Wroclaw

Even on a damp, cold morning in January, the main town square of Poznan lined with its old (restored?) buildings was a delight. This trade fair city had a lot more going for it than just office stationery expos.

I decided to hotfoot it southwards to the town of Wroclaw, about which I had read back in Berlin. Arriving back at the station and faced with a ticket window manned by a sour-faced old woman, I realised that sheepishly mouthing English slowly and deliberately at her was probably neither the most effective nor polite way of purchasing a ticket, so I wrote down my destination and preferred time of train on a slip of paper and handed it over with a hefty Polish zloty note, pronouncing Wroclaw as best I could (I had read you say it something along the lines of “Vrotswaf”) and tacking on a simple “please” in Polish to wrap up my request. Hey presto! Within a few seconds, I received one train ticket onwards and some change in return (although no smile from the cabbage-faced old bat). This travelling lark was easy-peasy, I thought to myself. I just hoped it went as smoothly as that when it came to buying my tickets in Russia for the Trans-Siberian Railway.

Polish trains are similar to the trains in the Czech Republic, being of the cheap and very slow variety. In no particular rush, I put my feet up and read for the duration of the journey, occasionally watching the Polish countryside chug by at forty miles per hour.

From the sparse train station platform I navigated my way across town to the hostel I’d spotted online, and was assigned to a dorm room already occupied by a friendly Irish girl quietly reading. Striking up a conversation, I discovered she was not a traveller, but rather a dental tourist, having come here on a bargain Sleazyjet flight with the intention of getting her haphazard gnashers fixed up on the cheap.

Wroclaw seemed a great little place with a youthful, modern vibe, thanks to the university, as well as its beautiful old architecture. When it came to finding a place to plonk down for the evening, there was no shortage of options: cafes, international restaurants and bars lined the streets. Given my rash “cowboy-themed” escapade yesterday evening, I holed up in a local establishment this time, serving the Polish beer Zwyiec (pronounced nearing Zivvy-etch, I was told on my first attempt at ordering) and Polish food, and I plumped for the pierogi:hearty dumplings containing meat, cabbage and other random things that evaded identification. They were delicious, and I realised that thanks to their weightiness in my gut, I knew I would continue to enjoy digesting them for weeks to come.