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!]