Krakow

Like I said, my camera died during the Auschwitz tour, so I'm just gonna have to use my wit and prose, and the few pictures I took on my phone to paint a pretty picture of this extremely gloomy corner of the world.

Now, when I say gloomy, I'm not necessarily shitting on Krakow. I actually liked it -- small and simple enough to navigate, really beautiful main square, great pastries. But I could not shake the feeling that I was walking through a cloud the entire time I was there. And I don't mean that in the heavenly, moonstruck sense; more the murky, fog-rising-over-the-bayou, impending doom sense. Except this particular brand of fog rose above slippery cobblestones at approximately the same latitude as Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, so it was a really cold, stone bayou.

Therefore, I spent a lot of time inside. Here's where:

Primarily, the hotel room watching Modern Family. Can you blame me? It was 25 degrees outside and Modern Family is still the funniest sitcom produced since Seinfeld.

We (Geoff and I) had a mostly nice set-up. I say mostly because the beds were comfortable and the room temperature was consistently pleasant, but our shower head errantly distributed most of its water to its direct right, half of which lept over the shower curtain and pooled on our tile floor, where it remained for the entire weekend. In case you've never experienced getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stepping into a thick film of warm liquid, let me tell you, it's gross.

Because, invariably, your brain thinks the bottom of your foot has been engulfed in urine. And even when you know in your heart it's not urine, you still react as if it's urine because it's 5:30 in the morning and you're still drunk. And then your audible squeemishness wakes your roommate up, you look like a pussy, and afterwards, you spend 5 minutes feverishly rubbing your feet against the faded wall-to-wall carpeting like to a dog scoot-wiping his ass in the grass in order to innoculate yourself against diseases that stem from fake-urine exposure and fall back asleep.

When I wasn't within striking distance of the menacing pool of water on my bathroom floor, I was elsewhere (is that so?).

After a post-arrival nap, Geoff and I ventured to a place called Bagelman where everyone else had eaten while we napped. It was not located even remotely close to our hotel, so I'm not sure how everyone else find this place, but once we found it, it was entirely worth the walk. I thought I took a picture, but I didn't. Sorry. Basically, it was just a really good bagel sandwich, and the beer we had was also exceptionally good.

Before we left, Geoff and I enquired the younger purveyor at Bagelman about Krakow night life, and he recommended a place named CK Bravor.

After showers, a prolonged wait for everyone else to shower, and a futile 21-person attempt to find a restaurant that was 1) relatively inexpensive and 2) willing to serve 21 people (a very oversized group of Americans fumbling around Europe looking for somewhere to eat is an unfortunate hallmark of studying abroad), Geoff, Andy, and I split from the group, found a kabob place, and then tracked down the Bagelgentleman's recommendation.

CK Bravor was a very cool spot. It very clear that nobody else there was American, which was at once satisfying and disturbing. Satisfying because you know you're not being ripped off, and disturbing because you know everyone else in the room is looking at you trying to figure out how the fuck your red, white, and blue fatass found their spot. Actually, that's wishful, American thinking. I highly doubt anyone there gave two shits about my red, white, and blue fatass. But some might have started to care after we asked the maitre d (yes, there was a maitre d) to rearrange the tables around us in order to accomodate the big group of American girls that was totally on its way.

Turns out it was totally not, and we 3 ended up occupying a table for 12 for an hour and a half until we finally acknowledged that we had been deceived and gave up part of our oversized table to some British dudes. But like honorable Americans, we continued to drink.

Out of these:

I think they're called giraffes. Even if they aren't, I was calling them giraffes. In case you can't infer from the pictures, they were giant tubes filled with beer. And they were obviously really awesome. Beer.

In addition to the giraffes, Andy was kind enough to spontaneously purchase himself, Geoff, and I shots of cheap vodka. Andy, if you're reading this, you're a great guy, but don't ever do that again. After that shot, I almost threw up on Geoff.

To everyone else, if you're reading this (doubtful), there's a lesson to be learned here: buying your friends cheap shots of vodka in a casual beer drinking setting is not a commendable act, nor does it require retribution. It's actually charitable of your friends to accept, because tossing a shot of bottom-shelf Polish vodka down the hatch is an imposition above all else. At the very least, splurge for Jager, or cheap whiskey, or even Peppermint fucking Schnappes. ANYTHING but vodka. Christ.

Nothing else remarkable happened that night. I think I got a gyro on the way home.

Day 2:

We had to wake up kind of early to go on a tour of Krakow.

Let me start by saying this: I don't like tours. Call me obtuse, but I have a hard time listening to someone I don't know talk at me about who built what in Krakow in 1357, and then who rebuilt what 600 years later, and how Jews were persecuted along the way. I'm just not interested in that. I would rather walk around, hit a couple pastry shops, maybe buy some postcards, and then take a nap because it's fucking freezing outside. Alright, I am obtuse.

The only thing I remember about anything she said was that Schindler's List was filmed in Krakow and that Stephen Spielberg filmed Schindler's List in Krakow, and that Schindler's List was filmed in Krakow, and so on. The words "Schindler's List" actually came out of this lady's mouth a triple-digit amount of times. On a number of occasions, she tried to recreate scenes from Schindler's List. Well, I'll be honest. I have not seen Schindler's List (it's on my list), so I just tuned out and hung slightly back from the group because I had pretty bad gas.

After the tour, I took a nap.

After my nap, I went to a restaurant near the hotel named Dog in the Fog. The reason I'm specifying its name is because I want anyone and everyone I know to spend some money there if they visit Krakow. Why? Because the food was fantastic:

I even ate the saurkraut, and I generally can't stand cabbage served in any way, shape, or form.

The water had ice in it:

The very first place in Europe I've seen ice.

And Run Around Sue by Dion and the Belmonts came on as soon as I walked in. I twisted a little on the spot.

After my meal, I met Geoff and Andy at the nearby theater and finally saw The Social Network. I liked it. But I'm not here to be a film critic. I don't really know if I can categorize what I'm here to be, but since seeing the movie I've been very confused as to why people who aren't American pay to see a movie whose humor is so steeped in American pop culture. I'm not exaggerating when I say that Geoff, Andy, and I were the only three people in the movie theater who laughed. For 121 minutes, nere a soul I wasn't seated next to uttered a single jovial peep. It's very possible that Polish people are not capable of laughter (I probably wouldn't be in if I lived in an Arctic climate and my country has been invaded more times than Greenland during a game of Risk), but it's more likely that only Americans (and maybe Brits, and maybe Australians) can comprehend Mr. Sorkin's biting social commentary.

Annnnd after the movie we watched more Modern Family, and then we went back to CK Bravor's with the previously absent flock of girls.

Annnd at some point I found this little gem stuck above a urinal:

There's hope for Poland after all.

Not long after this was photographed, I gave up trying to nurse my newly acquired sore throat with rum and cokes and retired fairly early to my bed chamber. Then I woke up to pee 5 hours later and my feet almost drowned in a shallow puddle of fake urine.

I know I really need to wrap this shit up, but I have to mention our tour of the Wieliczka Salt Mine the following day. In a nutshell, the Wieliczka Salt Mine is an extremely old salt mine (mining began in like 1260) that is now an extremely large tourist trap (the last salt was mined in 1996). It was an interesting place, but it was made all the more interesting by our no-nonsense tour guide. This lady was straight business. She cruised through 2 miles of an underground salt gallery in less than an hour. She would stop somewhere, point, maybe make a joke in broken english, and then move the fuck on. It was a beautiful. Below are photos of the only underground cathedral constructed entirely out of salt (can you believe there's only one?!)

Salt lightbulbs. I kid.

Here's to chronicling my life 2 weeks after it happens.

Marty