Poznan, Poland

My dorm at the Sunflower had been pretty deserted for most of the time I was there, but one evening a chap from England turned up. He was on an ERASMUS exchange programme, just as I had taken back in ‘99, and was in Berlin for a welcome trip away from the place where he was living: Frankfurt an der Oder, just inside Germany on its border with Poland. As neutrally as possible, I asked him what he thought of his choice of university town.

“It’s a shithole,” he replied.

Funnily enough, that was the exact same conclusion I had come to when I travelled there with a couple of university mates and a tent. A grey, concrete, East German, dead and deprived town, we found out back then that Frankfurt an der Oder was even shitter than Frankfurt am Main, which was really saying something. The highlight of the whole trip for two of us was when one of the town’s inhabitants, a strange old woman on the street, approached us and tried to strangle the third of our group in an unprovoked attack. It was that bad.

So you might well question why, as I saddled up to leave Berlin today, I had decided to break my InterCity journey at the aforementioned arsehole of Germany. My reasons were twofold: firstly, I had wanted to cross over the border into Poland on foot – something I had been denied when I tried it eight years ago – hopefully picking up a much cheaper regional train there to continue my journey; and secondly, I was genuinely curious as to whether Frankfurt an der Oder had become any less of a shithole in the time that had passed.

Arriving there, I wandered out of the vaguely familiar station and cautiously approached a local on the street to ask for directions to the river, being sure to cover my neck with one hand just in case. She pointed me in the required direction, and was pleasant and friendly. Might things have changed here?

It wasn’t quite worthy of Changing Rooms, but Frankfurt an der Oder did seem to have been spruced up a bit. The place looked more lively, with newer shops and effort put into the public spaces. On my stroll down to the river I chanced upon a couple of buildings I hadn’t seen last time, including a 13th century church adorned with a faded centuries-old painting on its outer brickwork.

At the river Oder, I saw the view of Poland I was presented with on my initial visit here eight years ago. Back then each of us dullards had completely forgotten to bring our passports. I had my EU driving licence with me, though, and asked the German border guard if that would suffice to let me in. He said yes – but he couldn’t guarantee the Polish guards at the other end would let me back in if I flashed it! I decided it would be prudent not to give it a go.

As I climbed up the stairs to the bridge this time, though, there was no sign of the border guard or anyone else; the security posts were deserted, and had been since 2004, when Poland joined the EU and the borders were opened. As I crossed the bridge on foot, the sight of Poland that had been so alluring back then no longer held the same wonder, seeing as nowadays in the UK if you wanted a genuine slice of Poland, all you needed to do was to strike up a conversation with your bus driver.

Crossing onto Polish soil into the town of Słubice, I admired the row of elegant buildings facing the river, but then found out they, er, only lasted for one street. Beyond, the town was an unattractive sprawl of Soviet-style concrete apartment blocks. Disappointed, I didn’t linger.

I hopped on a train eastwards, having waved a pin over the map and picked the major western Polish city of Poznan to overnight in. Arriving at the station at dusk I made accommodation my priority. I had a list of budget places to check out, but no map. Luckily, the station had one on display, so with a few snaps of the camera I was in business.

A ten minute walk to the youth hostel – described alarmingly by my literature as a “no-frills Stalinesque place” – proved fruitless, as I found it closed for January, so I had to retrace my steps, which was frustrating at the time, but in hindsight probably a blessing. The next place on my list was asking for double what my guidebook said, and I was reluctant to cough up so much for such basic digs. Desperation led me to try a 3-star hotel, but all they had available was an expensive suite. Poznan was one of those infamous trade fair locations, and I guessed there was one on at the moment. Luckily, the receptionist suggested alternative accommodation for me to check out, above a restaurant off one of the main streets. Success! I grabbed a tiny room, but at least with satellite telly and ensuite, for a good price and relaxed until my empty stomach forced me out onto the streets for sustinence.

My head said I should try Polish food – cabbage with cabbage-stuffed dumplings in a light cabbage sauce served with a cabbage side salad, apparently – but my stomach lurched me into a “cowboy-themed restaurant” instead, for a massive plate of pork loin, chips and salad.

With cabbage.