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.