I) Poland v USA... from Szczecin

Things are really starting to get interesting. Unintentionally, I
have been conducting my own little experiment in sleep deprivation. I
have had less than twelve hours sleep over the last three days. It is
beginning to show.

Today, I missed my stop on a train. I knew it was time to get off, I
just could not seem to get everything together in time to detrain. I
stood at the door as the train pulled away from Berlin's Zoological
Gardens, desperately looking for a passing monkey to call to my aid.
Damned German efficiency! If I was still in Italy, I might have had a
few minutes grace.

It was probably for the best. I really felt like a nice early morning
run. Lost. At the wrong station. Desperately doubling back. An
excruciating journey on the local train network returned me just in
time to catch my connection, releasing me from the self-chastisement I
had gripped myself in.

I have also lost some of my things, or had them stolen, or given them
away. I will never know which. Nothing crucial I think, but it has
helped the paranoia to set in. I have found myself sitting extra close
to, or far away from, train guards, depending on the swings of my
moods.

It no longer matters which country I am in. Everything is foreign
anyway because I live in some sort of dream world where even English is
barely intelligible. I have been slavishly trying to follow the path I
sketched out a few days ago, checking everything thrice, thrice,
thrice. Nine times sometimes.

I have lost all sense of time, the batteries in all my electronic
devices having run dry. I feel like I am stuck in some sick solo game
with no beginning or end. Earlier today, I watched a child, so happy
and confident, speaking the language, getting back rubs from his
mother. Awestruck, I was so alien and alone, I felt as if I never had
one of my own.

There is of course only one way to deal with sorrows. Drown them! Vodka
the best medicine, ask any Pole, and I planned to get down to some
drowning just as soon as I crossed the border.

I was en route to Sczczecin. It was a town I knew nothing about, but it
was the only Polish place I could get to in time for the game. I
watched the landscape change as I headed further and further east. Pine
trees grew into forests, gathering together to watch over the grey farm
land.

The train took me over the border and closer to the moment I had been
dreading. Polish passport control. Despite having a Polish heritage and
being raised with its traditions, I needed a visa to enter Poland. I
had secured a forty-eight hour transit visa for my visit. Everything
was legitimate, or at least substantially so, because I was not really
in transit, rather just coming and going. A little visa mismatch
designed to save a few pounds. It gave me reason to fear the questions,
or more so my answers...

"Yes, I'm coming into Poland to drink vodka and watch football only to
turn around and leave the same way I came in straight after the
match."

It just does not wash.

An armed green officer descended upon me. In my panic, I could not
remember the Polish greeting taught to me by my Babcia (my grandmother)
in happier, well rested, times. I offered a wan smile as the officer
perused my passport.

"Where are you going?" That was one I could handle.

"Szczecin" I mangled "where the train stops." Here it comes. The
dreaded 'Why?'. I lacked the moral fibre to know whether to, or indeed
how to, lie.

"Because you only have two days."

"Yes" I agreed. Two days. If one had only two days in Poland: Warsaw,
or Krakow perhaps, but Szczecin? Please. I knew I would not buy
it.

And then, the magic stamp came out. A click! I was in!

I arrived in Szczecin with no language, no map, no money and no idea.
No worries. I had over an hour until kick off and a thirst for vodka to
pull me through.

Szczecin presented one of my most significant challenges yet. No one
could speak English, or at least no one would speak English. What I
thought were universal gesticulations for football, television and
booze also gained me no ground. The Polish people were simply not very
forthcoming, but I knew to expect that. Centuries of being picked on by
one's neighbours does not give one a rosy outlook on visitors.

For a time, I feared that I would have another Venice on my hands as
there seemed to be plenty of alcohol about, but nothing to suggest any
interest in football. Signage was no help, with the term 'bar' used to
mean anything that served alcohol, which meant pretty much
everything.

I struggled my way into what seemed to be central Sczczecin. The
streets were truly bustling and I attracted a great many long stares
hauling my backpack through the cosmopolitan city. I found endless
underground premises, each of which had the seediness of a good
football watching dive, but sold benign objects such as stationery,
flowers or toys. I took one hell of a long shot and sidled into a
church only to confirm that, yes, Polish people are as religious as
reputed and, no, they do not like to watch football in church. It would
have been a spectacular find if they did. I bet they do in
Argentina.

Eventually, I developed some fallback options: a near empty restaurant
with disposable tablecloths and a soulless Irish bar that was part of a
chain. Neither inspired me, so I pushed on and bought some milk, or
what I believed to be milk, along the way. I gulped from the 'milk' and
nearly puked on the spot! It was lumpy and putrid. Although, something
told me it was one of those weird dairy products that is supposed to be
terribly good for you, so I drunk the whole lot, retching up and down
gulps. It was truly horrid, but had a pleasing after taste in that I
was pleased after I stopped tasting it.

Now, I really needed a vodka.

I had about fifteen minutes until game time when a boisterous group of
young men in immaculate suits caught my ear and my eye. They were
heading to 'the Rocker Club'. I spied a World Cup poster on its door
and my hopes ran wild as I took the stairs underground. The lights were
so dim that I could only barely see. Yet there was so much to
see.

About a hundred Poles sat in plush overly comfortable booths that
looked like they had soaked up quite a few liver-lifetimes of drink.
Others sat at wooden tables in the centre of the room. All were
watching a mighty big screen.

I approached the bar, cleared my throat loudly, and ordered with true
Polish pride...

"One vodka please!"

"No vodka." Matter of fact from the barman.

"No vodka?!" Terribly, visibly, disappointed. "Oh... okay... perhaps a
beer then?"

I felt I needed a stiff drink to recover from the shock of finding the
only licensed room, probably one of the only rooms, in Poland with no
vodka in it. Nevertheless, I settled into a back booth with my cold
pint of 'Tyskie' only to be promptly kicked out. Reserved for some
higher class of customer I gathered moving off to a side table. It was
more humble and really better suited to me, or at least so someone
thought.

The game was about to start when a small group approached me and asked
me which team I thought would win.

"Poland" I declared proudly raising my glass with that Canadianesque
keenness to dispel any misapprehension that I was American. Once more,
louder, for the whole room's benefit...

"Poland!"

"Polska!" came the reply.

"Oh, yes, Polksa" I said quietly, eyes down to my beer.

The game started, yet the talking did not subside, especially from the
suit gang that sat behind me, talking and jeering, yelling at all the
wrong moments. Amazing, the way a suit really brings out the sound of
one's voice. Suddenly, there came a moment for all Poles to yell. Their
team... oh screw it I'm claiming them... OUR team scored a goal!

I leapt up from my chair as did everyone else, even the plush-seated
suits. The dark room was lit up by the rarity of beaming Poles. There
was a short lived chant in the vein of "Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole", but with
the word "Polska". I joined in with gusto, keen to try out my
'Polskas'. The chant was only short lived because the Americans quickly
replied with a goal of their own. This brought us all back down for a
moment until we saw that the goal had been disallowed. We all
celebrated again and had barely settled down when Poland itself scored
again!

Two nil! My body found a final store of adrenalin. I was bursting with
joy. The pain of the last few days completely dissipated. The train
journeys, the lack of sleep, the devastation of finding no vodka, all
fell away. There was a festival atmosphere in the room now. The Poles
dropped their guards and I became everyone's friend. Women rushed over
to me, speaking so rapidly, I could hear the tears on their tongues.
The little Polish I had learned as a child came trickling back.

"Dobrze! Dobrze!" I cried. It was all so very good.

The US responded well, dominating the game, but producing very few
scares. There is a certain confidence that comes with being two goals
up within five minutes. It showed in the room and in the team who
produced an attack so titillating and near that I spilt my beer on my
trousers, much to the delight of all onlookers. I poured a little more
on. We were all having such fun.

Half time arrived with Poland still up by two goals. I went over to the
bar, noticing that the room had now grown to contain many more back
corner lurkers. Hundreds now. There was no way I was leaving. It might
be a bad omen, I thought to myself in the common manner of punters with
a misplaced sense of personal relevance.

As I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy who kicked me out of my
booth now shared it with his mates. A minor scam I sensed, but surely I
was due for a few and this was one I could wear. I smiled at him. He
simply raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the wet patch on my
trousers. I left it at that.

I spent the rest of the break flirting with some young girls who had
skipped class to watch the game and drink beer through straws. Yes,
even without sleeping, showering or shaving for days, you have still
got it Mr Jucha, you have still got it. At least with Szczecinian
schoolgirls anyway. I tucked into my new beer. A 'Lech'!

The second half started with a yellow card being given against a Polish
player for, it seemed, taking such a poor dive. It was received by the
room with laughter. We did not care. We were going to win this game. I
took a quick toilet break. On hearing rumbling outside, I rushed out
still hitching up my damp strides to witness another fine goal! We were
now up three-nil! The rapture was brief with the US quickly responding
to make it three-one. Most pretended not to notice. One of the
schoolgirls mentioned to me that Poland's goalkeeper lived near
Szczecin. He was very popular, but she did not like his long
hair.

"Really, is that so?" I asked giving a Freudian stroke to my stubbles
on top before excusing myself to again fetch a Lech.

The game was drawing to a close and I felt wonderful. The three goals.
The three pints. The three hours sleep. I felt at home in Poland. My
Poland. My Polska!

The final whistle blew. I was ready to celebrate a fine Polish victory,
but then a very curious thing happened. Everyone just stood up and
left. The room was cleared within seconds. No goodbyes. No do
widzenias. Nothing. I had turned the full circle from being alone, to
sharing togetherness, to being alone again. Except, I no longer felt
alone. I was feeling very together and strode to the train station to
move on to Denmark. And I only fell over once...