[samsamsam]

Some serious writing skills aphelion.

How many more days are you there?

[aphelion]

Ten more. We're hitting the club tonight.

This is just stream-of-consciousness writing. When/if I do the memoir, I'll arrange everything like an actual readable account. Almost done with the next day.

[aphelion]

Day 4) After some limited sleep, I shake off the remainder of my hangover and pop outside into the bright lights of morning. It's 9:30AM local time, and the little corner shop, staffed by an old man who seems that he should be more gruff than he actually is, is open for business. They offer minor conveniences and over-sauced hot food at rock-bottom prices, at least for an well-heeled American, and the zapiekanka I order is a mile long and a kilometer wide, with inexpensive American cheese and uncooked salami layered over mushrooms, on top of the biggest flat bread I've ever seen. I decline the ketchup.

It's so big that I can't finish it, and I leave it half-eaten on my apartment table for a while until fatigue begins to dissipate. I'd been here three solid days now, a vacationer in a city I've never visted that speaks a language I don't know, and already my social life has rivaled any three-day stretch at home in Seattle. Tonight was going to be no different, and I remind myself to sweep aside the crumbs and handle the trash in anticipation of this evening.

I'd met a girl early on and exchanged email addresses, and indicated that I'd had some questions about life in Wroclaw; and if she could be so kind as to entertain them for me, I'd be happy to take her out for the evening.

I reviewed the message in my phone one last time. "Well, THIS will never work," I laughed to myself, and clicked send.

Naturally, she'd accepted, requesting a meeting on Wednesday night, and was even able to provide some suggestions as to where to go. That settled, I made my way down to Rynek to meet another forum member, Hertinto. We'd synced up earlier to meet at the fountain there at the square in the afternoon, and when he showed up wearing the red shirt he promised I was surprised.

Hertinto seemed almost a younger version of Leonardo DiCaprio, oozing style and confidence. The rare forum member capable of running 'hot guy game' with little trouble, I realized I'd met a serious threat to the moral integrity of the young women of Wroclaw.

And just as unfortunately for the young women, Hertinto was an engaging fellow as well, with a Spanish accent that would leave lips moistened (both pairs). We traded barbs about the uselessness of our local women, Spanish and American both, and made plans to sync up at night at the club.

I'd spent too long out, and found myself needing a rest without leaving enough time for one. Damning my chances to fatigue, I took a quick shower and grabbed a Monster on the way down to Rynek.

Magda was a tall, slender woman, older than my usual partners at 28, and a natural redhead. She was dressed professionally in a ladies' blazer and white silk button-down shirt, and I immediately had flashbacks to the few professional American women I'd been out with. She turned out to be far more amicable than her American counterparts, however, and our conversation turned from the officially stated reason to personal pretty quickly.

She turned out to be a beginner salsa dancer, which brought us a little common ground, and I told her about the blossoming salsa scene in Seattle which intrigued her. We finished our drink at FIKA Cafe, and ended up somehow at another bar. It had steps that led down into the basement level of the building, and inside was a lavishly, if old, furnished bar with several rooms. We stayed topside though, sitting out under the umbrellas under the slowly cooling night.

I secretly marveled at the story of her Erasmus trip to Spain and how she lost a boyfriend over it. She spoke of it with some regret, calling it a 'mistake'; I wondered whether an American woman would ever let slip such words, or whether she would chalk it up to circumstance and fate, or even just quietly replace him with another without much thought. Both latter instances I had personally witnessed, but I couldn't remember an American woman bemoaning such a choice.

I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. She was a mildly attractive island among a sea of sheer beauty, a professional woman now by necessity. I wondered whether she wanted children, and what sex meant to her. I also wondered about
banging her. The thought was intriguing.

I asked her if she had a boyfriend; her response was 'no, not right now.' I wondered what her prospects were in such a highly competitive field. She'd be enthusiastically courted in the United States, after all; but here she would be certainly swept under the rug, and more so in a college town overrun by beautiful young women.

I bid her goodnight, but not before we made plans to go salsa dancing on Sunday. I knew intrinsically that this would likely be another platonic date, and I made a mental note to figure out how to circumvent that. In the meantime, there was still Kasia, and my Sandwich Artist...

On the long walk back to Rynek from the pub I heard two young men speaking English, and craned my neck toward them.

"Hey, you guys speak English!"

We made introductions. Ovi and Raymond, from Romania and Germany respectively, proved to be Erasmus students on a night out. Both were tall, with Ovi sporting a weatherbeaten, laborer's look to him, while Raymond was a tall, soft-
looking gentleman that would probably carry a dignified air about him in perhaps thirty years, but for now granted the impression of a young orchestra musician. His English was proper, bearing a high British inflection. They were both very friendly, and invited me along for the night, which started at Bierhalle in Rynek to catch the final seconds of the Benfica v. Chelsea game. I ordered whiskey; the two friends took beer instead.

Ovi explained that his good friend back home was a tremendous soccer fan, and had just suffered a serious head injury from a freak accident while celebrating a Benfica goal. Benfica scored a last minute goal in regulation to tie the game, and Ovi cheered, texting his injured friend the good news. I raised my whiskey in congratulations, and the game proceeded into overtime. "If Benfica wins, I will get drunk tonight," Ovi asserted in direct and simple English.

The joy was short-lived; Chelsea scored a goal in the 3rd minute of regulation, and Ovi was crushed. "Well, now you have to get drunk tonight anyway," I reminded him.

"I don't want to be the one to text the bad news," he moped. Raymond looked on bemused.

We were soon joined by Aimee, a friend of theirs, who loomed tall over the table before finally taking a seat. She was a slightly pudgy French girl with long, black hair, and a terse and demanding manner. Back home I might not have paid it much attention, but now among a meadow of soft femininity, her brusque nature stood out like a patch of weeds. I didn't like Aimee, and after a moment of observing her, I did not speak to her again.

We parted company soon afterward, with me taking Raymond's number for future synchronizing, to meet Hertinto at Club Domowka in Rynek. It wasn't much of a walk, but it felt longer than it was. The limp would never go, it seemed.

I was exhausted. Three days of four hours of sleep coupled with miles and miles of walking each day had begun to take their toll on me. My hip hurt. I didn't know whether the problem was a strained muscle or a joint ache.

I was surprised to find a 5 zloty cover charge, about $1.50; Mundo had been free. But inside was a much more friendly scene than I'd seen at Club Mundo the night before. A gallery of beautiful girls presented themselves before me, along with the usual suspects - ill-dressed Polish guys, mainly. Thrift Shop was blasting on the dance floor, loud but not deafening. It took a moment before I finally saw Hertinto posted at the bar, drink in hand.

I gave him a strong handshake. "My man. How is it?"

"Good, good. Just waiting for the fish to jump."

Hertinto explained his method of passive engagement - he would simply wait for a girl to come get a drink, and then chat her up. I liked it. It was simple, invisible, and probably worked well with his good looks and fashion sense.

"I'm dead," I lamented. Ahead of us five beautiful young girls wearing leis were doing the Macarena to something that wasn't the Macarena. It was cute, somehow; there was something innocent and fun about it. I mulled over whether I would think the same in an American club; would I scowl at American women for being attention whores?

The ratios were good. The girls were pretty. And yet all I wanted to do was leave, to head back to my room and crash and regain some semblance of energy and humanity. And all I had to do was tear myself away from this beautiful, feminine vista of youth and fecundity.

I shook my head, and rose from my stool to bid Hertinto good evening. I felt bad for not getting some face time in at Domowka and with Hertinto. But I couldn't do it again, not tonight. I was dead inside, a sexless husk of exhaustion, the worn fibers of an old burlap bag.

Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow was belated Kasia, and who knew after that.

[EU Explorer]

(05-17-2013 02:40 PM)aphelion Wrote:  

Day 4) After some limited sleep, I shake off the remainder of my hangover and pop outside into the bright lights of morning. It's 9:30AM local time, and the little corner shop, staffed by an old man who seems that he should be more gruff than he actually is, is open for business. They offer minor conveniences and over-sauced hot food at rock-bottom prices, at least for an well-heeled American, and the zapiekanka I order is a mile long and a kilometer wide, with inexpensive American cheese and uncooked salami layered over mushrooms, on top of the biggest flat bread I've ever seen. I decline the ketchup.

It's so big that I can't finish it, and I leave it half-eaten on my apartment table for a while until fatigue begins to dissipate. I'd been here three solid days now, a vacationer in a city I've never visted that speaks a language I don't know, and already my social life has rivaled any three-day stretch at home in Seattle. Tonight was going to be no different, and I remind myself to sweep aside the crumbs and handle the trash in anticipation of this evening.

I'd met a girl early on and exchanged email addresses, and indicated that I'd had some questions about life in Wroclaw; and if she could be so kind as to entertain them for me, I'd be happy to take her out for the evening.

I reviewed the message in my phone one last time. "Well, THIS will never work," I laughed to myself, and clicked send.

Naturally, she'd accepted, requesting a meeting on Wednesday night, and was even able to provide some suggestions as to where to go. That settled, I made my way down to Rynek to meet another forum member, Hertinto. We'd synced up earlier to meet at the fountain there at the square in the afternoon, and when he showed up wearing the red shirt he promised I was surprised.

Hertinto seemed almost a younger version of Leonardo DiCaprio, oozing style and confidence. The rare forum member capable of running 'hot guy game' with little trouble, I realized I'd met a serious threat to the moral integrity of the young women of Wroclaw.

And just as unfortunately for the young women, Hertinto was an engaging fellow as well, with a Spanish accent that would leave lips moistened (both pairs). We traded barbs about the uselessness of our local women, Spanish and American both, and made plans to sync up at night at the club.

I'd spent too long out, and found myself needing a rest without leaving enough time for one. Damning my chances to fatigue, I took a quick shower and grabbed a Monster on the way down to Rynek.

Magda was a tall, slender woman, older than my usual partners at 28, and a natural redhead. She was dressed professionally in a ladies' blazer and white silk button-down shirt, and I immediately had flashbacks to the few professional American women I'd been out with. She turned out to be far more amicable than her American counterparts, however, and our conversation turned from the officially stated reason to personal pretty quickly.

She turned out to be a beginner salsa dancer, which brought us a little common ground, and I told her about the blossoming salsa scene in Seattle which intrigued her. We finished our drink at FIKA Cafe, and ended up somehow at another bar. It had steps that led down into the basement level of the building, and inside was a lavishly, if old, furnished bar with several rooms. We stayed topside though, sitting out under the umbrellas under the slowly cooling night.

I secretly marveled at the story of her Erasmus trip to Spain and how she lost a boyfriend over it. She spoke of it with some regret, calling it a 'mistake'; I wondered whether an American woman would ever let slip such words, or whether she would chalk it up to circumstance and fate, or even just quietly replace him with another without much thought. Both latter instances I had personally witnessed, but I couldn't remember an American woman bemoaning such a choice.

I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. She was a mildly attractive island among a sea of sheer beauty, a professional woman now by necessity. I wondered whether she wanted children, and what sex meant to her. I also wondered about
banging her. The thought was intriguing.

I asked her if she had a boyfriend; her response was 'no, not right now.' I wondered what her prospects were in such a highly competitive field. She'd be enthusiastically courted in the United States, after all; but here she would be certainly swept under the rug, and more so in a college town overrun by beautiful young women.

I bid her goodnight, but not before we made plans to go salsa dancing on Sunday. I knew intrinsically that this would likely be another platonic date, and I made a mental note to figure out how to circumvent that. In the meantime, there was still Kasia, and my Sandwich Artist...

On the long walk back to Rynek from the pub I heard two young men speaking English, and craned my neck toward them.

"Hey, you guys speak English!"

We made introductions. Ovi and Raymond, from Romania and Germany respectively, proved to be Erasmus students on a night out. Both were tall, with Ovi sporting a weatherbeaten, laborer's look to him, while Raymond was a tall, soft-
looking gentleman that would probably carry a dignified air about him in perhaps thirty years, but for now granted the impression of a young orchestra musician. His English was proper, bearing a high British inflection. They were both very friendly, and invited me along for the night, which started at Bierhalle in Rynek to catch the final seconds of the Benfica v. Chelsea game. I ordered whiskey; the two friends took beer instead.

Ovi explained that his good friend back home was a tremendous soccer fan, and had just suffered a serious head injury from a freak accident while celebrating a Benfica goal. Benfica scored a last minute goal in regulation to tie the game, and Ovi cheered, texting his injured friend the good news. I raised my whiskey in congratulations, and the game proceeded into overtime. "If Benfica wins, I will get drunk tonight," Ovi asserted in direct and simple English.

The joy was short-lived; Chelsea scored a goal in the 3rd minute of regulation, and Ovi was crushed. "Well, now you have to get drunk tonight anyway," I reminded him.

"I don't want to be the one to text the bad news," he moped. Raymond looked on bemused.

We were soon joined by Aimee, a friend of theirs, who loomed tall over the table before finally taking a seat. She was a slightly pudgy French girl with long, black hair, and a terse and demanding manner. Back home I might not have paid it much attention, but now among a meadow of soft femininity, her brusque nature stood out like a patch of weeds. I didn't like Aimee, and after a moment of observing her, I did not speak to her again.

We parted company soon afterward, with me taking Raymond's number for future synchronizing, to meet Hertinto at Club Domowka in Rynek. It wasn't much of a walk, but it felt longer than it was. The limp would never go, it seemed.

I was exhausted. Three days of four hours of sleep coupled with miles and miles of walking each day had begun to take their toll on me. My hip hurt. I didn't know whether the problem was a strained muscle or a joint ache.

I was surprised to find a 5 zloty cover charge, about $1.50; Mundo had been free. But inside was a much more friendly scene than I'd seen at Club Mundo the night before. A gallery of beautiful girls presented themselves before me, along with the usual suspects - ill-dressed Polish guys, mainly. Thrift Shop was blasting on the dance floor, loud but not deafening. It took a moment before I finally saw Hertinto posted at the bar, drink in hand.

I gave him a strong handshake. "My man. How is it?"

"Good, good. Just waiting for the fish to jump."

Hertinto explained his method of passive engagement - he would simply wait for a girl to come get a drink, and then chat her up. I liked it. It was simple, invisible, and probably worked well with his good looks and fashion sense.

"I'm dead," I lamented. Ahead of us five beautiful young girls wearing leis were doing the Macarena to something that wasn't the Macarena. It was cute, somehow; there was something innocent and fun about it. I mulled over whether I would think the same in an American club; would I scowl at American women for being attention whores?

The ratios were good. The girls were pretty. And yet all I wanted to do was leave, to head back to my room and crash and regain some semblance of energy and humanity. And all I had to do was tear myself away from this beautiful, feminine vista of youth and fecundity.

I shook my head, and rose from my stool to bid Hertinto good evening. I felt bad for not getting some face time in at Domowka and with Hertinto. But I couldn't do it again, not tonight. I was dead inside, a sexless husk of exhaustion, the worn fibers of an old burlap bag.

Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow was belated Kasia, and who knew after that.

Aphelion I am enjoying your posts and you have a very engaging writing style ...very pleased you like my favourite city

[aphelion]

Almost done with the next update. Let me tell you, I am using smiley faces all up in this city and the girls are loving it.

[aphelion]

Day 5) After some limited sleep, I shake off the remainder of my hangover and sit up in bed for a minute, then lay back down. Fuck, another four hours of sleep. I'm half tempted now to buy some cough syrup and drug myself into oblivion.

The noise outside is nowhere near deafening, comprised of chirping birds and the occasional gibberish (at least to my sleep-deprived brain), but my threshold of acceptable background noise is somewhere between 'quiet fan' and 'outer space', trending toward the latter. And when the day heats up, I'm stuck awake again at some ungodly hour. My manager at work had advised me to have a restful vacation; if only she knew. I milled about the apartment for awhile, shuffling about in a vague stupor not unlike a B-movie zombie in search for
my missing brains. Where's the iron. I didn't know where the iron was. Well here's the ironing board. I guess there must be an iron. What if someone stole the iron and the owner didn't know. What if I had to put out to Magda in order to get a goddamn iron in here. What a tragedy that would be. Oh here's the iron. Fuck, I wanted to put out to Magda. And what if the plug doesn't fit Jesus Christ now what oh wait it fits because this is Poland and they bought the iron in Poland there's no goddamn reason that the goddamn iron won't fit the goddamn plug in the wall ACK

Dontuan texted me at precisely 1:41PM inquiring about my date with Magda. I demurred on giving too many details, given that it wasn't a particularly interesting date, but that we were going out on Sunday to go salsa dancing.

In truth I wasn't particularly proud of my performance on the date. I'd let the conversation wander a bit rather than guide it toward a seduction, or a romance, or what have you. I chalked it up to cultural and language barriers that, though they weren't insurmountable, proved a mitigating factor; but in the end I knew that I was responsible for a less-than-perfect result. I was hoping not to repeat that this evening with Marta*.

I convened with Dontuan in Rynek after failing to find the student cafeteria he was trolling at, and we sat outside under the sun and the scant shade at Coffee Heaven, Dontuan sipping on a cappucino and myself on my energy drink - the first of the day. And I'll be damned if Hertinto didn't randomly show up.

"Hertinto!" I shouted, raising my hand for a high five as he sat with us. We got our introductions out of the way and hung out for awhile at the coffee shop, while I casually eyed a tall, doe-eyed young woman seated at the next table beside us in a short green sundress. She was so innocent-faced that even her partially shaved head, only evident when she stood to leave, didn't fully ruin her beauty.

We parted ways, and I went home to rest up a bit before meeting Marta at the statue of Alexander Fredro in Market Square. At 6:45PM I received a text:

'Can we meet at 7:15? please cos my bus go earlier '

Are you kidding? Sure, no problem, thanks for letting me know. I texted her not to worry and that I would relax at the statue. I needed a break anyway - my legs hadn't fully recovered from the beating I'd thrown on them so far, and after all, she'd been quite polite about it all.

At length she approached me from behind, and to my surprise she was nearly as tall as me, with a little more substantial frame than I had imagined. She wasn't fat by any definition of the world; just taller and more athletic than her dainty Polish counterparts. Marta had chin-length brown hair framing an almost Valkyrie-like face, with soft and rounded features brushed delicately with makeup.

Her English proved to be less complete than others here, to my dismay, and she frequently consulted her phone for translations. However, for all our language barrier, she liked to be teased a little. Her voice, thick and heavily accented, would ring out with an almost tormented 'noooo!' when I would accuse her of some silly mild transgression.

We walked north toward Ogrod Botaniczy, and the katedras, old churches built a millenia ago (and presumably restored many times over). The park up here was full of students, openly drinking and relaxing and having fun, and we'd picked up a bottle of beer and a 100ml handle of liquor at the little grocery store nearby.

"Citronka, prosze," I'd requested of the cashier.

"This?" the cashier pointed at a little bottle behind the counter.

"Tak. Dziekuje bardzo."

Outside the grocery store, Marta stifled a laugh. "Cytrynówka," she corrected me, and I looked at the bottle. Indeed it was. I'd bought it before without really looking at the label too hard.

"That is what the alcoholics drink," she laughed.

"Oh. Guess I'm alcoholic then." She giggled again at this.

We walked underneath Wroclaw Cathedral and then to the park, where we drank our beer and cytrynówka before going to the fountain. It was a huge, wide-open pool, and jets of water sprayed in time with music blasted over loudspeakers. After the show, we caught a tram back to Rynek, stopping off quickly at my apartment to drop off my big, touristy camera. Marta stood at the front door.

"Come on in," I said.

"What if you murderer?"

"What if I am?" I laughed. She came in timidly, and waited while I dropped my camera off and got my things in order.

Somehow we ended up at the same bar I'd taken Magda to the night before. Marta took a mojito, while I had a whiskey on the rocks. I couldn't escalate at all. She was timid to be seen in public even so much as holding hands, and the little incidental touches didn't get her motor running. I didn't take it as a sign of defeat - they were mostly good girls here, after all - so I walked her to her bus stop at the end of our night and called it a day.

I shot dontuan a text - 'sorry, burned out'. It was starting to turn into a catchphrase.

I sent Marta a neutral text the next day, saying that I had fun and thanking her for showing me around. Smiley face used. To my delight, she got back to me within forty minutes:

'I am not good guide ;-) but I had fun too :-) I think see you again ;-)'

I'd hoped that my presuppositions about Poland were untrue. It would be way easier on my life if Polish girls were exactly like American girls, after all. I could go back home with a clear conscience, gird myself for battle again, and go back to chasing American women without reservation. Women are women, after all.

Except when they're not.

Tomorrow - The Clash of Kings, and About A Bitch.

* - wrote her name wrong earlier

[Greek kamaki]

If you promise her marriage and children you will fuck her.The same if you imply marriage.This is a common trick used by Italians and Arabs.

[aphelion]

I'm not going to do that.

[Greek kamaki]

Probably you are not an Italian,a Turk or an Arab. You work for the good of future generations Americans.

[aphelion]

I do not possess Balkan power :-0

In all seriousness, I didn't come here to get laid. I came here to find out personally whether American women were as shitty as we say they are. I'd hoped we were wrong. We aren't.

[Greek kamaki]

Yes, Balkan power has to make an appearance.We are alive after all.
Anyway what is your opinion about the Wrocław as a whole?We may have seen each other yesterday but I do not remember many foreigners.Or maybe on Friday were you sitting in a cafe in street where hotel Puro is located?

[Branimir]

You really seem burned.
You should maybe relax a day and try getting some sleep and slow down with the alcohol. It weakens your body and takes your strength... but then again I know, just a few days left and you don't want missing out something.
I can understand, you must feel pretty miserable knowing that you've to return to the american women in a week.
Even more miserable when realizing there's so much more to explore and so much different kinds of girls & cultures in other cities and countries which are all in short distances to reach.
Your posts are indeed very enjoying to read.

[aphelion]

Kamaki: I love Wroclaw and I want to move here as soon as possible. The girls here are young, sweet and probably impressionable. My dance card is getting filled for next week.
You're here now?

Branimir: I did relax on Saturday actually - stayed in bed all day and just watched some of the UFC fights at night but slept through most of them. (Saw the Vitor Belfort spinning hook kick knockout of Luke Rockhold, goddamn)

[aphelion]

I'm not actually disappointed in going back to the United States. I now know for sure that I can raise two middle fingers to American women and take a year off from them.

[Greek kamaki]

I give these guys a right.They come full of hopes waiting to find a paradise.Then they realize shit is shit ans wonder why is it shit.A German has no problem to recognize the situation as it is next door.He knows the deal.

[Greek kamaki]

I am back to Germany but maybe I am heading to Wroclaw again next Friday.Not sure though.
In general in clubs frequented by Poles I hardly saw any foreigners so I suppose they must gather elsewhere. In my opinion Wroclaw is not the best place in Poland but I need to check Poznan and Lodz in the nowadays condition to get a clue.
Most foreigners who I saw doing well in Wroclaw were living there and spoke polish.

[aphelion]

Holy shit. I can't control these hoes.

[Greek kamaki]

If you want to control the polish girls whoring around good luck.

[aphelion]

Day 6) After some limited sleep, and after stifling the building irritation that comes with chronic lack of sleep, I roll over in bed and look at my phone.

4AM. Really?

I'd averaged about 4 hours of sleep per night for the entire trip. The alcohol probably wasn't helping; I'd been an enormous lush this entire trip. My liver hurt. I think. I guess it could have been a strained abdominal muscle, maybe I strained it lifting up that bottle of Absolwent. Reasonable assessment.

I rolled over in bed and shot Dontuan the usual morning text message - 'how'd it go last night', then threw the phone to the other side of the bed and tried to sleep some more.

Air-dried clothes have a peculiar crispiness to them. The apartment didn't have a dryer, only a washer; and a lack of a clothes drying line left me draping socks and underwear all over the apartment. If I was ever going to bring Magda back here, I'd have to fix that..

The morning eventually brought a trip to McDonald's at Galeria, and I sat with my laptop grinding out a post for the forums. Again I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer quantity and variety of beauty on display here. A stunning girl with huge brown eyes and dark hair ate alone at a table behind me, and for want of Polish skills and feeling a little self-conscious for it, I said nothing. Would I have approached her in America? What exactly would I have said anyway?

At least the McDonald's served lunch food early, and an order of fries and a cheeseburger for about $1.75 American was a pleasant wakeup call. I wasn't feeling like working too hard, and forced out as much text as I could stand, but closed my laptop and prepared to stand.

The pretty brunette was standing as well. Fuck fuck fuck.

I threw my trash away and slid my laptop into my travel bag. Careful maneuvering here. She hovered outside of the McDonald's for a minute, and ... a ha.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"Yes, a little," she said, and to see her up close revealed her to be so minutely flawed that she seemed all the more beautiful for it.

I regathered my senses. She looked minutely like the girl on our first album cover. "Good, good.. do you know where I can get a pair of headphones?" It occurred to me that it was silly that someone who had a first album should have such a hell of a time talking to a girl in the first place.

"Hmmm, like for music?"

"Yes, for my iPhone." I mimed the gesture. Coulda been smoother.

"I don't know. Maybe ask information?" She nodded toward the information desk near the Carrefour's grocery store at the end of the mall.

"Okay. I'm sure I'll find it." Fuck, now what else to say.

"Okay, great."

"Thank you," I said, admitting defeat. At least it hadn't been to nerves.

She nodded and walked away, and in the lucid seconds following I realized I should have shown her the goddamn album cover. Ugh.

The day perked up, though, when Dontuan got back to me. He hadn't scored particularly well lately, last night being a minor bust, and he'd grinded it out in the club all night to score one phone number total. Prospects were immediately brightened, however, when he hatched a plan.

"So I know this Ukrainian girl," he said through bites of rice and salmon. "She's got a friend, they're both salsa dancers. The Ukrainian girl has a boyfriend but her friend doesn't."

"Yeah? Good luck on her."

"No, I'm not really interested in her."

I scowled a bit in disbelief. "Why not?"

"I dunno. I don't think she's all that pretty. Here, I'll show you."

He flipped through a few screens on his smartphone to show a picture of a lovely, mild-looking Eastern European stunner with sandy blonde hair and a gentle face.

"Are you kidding? She's gorgeous."

"You think so?"

"All day."

"I guess she's just not my type. Anyway, we'll meet up with them tonight and hit the club."

That sounded good to me. At 8ish I remembered to text Hertinto, getting him in on the action. He was suffering from the aftereffects of a hangover again, and had existing plans to meet a girl again from last Tuesday, but promised to make it out if things didn't go the way he liked. In the meantime, I was suffering again from fatigue.

I bid him good luck, and Dontuan and I synced up at McDonald's in Rynek to head to Klub Puzzle. Klub Puzzle turned out to be an interesting place, up two flights of stairs in a mostly unmarked doorway. Inside was a bit of a flashback to the United States, with decidedly urban gear being the de rigeur dress code here. A circle of young men and a girl were taking turns breakdancing; it seemed to be some sort of informal competition, complete with announcer.

"Nothing going on here," Dontuan observed, and we hustled out to Casa de la Musica for a drink to wait for the girls.

I sunk down into a soft chair on the upstairs patio, thoroughly drained.

"You should have a Red Bull," Dontuan offered up.

"I've had three Monsters already."

"I'll get you a Red Bull vodka," he said, and headed to the bar. Seated behind his position were two mildly attractive women at the same kind of tiny table. I took notice, but the logistics on this approach were going to be hard.

"The girls are usually not right on time," Dontuan said as he sat my drink down on the little table between our seats.

"Thanks," I said, taking a sip. "So they just kinda show up whenever?"

"Basically."

"Women." I was starting to recoup a bit of energy, but it would be a long slog toward that lofty goal tonight. The girl furthest from Dontuan got up to leave for a moment, and I gestured my head toward them. "Go for it."

He craned his neck to see, and then immediately said something to her. I had to hand it to him. If nothing else, he thoroughly lacked approach anxiety.

They chatted for a few minutes, and I got up to leave them alone. It hadn't been long, however, until their conversation had died out, and when I returned Dontuan was staring off into space.

"No dice huh."

"I tried. We didn't have much to talk about."

"It happens. At least you tried."

With that matter settled, we headed to Szjaba. Szjaba was a pretty ordinary bar with a huge tented area out front, and a small dance floor indoors. I braved the waters on the dance floor for a few scant minutes, but at length we retreated to the awning to relax.

Hertinto and the girls showed up at nearly the same time, and introductions were made. Anastasia, the salsa dancer, was slender, with long, sweeping black hair that probably would have swatted me in the face if I spun her in a dance. Her friend, Sylwia, was a little shorter than Anastasia, and had a gentle, doe-like beauty about her. Her hair was lighter than I remembered from the picture that Dontuan had showed me, and longer. She was pretty, and I was a little taken by her, but before I knew it Hertinto had moved in, and they were speaking rapid Spanish together. I didn't mind; the last thing one can be in Wroclaw is to be jealous of one girl. Pretty girls here are just a drop in a bucket, a very large bucket.

We went to Domowka again. The girls cheerfully conned us out of the 5 zloty entrance fee, and we suffered the indignity of a 15 zloty entrance fee ourselves. Sexism is real, ladies and gentlemen. This sort of thing, for whatever reason, irritates me so I should probably avoid places that engage in this kind of trickery in the first place. Or I could just soldier through it. But whatever.

The club was busy and fun during our last visit there. This time it was a zoo. I eventually found the pleasure of a short, slender girl's company, and we danced a little bit on the floor, but she seemed to want to keep some distance between us. I'm still not a strong proponent of the 'grab and hold' strategy so comically employed by Polish men, and when I didn't force the issue I suspect that I may have left her a little confused.

Hertinto's flight left early the next day, and we decided to cut and run back to his place to kill the rest of his vodka and chat. I was the third man out.

On the way I balked. I didn't mind calling it a day. My social calendar had already begun to fill through the next week and I was, again, bone tired. Sticking around would likely jeopardize the admittedly slim chances of Hertinto and Dontuan; would have taken some serious logistical issues being solved to get any banging done, and I was too tired to navigate that weave. Ain't nobody got time for that.

"Hey guys, I'm gonna cut out of here."

"No way, man, come hang out with us a bit," Hertinto encouraged. "Vodka!"

Fuck, he knows my weak points. "Maybe for a bit."

The girls were getting noisier, which was strange because we hadn't poured any shots down their throats in a few hours. (I presume Dontuan and Hertinto had done so; at the very least I don't recall doing so myself.) And before we knew it they'd started speaking entirely in Polish to each other.

Now. I accept that I need to learn Polish to properly integrate here, and that's not going to happen for awhile. But speaking in a language that the people around you don't understand when you're perfectly capable of using a language that they do is rude. And after a gentle reminder from Hertinto that they ignored, I was more blunt about it. I didn't want to kill the buzz for Hertinto and Dontuan, obviously; if they were two girls with me alone I'd have torpedoed that shit quick. (Well, maybe I wouldn't have really, but at least I wouldn't have been cockblocking anyone but myself if I did.)

"That's pretty rude," I said as genially as I could muster. I was already irritated. This business carrying on was like fingernails on the chalkboard.

Hertinto backed me up, but the girls weren't paying attention. We got tiny shots of vodka to celebrate Hertinto's last night (it was all he had left). The girls took theirs in champagne in a quirky mimosa style drink. I hit mine as quick as I could.

We stood on the deck overlooking the city; if nothing else, Hertinto had chosen an excellent base of operations. Dontuan asked me to reprise a salsa demonstration I'd shown him. The girls seemed to approve. In Polish.

Without acknowledging the girls as I stepped inside, I caught Hertinto looking for the remainder of his champagne. "I wanted to stick around a bit longer, but these girls are pissing me off. They're being rude. And I don't want to ruin it for you or Dontuan, so I'm just going to jet."

He nodded, understanding. "No doubt, no doubt. I've got something good going on with Sylwia. I think it might work."

I took his hand in a firm handshake. "Best of luck. Seriously, I mean that."

"It was good to meet you. Facebook."

"Facebook."

We did a bro hug and then I left. I don't tolerate shitty female behavior anymore. But it's not up to me to tell someone else that they can't, especially if they think they can get the last laugh.

BONUS ENTRY

Day 7) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLexgOxsZu0

Next up: Playing With Fire, and Revenge of the SIF

[aphelion]

Bonus observation: Have seen hot girl with jorts-wearing guy multiple times today already. Style mongers, take note.

[Greek kamaki]

Do you have balls?Go to Cherry and Teatr and get the girls under the meatheads nose.
Generally I do believe Wroclaw has been played out and foreigners are left with the penis in their hand.Polish guys reaction is so dynamic you are left with nothing.The advantage of surprise is not there.
Only guys who live there long time and speak polish can achieve something. Or if you get into a circle with Poles.You must have the local approval before that you are suspicious.

[aphelion]

I have literally been dating nonstop here after my first week. I'm quite satisfied with this lovely city and the wonderful women in it.

[Apocalyptica]

(05-20-2013 02:24 PM)Greek kamaki Wrote:  

Do you have balls?Go to Cherry and Teatr and get the girls under the meatheads nose.
Generally I do believe Wroclaw has been played out and foreigners are left with the penis in their hand.Polish guys reaction is so dynamic you are left with nothing.The advantage of surprise is not there.
Only guys who live there long time and speak polish can achieve something. Or if you get into a circle with Poles.You must have the local approval before that you are suspicious.

I do not really agree. Based on what you are saying this?

I have been to Wroclaw about 3 times and have always been very satisfied.

I must admit that my best trip was on new years eve, big party in Club Eter, where being anonymous was much easier to achieve.

Every time i was in Wroclaw, i didn't saw nearly any foreigner at all. So your "exotic" factor still applies.

Also, what other cities in Poland do you consider as a better alternative?

I was thinking to hit Poznan, but i am reluctant to do so since i really like Wroclaw. Never change a winning team.

[aphelion]

Wroclaw is hard to beat with its combination of nightlife and eligible young women. There's a reason I picked this place.

[aphelion]

Day 8) Sleep. Sacred, sacred sleep.

I rubbed my temples, trying to push the pain out. It was 8AM or so, the actual hour escapes me now. The morning light was bright, too bright as always, and I reminded myself to check out blackout curtains for my bedroom when I returned home.

Have you ever laid in bed so long that your head hurt? That had been my Saturday. I'd simply stayed in bed all day, sleeping and drinking vodka and browsing the internet. When the fights came on I streamed them on my lap, but soon just rolled over and went to sleep again, waking up in time to catch the main event.

Today was much, much better. I didn't feel completely rested, as I'd drifted in a langour for most of the day rather than actually sleeping, but at least I felt human again. I was still unenthusiastic about moving around much, though, and at length I cracked open my laptop and went to hotornot.com.

Online dating had been a wasteland back in America. Utter waste of time. But not so for Wroclaw. Hotornot syncs with badoo.com, a popular dating site that never seemed to pick up steam in America, and the sheer amount of variety on the site was staggering.

I'd first sampled it here locally a few days ago, lining up the date I had planned for today. Mining some profiles revealed some shocking secrets. Lots of mildly attractive girls were getting literally zero attention. One reasonable-looking girl had had 4 profile views that day, an absurdly low number.

I spent some time devising a system. I'd find a girl I liked who was online. If I liked her, I checked out her profile. If she'd had several hundred views, I didn't bother messaging her. If she'd had only a few views, I sent her a message asking, 'do you speak a little English?'

The response rate was fabulous. Girls were eager to talk, and I quickly lined up a few conversations. Some turned out to be flakes, or unengaging, or didn't have enough of a command of English to have a reasonable conversation. But others were thoroughly pleasant to talk to,.

It felt dirty, like I was smoking the crack cocaine of Polish dating. Nice, normal, attractive girls, easily available at the touch of your fingers without the worries of language barriers, public rejection or even the effort of putting on a t-shirt and jorts. I do concede that I had an absolutely splendid picture; a professional-quality snapshot taken at one of our concerts painted me as a god of rock music, and the color treatment applied to the picture gave me an otherworldly look. But whatever the case, girls were eager and interested, and within a few hours that would have otherwise been wasted (perhaps writing a forum post) I had collected a number from and made plans with another girl.

It was a holiday today, and most of the major stores were closed, leaving the convenience stores and restaurants. At least I wasn't going to starve, but if I needed anything more complex than pierogi I was going to have to wait a day.

I synced with Dontuan at about 2PM prior to the date I'd set up with the first new girl from Hotornot, Agata. Agata was 24 and blonde, and we had a relatively quick and simple conversation online before I asked for her number. We'd planned to meet a few days ago, but her family had come into town and she'd asked to reschedule. I cravenly believed her words, and today at 4PM we'd agreed to meet at the statue of Alexander Fredro as I had with Marta.

At length I saw a shock of blonde hair, and I let out a little sigh of unhappiness. I'd been SIF'd.

A SIF is a Secret Internet Fattie; through clever Myspace angles, perspective shots, and other photographic trickery, they deceive the viewer into thinking that they are in better shape than they really are. But at the very least, she wasn't terribly fat; perhaps twenty pounds overweight or so. She was nicely made up, with a tight black shirt and matching skin tight pants, and had a thick, nearly German accent to her words. Her command of English was good, and we were soon chatting away.

In fact, she was a very pleasant creature, as I had experienced time and time again, and I did not mind taking her out. We went to a German pub to sit and have a drink; she ordered a mojito and I a glass of whiskey on the rocks. I admittedly considered bringing her back to my place.

Instead, we walked through Market Square for awhile, and then she accompanied me back to my door before bidding me goodbye. I told her that I had had a great time and would like to hang out again; as of this writing I have not contacted her again. (Perhaps tonight, as my docket is clear.)

Dontuan pinged me to join him for dinner, a request I declined; I needed some rest for salsa tonight. Magda and I had made plans, and she was a girl I was relatively enthusiastic about for whatever reason. With all of the fresh, available young women here in Wroclaw, I was surprised to be drawn a little bit toward an older woman, one presumably looking for a relationship. I had been very clear that I was not relationship material...

I dawdled on preparation, and eventually Magda texted me from club Gafa that the crowd was not good and that she was going to meet her friends at Casa de la Musica. I replied that I would see her at Gafa, but she invited me to join them at Casa de la Musica, so I hustled down.

She was seated at the corner table under the giant awning in front. She introduced me to her friend Lili, a short Jewish-looking girl with long black hair and glasses with thick frames, and a thin and slight figure. She had an endearing look to her, if not a particularly beautiful one. Magda sat to my right, and Lili to my left. There were three other girls and a guy, the girls all beautiful, and we exchanged names and brief pleasantries; the names escape me.

I'd been grateful for the delay; I'd had one too many sips of Absolwent while waiting, and I did not trust my dancing at the present moment. But it wasn't long before we packed up and made our way back to Gafa.

To my surprise Gafa was near Mundo, but the bad memories did not transfer over. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised. The scene here was nearly identical to the one back home, except for the sheer number of attractive young women here.

And then Anastasia walked in, dressed in a tank top and flowing pajama-like pants; I had flashbacks to America. I resolved to ignore her, but she came and planted herself right in front of me as I stood talking to Magda.

"Oh hi," she said, almost expectantly.

"Hi," I responded mechanically, then turned away to talk to Magda again. I didn't see Anastasia again that night.

I spent the evening mostly dancing with Magda and Lili. I danced with a few other girls here. But I had nothing to prove, nothing to build on with the girls here. Salsa dancers form a community based on their shared interest; it would have been difficult to pull here. Besides, I liked Magda well enough. Our dances were fun, if trivially basic; I concentrated merely on holding my frame strong and leading her gently through the dance. She followed fairly well for an inexperienced beginner.

I was soaked in sweat, and stepped outside for a moment to dry off. Among the many young couples was one particular pair; the girl was beautiful, and enchanted by her partner, smiling and kissing him with a nearly ethereal sensation of happiness on her face. The guy? He was wearing jorts.

I explained to Magda that I would probably leave when they did. I did salsa dancing back home, after all; there was no reason to stay too late. And despite Lili's insistence to stay and dance, we finally cut out at 11:40PM and went our separate ways.

I'm not sure why, but for some reason I had panicked on the walk home. My phone had died, and I had gotten a little bit lost; two rough-looking kids had followed me into the little convenience store, and even though they showed no interest in me as I left with a carton of juice I immediately hustled after a taxi. And when a beggar came and gave me a firm handshake and politely asked me something in Polish, I gave him the change in my pocket. For some reason I was afraid of trouble.

I made it home and took a shower. Vodka was in order.

Next time: Hotorwhatever, and The Near Disaster