Tales from Wroclaw: The Toilet

It’s the morning we have to leave, and we’re walking around in the streets of Wroclaw, swearing about the drizzling rain and worrying about how long we have before our train leaves. I’m clutching my stomach because my bowels feel like someone just set off a small nuclear bomb down there. I need to find a bathroom in the next five minutes or I’m finished.

Jaro Jaro Jaro we need to find a toilet dude really I mean really first place you see lets go in ok?

He’s staring at me like I’m insane and I might as well have been at that point. I’m looking around wildly for the Holiday Inn that saved us the first time, but it’s nowhere to be found. Uuuuugggghhhh.

The train station comes into view, so at least we have that going for us. Earlier, we had no idea how to get back to the station, so we just started walking up a main road that looked like the road we had begun walking down the first night. As luck would have it, it was, but I was much more worried about the fact I didn’t have an extra pair of jeans to change into if things got much worse.

On the corner beside the station, is a small bar. There! I’m saying, and Jaro is already walking in, with me hobbling in behind him.

Ok, we have to order something first. Damnit. Uh, two beers please, I’m saying, ignoring the clock on the wall that says its 10 in the morning. Jaro slips into the bathroom first, for some unknown reason, and I sit at the table with two beers in front of me, none of which look appetizing. I try to think about something else besides my bowels, and finally notice the bar around me. It’s a small room, dirty, with one wall filled with slot machines, and two or three patrons, taking drags of hand rolled cigarettes and sipping their beers. All of them are staring unnaturally at me.

I shift in my seat, thoroughly disturbed by the situation around me, and inside me.

Jaro sits down beside me. He’s smiling at me. Uh oh. Something’s up.

You’re not going to be happy.

What? Why? Is there no toilet paper?

Just trust me.

Jaro’s ambiguity would usually arouse my curiosity, but I am way too mentally and physically fucked up at the moment to wonder what he is talking about.

I’ll be right back, I’m saying, approaching the bathroom door, and passing the bar, I notice the bartender watching me. Her eyes follow me all the way to the door. She looks sixty but is probably thirty-five.

I open the door, and immediately understand Jaro’s smile.

There’s no toilet seat.

I ponder my situation for about 5 seconds, and close the door behind me. I remember my first encounter with a Bosnian toilet, where it was just a hole in the ground and you had to squat and pray you didn't fall in. This was the same situation, wrapped in a deceiving Westernized package. Damnit.

Five minutes later I walk out, and Jaro hasn’t touched his beer.

This place is weird, he’s telling me.

No shit? Really?

I’m just shaking my head and trying to forget the awkward situation of the last five minutes.

Let’s drink these and get the fuck out of here.

Places to Visit: Miskolc-Tapolca Cave Baths

I needed to get out of Budapest.

Sometimes these things happen. The walls start to close in, and the world feels like it will snap if something doesn’t change. Soon. Like right now. So I decided to leave the next day. Just go somewhere. Anywhere. I just needed to get out of Budapest.

The next day I’m rushing, trying to get everything together for the train ride. Ok, do I have everything? Yes, I think so. Fuck the train leaves in 25 minutes! Gotta go! The plan is Miskolc-Tapolca, a place famous for its baths located in caves.

Baths + Caves? Oh I am so there.

Two hours later, I’m stepping off the train into the wintry air, and that sinking-I-forgot-something feeling hits me right in the gut. My swim trunks. God damnit! I even brought my towel! The most important piece of clothing on this trip and it slipped my mind!

Note to self: pack the night before. Not 5 minutes before you have to leave.

So I had one more thing on my day’s agenda. Find cheap swim trunks. I’m in a town famed for its baths. How hard can it be?


Three hours later, I’ve walked through the main streets, which are remarkably reminiscent of Poland, and gone to every main shop and chain store I can find, with no luck of finding swim trunks. I even went to a sport shop, and was looking at soccer shorts until the woman behind the counter told me to stop.

What?

Women only!

I look down at the shorts in my hand, and then around the rest of the small store. These are the only shorts in the entire place.

Uh, I don’t care. I need shorts.

No, women only! You are man.

Ok, yes, I’m quite aware of that. But I need to go swimming and I don’t have swim trunks!

All this does is confuse her, which seems to frustrate her, because she comes over to me, takes the shorts out of my hand, and puts them back on the rack.

Women only!

Uhh…

My quest was not going well. My next plan of action was to buy non-descript boxers or briefs and just say fuck it and go in those. But again, no store had any type of underwear. I mean, none. I spent an hour in a mall and nobody had a basic tool of human nature: under garments.

What the hell is wrong with these people?!

I’m at the point that I’ll wear my boxers that I’m currently wearing. They have little hearts all over them. I’m already imagining the looks I’m going to get.

At the last store, the last chance, I walk in and find not only boxers, but swim trunks. On sale! Holy shit, this is amazing. Only problem, they’re all two sizes too big.

Well, better then my heart boxers.

At the baths, I walk in and make an unfortunate discovery: inside the main lobby, on the left, is a sign above that says ‘Swim Suits Available Here’.

Great. That makes sense.

The baths, though. Oh, the baths. They are incredible. It’s a pretty large network of caves, with crazy ceilings of stalagmites or –tites or whatever they are, and most of the time I was wading through the water gazing at the ceilings, expecting to see a drove of bats at any moment.

I can’t really explain these baths. You just have to go. You have to see them, because its one of those things that you need to see to believe. Amazing might be too strong of a word, but they are very cool. After a time, however, I started to notice something odd.

There were couples everywhere. And not just young couples, as per usual in Budapest. This place had couples ranging from the young to the very old. And each couple weren’t just holding hands and exclaiming their amazement at the place they were swimming through.

These couples were going at it. Young and old. The water was like a sex lubricant. Nobody was physically fucking (though I did hear suspect moaning in the Star room), but they might as well have been. I had never seen anything like it. And considering you were swimming in the same water as they, well, you get the idea. Of course, this place is romantic, and would be the perfect place for a couples romp. But I was alone there, and this is during my lull in relationships. Not exactly the right time to see other people, happy as all get out, and going at it like rabbits.

So I waded past an old couple making out under a waterfall, slipped past what looked like two models grinding against each other, and ignored the couple who was doing whatever they were doing while I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to have my own girlfriend in a place like this.

I saw a young family start going up a particular passageway, and I wished I spoke Hungarian. I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, unless you want to teach your little boy about sex early, is probably what I would say. But I let them slip past, and wondered what it would be like to be that little boy again, innocent and not understanding the natural world around me.

There were also thermal baths, which were around 35 degrees Celcius, which is basically a hot hot tub. These were not part of the cave systems, but it didn’t matter at that point. You could release the stress that built up in your muscles just by sitting there, looking up at the tiled ceiling. The couple across from me was releasing something else, however.

After a time, I decided it was time to go, but the place left a mark on my mind. Come back here. With your significant other. I told Jaro and Szilvi about it when I came back, and they took my advice. On their own return from the cave baths, they were glowing.

I suggest you come out here and do the same.

Some Sort of Terror Response

I’m standing in Budapest Airport’s Ferihegy 2, the main terminal for international flights leaving the country. Above me, some woman is talking in Hungarian, and it seems that everyone around me is groaning at once. The airport workers are striking, and it has wreaked havoc throughout the building. It looks like there is one airport employee working the security checkpoint. The line is leading out the door into the cold, ten people deep. Most are shifting from foot to foot, shaking their heads, or swearing at the person in front of them. Some time ago I saw a mini scuffle, as unintelligible yelling arose from the crowd. But I’m not interested in the mewing mass of people behind me.

I’m more interested in the camera bag sitting on the floor, with no one accompanying it. I know this part in the movie: The terrorists yell ‘Allah Akbar’ (God is Great! …I think) and detonate the charge inside the bag, killing or brutally disfiguring anyone in a 100 yard radius.

I’m 5 feet away so this is not going to end well for me.

I motion at the big cop lounging near the entrance, pointing at the bag and shaking my head. He looks at the bag, looks at me, back at the bag, back at me. I don’t feel I need to explain myself to this guy. It should be pretty obvious what needs to happen. The guy gets up, and goes out the door.

Well, so much for raising the alarm.

Five minutes later we still have not moved an inch in the line, and I’m still nervously watching the bag. No one has picked it up. No one else has even looked at it. Jaro, Szilvi and I are discussing who will inherit all our stuff when it finally does go off. Then two guys come in with AK-47s strapped to their backs, pushing the mass of people back from the bag. I’ve never seen an AK before, and for the time being I’m much more interested in the Russian-made automatic weapon than my impending death by airport bomb. It’d be like seeing an airport security guard carrying around an M-16. These things just don’t happen (Ok, maybe it does in LAX).

Now, the lobby of Ferihegy 2 has gone from really bad to really fucking bad. The workers are still striking, and now men with really big guns are pushing the pissed off would-be passengers back from the would-be terrorist bomb. People are losing their places in line and they are vocally telling the cops to go put their big guns where the sun don’t shine.

Sometimes I can’t believe I live in a place like this.

Even more cops file into the building, developing a sort of human shield around the radius of the bag. Oh good, if it goes off, at least this crazy Magyar in front of me will go first, I’m thinking. A man wheels in heavy lead sheets and places them around the bag. I’m shaking my head at the situation developing around me. Szilvi is asking, If there was a suspected bomb in an airport in the States, what would they do?

Well, for starters they would shut down that part of the airport, reroute all incoming planes to a nearby airport and evacuate the building. Then they would question every single person in the building. Meanwhile, the bomb squad would move in and assess the situation.

Are you serious? Why?

What do you mean, why? You think after 9/11 we’re going to risk another catastrophe related to airplanes?

It’s not that Szilvi doesn’t understand the danger, or the situation. It’s that Hungarians don’t understand the necessity of being careful. Why would they evacuate the building when it might not be a bomb? Here, that 'might' is such a doubtful thing, whereas back in the States it’s the whole point. Yes, it might not be a bomb, but then, what if we’re wrong?

It seems the consequences are much more important back home than where I currently stand, wondering about all these things and what will happen when they bring the bomb-sniffing animals in. Almost on cue, they bring the bomb-sniffing dog in.

Ok, this should answer our question.

While the people around me watch, with television cameras trained on the suspect bag, the bomb dog sticks his nose in real close, backs away and sneezes.

That must have been international canine language for ‘All Clear!’ because his human counterparts begin to pack up the lead flaps and let the crowd flood back into the supposed blast radius.

And that was it. I saw one of the cops open the bag and take out a nice new Canon SLR camera, take a snapshot of the floor, and stuff it back into its bag to be brought to the evidence locker (or back to his flat and later the pawn shop). It was one of the most thrilling airport experiences, and yet nothing really happened, and I felt left down. I’m not sure what I was really looking forward to. The idea of a bomb going off a couple feet away isn’t exactly up there on my list.

But hey, anything is better than waiting in a strike-riddled Hungarian airport, watching the line move an inch an hour.

Tales from Wroclaw: Jaro Leaves

I’m sitting in a ‘Mexican’ restaurant, looking at a full plate of nachos with cheese, chicken and jalapenos, and two full beers. Nobody sits opposite me, because Jaro has just inexplicably left me. Wtf? I’m trying to remember how we got to this point, me alone, and him somewhere in the Polish night.

Ok, let’s go back.

Two hours prior, we’re sitting in our hostel with a bottle of Zubrovka Vodka between us, talking about the most basic thing drunk men seem to like to talk about: sex, women, drugs and sex. We drink our vodka with apple juice, because it tastes the best with apple juice. Now and then I sing out ‘Almalééééééééé!’ Almalé means ‘apple (alma) juice (lé)’ in Hungarian.

One hour prior, we’re now properly shit faced and trying to get on the bus back to the city center. Jaro keeps saying something like ‘How did I get here?’ but I can’t be sure, because I’m not really listening.

Thirty minutes prior, we get off the bus and Jaro immediately says, Let’s go back. I look at him, supposing he’s made a joke, and laugh. Yeah right, c’mon let’s go! But he’s standing there steadfast, with a real serious face. No, seriously. Dude. I mean it. Let’s go back. Now.

I have to say, I am utterly surprised at this point. What do you mean, ‘Let’s go back’?! Are you fucking out of your mind?! We just got here! But Jaro is swaying now and looking around with darting eyes, but they don’t dart like a man on speed, they dart like a man squinting underwater. Slow-like.

Jesus Christ man, we’re not going back just yet. Let’s push ahead! And with that, I grab his arm and we start moving forward, passing the buildings that make me feel like I’m in some European dream.

Ten minutes prior, we sit in a Mexican restaurant, watching the Olympics on the television above our heads. I get up to order beers at the bar, and ask for nachos. I doubt this will be good Mexican food (it’s almost impossible to find out here), but I don’t care. I get back to the table, and Jaro is standing, out of his seat.

What is it?

I have to go now.

I’m looking around, wondering what just happened. What happened?

Nothing, I just have to go.

I hand him the extra beer in my other hand. Here, here’s a beer. Drink this and chill.

He knocks the beer down on the table, making a clear resounding CLINK. I look at the sound, then look back at him. Ok…

I’m sorry. I have to go.

But I just ordered nachos! I start to protest.

In the present, he is gone. The nachos have arrived, my beers are slowly bubbling, and the Olympics play above me. I should be happy. I should be eating, enjoying my meal. But my fuck hole friend just left me, obviously drunk out of his mind, to go on some adventure.

Of course, he said he would go back to the hostel to sleep. But I know Jaro better than that. He’ll get himself into some situation, and he will come back to himself, talking his way through his life with some stranger, like he always does.

Oh, and he has the key to the hostel, I finally remember.

Fuck!

These nachos are becoming more and more less appetizing as my mind whirrs ahead of itself. That son of a bitch.

So I mechanically eat, watching what was once the Olympics and has now somehow turned into extreme kickboxing and drink one of the beers. The second, I hold in my hand as I walk out, ignoring the calls of the bartender. I stumble across the main square of Wroclaw and snort at the drunk tourists around me. Stupid tourists, I mumble.

Thirty minutes later, I’m looking up at my room’s window at the hostel, still holding my (Jaro’s) beer. It’s one story up. Two minutes earlier, I learned that Jaro had done just what I thought he would do: He did not go back, and was still somewhere in the heart of Wroclaw. Hell, I can climb that, I tell myself, and proceed to climb up the building, still holding the beer. I get one hand and foot up, and the beer slips and crashes to the pavement. I get down and go inside.

Hello yes, my dumb fucking friend left me without the key, would you please let me in?

Silencing the Ringer

When I moved abroad for the first time, one of the most annoying parts of my stay in Europe was the fact that my cell phone was still connected back in the States. I had to continually renew the hold on charges every three months. Most times, I forgot about it (a lot can happen in those three months), and one day I would check my email and lo and behold, my cell is ready for business, charges and all, three thousand miles away from me!

Well that’s fantastic, I would say. And then swear uncontrollably because I had to pay for the next month before I would be able to put the hold back on to the phone.

Now, why would you put your phone on hold when you are all the way out here in Budapest? Because I knew I would be coming back to the States after 9 months. I still had a year left at university, so I had to come back.

Fast forward: it’s after graduation and I’ve been living in Poulsbo, Washington for four months and I’m gearing up to move to Prague with my girlfriend. I had moved abroad once, and I went over everything that I knew I would need or not need. After all, this was a big move, and I wanted things to be perfect. Not only that, I did not have a return date, nor a return ticket.

So certain things needed to be settled, or put to rest. My Verizon account was on the top of my list, but I could not bring myself to pay the $175 deactivation fee. It was over the top, and Verizon wasn’t that good to me anyway. So when the time came to leave, and I still had not coughed up the money to cancel my account, I knew what I had to do.

I called and put a three month hold on the phone.

My reasoning was that in three month’s time, I would surely have the job and the money to pay off the deactivation fee, and my cell in the States would be no more.

In a perfect world, this would work. But I was moving to a foreign country, with no job, following my girlfriend, and really knowing nothing about what I was actually getting myself into. Getting a job in Prague with only English and no Czech skills? Good luck. Sure, you could teach English, but it wasn’t what I was looking for and I was stubborn enough to not teach.

So I floundered, and picked up remedial jobs here and there. Anything to stay afloat. And then the three month hold came to an end on my American phone. And I was now worse off than I was back in the States. There was no way I could come up with the money to silence my ringer. So I did the only thing I could think of. I called them and put the phone back on hold.

I was starting to determine the length of my stay abroad by the time it took for my cell to go back online.

It was frustrating, and ridiculous.

Fast forward: one year. I’m now back in Budapest, working in a stable office environment, but I still don’t have the money to deactivate the phone. Every three months I make the call to Verizon, and they always wonder what it’s like out there in Budapest. I start to get the same guy, who happens to live in Seattle. It’s a small world.

And then enters Courtney, the Canadian-turned-American-turned-Marketing Coordinator for our office. One day I’m harping about my American phone and she just says, Why don’t you tell them you are no longer in their coverage area and that you are unable to use their services?

But what does that mean?

It means, Hunter (as she clears her throat and looks at me like I’m a child), that you can cancel your account with no deactivation fee because you are no longer in their coverage area. It’s some clause in the contract that no one knows about.

Well, it looks like some good actually does come out of this girl.

But I’m still skeptical. Would that really work? Why haven’t I heard about this before? Though she does have a point. Without coverage, there’s no way you can use your phone. You can roam, but that’s not the point. You have an agreement between you and your service provider. If the service is not available, then the agreement is void.

So I send an email to Verizon explaining the situation. 3 hours later a man with an Indian name emails me back, asking for my exact address in Hungary and that he would forward my information to his colleague, who would check for service availability in my location. If it is indeed true that my claims are correct, then the service agreement would be shut down with no fees.

The next day I get an email stating that Verizon Wireless is sad to inform me that service availability in my current location is non-existent, and that my contract has been shut down with no charges.

Just like that. I was free!

There’s probably a reason no one knows about this clause in your cellular provider’s contract. That $175 deactivation fee is a boon for the industry. I’m sure thousands of people deactivate their contracts every month. Recently, I heard the FCC is considering changing the rules for deactivation, and that for some providers the fee was either greatly reduced, or dispelled altogether. But you would need to meet certain requirements in order to qualify for this.

If you don’t meet those requirements, and you’re unhappy with your contract, then you’re out of luck. Or, you can always fly to Budapest and cut off your Verizon account for free (T-Mobile is here, so no luck with that – though I have not seen Sprint around here either). I would expect the Verizon employees checked the html properties to make sure my email was actually sent from a Hungarian server.

Then again, it might just be more economical if you pay that $175 fee, instead of the $1,200 plane ticket to get here.

Tales from Wroclaw: Arrival

Jaro and I step off the train, and look at our bleak surroundings. Besides the fact that its after midnight, drizzling, and homeless bums are pandering around the train station, we have no idea where our hostel is.

Let’s see. What did Ewa say? Just look up a map in the city center… Find our street, and go from there. Sounds simple enough.

But where’s the city center? Is there even a city map in the city center? And what if the hostel is on the outskirts of town? Crap. We are completely unprepared for this.

Ok, Jaro is saying. First things first. We find the nearest non-stop and buy a beer. There is no way we are doing this sober.

Agreed.

Two blocks later we enter a non-stop with an old lady behind the counter. She starts talking in this completely non-intelligible language. Oh my god, what is that? That’s Polish, stupid. Oh, right.

At the point that she pauses, when it’s clear she’s just asked both of us a question, I just stare at her, thinking maybe she can read minds. Jaro, on the other hand, has another idea.

Zsu-Zsa-Zsu-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa-Zsa.

The lady is staring at Jaro like a frightened child, and so am I. What are you doing dude?

I’m speaking her language, he hisses back at me.

I wait for the meltdown. C’mon, he just made complete fun of this woman’s language. We’re fucked. I’m watching behind me for the skinheads that are surly going to come to their mama’s rescue.

But the atoms never smash together. Instead, she gives him a wry smile and keeps talking to him. Oh Christ, can we just get out of here? I’m saying. Grab the beers and go before we get into some real trouble.

We pop the tops out in front of the shop, and I’m shaking my head at Jaro. Nice. Just smooth dude.

What? Their language is insane. Might as well make fun of it.

This coming from a guy who’s lived in Hungary for three years, and speaks a fair amount of Hungarian; arguably one of the most difficult and ‘insane’ languages on the planet.

We both take swigs, and then look at each other. Now what? We’re stuck in Wroclaw, with no idea where we are, or how to get to our hostel.

Hmm.

Let’s just start walking that way. I’m pointing up what looks to be a main street, and praying the city center is down that particular way.

We start walking and talking and looking at the architecture, which, as per Central/Eastern European status, is always fun to look at (nevermind those Soviet blockhouses).

After about 20 minutes of walking, with no sense of let-up, I’m worried. This is not going well.

And suddenly, Jaro stops, and says, I have an idea.

Well what is it? It better be genius or we’re in big trouble.

He points to something behind me.

I look over my shoulder and see it: Holiday Inn.

Oh thank god for American chains.

The most important lesson I’ve learned while traveling through Europe: if you ever get lost, get to a hotel and ask directions. No matter how posh the place is, they will help you. And they absolutely will speak English. And since Holiday Inn is in just about every city in Europe (not to mention the States), it makes life easier when you run out of ideas. Plus, they usually have free maps of the city.

It turns out I’m the designated direction asker this trip. You go in, Jaro is saying. I’m going to stay out here and people watch. There’s a small club around the corner of the Holiday Inn that looks to be a teenie-bopper affair. Everyone looks like they’re 12. But they’re all drinking alcohol.

Umm, ok, you do that.

I walk in to the hotel, and don’t even try to act like I know Polish.

Hello, I’m lost. Please help me.

That’s about as clear as it gets.

The guy looks at me, and then whips out a map of the city, and asks in crisp perfect English, Where are you trying to go?

I show him the street name and he nods and bends over the map. Here’s us, he says, pointing to the red dot on the map that looks to be in a central location. It must be a Holiday Inn sponsored map.

Then he starts tracing his other finger from the Holiday Inn red dot on the map, moving farther and farther away from the warmth of the dot. Uh oh.

His finger finally stops. Here we are: Grunwaldzka Street!

I’m staring at the length between his two fingers and it reminds me when Calvin and Hobbes decide to go to the Yukon, and look on a globe and think the couple inches between the Yukon and their home will be no sweat to travel by foot.

Shit. No way are we going to walk that, I’m thinking.

What? He asks, eyes arching.

Umm, that’s far. Do you have night transportation to there?

He blinks, obviously thinking, and then, Of course! Just let me look up the correct line.

This guy is good.

So for the next 15 minutes, the Holiday Inn Front Desk Man is diligently looking up my route. It seems difficult to get there, because it takes him so long to find the line. He’s on the internet, calling people, talking with another attendant. And I didn’t even pay this guy.

Jaro comes in, goes straight to the bathroom.

That’s my friend, I’m telling him, when he gives Jaro the death-what-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing-using-my-bathroom-when-you’re-not-a-guest look.

Finally: Ok! You walk up this street, get on the first tram. Take it to the bus station. Get on this bus. And it should take you to your street.

So it’s pretty far from here?

Yes.

Damn. Oh well. Jaro finally comes out of the bathroom. So? We know how to get there?

Yup. Let’s go. I turn around to the attendant, and say, Köszi szépen, thanking him in Magyar and forgetting I’m in Poland. He just looks at me with a confused look on his face. You’re welcome? Is all he can say.

Outside in the cold, as we walk towards our fate, Jaro is asking, So what took so long?

We had trouble with the exact night transport route.

Oh. So it’s pretty far huh?

Yeah. Just remind me to kill Ewa the next time I see her.

Snow Falls

There's just something about snow.

I'm standing in my room, thinking about something, and I get a call from Jaro. Have you seen it?! Look outside!!! I look, and sure enough, light snow is falling into the courtyard. The first snow.

I walk to Burger King, because they have these chili cheese jalapeno nuggets. They sound disgusting, but actually are an amazingly tasty snack. The BK employees are all lined up on the opposite side of the counter, looking out the windows. I try to make an order but they are all laughing and pointing behind me, to the snow falling on the streets of our city. One girl is jumping up and down with a big smile on her face. I can't help but watch her and wonder what else makes her this excited.

I walk to Jaro's flat and I see a young mother and her daughter walking along the street. The daughter, no more than 3 years old, has snow caked to her little snow gloves and is beaming, looking directly up at my face. She's so happy that I smile back. Her mother smiles, but I move on. No matter how happy the people are around me, it's still freezing. Snow is falling. This isn't summer. It's winter. And it's time to move on.