Don't Call My Name: Krakow, Krakow

Dearest traveling personal diary ...
which is not exactly private, but could be considered private until the dreaded "Publish Post" tab has been pressed by a Polish fingerprint. Yes, only a Polish fingerprint from a Polish girl can activate this button to submerge it's contents into the realms of cyberspace. Oh, and just to narrow the field, the Polish girl's name is Dorothy. Use your imagination (insert Spongebob infliciton here if desired. In Poland Spongebob is simply a figment of my imagination, for I haven't seen the soaked sponge in these three weeks. Insert infliction once again. However, dirtied sponges are frequently sighted.)

Ahem. Dearest Diary:

Leisurely walking on a side street which connects to the Krakow Market Square has a mind-numbing effect. Shops aligned each side of the paved street. Some vendors selling vinyl purses, others displaying Italian wedges, and elderly ladies dressed in Babushkas shaving smooth strands off blocks of ocipek (for all matters purposeful: pungent cheese) surrounded me on this midday stroll. This is home. Shopping and eating. All day. Utter perfection.

Suddenly I heard a pretty boy [Side note: He is named "pretty boy" due to his resemblance of European soccer stars] shouting "Krakow, Krakow" from the fifth floor of a nearby building.  Despite the blinding sun, I looked up over my left shoulder and waved, with five long drawn-out thrusts of the arm. Of course, being polite, he waved back enthusiastically, probably satisfied his jublilant message reached at least one passerby. Such attention seekers these pretty European boys are. Tsk tsk. Always secretly vying for flashy red cards during World Cups.

 I took six steps. Wait, what was that? I heard his chanting once again. Can you spell "Attention", or better yet, shout it? But then it struck me. He was shouting "Krete [wlosy], Krete!" which means "curly" in Polish. My mother and father's fit of laughter ascertained that I was in no need of a hearing aid, or subtitles, which in Poland does not exist, much like Spongebob of the Square Pants. Obviously being the only curly-haired person for miles, I was flabergasted. A Eurpoean pretty boy picked me out of the mass of tourists, and was cutely ringing his voice throughout the street to receive an inkling of attention from the wearer of two mops of curly pigtails.

Now all six hundred sets of Polish eyes were on the only blonde curly-haired girl in Krakow. Flattering? I suppose so. Creepy? A little. Life changing? Well, I ended up changing my hair style that day to avoid him recognizing me after departing from a shoe store which I clumsily entered. Don't call my name, or call me by my hair, Pretty European Boy.

[Interesting fact of the day: When visiting a new church for the first time in Poland, sitting in a pew on the side of the cathedral yields the entire congregation intently staring at you for the first 40 minutes].

[Advice of the day: stare back!]

Psyched for Poland

In honor of my upcoming trip to Poland, here is a compiled list of actions which my ID swears "These are fabulous things for you to do, Dorothy." While flying amidst the fluffy white porous clouds, the following possible scenarios will be running through my mind at the pace of twenty steroid induced stallions rounding the corner gate. Things to do while in an airplane (did I mention this will be a 10-13 hour flight?):

1. Cry whenever a baby cries on the plane.
2. Disco dance in the aisle
3. Try to lead plane in song "Oh I wish I was an Oscar Myer Weiner"
4. Lead a bible study session in the back of the plane
5. Set up a stand selling my own diet soda cheaper than the airplane is selling it for.
6. Switch accents and see if anyone notices.
7. Organize my collection of bandaids.
8. Ride carry-on luggage down the aisle.
9. Stick a moustache to the bottom of my seat.
10. Look surprised when I find a moustache on the bottom of my seat twenty secconds later.
11. Carefully inspect the moustahce I find, sniffing it, writing down it's make and weight (thanks to my handy-dandy pocket scale) in my spiral notebook.
12. Put the newly-found moustache into the breast pocket of my sweater, with eyes darting every which way suspiciously.
13. Stroll up and down the aisles, asking if anyone wants to buy the rollex of moustaches.
14. Sell a moustache to a flight attendent. *

*Only do so if I can't determine whether the flight attendent is a male or female.


Oh, and my ID is also the "thing" which said "Stand up during the middle of a church sermon, expose your belly button to the freshly stale air, and climb onto the pew all while staring intently upon the priest, nodding every five secconds enthusiastically." My ID is out to publicly humiliate me. However, these requests are more reasonable. Ish. Reasonableish. Happy flying to all, and to all a goodnight!

Balls of Pearls

Monday mornings are mad rush days
Gym craze arouses Tuesday and Thursdays
Wednesdays you look like the camel’s hump
And by Friday you play “I cannot come in, for there’s a lump”.

Your precious neck
Always occurring a lump
Well what if one day
I squeezed that plump
Plump robust beating neck

A string of rocks
Seated intricately on my spine
After the mad dash of lipstick
Of curlers, of damp towels dripping wine
You lift mine tail to be seated upon a pale
Pale white-woman plump robust beating neck

Neighboring Mr. Law of the Ockets
Overtop the arterial vein
Clenched his clasp ever so tightly
“‘Twas an error” he snorted
Until Wednesday chortled “She looks like the camel’s rump”

Perhaps one day I shall grow balls of pearls
And choke that plump
Plump pale white-woman robust beating neck
Of the upper class working slut.