Cold Warsaw...
The last 48 hours of this trip have been the ugliest so far. After blazing through Japan without a moment of disgust or dis-interest, we found ourselves at Frankfurt Airport, and happier than happy little elves that we had decided to fly straight through to Poland. The airport seemed like it was under renovation, but had a long way to go, the people seemed like they needed to go under renovation, but had no-where to go. It was smelly, overpriced, and hard-faced. I felt ill just sitting and waiting for our flight to be called. Once we'd been frisked by an over-friendly (read: touch-happy) stern faced attendant, we were on our way to the smoking lounge and a flight to Warsaw.
The flight was relatively quick and none too unpleasant, I was mostly hoping the German efficiency was in place and they'd managed to transfer our luggage from flight to flight. Customs in Polski were fine with me, but gave Talia a bit of grief. I asked what the problem was and got a stern "No problem, can I see your passport?" in reply. After the customs officer and the small-man-complex suffering airport guard mumbled to one-another for a few minutes, looking puzzled and stupid, they let her through.
The baggage collection looked like a funeral reception. Grim faces, dead silence (this general demeanor would make more sense to us over the next two days or so) but we collected our gear with no hassle and tamper-free, and moved on to find our bus, which was relatively easy, and within about half an hour of leaving the plane we were on a crowded bus. We had to change buses a little ways into the trip, and after boarding what was essentially the right bus, we realized we were heading in the wrong direction. No sweat, hopped off, crossed the road and waited five minutes for the correct bus. The correct bus dropped us right at the top of our street, so we asked some old man in a chemist shop for confirmation of our path, and headed down to the gates of the hostel, Garden Villa.
Garden Villa is possibly the best and creepiest thing about our stay here. It's kind of like the set-up for some freaky bates motel murder mystery, Polski style. In the last couple of days, we've seen almost no-one but the misfit 'Adams family' that seem to inhabit the place (and it's a big place), our room has a slight crack in the door, so as someone might want to peek through, and it's just generally quiet and eery. The grounds are enclosed by a metal storm fence topped with barbed wire, and it has an un-manned guard booth at the entrance gate with one lonely light to see you in. Once in, we walked down the path a good fifty meters, closed in by leafless trees that look like black metal claws of tribute, and a cold mist that grabbed at our ankles. We journeyed into the first building on the left, and a heavy-set man in a white uniform pointed us in the direction of the Hostel building. He looked like a warden of sorts, and the building with it's cold-grey presence and barred windows marked the place out to look like a mental hospital. We crossed the driveway and waled into a warm, freshly painted lobby and knocked on what seemed like an office door. The guy who was sitting at the desk greeted us like one would greet the enemy one was forced to lodge, took out names, my passport details, and gave us a "let's go". The room he led us to was great. A lot of space, old furniture, Dali reprints on the walls and an amazing wooden window looking out onto the "garden", plus it had heating.
A hot shower, a comfortable sleep and ten or so hours later and we were off into the streets of Warsaw to navigate bus timetables and eat food. We took a chance and hopped onto a bus that seemed to be going in the direction we wanted to head (one plus is we have not yet payed once for bus travel) and stayed on until we could alight somewhere that looked right. It was here that we began to notice what would plague us as more than paranoia over rest of our stay here, right up to this minute. Maybe it's because every single person here looks like new years eve 1991 and they're still waiting for news of Kurt Cobains death (let alone Kurt Cobain), and they are all on their way back from a parker sale, or maybe they just don' get many tourists here, especially ones with some colour, because we have been getting the most insane amount of stares and up and down looks I have ever experienced in my life. It's unbelievable. I could walk down Pitt St naked and garner less attention than walking through Warsaw in a leather jacket and jeans. Even the Uni crowd look worse than a rave party in 1992, and everyone seems so hostile and simply disgusted by our appearance. It really makes the whole place unpleasant. Albeit the grey buildings, rain and lack of ANY colour or art don't help (every single piece I've seen here is in throw-up black and grey) and the people make me want to wear angry face, and I don't want that. If they do have any kind of art-scene, or underground culture, it's so far under it's dead and buried. We were due to stay here for the rest of the week, but we cancelled our time at the next hostel and are making for our mission to Krakow and the camps as planned on tuesday, and once we've seen what we came here for, we are getting gone like M.C hammers career (though I don't think Warsaw knows he's over yet).
What's strange is, most every Polish person or family I know back home are super pleasant, but I guess that's because they've left this eastern European hell.
*As it turns out, the first building on the left of the garden Villa grounds is a mental hospital. Yesterday morning, at about 7 am, we treated to the amazing sounds of Mr. Loon singing his crazy morning song.
The flight was relatively quick and none too unpleasant, I was mostly hoping the German efficiency was in place and they'd managed to transfer our luggage from flight to flight. Customs in Polski were fine with me, but gave Talia a bit of grief. I asked what the problem was and got a stern "No problem, can I see your passport?" in reply. After the customs officer and the small-man-complex suffering airport guard mumbled to one-another for a few minutes, looking puzzled and stupid, they let her through.
The baggage collection looked like a funeral reception. Grim faces, dead silence (this general demeanor would make more sense to us over the next two days or so) but we collected our gear with no hassle and tamper-free, and moved on to find our bus, which was relatively easy, and within about half an hour of leaving the plane we were on a crowded bus. We had to change buses a little ways into the trip, and after boarding what was essentially the right bus, we realized we were heading in the wrong direction. No sweat, hopped off, crossed the road and waited five minutes for the correct bus. The correct bus dropped us right at the top of our street, so we asked some old man in a chemist shop for confirmation of our path, and headed down to the gates of the hostel, Garden Villa.
Garden Villa is possibly the best and creepiest thing about our stay here. It's kind of like the set-up for some freaky bates motel murder mystery, Polski style. In the last couple of days, we've seen almost no-one but the misfit 'Adams family' that seem to inhabit the place (and it's a big place), our room has a slight crack in the door, so as someone might want to peek through, and it's just generally quiet and eery. The grounds are enclosed by a metal storm fence topped with barbed wire, and it has an un-manned guard booth at the entrance gate with one lonely light to see you in. Once in, we walked down the path a good fifty meters, closed in by leafless trees that look like black metal claws of tribute, and a cold mist that grabbed at our ankles. We journeyed into the first building on the left, and a heavy-set man in a white uniform pointed us in the direction of the Hostel building. He looked like a warden of sorts, and the building with it's cold-grey presence and barred windows marked the place out to look like a mental hospital. We crossed the driveway and waled into a warm, freshly painted lobby and knocked on what seemed like an office door. The guy who was sitting at the desk greeted us like one would greet the enemy one was forced to lodge, took out names, my passport details, and gave us a "let's go". The room he led us to was great. A lot of space, old furniture, Dali reprints on the walls and an amazing wooden window looking out onto the "garden", plus it had heating.
A hot shower, a comfortable sleep and ten or so hours later and we were off into the streets of Warsaw to navigate bus timetables and eat food. We took a chance and hopped onto a bus that seemed to be going in the direction we wanted to head (one plus is we have not yet payed once for bus travel) and stayed on until we could alight somewhere that looked right. It was here that we began to notice what would plague us as more than paranoia over rest of our stay here, right up to this minute. Maybe it's because every single person here looks like new years eve 1991 and they're still waiting for news of Kurt Cobains death (let alone Kurt Cobain), and they are all on their way back from a parker sale, or maybe they just don' get many tourists here, especially ones with some colour, because we have been getting the most insane amount of stares and up and down looks I have ever experienced in my life. It's unbelievable. I could walk down Pitt St naked and garner less attention than walking through Warsaw in a leather jacket and jeans. Even the Uni crowd look worse than a rave party in 1992, and everyone seems so hostile and simply disgusted by our appearance. It really makes the whole place unpleasant. Albeit the grey buildings, rain and lack of ANY colour or art don't help (every single piece I've seen here is in throw-up black and grey) and the people make me want to wear angry face, and I don't want that. If they do have any kind of art-scene, or underground culture, it's so far under it's dead and buried. We were due to stay here for the rest of the week, but we cancelled our time at the next hostel and are making for our mission to Krakow and the camps as planned on tuesday, and once we've seen what we came here for, we are getting gone like M.C hammers career (though I don't think Warsaw knows he's over yet).
What's strange is, most every Polish person or family I know back home are super pleasant, but I guess that's because they've left this eastern European hell.
*As it turns out, the first building on the left of the garden Villa grounds is a mental hospital. Yesterday morning, at about 7 am, we treated to the amazing sounds of Mr. Loon singing his crazy morning song.