The next night they took us to the shot bar yet again. Upon walking in a guy in the bar heard me talking and pulled me aside. He was American and surprised to hear another American. I immediately looked at him and said, “You’re from California.” He was shocked, and replied, “How did you know? I’ve been living in Poland for five years.” I don’t know how I knew, but I’ve since learned I have a magic power of always being able to tell which guys are from California. Not a very useful super power though. At the shot bar I ended up doing a Lamborghini. If you don’t know what this ridiculous drink is, you should. They put a drink in a martini glass and then stack a wine glass and whatever else on there and then pour flaming alcohol down the whole thing and have you suck the drink out of the martini by a straw. You need to do one at least once in your life so you can feel completely ridiculous.
Later we headed to a club. I knew upon entering it was going to suck. The club was all one long room, and it was fucking packed. I had gotten a beer and people kept shoving me so that it was spilling all over me. There is nothing I like less then a packed club. Some people talked about leaving, but they disappeared before I had a chance to join them and the only people left were the ones determined on staying. I went against my never walk home alone rule and headed out of the club…. in the completely wrong direction. I’m drunk and started to get a bit scared because I don’t know which way to go. I decide to head back towards the club. I don’t want to pull my map out because it’ll make me a target. Finally I spot a beacon of hope. McDonalds! I am near the main square. And inside I see two of the sweet young boys from my group. I run inside and ask if they’ll wait to walk home with me after I grab some food. They agree, and I get in line. The line takes FOREVER, and just as I am reaching the sanctuary of next in line these two bitches shove in front of me joining their friend who just ordered. Do they add on to her order, which is the one acceptable thing they could do? No! They each order separately. I realize this is going to take forever. I start giving them nasty looks. Their friend they were “meeting” is already gone with her food. They turn and look at me (And this is not my finest moment, but remember I am drunk, and upset from being lost, and have people waiting on me) and I say to them, “You two are incredibly rude bitches.” I go on to tell them how it is unacceptable to cut in line. They make some excuse about being Norwegian, and that they don’t know what is proper behavior in Poland because this is how they do it in Norway. Then they say something about how they are the doctors of the future. At the time I really wanted to, but did not because I am not a complete bitch, say “Oh girls should you be getting McDonalds? You’re looking a little chubby.” I did not say that though. This is all a huge over reaction I know, but I really hate line cutters. England is where it’s at. Those people know how to queue.
The next day I go to the Salt Mines. In the van ride there I met Melissa and Helena. They are two fabulous scientists who have the dirtiest minds as well. Melissa is from Australia, and Helena Spain, but they both now work and live in Stockholm. When we arrive at the salt mine we meet our tour guide who basically looks like an old creepy butler. For this reason he will henceforth be referred to as Jeeves. Jeeves led us down basically what felt like an hours worth of wooden stairs, and the walking in circles made Melissa really nauseous. We finally reached the bottom. To sum up the salt mines it’s not what you would expect. It doesn’t really feel like a mine anymore. Now it’s more of a museum of sculptures made out of salt rock. There is also a huge cathedral down there, a restaurant, and a gift shop. The highlight of my trip was when Jeeves invited us to lick the salt wall, and I was the only one who took him up on this. I actually licked it a few times. It was tasty. I should have gotten a picture, but Jeeves was moving on.
After the salt mine I went with Melissa and Helena to a place their friend recommended. It was a grandmother style restaurant. That is the best way I can describe it. I ordered the love of my life (perogies) as well as cow’s tongue. You order at a counter and they yell out in Polish when your food is on the counter. You can imagine why this would be confusing for us. Finally my perogies come, but no cow’s tonuge. The woman says they’re coming. Soon we’ve finished all our food and still no cow’s tongue. I go up and show my receipt to another woman who does not appear to speak english. She looks at it and goes in the back. We wait a while. Nothing happens. I find the woman I ordered it from and show her. She looks at it and goes in the back. Luckily this time she arrives with cow’s tongue. Sadly to say it wasn’t worth waiting for. It was very soft and not that yummy. No where near as good as the cow tripe I had in Bulgaria.
We then head to a placer we’ve been told has the world’s best hot chocolate. It’s the super thick real melted chocolate. I actually like the milky stuff better. But the thickness leads to a half hours worth of jokes about how we like it “thick” or “dark and thick” or “black and thick”. We’re school children. We later walked by a fountain that looked like a penis that was cumming, and we spent a good time giggling over how “it never stops cumming”. Okay we’re done, I promise. Actually no. We also sat at a cafe and watched an entire parade of weiner dogs. I don’t know what this festival was because everything was in Polish, but it seemed to center on weiner dogs. Hundreds of them. I couldn’t make this up if I tried.
That night as we’re all playing spoons in the common room. I need a little rant here. Spoons is not a drinking game. When you try to play it with drinks on the table someone’s drink is always knocked over. Plus the game does not force you to really drink so it does not fulfill the basic purpose of a drinking game. Fuck spoons. Okay, back to where I was. This huge group of Brazilian boys joined our hostel about then and sat down to drink with us. This was not a group of sexy Brazilian men. This was a group of awkward ugly seventeen year old Brazilian boys who looked like date rapists. Later in the club they just became worse. They did what a friend later coined as “vulturing”. They didn’t dance. They didn’t have fun. They just stood near us and edged their way in slowly. The first one grabbed my shoulders and I threw him off. Later one was vulturing me and I kept edging away from him obviously giving the leave me alone signs. He grabbed my arm, I snapped it away hard, and then said to him, “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.” Harsh, I know, but I honestly think these boys only respond to a good telling off. He fucked the fuck off right away.
The best thing about that club was their music. One room played the same indescript techno that everyone plays, but the other room was really jamming. One minute you’d be listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, then an oldies song you’d forgotten you loved, then the YMCA. We did the Macarena that night. They also played “You’re the One that I Want” from Grease. It was a good time. That night I was sick of men. The guys from our hostel were treating my girlfriends like crap. They would talk to them while looking all around for other girls. One guy had almost hooked up with my friend the night before, and he could’ve gotten laid that night if he hadn’t wandered off with some young blond thing that wasn’t going to give it up. All the men that night seemed to be trolling rather than just having a good time so I was done with hanging with them. Then I saw a group of guys having the best time dancing. They weren’t paying attention to ladies. One guy was dancing up on his friends as a joke. I joined their group and danced with them. Men learn this. Ladies don’t want to dance with the creepy guy in the corner who is skulking for girls, they want to dance with the guys who are already having fun. I was sad to see the girls leave the next day, and soon I was off as well. Warsaw here I come.