Serious Whinge

Now, while I appreciate that Starbucks, Costa coffee and the like are the Dark Angels of Globalization, at least a girl can go in on her own and drink a coffee undisturbed.
Why is it that I cannot simply sit peacefully on a bench in the Planty and eat my sandwiches without some fat old drunk assuming that I require his company? Piss-artists of Poland: Go Away! I vant to be alone. [melodramatic flounce].

Things are looking bad, very bad: even Harry Belafonte is not helping. I have had to break into my emergency HMS Pinafore supplies. I haven't yet resorted to the double Iolanthe CD, but it's coming, I can feel it.

In almost five months, I have managed comprehensively to ruin both my personal finances and my romantic life, and I still don't understand more than about the first three words that anyone says to me. And the food is Awful. Sorry, but I'm never going to be a fan of kielbasa and potatoes.

Dearly though I love the British higher education system (ahem) it is grossly overpriced for the returns you get on it. As a consequence I now spend over a third of my take-home pay on loan repayments. This hurts especially because almost all the other the British expats I've met so far are buying up land (even if only a parking space) as if it were on two for one at Sainsbury's. I can barely afford to eat meat, let alone invest in property.

A friend back in London says she looks forward to seeing me in the orange-painted EasyNursingHome in fifty years time when our scant National Insurance contributions have finally become obsolete...

Right now, I fail to see how being in Krakow is furthering my career or indeed bringing me any benefit at all. Except that I finally learnt to use the brakes on my rollerblades. But this was more a question of survival (not to mention saving face) than anything else.

Can anyone give me a decent reason not to hitch a lift (or indeed skate) back to Katowice and jump on the next WizzAir to London where I can live out of my parents' fridge and earn a fortune (in fat shiny British pounds) as a French PA to a hedge fund manager in the City??

***

It is now about six hours later. Things are ever so slightly better. I have realised that, however bad a day I am having, it can't be nearly as bad as that of the grumpy girl with the tattoos in the ex-commie grocer's (sorry...) next door. If she's not bailing yet, then I have no excuse.
Next time she's out for a fag break in our yard I'm going to strike up a conversation. I can't wait to see the look of abject horror...

The Storm

Last night I was woken up by crashing and thundering outside. I woke up and thought bleary thoughts for a few moments before drifting back to blissful slumbers, vaguely pushing the fact that I had left both the kitchen and the loggia windows open from my mind.

This morning I walked to work as usual, turning right into the Planty where Starowislna meets Sienna. It occured to me, walking a different route to avoid tree trunks and various other foliage that were blocking the path, that the gardeners had been pretty busy pruning since yesterday morning.

Hmm, silly me: the storm yesterday was pretty major stuff. So it transpires. Voila voila, pics of the carnage:

Robbery in the Planty!

Yesterday the sun was shining, so I went out to buy myself an obwarzanek (special bread twist- a cross between a bagel and a pretzel) and wandered through the Planty looking for a place to sit and sunbathe. The Planty park is a ring of lawns and trees which follows the old city walls. I finally settled on a bench in a small square, opposite two mothers chatting and a couple of toddlers staggering around like miniature drunks.
Now, the Polish lessons are going ok, but I've still not had many chances to practice. There are plenty of people with charming dogs but the opportune moment to compliment them never seems to arise.
As I was finishing my pretzel, one of the toddlers tottered over to my bench. At last! I thought. A chance for my first casual social interaction in Polish with a real Polish person! (albeit one who is less than three feet tall). The small Krakovian gurgled and placed both hands on the water bottle I had left standing on the bench.
-Woda! I said, conversationally. The small person gurgled again, seized the water bottle firmly and started to toddle away, chuckling to itself.
I got up and followed it, gabbling: 'prosze, butelka', but my tiny assailant took no notice. Finally, I was able to prize the water bottle gently away from the young delinquent (managing to slip in 'dzienkuje bardzo' and 'pa pa' for the sake of extra practice), to the great amusement of the two apologising mothers on the other bench.
Don't believe what they tell you about Krakow being a safe city: a life of crime begins younger than ever here. And remember what your mothers told you about talking to strangers in the park, however small and innocent they may appear...