Return to college . . . Poland v.s. Azerbaijan!

Hello all . . .

Enjoying a nice sunny day over here in Warsaw while taking the time to clean up my flat, which has been referred to as being a bit college-esque. While I admit that the complete absence of wall hangings gives my place a sterile feel, the pad in Poland is nothing like my previous dwellings back in the day. Reasons why include:

*no keg fridge
*no beer / bikini posters
*no vomit stains on the carpet
*no late-night Buddha (only a few will get this reference)
*no corner booth from Country Kitchen (one of the best acquisitions of furniture, ever)
*no bar
*no black light
*no disco ball
*no neon beer signs
*and most importantly, no roommates! (I love most of my previous roomies but there comes a time when a guy has to grow up. I'll let you know when that time comes. Baby steps . . .)

I can justify my lack of interior decorating ability by citing the 2006 Anti-Clutter Doctrine drafted last summer as I unburdened myself from most of the worldly possessions that do not fit into three suitcases. No more useless junk shall make its way into my apartment since I know I'll be living a transient lifestyle for awhile.

Couchsurfing.com brought a guest to my place this weekend. Krystal, from Detroit, via Freiburg, Germany has been crashing on the futon for the last few evenings. On Friday night she, and couple of other friends were forced to endure the sheer lunacy of the Ice Bar. I've been wanting to check this place out since I read about it a few months back. Always in search of uniquely odd things to show out-of-towners, a bar built inside a giant freezer was something I had to see.

We can cross this one off the list of "must sees" here in Poland. You walk into this trendy little bar carpeted in wall-to-wall faux polar bear fur. From there, you have to drop 10 zloty on a parka rental and entry to the ice box, where you have to pay an additional 15 zloty for the privilege of taking a shot of Finlandia from glass a made out of ice. Only vodka is served inside the cooler that has also been tastefully decorated with nude ice sculptures. Way too much work for way too little fun. Never again.

The Russian Market . . . now that's a tourist attraction that never fails to deliver. My Polish-speaking friends from Africa are always there to give me a great deal on knock-off Nikes. These guys look so American, stupid me strikes up a convo with a massive guy clad in LSU gear:

Me: "LSU fan huh? Go Tigers!"
Him: "I'm from Ghana, man!"

Once again, doing my part to foster international brotherhood by trying to give the appearance that not all Americans are ignorant. Succeeding? Not quite. How one makes the decision to leave the sunny, tropical environs of Ghana to sell counterfeit shoes in frigid Warsaw is beyond me. Suffice it to say, Eastern Europe is not really the most welcoming place for my compatriots from the dark continent.

Speaking of ignorance, Americans have been happily oblivious to the "elegant game" of soccer. I, for one, fail to see the beauty in a sport where the majority of matches end in a tie (a lot of them scoreless)and are decided in an anti-climactic shootout. But when given the chance to see the Polish National Team play here in Warsaw, I eagerly accepted. After all, they were playing against their arch-rival, Azerbaijan.
It's a former Soviet state, and if there's one thing the Poles hate, it's anything having to do with mother Russia. Alright, maybe I'm hyping this up a little bit.

Anyhow, Krystal and I did our best to pose as hard-core fans of Polska. Donning the ubiquitous scarf and some funny headgear, all we were missing were a couple over-sized, foam, #1 hands and some face paint. You don't see those too much at European sporting events. That could be a lucrative investment opportunity for any of your business-minded folk. The importation of foam #1 fingers to Europe has "financial windfall" written all over it.

The atmosphere surrounding the match was as exciting as I anticipated. Upon arriving at the stadium, we could see that the hooligan prevention forces were making their presence known. Policja in full riot gear armed with ornery German Shepherds patrolled the area outside Legia Stadium. After passing through the ticket checkpoint, I was given a frisking that would violate most sexual harassment statutes back home. Apparently, the hiding of contraband within the warmth of one's family jewels is common practice.


Drunken revelers sang and cheered for the entire match, led by this one lone man standing on a platform at mid-field. He tirelessly exhorted the crowd to root on the white and red while the veins in his neck and head protruded from the exhaustive screams. He reminded me of a couple teachers I know. By the latter part of the second half, Poland's version of Crazy George had fried his vocal cords and was nowhere to be seen. It was nice to see, however, that the Polish National Team had the more traditional cheerleaders provide us with half-time entertainment. They weren't exactly the Laker Girls, but there must be some sense of modesty in this overwhelmingly Catholic country.

The visiting team was overmatched in this contest as Poland triumphed 5-0. I enjoyed the high score, but my opinion of soccer has not changed. Despite all the hoopla and pageantry surrounding the match, the game itself was almost as boring as watching it on television. But I can certainly see myself attending more matches in the future. The frenetic cheering and carousing made it a cultural experience much different than any other sporting event I've attended.

Red Auerbach had his victory cigar. The Poles have victory road flares that they whip out of their pants when the win has been assured. I get brutally fondled by security on my way into the stadium. I'm just wondering how a guy smuggles something in that resembles a stick of dynamite. On second thought, maybe it's best that I don't know.