Babes in Poland

Climitization Problems

*sigh*

The very first day, before I even got to Poland, Cracola had a run-in with our neighbors upstairs, whom we never saw again the whole 6 weeks.  The neighbor, an angry Polish woman, came downstairs and banged on the door just as Cracola had pulled her suitcase inside.

"You have climitization problems!!!!" the angry Polish woman shouted at Cracola.

"Climitiz-what? Huh?  I mean, oh yeah, it is hot in here, maybe I'll open a window."

The angry Polish woman shook her head and shouted, "No, you are too loud.  TOO LOUD."

"Lady, I just got here.  How could I be too loud?"

The angry Polish woman shook her head and went back upstairs.

Of course, she was trying to tell us we had acclimatization problems. And she was right.  What you don't get from this silly little blog is the absolute fear and desperation of our first few days in Poland.  We were so far away from home.  We were hungry.  We smelled bad.

A lot of people didn't think we would make it.  For a while, we didn't think that we would make it. You see, Cracola and I were not fearless people before we went to Poland.  We had our own little lives, our routine, our comfort zone.  In the beginning, we would have given anything to get that comfort back.

But 6 weeks in Poland changed that. While we are happy to be back, there is a certain bitter taste of dissatisfaction in the comfortable routine in my life.  I won't speak for Cracola, but I guess she must feel some of it as well.  In Poland, we bitched and bitched that Poland was boring. When we got back here, we realized we were boring, not Poland.

Just this weekend, Cracola, sat across from me at brunch and mused that two weeks ago we were on the streets of Vilnius about to be run over by Velobar. Now, the most excitement we had together was deciding which form of Eggs Benedict we were going to order.

So once again, we are having acclimatization problems. But like before, we'll get over it, slip back into our routines, our lives.

I'll say this, those were the best 6 weeks of my entire life.

We're Going Down, We're Going Down!

Heed my words children, when flying LOT the lack of a propeller plane does not mean you will not crash.

Cracola and I were prepared for death today. We said our goodbyes. We held onto each other. We prepared for a crash landing.

Why?

Because the plane began to roll, not unlike Maverick in Top Gun. And we knew that was the end.

But it was not the end, just the beginning of our European adventure today.

In the future, LOT should consider handing out rubber pants for its Cracow to Warsaw leg.

Bored As Hell

Well, before stuff started exploding again in the UK, giving Crac and I a reason to sit in front of the TV and watch BBC World, we were pretty bored.

“So, what do you want to do today?”

“I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t care. I’ll do whatever.”

This went back and forth for about, I don’t know, two hours, before Cracola decided to mix things up a bit.

“We could take laxatives.”

“What the…laxatives? You want to take laxatives?”

“I don’t want to take laxatives. It’s just, you know, an idea.”

“I don’t get it.”

“At least if we took laxatives then we wouldn’t be sat here in the living room, we could take turns on the crapper.”

Thick as Thieves

We are on the lam from Maurice. Last night we stole something from his bar and now he will probably come murder us in the night, that is, if he can remember where we live.

And when I say “stole”, I really mean that we “borrowed something that we will totally return next week and would have otherwise bought but they don’t sell anywhere in Cracow”. I mean, as long as we don’t use it all in a week.

It is totally Cracola’s fault as well. We ordered the chicken wings at Maurice’s bar and the Polish waitress asked us if we wanted HP Sauce.

“HP wha?”

Cracola almost leapt over the table and said, “Yes, yes, ohmygod yes we want HP Sauce!”

The waitress looked mystified at Cracola’s behavior (or maybe she always had that look of dull surprise across her face because she is Polish) and I was suddenly very curious as to what wonders awaited me in the bottle of HP Sauce.

“Crac, what the hell is HP Sauce?”

“A British sauce. It is brown sauce, the opposite of ketchup.”

Now I love Cracola, but what does “opposite of ketchup” mean? I was raised in a good American family where I was taught that mustard was, in fact, the opposite of ketchup. I mean, that is if ketchup even has an opposite. Isn’t ketchup mostly tomatoes? And what exactly is the opposite of a tomato?

*THUNK*

The Polish waitress plunked down a bottle of what appeared to be A1 Steak Sauce. Cracola grabbed it and poured it onto the plate of chicken wings.

“Looks like steak sauce, dude. I’m not putting steak sauce on my wings.”

“It is not steak sauce, it is opposite of ketchup sauce and you will try it or I will kill you.”

Ok, so maybe she didn’t exactly say that she would kill me, but that was the message I got from her tone of voice. So I dipped the chicken wing into the opposite of ketchup sauce and found it surprisingly tasty.

“Hey, this is pretty good. We should see if they sell this in the grocery store…”

Cracola shook her head with a big, juicy drumstick smeared with opposite of ketchup sauce hanging out of her mouth.

“The don’t sell it here. I’ve looked.”

“That’s a shame because this is pretty good.”

And just like that, a tiny lightbulb appeared above Cracola’s head and slowly it got brighter and brighter until it shined like a spotlight down on our booth.

“Put it in your bag.”

“Wha? No way.”

“JUST PUT IT IN YOUR FREAKING BAG!”

So I did. I grabbed the opposite of ketchup sauce and shoved it into my backpack. And now we are on the run from Maurice with only the delicious opposite of ketchup sauce to sustain us.

The One Where Cracola Calls Tokyo

Anyone who knows Cracola knows that not only is she big and mean but that she will call anyone on the phone at anytime. One time, for a paper in school, she googled her topic and then called the first random lawyer who came up in Google and interviewed her.

So yesterday, Cracola was trying to see if she could change her departure flight out of this place. She is flying on LOT (Ha! Sucks to be her!) and then United. Being in Cracow, she calls LOT. They are unable to help her so they tell her to call United. Now our phones have trouble calling 1800 numbers (among others) in the United States and all it seemed United had was 1800 numbers. Pulling up the international access numbers did not reveal a local Polish number.

Cracola finally said, "To hell with this. I'm just calling one of these numbers."

Tune in Tokyo!

Of course, the whole thing is automated.

Automated Dude: Please say the name of your departure city.
Cracola: Cracow.
Automated Dude: Did you say New York, JFK?
Cracola: No, I said CRACOW.
Automated Dude: Please say the name of your departure city.
Cracola: Cracow.
Automated Dude: Did you say New York, JFK?
Cracola: No, I said CRACOW.
Automated Dude: Please say the name of your departure city.
Cracola: Cracow.
Automated Dude: Did you say New York, JFK?
Cracola: No, I said CRACOW.
Automated Dude: Please say the name of your departure city.
Cracola: Cracow.
Automated Dude: Did you say New York, JFK?
Cracola: NO I SAID CRACOW YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT!

Needless to say, the flight did not get changed.

And We're Back

I just flew into to Cracow and boy are my arms tired!

*rimshot*

Since Cracola was too busy showering in Zakopane this weekend and cannot be bothered to update this blog, alot of people thought we had died or something.

The Big Breakup

Well, the honeymoon is over.

The Babes in Poland will be doing a Di and Charles this weekend and taking separate holidays. Cracola is taking Mafioso to the shower in Zakopane and I am going to (hopefully) make it to visit my mother.

With a Heavy Heart

The Babes in Poland count many, many Brits as friends and family. We extend our deepest sympathies and condolences to those affected by the blasts in London this morning.

American Pie

Cracola's husband, Mafioso arrived today with a suitcase full of food and is currently combing eastern Europe to beat the crap out of the thugs who jacked our stuff.

If the Food Don't Kill You, Cracola Will

I love Cracola to death but she has a very strange relationship with bleach.

Incident 1: We needed to bleach our toothbrushes. I told her 1 drop of bleach to a gallon of water was safe. She filled a cup up with bleach and plunged our toothbrushes into it. Oh well, cheaper than Crest White Strips.

Incident 2: At the horrible, awful, disgusting Gellert Baths in Budapest, she looked at me and said, "I knew I should have brought the bleach with me."

Incident 3: The other night when we were making the chicken, I put the chicken in a bowl before I pounded it. With a devilish twinkle in her eye, she reached for the bleach and said, "Maybe I'll just put a drop in to sterilize the chicken." Mmmmm...bleached chicken.