My European adventure

     WELL, WE GOT HERE, and all is well.
     The flight—on Lufthansa—was grueling. We were OK for the first 2/3 or so, but the sardine can conditions (economy) and heat (I tend to run hot) got to us. Didn’t sleep a wink, and couldn’t move an inch. Plus I had too much stuff with me, what with my camera and laptop.
     But none of this triggered anxiety, which was a slight worry. I had pills for that, but they were in my pocket, and, qua sardine, there was no way I was gonna get to the bottom of that particular region. When I finally did, the pills seemed to have disappeared, and that never happens, man.
     Essentially, I’m taking my folks on a kind of pilgrimage to my mother’s home, from which she was obliged to flee in 1945, ‘cause the Russians were coming. That part of Germany (Pommerania) is now in Poland—literally half way across the northern half of today’s Poland.
     --But getting back to the fiascos: my folks were mighty neurotic about every aspect of this trip, leading up to it. So they dithered endlessly about their baggage and its weight. (I was skeptical of every alleged factoid they uncovered about the Byzantine baggage rules.) The plan was to have only carry-on luggage—namely, one of those bags on wheels with an extendo-handle.
     Meanwhile, I didn’t pack until literally the night before departure. It all sort of came together pretty well, I thought.
     When it came time to board in LA, the Lufthansa people had no problem with my little bag, but they rejected my folks’ as too big, and so those neurotically-prepared cases were consigned to the lower baggage area (of our 747).
     Amazingly, my folks did not freak.
     When we got to Frankfurt airport, we discovered that the notion of German efficiency and technological prowess is mostly a myth: we lost track of my folks’ bags, the departure gate for our next flight had somehow changed, Lufthansa’s computers suddenly went down, nobody manned the (alleged) correct departure gate for hours, and, as it turns out, Frankfurt is, like, the world’s most humid f*cking place—and, yes, I blame that on the Germans too.
     Everybody tolerated it, but not me. Perpetual flop-sweat.
     Luckily, we had hours to sort it all out, which we did. But not the sweat part.
     Eventually, we got on some bus, which took us to a regional jet, which turned out to be a smallish plane cleverly named the “Bombardier.” So, off we went, headed for Gdansk. We didn’t seem to bomb anything.
     When we arrived, we soon realized that Poland isn’t Germany. Everything’s pretty small-scale and half-assed here, and things just barely work. But that’s just a first impression. I may feel differently later today.
     They’ve got lots of cops in Poland, I guess, and they all look at you like they know you’re about to commit a crime. Many cops are female and attractive.
     We were supposed to be met by a guy at the information desk with our rental car, but that didn’t happen. I dragged my sweat-soaked carcass all over the little terminal, and I didn’t get anywhere. And then it started to rain. It was cold and rainy, I was exhausted (but nothing like my folks), and I was sweating like a pig.
     Just as we were about to procure a taxi, I noticed a young man standing in a corner with a sign that said “Bauer.” Sure enough, he was our guy. I said, “you were supposed to be at the information desk, dude—like an hour ago.”
     He was a nice kid and he quickly explained that he was not told about any of that, and all he knew was that he was supposed to be there at noon.
     It was 8:00 p.m.
     The kid—Peter—is studying math in Warsau (at some poly-technical institute, I guess) and he expected to become an actuary. “There are only 204 in Poland, and I expect to be number 205,” he told me. Nice kid.
     Eventually, we were on the road, and I was driving. We had no idea where our hotel—the Gdansk Scandic—was, and, as it turns out, it’s not like you can just stop at a gas station and ask some guy. My folks were no help at all (don’t even get me started). But I figured that the Scandic was likely near the center of town, and so I followed the signs that pointed me to downtown Gdansk, which is maybe twenty miles from the airport. What with the rain, my father’s enfeebled state, and my mom’s pissed-off-itude, it was quite a joy ride, but, pretty soon, and after numerous pronouncements, miscommunications, and squabbles, we found ourselves in what appeared to be the heart of Gdansk.
     “There it is!” screamed my mom.
     “No, it’s not here,” peeved my dad.
     “Where’s what?”, I asked.
     “What is?!” said my dad.
     “Mom?”, I said.
     It was the Scandic.
     Now, you’d never guess that this could be a problem, but having seen the actual Scandic is no guarantee that you’ll ever actually get there. I had to do some fancy driving, stopping over trolley tracks (“Don’t stop here, we’ll be killed!” insisted my father) to make a U-turn, while endlessly looking out for the adventurous Polish pedestrians who seemed always to dart out from nowhere.
     “Where’s the entrance?” I asked.
     Eventually, I parked on the sidewalk in an alley along the Scandic—that seems to be how people park here: way up on the sidewalk, no matter how high the curb. And, sans jacket, wet with sweat and rain, I wandered around until I found the “entrance” of the hotel, which is somewhat obscure. It's like it's a secret location or something.
     I won’t go into the remaining misadventures (they gave me a room that was already occupied by two women, etc.), but we eventually got our rooms and freshened up. (The two ladies were nice.)
     Dinner at the Italian (I guess) restaurant attached to the hotel was quite good. We had trouble paying for it: they didn’t like dollars or Euros. You’re supposed to have Złoty, I guess. We eventually paid with a credit card. It was 130 somethings, I know not what. At that point, we didn't care.
     I tried to write something for the blog last night, but it was hopeless. Kept falling asleep.
     Turns out my C-PAP machine (for sleep apnea) requires a new fuse to operate in these hinterlands (no, getting the adapter wasn’t enough), and so sleep is an iffy business. Don’t yet know what absurdities have befallen my folks over the night, but I’m sure I’ll soon find out. (No doubt they went out for coffee but then couldn’t make sense of the card-key and they’ve probably been out there for hours studying the card and the lint and who knows what.
     So, so far, so good!