Part 6: Gdansk / Sopot (Days 10, 11, 12 and 13)

---

For all the cosmopolitan charm of its new town, the northern Polish city of Gdansk's real history lies within its hulking, dilapidated shipyards. From within this run down background, many believe the first nail was driven into the coffin of communism in Europe. The workers spoke out for the Polish population and former the largest trade union in the world to show their puppet government that they were no longer prepared to accept the Soviet Union pulling the strings.

Now pay attention at the back there. The first rumblings occurred two weeks before Christmas 1970. Obscene food price hikes caused workers in Gdansk and nearby Gdynia, along with several other cities in Poland, to rise up in angry protest. The militia were criminally heavy-handed in dealing with the demonstrations, and 45 people were killed.

After a decade of unrest, more price rises were met with fierce resistance by the newly-former Solidarity trade union, whose members instigated immediate strike action in the shipyards. After 18 days the Polish government backed down, and the union soon became 10million strong before being deemed illegal. The message was clear though - the Poles were no longer prepared to have their lives run by Moscow. In 1989, the first non-communist prime minister was elected, and Poland broke free from Soviet control to become a democratic republic. Like dominoes, the rest of the eastern bloc countries followed over the next few years, altering the map of Europe completely.

It doesn't take long to see that Gdansk has embraced western influences. On our arrival at Gdansk Glowny station after a 7hr journey from Krakow, we quickly spotted a McDonalds and a KFC on one side of the road and a TGI Fridays on the other. We opted to eschew American chains and instead had a quick dinner in a Turkish outlet before getting a taxi to our hotel 2.5km south west of the centre.

If we were concerned that we had arrived in another homogenous western city our fears were allayed when our driver dropped us off. Our "hotel" (actually a former convent located next to a church, run by the vicar with crucifixes above the doors of the rooms) was in the middle of an ugly, sprawling mass of high-rise concrete tower blocks.

A ring on the hotel buzzer eventually summoned a middle-aged nun, and although she spoke not a word of the Queen's, she got the gist of our visit and handed us keys to two rooms. Having booked only one room, I was a little surprised but said nothing, thinking we had lucked out. We both had large, clean rooms with modern furniture, en suite bathroom, television and even a fridge. Believe me, this was luxury. It seemed too good to be true, and so it proved when Si awoke to a note through his door asking him to "please move chamber 11 (my room) and let key live in door!". Our lady of the Lord had clearly lost something in translation the night before despite our flawless Polish.

We took a tram to the main town which was packed with Lechia Gdansk fans. Some were decked out in Glasgow Celtic shirts presumably because the clubs share the same green and white hooped colour scheme, or something to do with Catholism, the religion of choice in Poland. I had been under the impression they had played their game with MKS Cracovia on Friday, so we missed an opportunity to see another match in Poland and indeed Krakow's other top team in action.

Instead we visited the shipyards and the soaring monument to those killed in the 1970 riots. By chance we had arrived during the 18 day Festival of Solidarity, running during the anniversary of the strikes, but were disappointed to see a crowd of around 30 unenthusiastically watching some African musicians on a small stage. Not exactly Glastonbury.

Instead of waiting for it to get going (knowing our judgement U2, Oasis and The Who were probably waiting in the wings) we hastily took in the Roads to Freedom Exhibition before it closed. This smart multimedia exhibition documented Solidarity's rise and the background to Poland's successful escape from the shackles of communism.

We whiled away the evening in the new town, frequenting a cocktail bar before shamefully giving in to a taste of the west and dining at Roosters, a variation on the Hooters chain where gorgeous waitresses in hotpants attend to your every (gastronomical) need. Ours was so beautiful and spoke with such charming, Bond-girl broken English that I would happily have married her had she not, in all probability, been snapped up by some huge Polish bloke.

For all Polish men are massive. I'm no weakling but at times I felt like Ronnie Corbett had he gone on Gladiators. The majority seem to have buzz-cuts and arms like tree trunks. I thought I saw one under 5ft 8ins tall at one point, but he turned to his friend and made a comment in a strong American accent.

Having been handed the chance to watch Polish television for the first time, it was the eclectic mix of satellite you would expect from a European nation, but the best bit is that on English-language programmes, all the characters be they man woman or child are dubbed by the same bloke. We found this absolutely hilarious especially when a love scene emerged. Immature but brilliant.

The following day we took the opportunity to make a pilgrimage to Sopot, about 8 miles north, which is twinned with Southend-on-Sea. Unfortunately no signs say this in Sopot as it appears that our Polish cousin has been a bit of a slag and enjoys similar relations with some seven other European towns. I felt some of my affection for the place die a little when I found that out. It's a nice town of around 43,000 people and is a big tourist draw. The pretty main square, lined with restaurants with outdoor seating around a central fountain, will soon be overshadowed by a massive shopping mall with international brands.

But it is really famous for its pier, the longest wooden one in Europe. While nothing like as well-endowed as Southend, there's much more on it including a chance to sample excursion boats to other coastal towns and a couple of plush bars. It was in such an establishment that Si ordered the most spectacular drink I have ever seen. The name vanilla surprise gave no hints to its sheer extravagance, but when the waiter emerged after about ten minutes with a scooped out melon in a glass with foot-long palm leaves protruding from the bottom and so many fruit pieces hanging off it that it would have made the selection in Tesco's look meagre, every head turned. It cost about 50 zloty, over a tenner to you and me, in a country where drink prices are nowhere near as expensive as the UK. It was certainly more exotic than anything Del Boy ever got served up with in the Nags Head.

After Si had finally sorted himself out with all five of his daily fruit and veg portions, we got on a mock-pirate ship for a 40 minute trip around the bay. Si's greenish complexion shortly after boarding suggested that such an immediate trip after his mammoth cocktail might not have been such a good idea, and I felt the same when it started pouring with rain because I had decided to dress in a t-shirt and shorts.

After leaving the pier we decided Sopot could provide nothing more for us and got an evening commuter train back to Gdansk. The following day we handed our cash to the vicar and checked out from the Hotel Patron, before embarking on another long train journey to the capital Warsaw, another city with a turbulent past.

---