Ahh, Wielopole Street. You keep us constantly entertained. From the tram accidents, the parking hijinx and the people peeing in the bushes, we have no need for television even with Polish dude turned off.
This picture of the man relieving himself in the bushes was taken 2 days ago. Yesterday, three men and a dog lined up side by side and peed into the bushes in full view of the trams, the traffic and us.
We were pretty pissed at Maurice yesterday. We had no lights at all int he apartment and no hot water and Maurice, again, was jerking us along. I let Cracola handle most things relating to Maurice because her bigness and meaness usually makes things happen. At a snail's pace, granted, but thing do eventually get accomplished. But yesterday, we could not wait for Maurice to sober up and steal a ladder and some lightbulbs and come fix our apartment. LOT had let Mafioso on the plane and we had no one to keep us safe by tossing sneakers at the closets.
Enter the snarkiness of yours truly.
Fed up with his bullshit and lies and smelling very, very, very bad, I sent Maurice a text that said, "Seriously Maurice, who do I have to sleep with to get the lights turned back on?"
I got a reply at Polish light speed, which is, if you convert to meters, divide by 3, carry the 2- is about 40 minutes.
Allegedly the electrician and Maurice (HA!) would be by at 6.
So we made sure to be back at our place by 5 as to not miss the electrician. When the clock tower tolled 6, the electrician and Maurice nowhere to be found. In fact, when the clock tower tolled 7, the electrician and Maurice were nowhere to be found. Cracola was taking her frustrations for Maurice out on me by kicking me repeatedly. Daylight was also fading so unless the electrician was a bat, he would not be able to work in our apartment.
So I called Maurice.
Me:MAURICE WHERE IS THE GODDAMN ELECTRICIAN WE HAVE BEEN SAT HERE SINCE 5 WAITING FOR HIM!!!!!!!
Maurice: Uhhhh...he accidentally went to #30 instead of your house. And uhh, then he went home.
Me:YOU BETTER TELL HIM TO GET BACK OVER HERE OR WE ARE COMING TO BURN YOUR BAR DOWN TONIGHT.
Cracola can take no more. She takes the keys and decides to go to the store and get us some Coke. On the way out, she passes a man on the stairs who keeps staring at her. So she angrily asks him, "Are you an electrician?" He runs away, scared.
But see, he really was the electrician and so Crac leaves and someone starts knocking on our door. I undo the 5 locks and open the door just a crack. Out in the hallway stands a short man with a plastic bag.
So I ask, "Are you an electrician?"
*blink* *blink* *crickets*
So I clear my throat and ask again, "ARE YOU AN ELECTRICIAN?!?!?!?!"
Again, silence. So I decide to do the smart thing and let the strange man into our apartment when I am the only one home. The guy looks around and then turns to me and says something in Polish. He wants something but since I don't speak Polish and he doesn't speak English and may or may not be an electrician, I have no clue what he wants.
It turns out he wants a ladder. However, I could not understand this because he gave the international symbol for ladder (which I was unaware of) which is walking around my apartment like an monkey. Since I cannot help with procuring a monkey, he goes next door to the neighbor's, gets a ladder, flips a switch in the hall, turns on the lights and then disappears with his bag into the Cracovian night.
Meanwhile, Maurice has now arrived with his own ladder to change the lightbulb in the bathroom. He comes in and sets up the ladder. He asks if the electrician left a lightbulb and I tell him that he did not. So Maurice gets out his cellphone and begins yelling at someone in Polish. Then he gets another call to his cell, goes downstairs and returns with 3 lightbulbs.
Ok, seriously, WTF? Did he call 1-800-DIAL-A-LIGHTBULB? Does he have his Irish minions all around town with their pockets stuffed full of lightbulbs?
Maurice is so shady. But I cannot be concerned with his shadiness because now we have lights, TV and a hot shower.
Well you knew it was bound to happen.
A young married couple yearning for excitement.
A single white female alone and vulnerable in a strange country.
A starlit night and, literally, explosions.
No way that Mafioso, Cracola and I were not going to end up in bed together.
And last night, dear readers, we did. And to say that it was all I hoped for an more would be to lie and to ignore the series of events that lead to our threeway. Because even though we were all huddled tight together in the bed last night, we were huddled tight not because of yearning and passion but instead of fear for the ninjas in our closet.
Yes, I said ninjas in our closet and yes, I do mean Polish ninjas.
Let me take it from the top.
Last night we went to hunt Maurice at his bar and played pub quiz. We finished 4th place. Honestly, not a terrible showing but when Cracola is on the team and puts down that Dale Earnhardt died as a jockey at the Grand National track in Britain, you can't hope for more than 4th place. (I was like, Crac, Grand National? To which she got VERY defensive and shouted (literally) I KNOW JOCKEYS HAVE DIED!)
So home we went dejected, having not won anything and not hustled a light bulb out of Maurice. (You thought that was fixed? HA!!!) We get to our lovely abode, Crac opens the door and before she can hit the light, exclaims, "It smells like cat piss in here!"
And cue the cat running out of the open door.
Cracola and I dont have a cat. The mystery cat just used our home as a litterbox and left. The place reeks of cat piss and much to our joy, we found a fresh, steaming pile of cat shit in the corner.
So Craco goes to hit the lights.
And cue the fireworks.
The lightbulbs in the house literally explode. Glass, EVERYWHERE. And then, darkness. Pitch black.
So we called Maurice immediately. He was trashed at the bar and said he would be in to fix our explosion and cat problem sometime in September.
We suspect sabotage. Lights in the US usually don't go out and when they do, they usually don't explode. Our apartment has many closets, so we turn to Mafioso to check them out for intruders or more cats. Even Mafioso is scared so his way of checking out the closets is to throw sneakers at them and yell, "HEY GET OUT OF THERE!!!!!!!"
No one come out but we are still scared. So we all go into Cracola's bedroom and barricade the door with the couch. Then we jumped into bed, almost breaking the IKEA frame with our weight, and lay in wait for the Polish ninjas to come pouring out of the closet and attack us.
Then it really got hot.
No, not really. But we are leaving our apartment tonight and going to the Holiday Inn.
Well, he wasn't exactly Fabio.
The Polish plumber arrived with his tools in a plastic bag that you would get from the grocery store. Then, he inexplicably left under the guise of "getting a part" and came back with a British man.
Whatever. It worked. We have a shower. No more stench.
Christmas came early to Cracow this year with the delivery of the washing machine and 3, yes 3, DVD players! We only have one TV. Maurice told us to hold them for him for a while. They are totally stolen.
And yes, those are all of Cracola's undies in the wash.
