"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>i pronounce it "about," not "a boot"

>last night, i wandered into the common room of the hostel.

“they’re playing jenga!” i exclaimed suddenly to no one in particular.

invited to join with joe, johnny, dan, and carys from britain in a couple games. whoever knocks it over chugs the polish beer.

they’ve just graduated from university. they’re self-proclaimed jocks, wearing wife beaters but giggling like conspirators. carys, johnny’s girlfriend, is a theatre-fag like me. carys just died her hair blond, joe died his pit hairs on a dare.

“it burned, and i was supposed to do my pubes.”

johnny has quick fingers, the mountain falls. they tell me fibs and i believe them, my canadian gullibility. johnny chugs an entire pint in less than 20 seconds. carys takes a fall. they buy me a beer. i take a fall.

christine has to chug-a-lug.

quite proud of the dent i made in that pint.

a couple more games later of hyena-laughing and yapping up the night, we get dressed and head out to a jazz club. johnny likes jazz.

it blows.

we snap pictures and joe runs his hand up my leg. giggling over the absurdity of the pretentious music, carys knocks over a glass. the waiter makes a phone call. we haul ass outta there, our feet faster than the ticking clock.
skip across the street to the Mono Life club. red lights and plush couches and spinning dj beats and disco balls and projection screens and weird polish men. a solo-dancer like buddy holly. a brooding prostitute.

more photos. my legs end up on joe’s lap. carys and johnny smooch. dan pulls a stupid face in all our photos. we dance, and dance and dance. spinning in a spin. crowded on a foreign dance floor, feeling like the night will go on.

they buy me pina collada’s and sex on the beach. mixing drinks and chrissy feels the debilitating buzz.

johnny pokes fun at my accent. “so what is that all a-boot?”

“would you like a spot o’tea with the missus then, eh guvn’a?” i shoot back.

johnny’s nickname is now Ladies Love Cool Johnny (LL Cool J) and Dan’s is Heavy D.

hours flow like rivers, carys jumps on johnny’s back as we dance through the streets, looking for food. no kebabs, just filthy mcnasty. fatass mcgillicutty (aka mcdonald’s)

in poland, they serve fried broccolli and apples and beer at mcdonald’s. open 24/7. we are laughing and laughing and laughing.

i take a bite of a few french fries. they will digest forever. super size me.

skip back to the hostel, minutes past 1am, joe and i purposefully knocking into each other. “you just want to touch me.” “no, YOU just want to touch ME.” johnny throws a can of coke down the street, and it explodes against a street lamp.

“now tomorrow morning, he’s going to want a coke,” carys ribs.

plunder their private room. pistachio nuts on the floor and bed bugs. laugh and giggle. make fun of canadian superstars, but it’s all about hockey. teach them the team names, “what’s a canuck?”

they’re lovely and infused with so much life. the jokesters and the lovertines and the raveaholics. in a few hours, my experience in warsaw soars from solitude to hyper-joy.

youth, passion, fire, potent, they’re genuine people, loaded with heart. miss their british asses. email exchanges, and photos to be transmitted. i say goodnight, heart heavy. fall asleep and can still hear their cockney accents through my open window.

it’s now a bit past 7am, my train to krakow leaves in a few hours. am jonesing for my train culture, but “the best place in the world is wherever your friends are.” why do i always meet people the night before i’m leaving?

see you next lifetime.

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