anthonyjucha

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...

I had many hours on trains during which to come down from Koln with a planned arrival in Ljubljana at 5:55am (unless I overslept, in which case I would probably end up in Zagreb). I needed some rest and so for the last leg of my journey I booked a second class couchette, a short narrow bed. It was my first sleeper train and so I approached with apprehension. A kindly guard treated me with some affection and led me to my bed. Then, a moment of panic! The guard ran off with my ticket and out of my sight. This broke all the rules! That ticket had cost me a fortune and was crucial to my endeavour. I could not let it go. I chased the guard down the train's corridors to find he had locked my ticket away! I insisted I have it. He insisted not. We argued and tussled. It became quite a feud. We reached a kind of compromise and it was with embarrassing distrust that I made him give the ticket back for a moment so I could note down its booking number. The relationship had been tested. I did not like my chances of being woken on arrival at Ljubljana. I nodded off nervously, contemplating possibilities in Zagreb. It proved to be a rough night of five hours broken sleep at best. At about three thirty, an armed Austrian checked my passport with such vigour that I would swear he was the one who blew the whistle on the family von Trappe. I went back to bed for not even an hour whereupon a policija man with unmistakably Eastern European jowls repeated the process. About one hour more and then my friend from the night before appeared at my bedside. Our puffy eyes met and we shared a moment of silence. He reached out to me and I think his bottom lip quivered as he clasped the neatly folded ticket into my hand. I turned to the window. A single silent tear. I resolved we would never fight again. I stared out the window long after he left. I felt like death warmed up, then spilt on the floor and licked up by a goat. I took a quick shower, or rather splashed cold water on my face and under my arms and returned to gaze out the window. I had head that Ljubljana was lovely this time of year. Actually, I had not heard anything of the sort. I had barely heard of Slovenia and never heard of its capital. Two hundred and eighty thousand people whose lives had never mattered to me and whom I intended to get to know intimately. In twenty four hours. On a few hours sleep. First impressions? Impressive! After planning onward journeys with the train station staff in a lengthy exercise in ignorance and patience (my ignorance, their patience), I stopped at a cafe. It was barely seven in the morning. I selected strong coffee, but all about bottles of beer were being drunk. A sexy, surly waitress sauntered around pouring out rum. Neat. Now, that's what I call impressive! As I admired my fellow patrons, and admired is the word, I started to feel a little self-conscious about my casual attire (a sensation I feel not nearly as often as I should). I had savoured the likes of Paris, London and Brussels, but none seemed to match Ljubljana in style. Men with short tidy hair sat in well fitting suits sipping rum with women wearing short skirts and fish nets and actually pulling it off so early in the morning. I was down to my last shirt, socks and jocks. Though, if I had swapped outfits with anyone nearby, I'm sure they would have still looked the shit. And I? Well, I'm sure I would have still looked just plain shit. I found a bed for the night in some student dorms. The morning sun streamed through my window and I basked for a while and watched the world go by, my chief practice as a student. It made me want to sleep, my other main student pursuit. I decided to do my washing, showing my student days to be very clearly over. I returned to hang it just in time to miss all the sun and immediately regretted doing it all. Last shirt, socks and jocks, you may have to stretch a little further. Its amazing what you can do when forced out of bed before dawn, but it was finally time to chase down the match. I had been told that the best place to watch was the nearby 'Tivoli Park'. I arrived there about an hour before kick off to join the overeager faithful. Ljubljana had done itself proud creating a wonderful community celebration of the World Cup. In the park, there was a small football field with a pitch of soft sand. Stands had been erected around the field to hold the thousands to come. Further out, were the lush trees of 'Tivoli Park' and then the glorious mountains which seem to cradle the city with ever present affection. In the centre of it all: a super big screen. Ljubljana, I remained very impressed. It was an especially hot day and the young were the first to arrive, exam time just ending, or so I'd been told. Small groups of lads had gathered in the corners of the stands, stripped off their shirts and started sinking beers. The scene felt familiar. It reminded me of home. Summer days spent at Adelaide Oval, with surrounds no less serene, enjoying the beer and company of mates. Alas, with most of my friends far away, it was time to turn to my most faithful. It was time to seek out a beer. The 'Union Beer' tent had been filled by a band, which reminded me of a certain Ompah Band I have seen leave some fine marks on fests. It was of course no Ompah Band, but it certainly drank like one. As a match wound up on the mini pitch, the near-Ompah Band took up its place in front of the screen. The next phase of the festivities had begun and it was time for another beer. A near-Ompah Band Omp gets me going every time. I've smiled a lot over the last week or so, but perhaps never so inanely as in Ljubljana. I'd seen the Parisians gather around a big screen, but all they did was gather, watch and leave. Here, the whole city came together in celebration and they weren't even in the World Cup anymore! They had already been knocked out! I was worried that this would flatten the mood, but it seemed to merely relax it. The football now seemed just an excuse for a good time, though I considered they would still quite like to win. At last, it was time for kick off and the crowd, now in its thousands, grew quiet. The fun and games were over. It was time to get down to the business at hand. I mean foot. The mood was not what I expected, but all that I hoped. The Slovenians were keenly attentive. They seemed to be real connoisseurs of the game, never overreacting in pleasure or pain, but watching it play out and sharing the odd thoughtful exchange. They politely applauded potential success and quietly gasped when disaster loomed near. Pride was still at stake and viewed as well worth salvaging. I must confess that Paraguay looked pretty strong, but Slovenia hung in there. They made some great late attacks and in time were finally rewarded with some glory in the form of a Slovenian goal! There was a sudden ocean of noise. Those transfixed on the screen bounced up and down. The kids playing in the park all did the same. It was great to see them all so happy, so naturally so, and now with good reason. The half closed with Slovenia the one goal ahead. A great many wandered off, their job done for the day. I did the same, but my task had only reached half way. I strolled to the nearby 'Lepa Zoga', which promoted itself as the key World Cup venue with soap scrawled on its window. I swung open the door, blind in the darkness of what was a much grittier scene. It quickly became clear that I would have to reassess my analysis of lovely Ljubljana. I suppose everywhere has an underbelly and Ljubljana's had certainly burped up in there. The group of thirty or so seemed to make enough noise to drown out the thousands outside. Drunken and rowdy, almost exclusively male, they sat calling like brutes for Slovenia to win. I found a pint and a stool, pleased that my sunburned flesh could finally cool. The match resumed and for a while, Slovenia just peppered the goal. The crowd called 'shoot' anytime their men neared the ball. It became a fun game to watch with all the attacking. I suppose Slovenia had nothing to lose, or at least so it thought. Paraguay returned with its own attacks and secured a goal. For the first time, the room fell very near silent. It was one-all for a while, and then there was another for Paraguay and the score grew to two-one. The room sulked and I felt it a shame. C'mon Slovenia, make me proud, keep me proud, win, lose or draw. But with the third goal for Paraguay, up went a sarcastic "Gooooooooooooooool!" (as they say in Slovenia). I'd had enough of 'Lepa Zoga' and went back to the park. Sure enough, the stands were now partway empty and I recognised a few early arrivals who had become early leavers. They knew what was to come. Paraguay the victor. Three goals to one. The crowd gave polite applause which I was pleased to see and then they all slowly shuffled away. The pain was evident. The final insult I suppose. Perhaps a fitting end to Slovenia's World Cup campaign, but I did so enjoy watching them while they were up. Slovenia may not have qualified for the next round, but, I'm starting to feel qualified to say, it put on one of the best World Cup shows in Europe. Great practice for next time around. May it go that little bit better. I leave Slovenia in the morning. Poland was the plan, but plans are for changing. It pains me, but with Poland already out of the Cup, there is another country facing the same fate that I feel I simply cannot miss... Italy, here I come...