So stop looking at me like that.
I don’t know if most of you (and by most, I mean all four of you lovely friends who read this partly out of obligation and partly out of pity) but the exchange rate here in Poland–yeah, I’m in Poland, it’s whatever–is baller. How often does that happen to an American traveling in Europe? I haven’t been to a bunch of Europe, so I dunno, but it beats the exchange rate in London. The Polish currency is called the “zloty” (pronounced slot-tee), but that quickly became “slutty” (pronounced wun-tree-hill) to me. Why do I blog about sluts so much? Write what you know (and all four of you are huge One Tree Hill fans). I don’t understand the sexual draw behind someone named Sophia Bush.
The slutty has been great, it’s gotten me great deals on a bunch of stuff, including (and almost entirely limited to) alcohol. The language barrier here is deep, but so far people seem to be amused with my poor sign language. They tilt their heads and look at me, eyes wide and lips pressed, like someone watching a puppy pee on a surface that can be easily cleaned up.
However, there have been some rough patches. On the flight here, the pilot and flight attendants spoke entirely in Polish. Every now and then we’d hit a bump, the intercom would come on, and the Polish Garrison Keeler would say something deadpan and guttural that had as much chance of meaning “WEEEEEE, right?” as it did “say your prayers.”
We are staying in a hotel that, last night, nailed a large piece of wooden plywood over its entrance sometime after sunset, and didn’t give any direction how to get back in. What’s that you ask? Did we simply yell Marco Polo until someone answered? Yes, we did, because even though Rick Steves might fail you, those lessons you learned at the community pool never will. But seriously, we yelled Marco Polo until someone answered.
Yestermorning I met a frail old woman in the boarded-up hotel lobby who asked me where I was from. I said, “America,” and she grinned and replied, “Fun!” and mimed playing the keyboard. She then told me that she likes Americans (keyboard mime) but hates all Germans and Russians, and that if I see one, I should “guard [my] goods.” She pointed to her nether-regions as she said this, but my purse was sitting in my lap at the time. I’ve been sure to keep my purse close to me at all times, and I’ve also been wearing a cup (over my underwear, thanks).