Good day y’all,

It’s day 6.5 of my trip, and it’s now cold, raining and I’m actually
tired of drinking and smoking, (if you can believe that). I’m
currently in Krakow, in Southern Poland. (Pauly, run and get your
globe and have Jen show you where Europe is.) I arrived here last
Sunday, through a few miracles and the hand of God, I’m quite certain.

Sunday morning I woke up extra early, to take in a last proper walk
around Warsaw’s very charming Old Town district, and to watch the
magnificent changing of the guard ceremony at the tomb of the unknown
soldier. I also wanted to be certain that I didn’t miss my 14:15
train from Warsaw’s Central Station to Krakow. The way I had it
timed, I’d be tucked into a cozy cafe, chewing pierogies and sloshing
down a beer or ten in the shadow of Castle Wawel by 17:00. No such
fucking luck.

So, I arrive at the Warsaw train station at about 13:30, plenty of
time before the train’s scheduled departure time. Let me just fill in
a couple of very important details regarding the Warsaw Central train
station: (1) I had been wondering where the urine-soaked post-Soviet
Bloc heroin addicts and prostitutes were all congregating for their
afternoon marketing meetings and networking events. Evidently, they
keep their domestic headquarters in the confines of the Warsaw train
station. (2) In spite of the fact that Poland will be joining the EU
in exactly three days, the country has made the very wise decision to
employ NOBODY who speaks a single syllable of English, Spanish, French
or Esperanto at the train station, and further helping my situation,
not a single word of English is printed in the train station, except
that found on the ubiquitous Marlboro and Coca-Cola adverts (I’m not
sure that that even qualifies as English anymore. ! I think Marketing
is the new Esperanto.) (3) Polish is about the most difficult
language I have ever experienced in my life. I think some
Austro-Prussian-German-Russian asshole in the 9th century, high on
mead in the countryside, thought “Hey, it might be funny to create a
language that utilized the same basic principles of Celtic, that is,
pronunciation of the word you’re looking at sounds nothing like it
appears, but with even more consanants. I don’t think he ever meant
it to get this far. It’s no wonder the inventor of Esperanto was
Polish. He just wanted a simpler life! And here’s a real shocker:
The Nazi’s Enigma Code was cracked by a team of Polish code-breakers.
Oh, that’s a surprise, Enigma was probably a walk in the park compared
to trying to say “Walk in the park” in Polish. But I digress…

So, I remembered reading something in my Lonely Planet about the
Departures being listed on a Yellow board and the Arrivals being
listed on a White board…or was it vice versa? Ahhh, whatever, I’ll
figure it out. I’m the seasoned Citizen Du Monde! If I can make my
way around Linea Cuatro in Barcelona, I can make it any-fucking-where.

I noticed on the White board that a train associated with Krakow was
due at 14:20. Not bad, I thought, it’s only five minutes late. I’ll
just drop into one of the many bars at the station and have a beer and
a sandwich, and write in my journal for a little while. Well, around
14:00, I decided to go down to Platform 4, from where my train was due
to take off at 14:20. I only had a 20-minute wait, so I’d chill, have
a grit and people/junky-watch. (By the way, at one point the
Junkies/Urine Soaker Welcoming Committee were so very kind as to help
me to make sure that everything was very safely stowed away and
zipped-up in my bags and pockets! How considerate! They did this by
clustering around me and asking me for money all at once, so as to
“confuse and frighten” me. No worries, I just backed up against a
wall, lit a cigarette and started waiving it in their faces. It
reminded me of that video gam! e, Castle Wolfenstein, where you waive
fire in zombies’ faces and they make this moaning sound. HA! But I
digress…)

So, I’m on the platform, and a train pulls up at about 14:25. I watch
as all these people, mostly students, got off, receiving hugs and
kisses from whomever greeted them. It was about 14:30 when I decided
to ask one of the conductors if the train just arrived was headed to
Krakow. He laughed and said, “No! This just came from Krakow! Ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha!!!” Well, fuck me. I could have just opened my LP and
confirmed that Yellow was for Departures and White was for Arrivals,
but no. I knew what I was doing. So, I figured out through the
fucking cryptic train schedule that another train (the last one of the
day) was due to leave at 16:15. But could it be so easy that I simply
jump on that train with my existing ticket? Come on. This place was
run by the Soviets for 50 years. You think a ticket on the Great Iron
Horse could be transferable? So I had to wait in three lines, and!
luckily I had these two Polish girls who spoke English helping me
along the way. They shared my very strong belief in Travel Karma:
someday you’ll need help too. So, three new tickets, about seven
hundred stamps (remember that, Rick?) and nine thousand evil eye
stares from the old Soviet bitties working the ticket windows, I was
ready to roll. And I had about ten minutes to spare.

I got on the God-damned train, two hours late and finally made it into
Krakow at 18:50. By 19:05 I was on the street, determined to find a
nice cafe in which I could find my bearings and then a restaurant for
dinner. Well, as it turns out, my hotel, the Pod Roza, is about as
centrally-located as you can get. Krakow is an ancient city, which
was actually a major trade nexus through the late 19th century. The
main square, which is larger than Venice’s Gran Piazza, is
breathtaking. The main feature is St. Mary’s church, built in the
10th century. There is a huge bell tower, which is rung every hour on
the hour. But what’s really cool is that there is a bugler that plays
a traditional tune in each of the four directions from the top of the
bell tower. The funny part is that the tune gets interrupted at a
certain point at each stop, due to a tradition that pays homage to a
former bugler in the Middle Ages that rece! ived a Tatar arrow in the
throat just as he was playing the tune. There is so much tradition in
this town, much much more than Warsaw has. I also found my new
favorite bar in Europe: Harris Piano Jazz Bar. It is a cellar bar
that features live jazz every night and the proprietors refuse to let
me pay for any drinks after I showed them my passport, proving my
surname. Gotta love it, almost as good as Memphis.

Another point that I haven’t gotten to mention yet is the food. My
God. I decided to let this country stretch its gastronomic gams and
boy, have I been pleased. From traditional peasant restaurants to a
posh cellar French brasserie to a Kebab at 3:00 in the morning outside
the ancient Florian Gates, I have not been disappointed once. And the
beer, my God, the beer. Europe is so much better.

I toured the death camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau yesterday. It is
frightening to bear witness to humanity’s boundless propensity for
cruelty and torture. I tell ya, you give those Germans a project and
they really run with it. The weather changes as soon as you set foot
on the grounds of Auschwitz. There are displays and exhibits of
suitcases, hair, eyeglasses, shoes, pots and pans, prayer shawls, and
hair brushes confiscated upon arrival. The real horror occurred in
two barracks though, Doctor Josef Mengele’s “hospital” and the
SS/Gestapo building, located side-by-side in the far corner of the
camp. In the former, the good doctor performed his world (in)famous
experiments on twins such as cutting one of each twin in half and
sewing the different halves back together to see if the bodies could
live. You know, stuff that really benefited humankind. The latter
gave me the chills, as the evil was very much aliv! e in the
SS/Gestapo building, where political prisoners were taken apart or
tortured in exotic ways such as “The Stand” where four to six
prisoners at once were placed in a 3′x3′ cell, standing and forbidden
to sleep or sit for days to weeks on end. Oh yeah, they were required
to perform heavy labor during the day. Another area of fun and games
for the SS/G was ‘The Post’, where prisoners were hung by their
wrists, over their heads, behind their backs, outdoors of course. Not
to bore you, but they also had a suffocation cell, which when closed,
had absolutely no circulation, so the prisoner would die in a matter
of a couple of days. Birkenau was a massive, massive, silent death
factory about 2km down the road. Evil is also very present here,
especially in a lake in the back of the camp, which stills glows grey
from all of the ash in the water. The whole complex is by far, the
most moving thing I have ever seen. It’s impossible not to sh! ed a
tear as you walk the grounds imagining the unmitigated terror exacted
on 6.5MM people in this place. And I had the fortune of seeing it on
a flawless, sunny spring afternoon. I can only imagine this place in
the dead of a Polish winter.

I have been most impressed with the people I’ve met thus far on my
visit here. It is interesting to note the different temperaments that
exist between those people who remember Soviet life and those who
barely do, or don’t at all. As I mentioned, the country joins the EU
on Saturday 01MAY2004, and there is a quiet scepticism exuded by the
older folks that can’t be denied. They’ve seen it all, and I can read
it on their faces: “Great, we just got our independence back fourteen
years ago and we’re about to give it up again.” But the younger folks
are very enthusiastic about the enlargement, though many of them
intend to leave the country as soon as possible, for higher paying
jobs in Western Europe. This place may become the new Prague at some
point, I just hope it doesn’t get overrun by loud-mouthed Americans
with money belts and fanny packs.

Well, I think I’ve written quite enough for one report. I get back on
Friday, see you at Memphis. Save me a Scotch.

Cheers, besos y abrazos.

Good day fellow Americans and American’ts,

So, I have three weeks off in between jobs and I thought that, in
addition to not getting my hair cut and refusing to shave or eat any
green leafy vegetables (unless they happen to be floating in a glass
of Scotch or a bowl of Pho), I would head off somewhere with that
magical combination of a favorable exchange rate, good beer and lots
of cobblestones to give my ankles that proper workout I just can’t get
on the elliptical machine in OC. I thought about heading to Prague,
but it turns out they’re on that God-damned Euro, with which for
whatever reason, Baby Bush can’t seem to achieve at least parity so
that my beers don’t cost me USD16.00 apiece. So, I looked East.
Actually, directly East, to the land of constant turmoil, conquest
(the bad side of it) and lots o’ death camps. US Bank is actually the
last remaining Nazi death camp, and I think I’ll let the JDL know that
as soon as I get back.

But I digress…Poland..what the hell else was I gonna do?

So I arrived at LAX after a shuttle ride with two people who relocated
to Maui from Long (Strong) Beach to escape LA. Little did they know
that the entire island of Maui is inhabited with people from LA! So,
I got through the ticketing line at American, which was loaded with
gross losers on their way to Maui, dressed in every variant of Aloha
print possible. As though their intent was to “blend”. I made it to
security, but not after having some idiot attorney or some-shit
screaming into his cell phone by way of my head, about (1) Getting
some “face-time” with XYZ client; (2) Bringing in “John XYZ”, because
“he’s a closer”; (3) “I’ll call you once I get to Maui”. Jesus, take
me now. Of course, my wardrobe choices for the trip were based on
comfort, as I was going to be spending 10 hours in Crotch section, but
security especially didn’t like the idea of me wearing a belt, or
pants, for that matter, as they made me take my belt and ! pants
off at the checkpoint, presumably to demonstrate that I wasn’t packing
my TEC-9 or a prosciutto and provolone panini for the long trip to
Heathrow.

Anyway, I made it through, and in true Harris/McNiven Lonely Planet
World Domination Tour style, made a bee-line for the airport bar. I
tucked into five solid Johnny Blacks and was in fine form to board,
once the call was made. As I waited at gate 41 for my group to board
flight 136 to LHR, I couldn’t help but notice the Carnivale D’Humanite
assembled for the event. Specifically, there were three Ali G.
lookalikes, that could not for the life of them, stop calling each
other “Nigger” and “Bitch”. At one point, one of them, came up to me,
with what I assumed was a compliment, saying something like, “Damn
Nigger, they is some sweet headphones! Is they the noise-cancelling
selection?”. Coincidentally, I had amassed a particularly large wad
of saliva from the dip I had in my lip at the time, which I launched
into my dip cup and responded, “You got it, Hoss.” He seemed to like
this response and I think I made a friend.

I got on the plane, and after stowing my carry-on luggage in the
overhead compartment, as per the flight attendants’ recommendation, I
took my seat. At first, I was pretty stoked, as no one seemed to be
assigned to to seat next to me, and I thought that things were
starting off right for once. Well, along came my counterpart, a
rather normal-looking middle-aged white American woman, with all of
the travel accoutrements you would expect. She tucked in, stowed her
stuff and sat down. I introduced myself, “Hi, I’m Michael” and was
sobered by her response:

“Hi Michael, I’m Sister Christine of the Franciscan Order of Catholic
Nuns.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I’m on a 10-hour flight to LHR, with two
bottles of Cardinal Zin, a can of dip, a copy of Penthouse Forum and a
bag of Turkey Jerky and I get seated next to a nun. Well, ain’t that
some shit?

So do any of you remember the opening scene of Dogma, where fallen
angel Matt Damon talks a nun out of her vocation on a train? Sister
Christine and I were WASTED about two hours into the flight. As if
this wasn’t enough, she offered me Xanax, Ambien and Soma, just in
case I had trouble sleeping. I remain impressed as ever by the
Catholic faith. We discussed the Church of Rome, The Inquisition, The
Spanish Rape of South America and changing water into wine. As any
other proper proprietor of faith-based folly would answer, “It’s the
way God wanted it.” OK.

There was also this pair of female lightning rods on the plane, on
their way to Nice by way of London. One of them was reasonably fit
and insisted on showing it to the entire plane by doing some kind of
Dianne Fossey dance routine every five minutes. The other was
probably something noteworthy before electricity was discovered. I’ll
call her Franklin. Franklin was very drunk and was wearing some kind
of backyard tent, which was arranged somehow in a way that showed more
skin than I believe was actually hers. In any case, I happened to
draw the lucky card which allowed me to be the next one in the latrine
after her. She took about 20 minutes in there, which was all right
because it allowed me to participate in a full ballet warm-up with her
idiot counterpart. I finally gained access to the latrine, lifted up
the seat, eagerly anticipating some much needed bladder relief, to be
greeted by a most shocking surprise. ! All I’m gonna say is: Ladies,
if Liverpool is playing at home, make sure you flush the Cherry Pie
down the tube.

Cherry Pie notwithstanding, I have been eating every pierogie in
sight, found a good spot to get some solid Author’s Soup, (which is a
lot like menudo), and have been enjoying the medieval architecture and
cold, strong beer. The hotel I’m in is actually loaded with
dignitaries and ambassadors for the European Economic Summit being
held this weekend, and I get that “Can we help you sir?” look every
time I walk back into the hotel lobby.

More to come as details develop. BTW, please don’t “respond to all”,
no one cares about you except me.

Cheers, besos y abrazos