Bratislava and the Football Match of Doom

In an attempt to get some more of these out there, I’m going to go back slightly to Bratislava.  It was only a short stopover of two nights, barely one day, so I should easily be able to bang this one out in the five hour train trip to Munich – something I’m not certain is necessarily true of either Prague or Vienna.

Still, my time in Bratislava was fun and interesting.  And I can guarantee that the guys who made Eurotrip had never even been to Bratislava.

DAY HALF

My arrival in Bratislava was slightly later than I had originally planned as I remained in Vienna long enough to see Lily off to her flight (more of that in the Vienna blog, coming some time to a computer screen near you!)  This wasn’t really a problem since Bratislava is only an hour or so away from Vienna, and the trip was quickly over.

Bratislava has one of the smaller and more communist-feeling train stations I have been in the whole time I’ve been in Central Europe – it’s pretty much a giant concrete block with a space in the middle.

My hostel was not too far from the station, and I expected to pretty much have to follow a single street all the way there.  This worked out for me for a short while.  My instructions (that I had made based on Google Maps, as I always do) described a dead end that I would have to turn left at.  Well, the road ended in a staircase that led up to another road.  I assumed that this was the dead end, and that the left turn was actually a short way past the dead end, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention.

Well… it turned out that the staircase was a continuation of the road.  Yeah… in Europe streets don’t necessarily have to carry cars in order to be considered a street.

I went off left and soon reached an area that looked nothing like what I had been expecting based on Google.  It was a massive, multi-lane and multi-road intersection.  I was supposed to have come out on a little street – the street my hostel was supposedly on.

Confused, I walked a little way along the intersection.  Aaaaaand… there in front of me was the street I had been looking for.  So in Bratislava, even when you’re lost you’re not really.

The hostel was quite nice and included a spacious lounge area and single (!) beds.  Unfortunately it was not terribly full, though I have reason to believe that there were more people staying there than I necessarily saw.

When I arrived I met a British fellow.  Though perhaps ‘met’ isn’t the right way of putting it since he was asleep when I entered the room.  I set myself up in the room, started sorting through my bags and checking emails etc when the slumbering form awoke.

He’d just come from Budapest, which he’d been able to fly to cheaply from the UK.  He had just quit his job, a job related to British Parliament, though one he couldn’t give me much information about.  Apparently he hadn’t been allowed to have a life – no smartphone, no friends, no contact with relatives, no facebook account – and the job had showed him a side of British politics he hadn’t been able to handle seeing.  So he quit and ran away.  To Bratislava (well, eventually).

However, he had been stuck in Bratislava for longer than he’d anticipated.  He’d fallen ill, having caught something in Budapest (apparently a crazy bug went around after I left) and had basically been asleep in the hostel for the last three or so days.  He was planning to go to Vienna the next day in order to see the Champions League match between Real Madrid and Manchester United (his team, since he was from Manchester) and wanted to recover before then.

I told him I’d just come from Vienna and that it was expensive. 

“You know, you can get a beer here for a euro.  In Vienna, you’re lucky if it’s cheaper than three.”

Nowadays I judge how expensive a place is based on the price of a pint of beer.

He considered this information for a moment.

“Well, I’m going to want a bit of beer for the game,” he said.  “Do you think they’ll be playing the match somewhere here?”

“Of course they will,” I replied.  “Think of all the expats living here.  They probably have a heap of Brit-style pubs playing the game tomorrow night.”

And then I found him a sports bar that would be playing the match the next night online.

“See?”

Faced with this new proposition, my British friend decided to remain in Bratislava one more night.  He went down to organize this.

Now, I had been umming and ahing over what I was going to do for dinner.  I’d only be in Bratislava two nights, and food, based on what I had seen on the boards of restaurants walking to the hostel, was pretty cheap.  I had a quick browse for a place where I could have some kind of traditional Slovak cuisine.  I found a place called the 1^st Slovak Pub.  And here came the problem – so far I had only met Mr Sick British Man, and he wasn’t in a state where he was ready to go out for dinner (he’d been surviving on 2-minute noodles for the last few days).  The only other option was to eat by myself.

To put this into perspective, I hadn’t really been into a restaurant by myself previously.  I’d often told myself I would do it, then chickened out at the last minute and gone to a takeaway joint, or perhaps a self-service place where it wasn’t unusual to be seated by oneself.  I was fairly certain, from descriptions I had read, the the 1^st Slovak Pub was the kind of place you went with a couple of people.  Still, I didn’t have much time and wanted to make sure I got to try the real deal.

I went out and walked toward the centre.  Bratislava seemed quite straightforward geographically – there was a main shopping street, where trams and such passed along, an old town just south of that and the ugly centre to the east.

On my Google Maps check, 1^st Slovak Pub had appeared to be on a small side street near to the tram line.  I had to cross that shopping street and wander through various alleys and streets in order to get there.

I left the hostel realizing I hadn’t actually written down any instructions, so I sort of walked in the direction I thought it was based on my glance at the map.  After a good twenty minutes of plodding randomly down little side streets, seeing the streets slowly fill with university students (it was pretty busy for early on a Monday night) I gave up and decided to just go for whatever garbage I could find that wasn’t either McDonalds or KFC.  I reached the shopping street, started heading down it, and walked right past the 1^st Slovak Pub.  I nonchalantly kept going, partly because I didn’t want people to see me suddenly do a double-take and turn around and partly because I still wasn’t certain I wasn’t just going to chicken out and eat something easy.

Halfway down the street I stopped to cross the road.  This was all part of my plan to turn back to the 1^st Slovak Pub: first, cross the street, curving as you do so in order to reach the other side pretty much perpendicular to the sidewalk.  Since the people on the other side of the sidewalk don’t know which direction you were walking (unless they are the kind of creepy dude who watches people on the other side of the road) you can easily turn around with no-one any the wiser.  Then, casually cross back over the street – people are less likely to notice you cross the street twice than to notice you turn around completely mid-stride.

By now I was approaching the pub and trying to decide whether I would, indeed, be entering or whether it would be better off to just walk on by and-  Oops, too late, I’ve gone inside.

The pub was set up a little like a museum.  Each room was supposed to represent a different era of Slovak history or something.  I can’t tell you much about that, unfortunately, since by the time I realized there were different themed rooms I’d already sat down at the first mildly inconspicuous table I could find.  Then I realized I’d managed to sit down right in direct view of the bar, where all the serving staff would be able to see and mock me.

A waitress came and gave me a menu.  I perused it – though I chose very quickly (there was a section called ‘Grandma’s Specialties’ that consisted of the kind of traditional food I was looking for) I made sure to read every last thing so that it would look like I was busy and enjoying myself and not some sad, lonely, pathetic loser.

I’d just reached the drinks page when the waitress returned and asked if I’d chosen.  I got a plate of pierogi and a beer.  The beer came very quickly, which I was relieved by since it meant I had something to do besides twiddle my thumbs.  I also started fiddling with my camera to make it clear I was totally occupied and didn’t need company.

The pierogi came out – little crispy dumplings with sour cream and bacon.  I tried to work out how much the bill would come to.  It was somewhere in the vicinity of six euro.  This was just awkward, I decided, since I only had a ten euro note and tipping is customary in Slovakia.  Generally you’re supposed to say how much you wish to pay when you hand over the money, and the staff then gives you change based on that, keeping the tip directly.  I’d figured that the ‘correct’ tip was something like fifty cents, but it felt really weird having to say a specific amount.  I decided to have dessert and try to get it as close to ten as possible in order to be able to just give her the money and say “keep the change” or something.

They really only had one choice for dessert: strudel.  And it was surprise strudel, the kind where you don’t know what kind it will be until it arrives in front of you.  I got banana and chocolate in the end, and it actually tasted pretty good.

I was now close enough to ten euro that it didn’t really worry me (though I must say, I left a MASSIVE tip – but let’s be honest, a main, dessert and drink for ten euro isn’t too bad) so I asked for the bill and paid and left.

One of the differences I find between eating alone and eating with others is the exit.  With others you tend to hang about a bit, taking your time, talking and slowly heading for the door.  By yourself you grab your jacket and zoom out as quickly as you can.

Bratislava was easy to find my way around, so it didn’t take long to get back to the hostel.  Some more people had checked in since I’d gone out – a group of four South Americans (I’m constantly lumping South Americans together, it’s terrible – if I remembered what country they were from I would use that).  Anyway, they’d just come from Krakow, and I heard the usual spiel about how awesome it is (which turned out to be right) and went to bed.  The Brit could speak Spanish as he’d spent a year in South America, so they talked a while.

I just went to sleep.

DAY ONE

My only complete day in Bratislava, so I certainly didn’t want to waste it.  The South Americans left almost immediately, even before I got up (I didn’t get up that late).  The Brit was feeling better and said he felt like he needed to get out and see the city a bit before leaving – and he also, I suspect, wanted to get some fresh air so he’d be feeling right for going out to watch the football.  I had a couple of things to do that morning, so we agreed to meet up in the afternoon and go on the free walking tour at 2:30pm.

First, though, I had to go and get my ticket for Swan Lake in Prague.  There was a ticket issuing office somewhere in Bratislava, and it was my task to find it. 

On the way toward the ticketing office, I was approached by a woman about my age in a bit of a panic.  She was speaking Slovak at a rapid pace, and I was all like… “Um, what?”  She calmed down a bit and said, “It’s ok, I speak English.”

Her story was a bit tough to follow, but the gist of it was that she was a kindergarten teacher and had to get to her class, but she had locked herself out of either her apartment, having forgotten something important, or the school or something.  Anyway, the point was she needed a boost to a window she had left open so that she could get in and get to her kindergarten class.

I agreed to give her a hand.  The window was really rather high up, so I told her I would go on one knee and she should stand on my hand.  I would then lift her up.

She took her shoes off and we had a shot.  The first attempt failed rather abysmally – as soon as I tried to stand up she fell backwards off my knee.  I told her to lean against the wall and we managed to get her up to the window.  I pushed her feet the final few centimetres up over the windowsill.  She was swearing and saying “God God God God Jesus” constantly, but once she was up she took a breath and thanked me.

I passed her shoes up and went on my way.  It was only then that I realized that there was a possibility she’d simply been trying to break into someone’s house and I had just aided her in her crime.  To be honest, though, I don’t think that’s the case – it would have been pretty hard to fake her panic.  Still.

The walk took me, for really the first time, into Bratislava’s Old Town.  It was a very nice old town, filled with narrow streets, nice buildings and general quaintness.

As it wasn’t terribly large or complex, it didn’t take me all that long to find the ticket office.  It was actually a tourism information centre with one booth in the corner designated for Ticketportal, the organization I was dealing with.  I went to that corner and showed the lady my number.

She looked at it confused.  I explained it was for a show in Prague.  That didn’t seem to clear anything up for her.  Then I realized it was because her English wasn’t adept enough for the complexity of both what I needed to tell her and what she needed to tell me.

A lady came up to the desk and offered to help with the translation.  As it turned out, the numbers were different for Slovakian shows and Czech shows, so the lady wasn’t sure how to access my ticket.  When she heard it was for Prague, she went to the Czech site and got it working, so it wasn’t really an issue at all.  I slipped the ticket into my pocket wanting to make sure I remembered exactly where I put it so that I would not miss out.

I still had an awful lot of time to kill before the walking tour, so I decided to go for a walk to the river.  As it turned out, the river wasn’t all that far away, so I decided to walk along the river.  The riverside gradually got uglier and uglier (I didn’t even go that far) so, sick of that I headed in toward the castle.  Funnily enough, the castle was basically right next to my hostel but I ended up approaching it from the other side of the hill.

Anyway, I walked up the hill for a while, basically up some fairly dilapidated stairs, until I reached a residential zone on the top of the hill.  I had an inkling that there was some kind of statue somewhere on this hill that would provide wonderful views of the city from above, so I walked in the opposite direction of the castle, continuing up and up and up.

The road eventually stopped going up, which I took to mean I had reached the top of the hill, which I further deduced meant I had no idea where this statue and lookout were supposed to be.  This being the case, I headed back down the hill in order to get a squiz at the castle.

The castle was pretty lame all things considered – basically a great big white block with windows.  It did have a kind of medieval wall that went along the hill, but that wasn’t particularly impressive.  A walk around it took me to a weird statue and a bit of a view of the city.  It wasn’t quite the statue or view I had been searching for, but it was close enough and I got my panoramic over the city and checked out the decidedly weird statue.  It was some kind of woman with crazy weird hair and big feet, splayed out on a rock or something.  Not sure what it meant.

Anyway, off I headed back to meet up with my British mate for the walking tour.

What facts did I manage to pick up this time around?  Well, some of you may be interested in the bizarre custom Slovakian people have on a particular festival day in spring.  The idea is that the girls of the village or city dress up in their nicest dress.  They wait around at home for a bit before someone knocks at the door.

“Who is it?” she asks.

A boy answers her.  She opens the door and the boy throws a bucket of water over her, then proceeds to take her over his knee and smack her on the bottom.  As a thank-you, she gives him alcohol and money.  Apparently it used to be painted eggs, but the men all decided they wanted alcohol and money…  So you can see who gets the raw end of the deal here, I suspect.

We had a female guide, so we got to hear all about it from personal experience.  She said that if you live in a small village you just have to hope that you live at the end of the street where the boys are finishing since by the time they get there they’ll be too drunk to continue.

What else?  Well, Bratislava Castle is not a residency – it is a military fort.  It has stood up to the Ottomans, the Mongolians and Napoleon, but apparently it was destroyed when an Italian architect hired to redesign it held a party and accidentally lit it on fire.  So it couldn’t survive and Italian party.

Our guide kept having seedy people say weird things to her (in Slovak – she translated for us later).  One old lady said she looked like she needed to go to the toilet.  Later, a man hocking touristy junk on one of the bridges suggested she should do something rather dirty with him.  We were like… “Is this normal?”  Apparently it was the first time this sort of thing had happened to her.

There are a lot of statues around Bratislava, most of them rather humorous.  We only got the story behind one, a statue of Napoleon leaning on a bench with his hat pulled over his eyes.  Apparently it was revenge by the people of Bratislava on Napoleon for attacking their city.  Rather passive-aggressive.

The other interesting point is that, apparently, the Velvet Revolution (that is, the revolt that overthrew the Communist regime in Czechoslovakia) began in the university in Bratislava and is only erroneously attributed to having its origins in Prague.  Saying that, in Prague they say exactly the opposite, so take all this with a pinch of salt.  I suspect that by the time of the Velvet Revolution things were taking place all over Central Europe and it was just a natural endpoint for a number of regimes in the region.

The previous evening I had failed to have two very key staples of Slovak cuisine: garlic soup and halusky.  I had planned to go back to the 1^st Slovak Pub to try them, but a place called the Flagship Restaurant was recommended by the guide, so I chose to head there instead.

In fact it was run by the same organization, with a similar traditional pub feel and museum set-up.  To get to the Flagship Restaurant you had to walk down a short tunnel leading to a wooden door that took you onto a mock-up street.  Then you entered a bar, which I almost mistook for the restaurant but in fact you had to walk up a massive staircase in the back of the bar up to an old converted cinema.  The menu was slightly larger than the one at the other place, but its content was basically the same.  I knew what I was going to have, so ordered (and a beer of course).

The garlic soup was delicious.  It came served in a gigantic bread roll that you could then eat afterwards.  It was creamy and had actual chunks of garlic in it – you could taste the freshness.

Halusky are a kind of potato dumpling that isn’t dissimilar to gnocchi.  Really it’s just a smaller version, and it’s served with sheep’s cheese and bacon.  The bacon is really just a garnish made up of a few small fatty cubes, but it must be good quality because it adds a lot of flavor.

Basically I was stuffed after all that – I had eaten an entire breadroll (a huge one at that), all the soup contained within and a plate of starchy dough balls.  And a beer.

I stumbled off home, unsure what time I was supposed to catch up with the Brit so that we could go watch the game.  I needn’t have worried – the game started at around 9pm, so I had plenty of time.  While I was hanging around waiting, who should come a-walking into my dorm but Corey and his girlfriend, the two Americans I had seen in both Rome and Zagreb.  They were meeting up with a friend of Corey’s who happened to go to Griffith University and who had for some reason come up listed as a mutual friend when I added Corey to Facebook.  It turned out I didn’t actually know her and Facebook was just being weird.

Anyway, she had left her scarf in Budapest (in Morrison’s, if you remember that place – if you don’t it’s the place we went on Monday night) and the other two had picked it up and brought it with them to Bratislava.

They’d had a good time in Budapest and had stayed in the same hostel I had (I recommended it to them).  Apparently the hostel had just started a fortnightly party in the baths when they arrived and it was amazing, so I’m now hoping to get back there some time since that’ll be a perfect opportunity to ACTUALLY GO TO THE BATHS WITHOUT HAVING TO ACTIVELY FIND OTHER PEOPLE.

There were two other guys, one Australia and the other Kiwi, who were there as well.  They’d decided to come with us, being fairly big football fans.

The Americans said they’d follow a little after us, as they still needed to eat.

On the way to the bar, the Kiwi told us about their previous night.  Apparently they were in a dorm with two girls from Ireland (I never met them, and you’re soon to understand why).  They were supposed to have left that morning, in fact, but had apparently spent the entire day in bed.  The reason for this was that they had gone out with the Aussie and Kiwi the night before and gotten smashed.  One of them had allegedly spent the entire night following the Kiwi from bed to bed in an attempt to sleep with him.  I can’t remember exactly how that story ended, but it was definitely not with them sleeping together (which I’m glad at, since otherwise I would have been chatting casually with not only an ass-hat but a rapist ass-hat).

When we arrived the sports bar was packed.  There was not a single space that wasn’t either taken or reserved.  There were even places at the bar that had been reserved!  That was crazy stuff.  We looked around in a halfhearted fashion – the others had already got beers before we even found a place to sit – and looked at each other.

“Well… I guess we just go see if we can find another place playing the game after we finish our beers.”

I didn’t want to give up that easily, so I went off into the back searching for a table.  I found what I thought was a bar where one could at least rest one’s glass and rushed back to the others to bring them there.  Turned out the bar was actually a blockade to stop customers getting to the fridge and it was a thoroughfare for the wait staff.  Oops.

We went upstairs and found a prime vantage point looking down onto the biggest screen.  We had to stand, but that was a small price to pay for what was, in all honesty, probably the best position in the house.  So I went to get a beer.

How did the game go?  Well… Man U lost.  It was looking pretty good for a while, but then a player got unfairly red carded (it was a yellow, but definitely no red) and they were suddenly one man down.  And against a team like Real Madrid, being one man down at the beginning of the second half spells doom.

We had a very irritating man behind us (a Real Madrid supporter) who would just call all the Man U players dirty constantly, and whenever they made a tackle he would complain about it.  He was the kind of guy who would refuse to recognize the fact that having a player sent off unfairly played a major role in ensuring their loss.

Our poor old Brit needed a drink after watching his team get defeated in such a way, so the others went out to continue the night.  I went to bed because I had an early bus to catch.

DAY TWO…ISH

I was out of the hostel by 8am, powerwalking to catch my 9am bus.  The bus stop was a bit outside of the area of the city I had been in previously, so with trusty map in hand I went on my merry way.

It was all going well until I got to a street that I was certain was the street with the bus stop on it.  I went almost all the way down this street without seeing hide nor hair of the bus stop, and it unfortunately didn’t help that the street had no sign to let me know what its name was.

Eventually I got worried I had missed the bus station and turned back to have a proper look.  In doing so, I caught sight of a street sign.  It was not the street I was looking for.  Whipping out my map I realized I needed to keep going just a little bit further…

(We just crossed into Germany, so I had my ticket checked by my very first German train conductor.  She was so lovely, and very surprised when she saw the number of trains I have caught so far.)

I only had ten minutes before the bus was scheduled to leave.

Fortunately, as it turned out, I was only five minutes away at that point.

Onto the bus I hopped, ready for a six hour drive that would get me to Krakow.  The entertainment for the ride was Transporter and Transporter 3.  I don’t know what language it was in – either Polish, Slovak or Estonian.  I watched it anyway.  There’s something strangely surreal about watching a totally mindless movie in another language – somehow you don’t have to concentrate.  What’s really sad, though, is that they were probably better movies because I couldn’t understand the dialogue.

Well, you know what happened in Krakow already, so I guess you could end up anywhere when this story is

TO BE CONTINUED

What Happens in Krakow Stays in Krakow

…at least until I write about it on my blog.  So I know I’m breaking continuity here a little by writing about Krakow now and skipping over Vienna and Bratislava, but to be honest nothing major happened in either of those places, it’ll take forever to write about them and I’ve noted down what happened in both those places so will be able to remember.  On the other hand, Krakow’s activities are beginning to disappear into an alcohol-induced memory void, so I really need to get those written down.

Just a quick note that none of the images used here belong to me - they were all taken from the Greg & Tom's Party Hostel facebook page.  Further, reader discretion is advised - I would recommend skipping the entirety of day two for young readers and those who wish to avoid fairly unsavoury topics such as the Holocaust and french kissing.

DAY HALF

Well, ok.  So you have no way of knowing this, since I didn’t speak about Bratislava, but there was a slight change in my usual method of transportation in heading for Krakow.  Krakow actually isn’t on my eurail pass, which meant I had to find the cheapest alternative possible, which ended up being the bus.  It was a seven hour journey, getting into the city just after 3:30pm.

Krakow was once the capital of Poland, though that enviable honour now belongs to Warsaw.  I’d been told Warsaw was boring (and it was difficult to get to anyway, being a considerable distance north) but that Krakow was a must-see (which is why I went even though it wasn’t included on my train ticket).  On the bus in I thought it might be a good idea to check my bus ticket for the name of the bus station – I mean, I already had a map of Krakow with the main station marked on it, but it was probably worth making sure they were the same.

Of course, as soon as I actually paid attention to the ticket I noticed that the station’s name included the word ‘regionulska’ or something like that, provoking a moment of panicked staring out the window (at a series of industrial complexes) thinking we were going to stop any moment in the middle of nowhere.  But the bus kept going, entering the city centre and coming to a stop at the station I had thought it would originally.

I followed the crowd down into a tunnel and across to a large modern shopping centre.  I was on the lookout for an exchange office, but of course they offered very poor rates both at the bus station itself and in the shopping centre.  My hostel was not very far from the station, so I didn’t pass an exchange office, unfortunately.

I walked down the street, keeping a lookout for the hostel.  I got to the end of the street without having seen it.  Hmm…  Another sweep and no hostel.  On my third walk down I saw it – a small unassuming door in the main building with a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve reading “Greg & Tom Hostel”.  Not as much fanfare as one might be led to expect.

Anyway, I buzzed in and went up to the second floor.  I was greeted by the on-duty receptionist, Adam, who was very friendly and very easily distracted.  After being given the brief I was shown up to my room on the fourth floor.  I had gotten a four bed dorm because every other room had been full when I booked the previous week (I had specifically been recommended this hostel, so wanted to make sure I got it).  My room was pretty much empty – that is, I was the only one in it.  So I guess it was empty.  Until I got there.  Then it was empty except for me.

I had to get money at this point so that I could pay for the room, so I headed off into old town (which was just around the corner) and went to a street that Adam had recommended for good rates.  The town was fairly bustling for a Wednesday afternoon, and I got a fair glimpse of the beautiful old town.  I didn’t stay out long, though – I just wanted to get the money changed and get back.

So I went in to pay, but fate seemed to want to delay my payment for as long as it possibly could – the money drawer was jammed (they’d just had it repaired, and I guess the repairman wanted to get another job for himself ASAP) and Adam said he would take my payment once he had opened the drawer.  I left him standing over the drawer holding a saw down against the wood.

I hung out in the common room for a bit chatting with a group that had been there a while already – a British girl and some South Americans.  I think one was called Raphael.  Then it was dinner time – which was included in the price of the hostel (it was a really good recommendation).  Wednesday night was salad night, though Adam was all, “I didn’t think salads were enough, so I made some soup too!”  When the salads include pasta salads, potato salads, coleslaw, green salad and one with sausages, it kind of is enough, but I ate the soup anyway, and it was delicious.  Like a thick potato-y thing with sausages in it and stuff.

Dinner was a great social affair where everyone sat at the big central table in the kitchen (a no laptop zone) serving themselves from the buffet, chatting and eating.  I met another girl with a British accent, though she was apparently from Melbourne, two Americans who were travelling together and some others who clearly didn’t leave much of an impact on me.

Greg and Tom’s consists of two hostels – I had booked myself into the regular one, though they also had a party hostel.  The different types of hostels is probably a discussion for another time, but suffice it to say that a party hostel is exactly what it sounds like – a place that offers plenty of opportunity for socializing and alcohol.  Greg & Tom’s organized nights out every night, with different themes each night.  That night was a vodka tasting, which I attempted to rationalize as a cultural experience (PS as an interesting sidenote, the Polish for vodka is wòdka, which I think is hilarious since it’s basically written like vodka with a central European accent).

I managed to persuade one of the Americans to go with me (peer pressure for the win) though she still needed to get ready and said she’d follow behind me (the party was at the other Greg & Tom’s).  Apparently she got a better offer (live music… so I guess it kind of was a better offer) and didn’t end up showing up.

Christoph and Brent (who is hiding behind the logo)

The other hostel was set up with a bar and basement room with lounges, tables and a large TV.  I was joined by a Canadian guy called Brent as I was paying for the night at the bar.  He was doing a trip through places like Budapest and Prague (the big hitters) and was leaving for Budapest (I think…) on Friday.  Initially he had wanted to stay longer but it turned out both hostels had been completely booked out for the Friday evening.

Downstairs we met Christoph, an Argentinean that seemed to be drunk the whole time I saw him, even when he was sober (unless he was never sober… which is actually a possibility).  There was also a large group of girls, mostly from Australia – Angie, Brooke, Laura, Vanessa and Lauren (you wouldn’t believe how hard I had to work to remember all those names).

Michael was our guide.  He was a super charismatic fellow who would disappear for a couple of moments every now and again before returning with a massive tray filled with shots.  The shots were different flavoured vodkas.  There were three flavours, and I tried all of them.  Multiple times.  When, five minutes in, I had done three shots, I started to get a tad concerned that I was going way too quick, though I then noticed that the flavoured vodkas were only 21% alcohol, which was ok.

So, my assessment on the flavours.  There were three flavours: Pink Grapefruit, Lemon and Cherry.  Cherry tasted like cough syrup.  Pink Grapefruit tasted, for some reason, like watermelon (yes it was definitely pink grapefruit – I checked in case they looked similar), and Lemon tasted delicious.  We had a quick game of flip cup as well, though, unlike the games in Budapest, we actually had to down a whole cup of beer instead of just measuring a small amount per game.  Oh, and the game was three cups worth.  I’m starting to get a bit worried about how quickly I was able to down them.

The full gang

In a pleasantly tipsy state we started a game of singstar.  I started bitching about how I didn’t know any of the songs and that if there was a Queen song I’d smash everyone singing it, when Michael pulled out the Queen version of the game.  As penance (I guess) I had to play against him in Bohemian Rhapsody.  And I smashed him, which was fortunate, as I’d been talking myself up way too much just beforehand.

We went out to three clubs that night.  I can’t remember too much about them (shots were produced at each place) but I can tell you that all of them were packed.  On a Wednesday night.  From 10:30pm until I left at 4am.

Due to nothing terribly specific happening on that night it might be worth me giving a bit of an overview of the clubbing scene in Krakow.  It’s freaking amazing.  As I said before, everywhere we went was packed with people, all of them are dancing and it’s just a lot of fun. 

Wednesday night is a bit of a quiet one.

Polish guys have a lot of confidence and are excellent dancers (I’m talking ballroom dancing style, though adapted to work on the dance floor).  It’s actually more common to see a girl dancing alone looking for a partner than it is to see a guy (and most of the guys dancing alone are tourists who haven’t worked out that most girls will happily start dancing with you if you hold your hand out).  So you’re surrounded by people twirling, grinding, grooving and spinning, all set to a background of… pretty s*** music, to be honest (just your typical top of pop stuff), but the atmosphere wins out.

The only specific place I can remember the name of was the one we went to last, Coco’s.  It was kind of divided into three lounges, a bar and a dance floor.  Nothing terribly special to report here.  At some point around 4am I was dragged out by the American girl (whose name I can’t remember) and Christoph.  Stumbling around the streets we decided to go to another place, but couldn’t find one and decided that it was probably late enough to head back to the hostel(s).  “Why did we leave?” I asked.

“I don’t know – I just followed you guys.”

“What?  I was following you…” etc etc.  It was just one of those things that happened for no apparent reason.

Back to the hostel for me then.  I went to bed to an empty room (which was good for me as it meant I didn’t have to go to the toilet to change into my pajamas – you wouldn’t believe how comforting it is being able to get changed in a room that actually contains a bed).

I was able to get a nice couple of hours rest before entering into (I guess I was already kind of in)

DAY ONE

I could still feel the alcohol buzzing around me when I woke up at 8am.  I didn’t want to miss breakfast (or a shower) so raced around getting myself cleaned up and ready to get out and about.  You probably don’t need to read a blow-by-blow of my showering experience, so let’s get to breakfast.

It was probably one of the best breakfasts I’ve had so far – plenty of cereal, bacon (!) and these little stuffed polish sausage thingies.  I ate as much as I could because… food.

It was a nice day and there was a free walking tour (which, you may have noticed is pretty much the first thing I do in any new city) so after breakfast I made my way up and off to the lovely St Mary’s Church, where the walking tour was to leave from.  It was actually one of the largest groups I’ve ever seen on one of the tours, a good twenty or so people (previous largest was Bratislava with only eight).

The major take-away from the walking tour was: Polish people love making s*** up.  We would constantly be shown quaint little traditions or odd architectural details that had a completely made-up story behind them.  Examples include:

Difference in Height Between the Two Towers of St. Mary’s Church

MYTH: Two brothers designed a tower each – one was better than the other, and the worse one murdered his brother with a knife (which now hangs from an archway in the market square).  The brother, riddled with guilt, jumped from the shorter tower he had designed.

TRUTH: One of the towers was the watch tower, and is owned by the city rather than the church.  Of course, as a watch tower, it would struggle to function if it was right next to another tower just as high.  The knife hanging from the arch is a reminder of one of the punishments that existed in medieval Krakow (you can probably guess what it involves).

The Trumpet Playing Every Hour from the Watch Tower

MYTH: The myth attempts to explain why the trumpet song is cut off suddenly part way through.  The answer, it claims, is that, at a time when the Mongolian army was approaching, a watchman raised the alarm with his trumpet but was shot by an arrow, hence the song being cut off.

TRUTH: Actually not sure what the reason for the trumpeting being cut off is, but I have been told where the story above originated.  An American writer was touring Krakow in the 30s, and had a young girl as his guide.  He asked her why the song was cut off and, as she actually had no idea, she bulled her way through with the story above.  He liked the story so much he took it back with him and wrote a book that became kind of popular.  So there.

The Bonerewski Hotel

MYTH: This hotel used to be called ‘The Boner Hotel’, after its founder, but when Krakow became a popular destination amongst British stag parties they had problems with drunk guys coming into the 5-star hotel expecting a slightly different… erm… service.  So they added ‘-ewski’ to the end to try to stop the rather irritating (I’m sure) visits.

TRUTH:  Actually, this one’s apparently true.

Other cool things we saw included the dragon heads on the drains (set up so that when it rains the dragons spew water) – though in the university they also had the heads of different students as an analogy for a different kind of spewing.  Krakow’s castle is Wawel Castle, on the top of the hill near the river.  The cathedral on the hill is a bit of a mishmash of different styles from different time periods, including Italian renaissance, gothic, medieval and others.  You look up at it and it’s just a series of different coloured bricks and stone blocks seemingly randomly stacked into one another.

There’s also an Austrian military hospital (the Austrians seem to have managed to get everywhere) and a dragon statue.  The dragon statue breathes fire.  It’s in front of a small cave (the Dragon’s Den), the location described in a local myth about a dragon that would eat female virgins (as you do).  Eventually the only virgin left was the princess (I would imagine you would look to get laid ASAP knowing you risked a dragon eating you) and the king offered her hand in marriage to whoever killed the dragon.

After a lot of dashing young heroic men were killed in their quests for an arranged marriage, a cobbler (it’s always a cobbler) tricked the dragon into eating a sheepskin filled with sulphur (it’s possible that the guide said something other than sulphur since he then suggested that it was a very hot spice, but it sounded like he said sulphur).  The dragon gulped down water from the river to get rid of the spice in his mouth, but drank too much.  And exploded.  So he didn’t even win the Wii.

So, two celebrities from Krakow.  First, former Pope John Paul II was Bishop in Krakow.  They REALLY love him there – statues are everywhere, there’s a window with his face plastered over it where he stayed once while he was Pope, and you kind of get constant reminders that he was a local.

The other celebrity was Chopin (though of course he later moved to France).  Chopin has one statue commemorating him, an art sculpture that is supposed to represent the hammers and strings in a piano.

Finally, the Australian link.  Kosciuszko was a great Polish hero who fought in many battles for independence.  And we have a mountain named after him.

After the tour I decided I really needed to buy my train ticket for the trip back into my eurail zone, Prague.  I headed for the train station and paid a whopping 70 euro for a ticket, making me feel like perhaps the eurail ticket was better value than it seems.  I had to stand in line for what felt like forever.  Just as I got to the front of the queue, the lady at the service desk I was standing at was beckoned over to the other desk to help the lady there deal with a pair of… Austrians I think… who had somehow been issued a ticket for a train that didn’t exist or something.  That’s the kind of problem I wouldn’t want to have to deal with.

Well, I ended up spending a lot more money on the train ticket than I expected, so I needed to go straight from the train station back to the exchange office to get some more money changed over.  I was starting to plan out what tours and things I wanted to do, so went back to the hostel in order to get some bookings made.

My initial plan was to do Auschwitz in the morning, followed by the Wieliczka (freaking Polish) Salt Mines in the afternoon.  That would leave me in a good position to go out on Friday and Saturday night without having to worry about having to get up early or anything for a tour.

Thursday was sausage night, so we all sat around the table eating sausages.  Lots of sausages.  Big fat ones.  Sliced an soaked in a tomato stew.  In a salad.  Stuffed with cheese.

I kept going up and getting more because… well, I freaking love sausages.  My plan that evening was to do nothing, so I took my time, chatting with a couple of nice German girls who were doing medicine, and another pair of Germans, also studying medicine.  There was also a pair of primary school teachers from France on a week’s holiday.

Having made the decision to not go out, I was tragically waylaid by Adam’s offer to take us for a quiet night at the local watering hole.  I should mention something about Krakow – there are a lot of bars, pubs and clubs.  800 in the old town area, in fact, making it the highest concentration of bars of any city centre in the world.  As there are so many of them, obviously a lot of them are quite well hidden down small corridors (often you will come across a corridor that leads you along to two or three bar entrances), and it was one of these that we went to that night.  The place was small, though had quite a few people milling about, and very cheap beer.

We stayed there, chatting and drinking for a considerable length of time.  We met a local who decided to adopt our group – I think he was kind of drunk.  Poor old Adam saw that this guy was being a bit of a lout and tried to distract him with conversation.  We were assured by the guy that it was a Polish tradition to pour a little beer from a full glass into someone’s empty glass.  We were then assured by Adam that this was a load of garbage and this guy was clearly just trying to score some free alcohol (and get the ladies drunk, it seemed).

He wasn’t dangerous, though, and was very easily distracted by Adam, and was in many ways quite amusing (though I suppose I didn’t directly have to put up with him for that much time).  We stayed out at the bar until the nice and early time of… 2am.  So, yeah.  An early night.

DAY TWO

At breakfast the next morning I caught up with the two Germans, who also happened to be booked in to Auschwitz that day.  We headed off to the bus for the 9am departure on what turned out to be an extremely organized tour with an accompanying babysitter (a typical young Polish guy – they seem to be the ones with the market cornered when it comes to tourist-related activities) and a bus complete with TV screen that played a 50 minute documentary about footage taken by a member of the Soviet army that liberated Auschwitz.  It wasn’t terribly provoking or moving or anything to be honest.  I kind of wish they’d played Night and Fog instead – that would have been a far more appropriate introduction and mood setter.

I struggled to remain awake throughout the video having not had a great deal of sleep over the course of the previous few evenings.  When the video ended, I tried to get a nap in, but unfortunately we were just pulling in to the camp and I had to shake myself awake (until the freezing weather did it for me as I got off the bus).

For those who aren’t aware, Auschwitz is actually the name of the town (who on earth would want to liver there now?) where three camps were.  Of these, only Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II – Birkenau remain.  This is because, as the Nazis were leaving in the face of the arrival of the Soviets, they destroyed as much of the camps as they could in order to cover up the evidence of their war crimes.

Because of this fact, visiting with a tour group is actually preferable – you would perhaps struggle to get to both camps without a great deal of trouble.  My tour was to cover both the first and second camps.  We were starting at Auschwitz I, which is now a museum housed across numerous buildings.  At the entrance hall my immediate thought was, “Oh God, it’s one of those sites.”  There were tourists everywhere.  You couldn’t move but for tourists.  It was wall to wall.  Our babysitter told us we had a ten minute break (during which I went to the loo) before we were to meet our guides.

The Germans got a German-speaking guide, so I was split up with them for the duration of the tour.  We all received headsets so that we could hear the guide without her speaking too loudly (I assume – also, it’s possible that they do this so that you don’t get mixed up with the sounds of the many, many other guides showing groups around (seriously… so many guided tours).  And so we went into the camp.

It really was the perfect day to go see a death camp (oh God that sentence sounds so perverse).  There was a freezing fog dulling everything, the sky was grey and the wind was biting.  The guide, due to only needing to speak softly because she had a microphone, had a much less rousing, enthusiastic tone than other guides I’ve had (I guess that’s probably also down to the fact that instead of telling us stories about competing brothers and Mongolian invasions she was telling us about the extermination of a race).

What really gets you is the calculated, emotionless cruelty of the entire operation.  Hearing how organized it was, how carefully records were maintained, how everything was collected afterwards – it’s a far cry from the more barbaric massacres and wars of the past (as well as more recent things like terrorist attacks).  Somehow this was even more inhuman.  The scale, the planning, the organization, the cruelty, but at the same time the detachment, the lack of passion – somehow it makes it worse.

Just being there was a numbing experience, but there are a few points in the museum where it really hits home (and I have to admit that trying to remember these things has brought me close to tearing up as I write this).

One building contains some of the possessions of those who were murdered in the gas chambers.  It is especially harrowing to enter a room with an enormous pile of shoes (I’m talking maybe seven or eight large suitcases full) and realize, on closer inspection, that they are children’s shoes.  Then to enter another room, a room the size of six rooms, which is completely filled with shoes.  All representing a death in the gas chambers.

It’s shocking to enter another room and see a space behind a glass window that is of an equivalent size to the room you are in filled completely with human hair.

It’s horrifying to see a tin of pellets and have them explain that these were dropped into the gas chambers and that the gas therefore came from below, not above, leaving the dying crawling on top of one another to escape its reach.

It’s terrifying to enter a large stone bunker and see the holes in the ceiling through which the pellets were dropped before entering the next room and seeing the immense furnaces where they burned the bodies.

I won’t say too much more, but suffice it to say that, despite the crowds, despite the tour groups and cameras snapping and all that, the place retained its oppressive ambience.  After walking around the camp we got on the bus and made our way to Birkenau, about two minutes down the road.

Birkenau is free to just walk in and look around.  There is a large unmanned entrance gate with a train track that enters and goes straight through the centre of the camp.  Apparently this was a later addition when they decided that having the prisoners walk to the gas chambers was inefficient, so extended the line to reach the gas chambers.  These chambers are in ruins now, one was brought down by some of the prisoners when they realized that they had nothing to lose and would be killed anyway, and the fleeing Nazis demolished the other five.  They remain in a dilapidated state.

Birkenau was the largest of the three camps.  Nowadays it is basically just a few foundations, maybe sixty stone buildings and around the same wooden ones.  The stone ones are slowly beginning to fall apart – sloppy and rushed design means that they had brickwork too weak to support the excessively heavy roofing used.

I might just finish this by saying that one of the facts that stuck with me was that a number of Jews killed in the holocaust had sought asylum in the West in the early stages of the Third Reich’s rise to power.  The nations denied these applications.

I slept pretty much the whole way back.  It had been freezing in the camps and I needed to thaw out and catch up with my rest.  We got back around 3:30pm, and I went for a rest in the hostel before dinner.

Dinner was pasta, which was good because I was planning to go out that night on the organized hostel party it was Mad Dogz night.  What are Mad Dogz, I suspect you were not asking but now realize was a legitimate question to ask.  Well, let me tell you.

Mad Dogz are a kind of shot.  The reason they are called Mad Dogz, with the pluralisation embedded into the word itself, is that they come en masse – there is never just one.  Never.  And you will not do just one (unless you’re sensible – in which case you have no place doing Mad Dogz shots).  They consist of three very simple ingredients: vodka, grenadine and two drops of Tabasco sauce.  If that doesn’t get your tastebuds tingling then I guess you probably don’t like alcohol, sugar and spicy. 

We started in the basement again – the only people I remembered from the previous night were Lauren, Laura, Christoph, and the party leader.  We were later joined by a group of Brits (two couples) in maybe their early thirties (though let’s just say time… hadn’t exactly been kind to them, and I suspect their presence at the party probably wasn’t helping that fact).

There was a shisha pipe on the table that was being passed around, something that I’ve only really started noticing as quite a popular thing since being in Central Europe.  There are a lot of cafes that offer shishas.  I’d always just assumed they were illegal, but apparently it’s really no different than smoking (to be honest, I prefer it to smoking since the shisha doesn’t release its fumes into the surroundings).

Flip cup with shots.  Why?

Other than a game of flip cup using shots (which was really hard… shot glasses are not designed for flip cup) nothing of any real note happened that night.  As with the other night we all headed out to a club, a place called Mirrors.  It had a pretty cool design, the kind of design that would make me go crazy if I was drunk, but (un)fortunately I wasn’t (either the shots weren’t that strong or my alcohol tolerance is seriously getting worryingly high – probably both, actually).  It was this underground, cellar-like bar with mirrors (which is why I can remember the name) and one of the most awkward toilets ever.  Because it’s see-through.  From the inside.  Yes, it’s a one-way mirror, so while you’re sitting there s****ing, you can look out at all the people around you, safe in the knowledge that they can’t see you.

The only shot of Lauren and Laura with me I could find

Unfortunately, Mirrors was kind of dead before we arrived.  The only dead place I saw the entire time I was in Krakow.

All these nights kind of blur into one another, but I know that the next place we visited was one that we’d been to on Wednesday night.  We got a bit of dance on and moved on.

At the next place I was dancing on the dance floor, still perhaps not as drunk as I thought I needed to be, but drunk enough that I was enjoying myself enough not to go and actively make myself more drunk (effort and money – meh) when suddenly I was making out with another girl on the dance floor.

I'm not kidding about the trays of shots - not strong ones though

That is exactly how it happened.  There was no build-up, I don’t think I ever even really got a good look at her.  One second I’m bouncing around, next thing we’re swapping tongues.  I had a vague sense of it being a bit gross, but decided it was probably poor form to pull out, and to be honest I’d have probably struggled to manage to escape since she’d gotten me in a bit of a wrap.

I basically had no idea what I was doing, and mainly just let her lead with occasional flourishes of my own.  In the end she separated to rejoin her group (who had been standing right next to us the entire time – perving, I guess).  I went back to join Laura and Lauren (they were who I had been hanging out with most of the night) where they gave me a kind of cruel knowing look and I tried to convince them that I had no idea what had just happened.

I think I visited this place all three nights...

Then we were chaperoned to yet another place, actually the same place we had finished the night before.  We sat in the lounge area, more shots were produced, I did some and then had the tray spillage poured into my throat (seriously, half the things they do in clubs and bars here would be illegal in Australia).  And… that was a bad idea.

I got home without any problem, actually, mainly because the alcohol hadn’t quite begun to take effect.  But when I got back to the hostel… yeah, you know the drill.  I have a vague recollection of returning to my bed and seeing sunshine out the window, but I’m not sure how that’s possible unless it took me two hours to get changed into my pajamas.

Which, all things considered, is quite possible.

DAY THREE

I woke up about five minutes too late for breakfast.  This was a shame, since the breakfast was awesome, but I could survive.  While bumming around trying to decide what to do, I was approached by another guy in my room – a Polish guy, probably in his mid-twenties.  He was visiting Krakow from his town a small way away with a group who were all there for some kind of convention or something, though apparently they didn’t need to be actually at the convention.  Well, except for one of them.

Anyway, this guy, who I will call Redbeard because he had a red beard and I can’t remember his name, offered to show me a bit of Krakow.  I was like… sure!  Well, that was my day planned.

I should probably also mention that I was still a little bit drunk at this stage.

It was an interesting day.  First we met all his friends in one of the rooms around reception, though most of them were still in bed so that lasted only a couple of minutes.  Though long enough for them to exclaim their excitement at meeting an Australian (I’m constantly amazed at the number of people surprised at meeting an Australian – seriously, there are LOADS of us in Europe, and we’re not exactly quiet about it).

I went with Redbeard and another guy, who actually was attending the convention that day, in order to see him to the tram station.  I didn’t realize this was what we were doing at first – I was having a little trouble understanding exactly what I was taking part in, and for a moment it seemed as though we were all going to be taking a car trip to a neighbouring town.  Fortunately that was not the case, and after they bought me a little circle of bread (very popular and easily available from street vendors all across Central Europe) and saw him off, I began to make my way with Redbeard to the town centre.

We came to St Mary’s Church, you know, the one the tour guide on Thursday had suggested I visit?  Redbeard repeated the tour guide’s suggestion, saying it was very beautiful inside.  He then said, “Oh, but we don’t want to pay,” and took me to the entrance for those going to pray.

I was like… “Is this really appropriate,” but then again, I was only ripping off the Church, and they were clearly making plenty of tourist zloty, so I took off my hat and went in.

In my mildly tipsy state, I decided it would be a good idea to act very pious in order to maintain the illusion that I was just there to pray.  So as I approached the statue of the whateveritwas I got down on one knee and made the sign of the cross, though it ended up being more of a sign of the lopsided diamond than anything else.

The church’s interior was very beautiful, I suppose, though if I’m going to be completely honest with you I was more concerned with watching out for the Church Police that I was certain were watching out for faking tourists like me.  Apparently they weren’t, or I was doing a better job of faking it than I thought, because we got in and out without spending a dime.

Redbeard next wanted to take me to his favourite bar, because it was almost midday and CLEARLY ALCOHOL IS A GOOD IDEA.  It was just across the market square from the church so we went.  I was given the choice of light beer or dark beer.  I chose dark.

We chatted about stuff – Redbeard talked about Poland a bit, though I honestly don’t remember a word of it.  We finished with a decision to go to Wawel Castle, so I downed the rest of my beer, maintaining the buzz I had been cultivating, and we stumbled off.

Interestingly enough, Redbeard seemed to be even more drunk than I was.  We went up the castle and into the cathedral there – there was an entry fee that basically allowed you into the cathedral and up to see the bell (apparently the largest in Poland) and underground into the crypts.  It was pretty cool, and Redbeard would explain to me under his breath the relevance of each object – whose grave it was, what the relevance was etc.  Though he was basically just repeating what was written on the placards, I appreciated the gesture.

The bell was big.  What else can I say?  You’d hope the biggest bell in Poland would be big.  Though it’s telling that it’s not the biggest bell in the world.  The stairs up to the bell were clearly added to the tower afterwards, as they kind of wove awkwardly around older structures and beams.  I’m not sure how they used to repair the bell and stuff if the stairs are modern.

The crypts were a bit of a letdown.  I was hoping for piles of bones and stuff, but in the end there were just… well, big stone rectangles.  Hopefully there were bones inside the rectangles, otherwise what’s the point?

Next it was off to the Jewish Quarter, which I should mention is different to the Jewish Ghetto, which was on the other side of the river.  For some reason Jews were always segregated from everyone else, and as far as I understand this was not by choice.  Isn’t it great how we no longer create special regions for particular ethnic groups to live in?  Right guys?

…right?

We kind of saw a synagogue from the outside, but I’m guessing Redbeard was starting to feel the effects of alcohol wear off a bit because he now suggested we go find a Jewish restaurant that served a 70% alcohol shot (there seems to be one of these in almost every country I go to).  Well, he suggested we get some Thai food first, but once he got to the place where the Thai restaurant was supposed to be, it wasn’t, and so alcohol seemed like a fair substitute.

We found the Jewish restaurant without a problem.  I assumed we were also going to order food, but Redbeard said he was going to go meet some of his friends in a place that served good Polish food soon, so I should go with him there instead for food.  Instead we had a 50mL shot of the 70% alcohol concoction – I’m pretty sure it was Palinka (not as bad as it sounds – the less strong version I had in Athens was far more difficult to drink) and a 500mL beer.  For those who are into that sort of thing, that’s around five standard drinks.  But who’s counting?

It was time for the long walk to the traditional restaurant we were now supposed to be going to.  I have to admit, I really struggled with that walk.  Not because I was stumbling around (I wasn’t) but because I was really, really busting for the toilet.  It was one of those “Oh man I should have gone in the restaurant I really hope this next place isn’t too far away” moments.

Hmm…  Let’s just say it was a chilly walk.

Anyway, we reached the restaurant and went to meet Redbeard’s friends – a couple, one of whom was quite pregnant, both of whom seemed a little surprised to see me.  I had assumed Redbeard had explained that I would be tagging along, but as they spoke only limited English (Redbeard told me this was by choice – they could speak English but were embarrassed about getting it wrong) I couldn’t really tell.

They were already eating.  Redbeard ordered both of us another beer and we started looking at the menu.  The thing I really needed to try was pierogi, a kind of Polish dumpling with filling.  Actually, it’s pretty much ravioli dumplings.  I also got a soup, one Redbeard assured me was very Polish.  It was a kind of pork broth with a big lump of pork in it and bits of vegetable.  By vegetable, I pretty much just mean potato.  But that still counts.

Anyhoo, it tasted really good.  We were soon joined by the guy from that morning that we had seen to the tram.  They were all speaking Polish, and every now and then Redbeard would remember that I had no idea what was going on, would turn and slur in English a bit of an explanation, then get distracted by the conversation and keep on going.  I didn’t mind – the place felt like an authentic hangout, and it was nice to just soak up the ambience.

Suddenly Redbeard announced that we were moving on to another place for a bit of dessert, so we headed for an Italian restaurant for some tiramisu.  It was all right, though they’d used sponge instead of those coffee biscuits.

When another couple of people joined, I made my excuses and left.  I was keen to join the party again for my final night in Krakow, and I had begun to feel as though I was intruding as they were speaking Polish and my guide was completely off his face.

I arrived back at the hostel in time for more dinner.  Because food is better than alcohol, I stuffed my face.  It was Polish night, though I’m glad I had the pierogi while I was out because there wasn’t any to be had at the hostel.  Instead there were these cabbage-filled fried things (which were yummy) and some salads and stew (also yummy).

It was time for my final night out in Krakow.

I have to tell you, I find it really difficult to write about these nights.  They tend to be a blur, and they mix into one another and create a mess of random moments and vague recollections.  What I can tell you is that Saturday night was the only night where I officially took part in a pub crawl.  As in, the sole purpose was to crawl around pubs, not do Mad Dogz shots or taste vodka.

The South American girls, whose names I tragically forget

Funnily enough, it didn’t pan out too much differently from previous nights.  This time there were a group of three South American girls and two guys, though I honestly only remember the guys (and that’s only because I saw them the next day).  They were who I hung out with most.

It started with two hours of shots and flip cup and karaoke at the hostel before we moved along to the first club.  Oh yes, by ‘pub crawl’ they really meant ‘club crawl’.  Ah well.

We were joined by another group of pub crawlers and in that group was a bunch of British guys that I met.  One I will call Baldy, one I will call Glasses and one I will call Tom.  Not because that was his name, mind you.

At the first place (which was a place I hadn’t been before) nothing of too much note happened.  OH WAIT YES IT DID.

Look at all them cool people. Except the one in the hat.

Well, I was dancing and I went off to look for some others that I recognized – the place was a total maze and easy to get lost in, despite being quite small.  Well, I found the Brits and Glasses had had his face punched.  His glasses had broken, though they had all the pieces and he could technically still wear them, though only with difficulty.  Then, just as we were being called to move on to the next place, another guy (with his girlfriend) went up to Glasses and began to push him around.  This appeared to my blurry eyes to be completely unprovoked, but I wasn’t about to let this get in the way of more potential alcohol and dancing, so I got between them and kind of shuffled Glasses out of the club.  We weren’t followed – I think the girlfriend was holding back the aggressor.

We went to three more places, but none of them were particularly memorable.  I had a good time, got buzzed, Glasses (probably shaken after being attacked) drank too much and had a ‘tactical chunder’ on the side of the street (in Australia it’s called a ‘tactical vom’ – and I’ve only learned this since being in Europe – I learned about the tactical vom all the way back in Barcelona).

And, as happens, my hat got stolen

I can’t really remember much about the journey back to the hostel, though not because I blacked out (I’m fairly certain I didn’t black out once the whole time in Krakow, and unless you count the thing in Brasov, which I actually suspect was just me falling asleep in the toilet, I haven’t blacked out yet in Europe… which is as it should be) but because there was nothing particularly memorable about it, I was a bit drunk and I had done the trip countless times already (well… twice before).  I do remember getting to my room, though – Redbeard and the friend we had taken to the tram were there, and tram guy was snoring like a foghorn.  I’m not kidding – I’ve heard a lot of snorers on my travels so far, but this guy takes the cake.  It was mindboggling.  It was tremendous.  I’m surprised you didn’t hear it in Australia, or wherever you happen to be.

It didn’t worry me, though, cos I was wrecked.

DAY FOUR

I came so close to missing breakfast again, but fortunately the super-cool girl at reception whose name I very unfortunately can’t remember let me grab something before she started cleaning up.  I met up with the two South American (pretty sure they were Brazilians) guys from the night before.  They were heading into the city to have a look around, and I offered to show them a couple of things.  Basically we just retreaded the areas I had already been.  I took them up to Wawel Castle and they went into the cathedral.  I didn’t feel any real need to go inside the cathedral again (been there done that) so made my way back to the dragon statue as I hadn’t managed to get video of it breathing fire before and wanted a quick shot.

I stood there for eleven minutes recording.  There was no fire.  I don’t think I was the only disappointed one.  I went up and tried to find the Brazilians (we had planned to meet up again) but couldn’t see them so decided to spend the afternoon going to Schindler’s Factory.  It was quite a distance away (well… for Krakow) so I got my walk on and went looking for a bridge.

I found one – a pedestrian bridge.  It was covered with locks.  The kind that lovers put on things when they are in love in order to symbolize how they would always be together.  It made me feel a bit lonely to see all those locks – I’m talking multiple thousands of them, dense swarms of locks all the way along a huge pedestrian bridge.  I’m getting to the stage in my journey where I feel I am regularly craving company, and often find it difficult to motivate myself to do things without someone else going along as well.  Especially eating.

But then I thought that at least 50% of the couples who had locked these locks probably weren’t together anymore and that made me feel better.

The other side of the river was a lot more industrial and drab than the side I had been staying on, which I guess one ought to expect when the main attraction is a factory.  The factory itself was pretty plain, but I guess it was worth seeing.  Particularly since I had nothing better to do.

On my way back I thought I saw some kind of bizarre bear-like creature, but it turned out to be a large dog sitting on its haunches doing a poo.  That was a bit of a surreal experience.

I didn’t want to head straight back to the hostel since I was going to be waiting an awfully long time for my train (10pm) and I didn’t want to impose on the staff by sitting around in the reception area for six and a half hours.  Instead I went to the shopping centre opposite and OH MY GOD AM I EVER GLAD I DID.

There was some kind of insane chess competition going on, with huge rows of tables and seats prepared for the tournament.  A lady was running a competition with one of those games where you have to show how you can achieve checkmate in ‘x’ moves.  I watched that for a while, but to be honest couldn’t work out how the game worked – there were occasions when I couldn’t see how they worked out the opposition’s moves since they never seemed to force them into a particular action with check etc.

Anyway, it wasn’t long before the tournament began.  I watched from above as hundreds of people played one another in rapid-fire games.  I watched a couple of games end before noticing a six-year-old boy playing a very serious looking man.  Both had few pieces left, though to me it looked like the boy was losing.  A few minutes later the only pieces left were the man’s king and the boy’s king and single pawn.  Then the boy had a queen.  Then the boy won.  It was pretty epic.

After that I went back to the hostel.  The girl from that morning was there, so I chatted with her for a bit, then Adam showed up and explained that he had been to Prague that day – a 7 hour trip each way for maybe 2 hours actually in Prague.

“That seems kind of stupid,” I said.

“It was very stupid,” he said.

I hung out with the guests during their dinner and stuff, but I didn’t participate in conversation as enthusiastically as I had previously.  I was feeling a bit out of place now, as I didn’t really want to leave but knew I had to.

At 9pm I headed for the station (just across the road) and got on the waiting train.  The conductor came by and, upon realizing I spoke English, said he would be back to explain how everything worked.

I only shared the 6-bed couchette with one other person, a Czech who had been with his Polish girlfriend for the weekend, I guess, and had to go back to work in the hospital in Prague.  He spent a long time leaning out the window waving – it was cute.

The conductor was really nice – he told me which cabin he was in and told me to come get him if I needed anything.  He also instructed us to lock the cabin tightly – apparently that train was commonly occupied by thieves.

We had no problems, though, so I got my first proper night’s sleep in a week (AHAHAHAHAHA yeah right, I was on a train – I barely slept a wink).

And then I was in Prague, which is where I will be leaving tomorrow, and I can tell you all about it (or some other place, perhaps) when this story is

TO BE CONTINUED