The folks in Poland

There've been requests for more shots of my folks, so here goes. This one shows my parents with the lovely and excellent Agnieszka Syroka, tour guide extraordinaire. Today, as we headed home—in Agnes' VW Golf—after our last "tour" together, a disturbing banging sound came from somewhere in or on her car. It soon became clear that we had had a flat tire. Me 'n' pop told her where to pull over—the little lady was fixin' to block the lane!—and, once on the shoulder, we changed that tire in no time. It was a nice way to end our relationship with this wonderful gal: helping her out. 'Cause, boy, was she ever clueless about tire changing. At one point, I asked, "where's your jack?"

"What's that?" she said.

My folks, relaxing by the bay, yesterday.

Two days ago, at a coffee shop just south of Gdansk.

The three of us, yesterday, in front of the famous Grand Hotel.

We're in Danzig (Gdansk) now; tomorrow, we're headed for Kolberg, on the north coast

Seeing mostly old Danzig with the lovely Agnes

Today, we took the tri-city tour (in and around Danzig/Gdansk) with the lovely Agnes, a thirty-year-old Polish girl who has lived in the area her entire life. She remembers the "Communist time," when she was a little girl. She remembers, too, all the celebrations as the Soviets left, by degrees. They were finally gone by about 1991.

She joked about how, unlike Californians, she doesn't have to worry about earthquakes, fires, etc. I said, "Yeah, just Germans and Russians." We laughed.

The weather was fine: I do believe it hit about 80 degrees F. As it turns out, the original Mr. Fahrenheit hailed from the city of Gdansk, and we came across a tribute to him.

The end of the Soviet Empire really started with the successes of Solidarity, a non-Communist-controlled trade union, which managed to gain concessions from the ugly and oppressive Soviet puppets that controlled Poland. But quite a few protesters died along the way (first in 1970), and this is a monument to them.

This, said Agnes, is the longest "and ugliest" building in Poland, built by the communists. She was careful—ever the professional—but it was plain that she had nothing but contempt for that lot.

We drove north, from Gdansk, to a magnificent church that housed an enormous pipe organ. Poland is one seriously green country. There are forests everywhere, and they are amazing. We probably picked the best time of the year to visit.

The front of the church

It's enormous inside; very impressive.

We heard a twenty-minute organ concert. My folks were enthralled. It rocked.

Yes, though the Gdansk area is near the Baltic, the beaches are beautiful, and, owing to a protective peninsula, the water is calm and relatively warm (by three degrees Celsius). At the height of the summer—several weeks away—bathers must arrive early to claim their patch of sand.

One finds old-fashioned striped cabanas at this particular beach, which is associated with the famous Grand Hotel.

And here is that hotel. DeGaulle, among others, stayed here. And movie stars: Marlene Dietrich, et al.

The architecture varies considerably from town to town. This apartment complex was mesmerizing. Poland has experienced a construction boom in recent years, which has kept its economy relatively healthy.

Yes, Poland has a Navy. And they're proud of it, too.

Eventually, we made our way back to Gdansk, and walked down King's Road in Old Town.

It's really quite spectacular. I was surprised by it all. The architecture is magnificent—and large. Originally, each narrow building was owned by a single family. Today, each floor is an apartment.

This region is the amber capitol of the world. My dad spent several hundred bucks here buying jewelry for mom.

The tower in the background is undergoing renovation.

Generally, the architecture in this part of the world is colorful.

An old building along the canal that leads to the bay.

Agnes and my folks, making their way through the many spectacular streets.

Another impressive church.

Gateway to the King's Road.

The atmosphere in these streets is fun. Lots of restaurants, bars, novelty shops, etc. Lots of tourists.

Much of this—though not the tower—was destroyed during the war and then later rebuilt.

I was mighty impressed.

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!