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Published: February 27th 2006
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Krakow is the new Prague. I've heard this uttered many times from circles of pretentious and self-righteous back packers. Once a legendary secret on the backpacker trail, Prague got cool. Now, Prague is the place for British stag parties and inexperienced Gappers. The two cities share many things; cheap beer, cobbled streets, magnificent architecture, beautiful women, cold weather and fur coats. The difference is in the air. In Prague the air is electric. In Krakow the air is cold with blowing snow. The women smile less, the hobos have skinnier dogs, and the expats are few and far between.
The saving grace of Krakow is Nathan's Villa Hostel. A place routinely voted by travel guides and web sites as one of the top 10 hostels worldwide. A mini cinema, basement bar, theme rooms, and free breakfast only complement the attractive female staff who can be convinced to dance on tables and make out with each other after a bottle or two of Polish vodka. This is where a series of events caused life to spiral out of control...
Monday- 3 zloty happy hour leads to socialbles in basement bar with cute but pretentious Canadian girls. Seduction attempt is invaded
by obnoxious Kiwis. Towers of Beer are consumed at local hall that results in rudeness to bar staff. 3:30 am return to hostel to witness obnoxious Kiwis in underwear, soaking wet from drunken swim in the icy Wisla River.
Tuesday- The Irish enter my life in the form of a leprechaun (Nige) and a siren (Eilish). Krakow craic begins in the form of endless stories, shots of delicious spiced vodka, and another 4 AM bed time.
Wednesday- The Salt Mines, 30 minutes outside Krakow feature caves, caverns and cathedrals carved into mountains of salt over the centuries by local miners. I attempted the trip, but failed to get off the bus at the right stop. 90 minutes outside Krakow I found myself alone on the bus in the middle of the country with an angry Polish driver yelling at me to get off the bus. I convince him to drive me to the closest town, and take two connecting vans to Krakow. I return to the hostel frustrated and disappointed and so am forced to take advantage of the 5 O'clock happy hour in order to drown my troubles with cheap Polish beer. Again accompanied by the Irish
and a drunk Canadian skateboarder (Jeff). The binge continues until my head hits the pillow at 3AM.
Thursday- begins shockingly early with the high pitched yelling of the Irish siren, who forces us onto the icy streets in search of a mini bus to Auschwitz. With pounding heads and churning stomachs, the 90 minute bus ride and 4 hour tour made for a difficult day to handle both physically and emotionally. The tour goes through Auschwitz and Birkenau and displays piles of the Jewish remains of suitcases, eye glasses, and human hair that were left after the Soviet capture of the camp. Visitors are then taken through the dorm rooms, gas chambers and toilets. Walking through the two camps the true scale of the atrocities that happened here fail to hit me over the head emotionally. But the experience was powerful in a quiet way and in 6 months the story of my visit to Auschwitz will come up in passing conversation and the magnitude of the Holocaust will inadvertently blow my mind.
The Irish have a gift for many things; the gab, craic, and the ability to drink. They do the good times really well and sorrow
really well. Irish funerals involve extremely heavy drinking; as do Irish birthdays and baptisms. One week ago I envisioned my night following a visit to Auschwitz to be one of quiet reflection. But somehow, accompanied by the Irish, it made perfect sense on this day of sorrow to get blotto. One pint turned into four, four turned into nine, and nine turned into following this crazed Irish girl around the streets of the jewish quarter at 4 AM in search of an all night vodka shop. The vodka was consumed in the hostel kitchen as we yelled abuse at the weary backpackers, arriving at the hostel in the wee hours of the morning. 7:30AM- the longest day of my life ends.
Friday- The Irish exit my life just as abruptly as they entered it; heading to Berlin to continue their nun counting contest and to find more naive Canadians to push their rampant alcoholism upon. I wake up at 4:30pm. I bathe; I eat and join my Canadian friend Jeff in the bar. The problem with spending seven days in the same hostel is the fresh blood that arrives night after night, ready to party.
Leaving Las Vegas is playing somewhere on a cheap Chinese DVD player and as a young Nicholas Cage attempts to pickle his liver in 2 weeks, I attempt the same in 8 days. One pint turns into four, four turns into nine, and nine turns into dragging Jeff home from a dance club at 3:30AM after being turned away for being too drunk. After putting Jeff to bed, Hostel employees and I go to a five-story dance club. After failed seduction attempts (after all, it was a gay bar), we return at 6AM to open the hostel bar. Free shots are poured, billiard is played, and at 9AM my week on the drink comes to a close.
Saturday- I wake up in a confused state. It is dark out. I look at my hands and legs to take inventory, making certain that I made it through the week relatively unscathed. I bathe, I eat, I watch
Super Size Me in the hostel cinema and go back to bed. I attempt to write a little before going to sleep, but have the shakes and am unable to hold my hand still. The confusion continues as I toss and turn into the night. I am awoken briefly by sirens and snoring that would put my father to shame. I sleep walk to the bunk below me, where a concerned American upon his return to the bed eventually wakes me.
Sunday- I check out of the Hostel. I walk towards the train station. Past elderly women carrying caged otters, past prostitutes in parkas, and onto my 5-hour train to Wroclaw. Onto Nottingham and Leeds and more British schools.
I sit on the train, passing endless ghetto apartments that look like the third world, save the exception that each one boasts a satellite dish nailed haphazardly to the outside wall. I've been wearing the same pants for 8 days. I am exhausted. Poland destroyed me. Until next time, Na zdrowie! (Cheers!)
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Nige
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IM THE FUCKING DRAMA QUEEN!!!