at idle moments. Like, out of habit. I'm really glad it doesn't work here. I would absolutely have been on it instead of chasing birds with bread necklaces or looking at messy old paperbacks. 

Whenever I read a long book, I recognize I'm able to do it from long years of reading. Like, it's as much of a habit as reaching for the phone, and I wonder if teenagers have the patience to sit with a book. That's not a judgement. Like, I know I wouldn't have the habit if I'd had a phone my whole life. 

I get attached to books and the things I stick in them. For about a month, I've been using my Yeti Yogurt rewards card as a bookmark. It's been in Of Human Bondage on the bus and on my desk forever. When I finished that book, I stuck it in with a bunch of Polish books, but I saved the card. I keep almost losing it. I keep thinking how silly it is to carry it around here.

Speaking of kids, I saw Frozen on the plane and thought it was great. A few clunkersongs, but some good ones, and a very sweet story with some marvelous moments and some good laughs and cries. Lived up to the hype. Saw the second Hobbit movie and didn't like it. Cheesy effects, bad casting, weird subplots. Just a big cash grab.

Though not quite a pony ride to Mirkwood, my own journey was stirring. The Polish countryside is much more urban than Romania's was (in the area I'm in, anyway). Wroclaw is in a region called Silesia, and you glide past cities like Gogolin and Brzeg to get there. Neither of those showed up on my map.

Train travel is my favorite. Fast enough to get you where you want to go, slow enough to give you a quick taste of it, and you don't have to do anything but observe. I saw so many little scenes. Kids playing with a llama, orchards of slender birch trees, collapsed walls with "Rauchen Verboten!" written on them, men smoking by the riverside.

It's evocative of movies too, the false memories you get from a lifetime of films. It's impossible to see a closed factory and not think of its towers pumping out human ash. The woods all look like sets from movies where people in pea coats shoot people in rags.

There was a strange species of tree that looks like the ones the Lorax likes to protect. Normal looking, but then giant puff balls of leaves dotted throughout. Strange clusters. I thought I was seeing bird's nests at first, but it's some kind of... is it a parasite?

I remembered that my father always knew the names of plants. Like, growing up, that was one of his parental super powers. He could tell you what all the purple stalked and red veined flora of flora-da was. It was a comforting thought. I haven't thought about his love for plants in years. Train travel!

Every station plays out the same scene. A man with a ruined nose is waiting for a family. When the family exits, he places the smallest family member on his shoulders, and they all walk off together. There was no exception to this. There will also be a ruined brick customs house, enormous and old. It will be where the ticket men live. You see them in their smart blue uniforms.

Then you leave. The places are all fascinating. Just past the stations, you see apartments and buildings crammed right next to the tracks. Laundry and daughters hang out the windows. People live there and witness crimes there and punch the sides of their televisions there.

You pause there for a moment or crawl past them and there's a sense that they're places you'll be in but never go to. You're there, but you're not, and so many of them are heartstrokingly beautiful. Sad and wonderful. I groaned when I saw Katowice, like I made a noise like a horse being squeezed too hard. You pass by, and it seems like all the things you'll never do, all the plays you'll never write, all the men you'll never hold, all the everything you'll never adjective. 

And it's RIGHT THERE. You're IN IT, and you've PAID a train to take you out of it.  

Outside of Myslowice there was a destroyed tower that looked like something the Sheriff of Nottingham would have stashed a bunch of chicks and rabbits in. I wanted to climb it, wear Maid Marion's bones as a breastplate and run filming through the alleys. With the lens cap on.

I bought some coffee from a coffee cart. It was Nescafe crumbles with hot water. I can take the fake cheese, but not the fake coffee. I mean, I can, because I drank it, but... 

When I was coming back from the coffee cart, a drunk came charging through the door. The hallway is nowhere near wide enough for two people, so I had to smash myself against the window. Maybe he was counting on that, because I was SURE I felt his fingers in my back pocket. 

Like, my heart was pounding. I was certain I'd been robbed. Like, that was the perfect plan. Charge through the door, lift a wallet when the mark gets out of your way, and push on through. He may think the contact was incidental, and what's he going to do anyway? You're a mighty drunk! 

I wasn't sure what to do. I touched my pocket, and it was empty, empty, empty, and before I remembered I had put my wallet in my suitcase hours ago, I started to follow him, shaking. Then I was like, "It's in your bag, dude. You're fine, dude. Look at me. Look at me. You're fine." 

Also, my pocket wasn't empty. The Yeti Yogurt rewards card was in there. Cracked up thinking how he would have felt if he'd lifted it. 

Pulled into Wroclaw. The Ohio people slipped away without a word, dissipated into Middle American mist. Folks at the info booth were very friendly. Gave me maps and advice and pictures of the leading exports of Silesia by region.

I was two hours early, and my apartment wasn't ready. There was nobody there. The neighborhood is easily the creepiest I've stayed in since I started using Airbnb. The streak had to end sometime. The streets are paved with drunks floating in a swimming pool of liquor, and the only people without sidewalk scars on their faces were hurrying into cars with furtive glances.

Had to hump my lovely lady lumps over to the Old Square just to have something to do. It was stunning. A gorgeous contrast to where I'm staying. Fantastic "Old Europe"-type market area with intense buildings and unusual street performers. A dude did a heavily accented version of "Because the Night" and a strange mime policeman in a tutu did something else.

Kids blew bubbles and other kids popped them. A woman sold kababs with french fries. It was Richard Scarry's Busy Day.

There was also a Starbucks! BOOM! Did I go to it? Fuuuuck yes! Oh, he loves coffee and also embraces commercial imperialism and the slow disintegration of distinct cultures. How amusing. How relatable.

Trudged back to the apartment. I was on time now. Nobody answered the bell. People on balconies across the street checked me out. I asked a nice lady if she knew Dominika my host. Man, she didn't know shit!

Just read on the stoop and a hot, Polish Kristy McNichol chick came up on a bicycle and let me in. The room is basically a couch with Wi-Fi.  That's what $40 gets you in Sketchistan. She gave me the keys and went back to the hardware store or wherever dreamlike Silesian tomboys go, and I washed my face, took off my backpack, and went back out to eat. A man's got to eat.

It was nice to walk around without the "tyranny" of feeling like I had to photograph anything. A woman told me she had two babies and did I have any coins. I had some coins and then I didn't. She had them. 

You know I ate a kebab with french fries. If you know one thing, you know that.

Came back, showered and crashed. I woke up and found the Mets on the radio. I love when they win, and the announcer yells: "PUT IT IN THE BOOKS!" I closed my eyes and thought of how many evenings in Greenpoint I would listen to that voice.

Now I am hearing it in Poland.

Medieval Street Sausages

"You see, it seems to me one is like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a particular significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there."

The plan was to get up at six or so and take some pics of the city before it got going. It was quiet and still. Some pigeons were mumbling on the roof.

I imagined poking my head out the skylight and asking one, "You there, bird, what day is this?" "Why, it's Easter Day, sir." "Heee! The spirits! Now go, pigeon, go to the roof and get that bird in the window." "Cooo! The one as big as me, sir?" "The one that IS you, pigeon. The one that is you."

Tip-toed into the kitchen and made myself some breakfast. Yesterday, I bought a loaf of bread and a brick of something in gold foil. Was it butter? Was it cheese? I'd find out when I opened it. Spoiler warning: It was cheese.

The simple pleasure of pressing spreadable mystery cheese between hot mystery bread. It was just fine. I'm having some trouble finding fruits and vegetables here. Like, the convenience stores will have one or two shriveled apples, an onion, and, like, a brown orange all dumped in a recycling bin.

So far, I've been eating yogurt as a vegetable. Ideally, there will be something at the station tomorrow. I fondly remember the berry boys of the Romanian train system.

This cute old building doesn't have a lot of padding in it. Even my quiet Cherokee steps make loud groans and creaks. The apartment is mostly abandoned, but there's a couple in the room next to me. I've heard their little pigeon murmurs at night. I didn't want to wake them, but you have to live your life. You have to live your life.

Packed up the camera and some seed cakes and clicked out into the real world.

Very still, cool, clear morning. No one around. At one corner, I saw a man slumped over and sleeping. It was absolutely one of the drunks from Coffeeheaven, though we weren't anywhere near there. I recognized the fraying of his beret. We've come full circle, you and I. There were terrible cuts on the nape of his neck.

Walked under a train's bridge. Tram wires cut the sky into blue and white triangles. A cruel little breeze did its best, but my raincoat stayed pure and repelled it. You shall not pass. Go home to the North, little zephyr.

I'm useless with a map. Just... I can look at the map and find where I am and intellectually say, "Well, just stay on Starro St. and don't get off of it, and then make a right, and then you're there." But then I put the map back in my pocket, take two steps, and I'm like, "Was it right at the Staples store and then climb up somewhere?" Map comes back out.

So, I get lost a lot, but I see new things. "Not all who blogger are lost" - Walt Whitman. It's a fun way to do the mess-around, I reckon.

I had intended to go to the Cloth Hall in the Market Square to see if there was any Easter coffee leaking out any eggs, but I was suddenly halfway to Kazimierz, the Old Jewish Quarter. So, that's what I did instead. Like a lot of places in Poland, Krakow had a large active Jewish population, and this particular area was where most of it was concentrated in the golden age.

Now, it's a kind of theme park. All night clubs and synagogues hosting klezmer concerts. Restaurants with "Gefilte Fish Platter" signs in the window. It was a weird feeling. I've never identified with a Mexican before, but it has to be what a citizen of Quintana Roo feels like at a Taco Bell.

The tours buses in Krakow are these cute little golf carts that hold maybe six people at a time. None of those double-decker buses you find in towns with large boulevards. They all say "Ghetto!" and "Schindler's Factory!" on their awnings. Like, I get that people want to see that. Sure. It's just so...

Like, it feels to me the lesson of the Holocaust wasn't, "People sure hated Jews, didn't they? Well, thank goodness that's over. Gimmee ten bucks, and I'll show you where a Jew used to buy his yogurt." The point of the Holocaust is that ordinary people can be convinced to do terrible things to anyone they decide is different. On a grand scale.

The nice man at the grocery store is two more Fox News opinions away from sticking a pitchfork into an unwed mother on food stamps.

I don't know. These were the thoughts I was having while I walked around the empty alleys. Like, there needs to be remembrance, but... this sort of thing feels like exploitation  And a continuation of the othering.

But then... I heard this echoing call and response, and it was such a beautiful sound, and I had been hearing it for a while. The lead singer kept letting his voice get real ragged, like held the notes too long, and you could hear the other singers laughing while they answered. My first thought was that it was prayer, Of course. There were temples everywhere.

But it was these marvelous drunks, singing in English about zapiekanke, which is essentially pizza. The guy would sing, "I love zapiekaaaaneeeeeeayyyy," and they would sing back, and he would sing, "I eat it every dayyyyyy-unnh" and they would answer. It was... absolutely perfect.

A van of policemen and I watched them shuffle and drag themselves through the streets. They pulled at their coats and sang. They had obviously been up all night, and their leader was taking them to get hot hangover food. The sight and sound of it was so joyous, I wept.  Tears brest fra my een.

It was exactly what I needed for some reason. I wish I had a recording of it. The acoustics were celestial.

A pretty interesting cemetery was all walled off. I found a window but not a door. I asked a boy, "How do you get into the Jewish cemetery?" and he smiled and drew his thumb across his throat. That did not really happen. There was no one to ask except the cops, and I don't talk to the cops. Snitches get stitches!

Made my way out of Jewton and after turning the map into a grimy jelly, I got on the road to Wawel Hill where the kingdom keeps its castle.

Happy little ramble around. The city was waking up, so buses were buzzing, and folks were going for their Easter jogs. I didn't see any children. I passed a lot of churches with open doors, too full to hold the folks who wanted in. They knelt in the doorways and on the stairs.

The castle rose in the distance. Blocky but interesting. The spire of Wawel cathedral rose above it. Very pretty and, like, if you were a medieval person, wouldn't that make you religious? Like, Earth gets these squat bricks, which, you know, sure, they'll keep you safe from a Tatar's spear, but... look how tall the church is, and look how pretty. Wouldn't you rather hang out in this pretty place, this high place?"

I climbed the hill and kicked around in the courtyard.

I really don't know any Polish. Like, I can't even say "thank you" or "excuse me." I know the words for pizza and restaurant, since they were all over the place in Greenpoint, and I know "tak" means "yes" because the Clockwork Princesses taught it to me at the bakery. Oh, and "kawa" means coffee, which is essential. Ha ha, jokes about how people are addicted to coffee are so rich. I say, he says he needs coffee. Oh, that hits the mark.

About the only thing I'll say out loud is "dzien dobry" which is pronounced "jin doe-bree" and means "good morning." Most folks just say "dobry." Morning! Dobry, reverend! Dzien dobry, Wietnam!

For whatever reason, I was cracking myself up near the portcullis thinking about my brother saying, "Dobry aaaand No-bry" which he has never said. I could just hear it in his voice. "So, I ran into the boss at breakfast and he asked me to work on Easter, and I was like, Dobry aaaand No-bry."

I dunno.

Passed a statue of a dragon in the park below the castle, and it spat flame and scared a bird and woke up a drunk.That really happened. Would have gotten a better shot if I'd been expecting it.

Got lost again. The streets weren't on the map, but there were so many restaurants around, it can't have been a "bad" area. Just kept heading away from the Vistula River. Keep the Vistula behind you, and you'll find your way back to the cobblestones - Old Saying!

The city was sure awake now. Trams, slender buses, ladies with coats. In a park, I saw a bird with a bread necklace and killed myself trying to keep track of it. I threw myself into traffic to keep in it sight. Pics came out ok. He had breaded himself.

Saw the spire of St. Mary's Basilica, which I've decided is my favorite in the city and aimed for it. The medieval square was packed with folks. I bought an enormous kielbasa from a food cart. Sign said 10 zl, but she charged me 20 zl. I gave her a 50 and got back 25 zl. So, she tipped herself too.

I'm sure it was my misunderstanding.

Ate it with a plastic knife and fork and watched kids play. There were the usual gold-painted men and folks singing for money. One super old dude sang Tom Jones' "Delilah" and killed it. A clown did that thing where you ask kids to hold your juggling bats and kept dropping them when the kids handed them over. It was very sweet watching the children try to keep up with them all.

A dude on stilts dressed up as Death was high-fiving teenagers.

I went back to the apartment to wash up. Did my laundry in the sink like a person. Then I laced back up and headed out for a serious long walk to Podgorze. The barrow where Prince Krakus, legendary founder of Krakow moulders is supposed to be there. But I was there to see this:

For a lark, I took a different bridge back and was fortunate to discover it was the famous bridge where folks write their names on padlocks and affix them to the railing. It was very sweet. Some were old and rusted, but it doesn't take long to get rusty when you're hanging over a river, I reckon.  Still, it was very sweet, and I spent a lot of time looking at the names. A happy accident.

Then I slid on over to another Jewish cemetery. It was quiet and beautiful. Also sad. Birds and ivy. Moss and memories. Most of the stones were broken, and it was very unlikely there were many bodies there. Walls were made out of broken tombstones.

The stones were just piled on top of one another. The ones you could read all had death dates from the late 40s. Huh. I wonder what happened in the 40s. Must have been a plague or something.

It really was very still and beautiful. I was asked to wear a yarmulke as were all the other men who entered. The ladies were assumed to be wearing wigs, I guess.

Outside, on one of the cemetery walls, I saw this graffiti and deciding it wasn't going to get any better than that, and knowing I had some yogurt waiting for me at home, I made my way back. A long day. I crashed hard.  Tomorrow I take the train to Wroclaw. It's pronounced Vro-Swav. You crazy for this one, Krakus!