The Dull Girl

Ever since I started this freelance writing gig, I envisioned a schedule for myself: a gentle wake up consisting of taking in the morning news while sipping coffee, and then research and writing, finishing up somewhere around 3 or 4 in the afternoon.

Then, I would go for a bike ride, shopping or, in the case of my present circumstances – setting up in a new town, exploring.

That would be followed by a nice dinner, perhaps some visual entertainment – a movie or TV show... and then go to bed and do it all again the next day.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Idyllic, even.

I was living in China at the time my partnership with Superprof started. I had classes to lead, students to coach... no time for morning news and the day certainly did not end at 3 or 4 PM.

There was coffee, though.

I squeezed my writing assignments in between classes and on weekends, having already explored Wuhan in depth. I did take bike rides, and, how I miss them!

Arriving stateside did not permit implementation of my schedule either: there was always something to do and, toward the end of my sojourn there, someone to avoid: that kept me at the computer every day.

And then, I came here, seriously behind on my assigned writing and, in spite of my elation at this new lease on life, I was compelled to stay on the computer, nearly completely foregoing the urge to explore and discover.

Nearly...

Until that fateful day, 2 weeks ago, when a combination of momentary inattention and unmaintained sidewalk conspired to bring me down, quite literally, to the ground.

Since then, virtually all I’ve done is sit in my room with my arm propped up, and work.

Every few hours, I’d shuttle between the kitchen an my main room for food (I figure I don’t have to mention the bathroom breaks... do I?).

On those occasions that food ran scarce, I’d brave the stairs and the treacherous sidewalks to the store, and then come right back home.

Of course, it is the sidewalk’s fault that I am injured; blaming myself is just too scary!

You know what else is scary? Looking down a flight of stairs when you have vertigo.

In fact, were I to assign blame on myself for my fall, it would be for this current bout of vertigo that somehow just won’t leave me.

These days, I go down the stairs backwards. My left arm being incapacitated and the bannister being on that side, being beset by vertigo, I have no choice but to scrabble down in the only way I am guaranteed to have a handhold, right?

I’m just glad none of my neighbors have seen me crab down the stairs...

The long and the short of it is that, soon enough, it hit me that I was doing nothing but sit at the computer and work, spending all of my time indoors.

To my horror I realized I had become the dull girl; she of the “All work and no play” variety. And with a whole, brand new city out there to explore!

That simply will not do.

I had finally gotten caught up on my Superprof articles and, while it’s true that my new assignment came in at the start of the month, I reason that I am entitled to a day off, even if the prospect of falling down the stairs or on the sidewalk totally freaks me out.

I’m going to have to do something about that...

But not today!

Today, I am riding trams – that way I don’t have to worry about tripping and falling. And then, I will treat myself to a meal out, take care of some business, do a little shopping and then, head home.

C’mon! Let’s go ’sploring!

Szczecin, or Stettin in its former incarnation is the capital and biggest city of the West Pomeranian Vovoidship – a fancy name for ‘county’.   

Its recorded history goes back to the 8^th Century, when Duke Barnim the Great was awarded the land and built himself a castle. From that time on, this poor city changed hands so many times – because of invasions and land grabs, because of treaties and negotiations...

The first aspect of this city that any eager traveler would notice is the stunning architecture and convoluted street layout.

Indeed, city green spaces and roundabouts abound, as do narrow, cobbled alleys, shooting off at different angles from main roads. Soaring façades with sculpted window frames peer down on it all.  

If the city is reminiscent of more famous European villes such as Paris, there is a good reason: the same person designed both cities!

George-Eugene Haussmann, a lawyer and politician by trade, was appointed – initially only to connect the Louvre to the Hotel de Ville, by Napoleon III. So impressed with Sir Haussmann’s work was he that he then tasked this visionary, who was neither architect nor civil engineer, to ‘redo’ the entire city.

Mr Haussmann later fell upon heavy criticism for the expense and lavishness of his work.

All was well as long as the Emperor was giving orders but when Napoleon decided his legislative body should have a measure of power, there was no quieting the clamour over the money spent rebuilding the city.

The visionary was disgraced and forced to resign. He then came to Szczecin and, in about a year, wielded such influence that the city became the new drawing board for his urban vision.

And what an appealing vision it is!

Incidentally, his work was not confined to Europe. His efforts also inspired the City Beautiful movement in the States.

Riding trams around and through the city is the perfect way to take all of this in. Slow and clattery, some of these conveyances are more than 40 years old, yet they rumble sturdily on.

Szczecin has 12 tram lines, some of which run parallel routes, at least for a time. Most terminate in remote city regions; I found the newest hospital at the far end of Line 3, in a district called Las Aronskis.

I also found the train station!

In most Chinese and European cities I’ve visited and even in the States, train stations are an integral part of city center. Which is odd because there isn’t much passenger train traffic in the States!

Here, the train station is off to one side, fronting the river.     

I’d been hearing trains rumble by and my pok is close to a railway bridge but, for the life of me, I could not find that station... until today!

Suddenly, I saw all of my travel dreams come true: boarding a train for who knows where – Gdansk, Poznan, Wroclaw and other exotic-sounding destinations.

My pack on my back, my boots on my feet... my vertigo (hopefully) vanquished.  

This dull girl has instantly polished up, the bright future of discovery wiping away layers of despondent grime.

Now I just need to figure out how to buy a train ticket.

Order Up!

Today, you will be treated to a joyous tale of success in a quest for food.

No, please don’t shake your head in bewilderment and check past articles for a firm assertion that I have proven I can shop here; this is a completely separate quest. A more... urgent one.

Well, you can read past articles if you’d like...

Oh, and also: I will make use of a narrative device* that will permit me to express the depth of my feeling at every point in this event without pouring more profanity into cyberspace – where there is plenty of it without adding my two pounds worth.

Don’t worry about which device; you’ll recognise it when you see it.

Any more questions? Off we go, then...

It was a gorgeous fall day. A crisp wind teased the golden leaves, lively in their last throes, as they skipped across the pavement.

The sky was such an intense blue you wanted to reach your hand up just to touch its perfection...

Living on the 5^th floor as I do, I was quite nearly able to!

I’d been hard at work on my assignment, pounding out two articles per day for the last couple of days and was quite in the mood to join the leaves; to go out and dance in the sunshine.

So that’s what I did.

It only took a few moments to save my work and shut down the computer, and then change into something suitable for the pursuit. Soon, the wind was tossing my curls about as playfully as the leaves.

Yeah, there really was a bit of wind, so I decided to ride a tram around. The 10 came along and I paid my fare, settling into my seat to watch leaves dance around without me.

Wouldn’t you know it? Instead of running its usual route, that tram was heading to the depot for service!

Maintenance depots are generally not high on anyone’s list of things to see when exploring a new town but I still considered it a score, especially because I had to take a different tram line back into town. 

And so the afternoon went, all in fun but with an eye on the clock – there was a chat in the offing and I wasn’t going to miss it!

Close to chat time I rode home but, realising I still had at least an hour and a half... hey! Wonder what’s down here!

I’d not yet fully explored all of the streets in my neighborhood, you see, so, as I went in this new direction, I was quite pleased to find a Netto grocery store and wondered if they were open on Sundays...

Between wonderment, curiosity and the half-dead leaves carpeting the sidewalk, I just didn’t see that chunk missing out of that giant pave stone. My ankle twisted and down I went. 

Monkey throwing feces!

Not gracefully or gently, but with a giant wrenching of my left elbow – that’s the arm that first tried to break my fall and, when it gave out, my right hand, followed a second later by my right knee.

MONKEY THROWING FECES! MONKEY THROWING FECES!!!AN ENTIRE TROOP OF MONKEYS THROWING FECES!!!

I assure you that what came out of my mouth was not that mild.

Fortunately, I was saved from further polluting the environment with my foul words by a kind passerby who asked me why I was sitting on the ground, with my glasses over here and my bag over there.

I know that’s what she asked because, when I told her I spoke no Polish, she repeated herself in English. She also asked what happened and if she should call an ambulance for me.

Therein lies the true feces-throwing beast: as yet, I’d not purchased health insurance. In fact, that was to be my mission this week, but fat chance if I was going to wander into town in my current condition!

And no way was I going to incur a massive emergency room bill on my 3^rd week here!

Not that I’m being foolhardy.

In fact, let me say right now that if you are in need of medical attention, don’t wait to seek it out.

It just so happens I have a bit of experience with my left elbow taking a whacking from when I bashed my head open in China. I know what a bone bruise feels like, as opposed to a bone break. This was definitely bruised.

Any desire to further explore the neighborhood vanished. Once I felt steady enough I walked home, cradling my elbow and mewling pitifully.

And mentally reviewing what I had in my first aid kit.

I wasn’t even thinking about climbing 5 flights of stairs and somehow made it all the way up with no trouble.

An air cast, bought for my broken leg, but with a slight modification, could work to splint my arm. An elbow brace... forget it! Arm is far too swollen now.

Tylenol. Lots of it. Yes, good take some right now

Wet a pair of socks and throw them in the freezer: poor man’s ice wrap.

INTERIM

We had a lovely chat! It has been raining a lot in Texas...

BACK TO STORY

With both of my arms in muted agony thanks to the tylenol, I had to think about what food stores I had. I couldn’t keep popping pain killers on an empty stomach.

That is when I discovered my right hand had possibly suffered more damage than my left elbow.

I have pretty bad arthritis in my right hand and only keep it at bay by minimizing intake of caffeine and wheat – my two triggers. That doesn’t mean the hand isn’t a bit painful and deformed... and landing on it rendered it completely useless.

Monkey throwing feces!

Besides the fact that I make my living through finger dexterity – in reckoning my situation, I figured I could type reasonably fast with just one hand, but how was I going to prepare food? Change clothes? Do anything with two useless hands???

Oh, so many feces-throwing monkeys!

Fortunately, I also had a bottle of Nyquil in my meds stash. A few ham and cheese roll-ups, a slug of Nyquil, and... sit up all night because I hurt too bad to lay down.

The drowsing felt great but my hands were still useless the next morning; you should have seen me try to fix breakfast!

And I couldn’t keep eating just cold cuts and cheese...

Suddenly, inspiration hit!

When cleaning up after the previous tenants, I thought to save a few of their left-behind take out menus, should I ever wanna not have to brave the stairs.

Of course, there is the off-chance that I misinterpreted those menus – there might not be any food delivery or, if there was, the restaurant workers in question might not understand anything but their native language!

And so, it came to be, on that fateful day of no hands, that I pecked at my phone’s translator for the Polish word for ‘delivery’ and found it on that menu, next to the phone number one should call in such times that pizza delivery is needed.

Thus emboldened, I pecked 8 digits in, awash with relief and gratitude for that unknown man’s language skills, and placed my order. He further reassured me by promising my pizza and beverage would be here in 30 minutes.

That was only the second time in 8 years that I have ordered a pizza, and the other time, the ordering was done online.

I guess you could say i’m getting all kinds of living experiences, here!

When the door bell chimed, I inched my way out of my seat – getting out of low-slung furniture with no hands is no fun unless you’re much smaller than I am, and I buzzed him in, and then waited for the ponderous footfalls that would signify the imminent arrival of pizza.

It was the most mediocre pizza I have ever had: no sauce to speak of, hardly any cheese and only a handful of pineapple and ham.

Still, it was hot, it was food...it was delivered!

And I can always embellish the rest of it with extra ham and cheese.

Now for the good news: my right hand is nearly back to normal, I am working my left arm gently – it is going to take that one a bit longer to heal.

But the best part is that, this event having spurred me into looking more closely at my health insurance options, I discovered I can register as self-employed with the National Health Service instead of paying higher ‘foreigner’ premiums through a commercial enterprise!

There is always a silver lining...

* Please know I bear simians no ill will, nor do I have any intention to shame or demean them in invoking them in this manner.

That expression was born from a childhood trip to the zoo where I distinctly recall seeing monkeys engaged in that very act.

I feel the visual serves very well to depict the chaos and panic and anger that was trying to wrest control of my mind at the time of the event.

 

Uwaga!

That word, pronounced oo-wah-gah, means caution, danger, attention or, in its milder form: note or notice.

I suppose that, if it is followed by an exclamation point, it signifies a more urgent situation. If it simply heads a bulletin – with no punctuation attached, it represents a general announcement. I just don’t know enough about uwaga yet to make that determination.

Uwaga is my favorite Polish word so far.

It soon replaced skręć, pronounced somewhat like the English ‘scratch’ but with a protracted e sound in the middle. Sort of a combination between ‘scratch’ and ‘stretch’; something like scretch. It means to turn.

My rapture with that word started just minutes after stepping onto Polish soil.

I had hired a car to take me into town as the airport is around 50km outside of city limits. Even though taxis lurking outside of transit hubs is a common sight in other places I’ve been, I had no idea whether that would be the case in Szczecin.

I also had no idea that, just outside the airport was a tram line that would have taken me into city center for far less than I paid that car service. But then, if I had ridden it, I would not have heard the driver’s GPS constantly chirp instructions, among them to scretch.

Undecided whether that word meant ‘turn’ or ‘left’ - we made a lot of left turns, I had to look it up.

Other than investigating individual tonal samples such as those mentioned above, as yet, I’ve not made any real effort to learn any Polish. I can say hello – both formally and informally, and thank you.

Outside of that, I can declare that I am a woman (a throwback to my China days, where people always asked me if I was a man), and I can say ‘they are eating apples’ - one of the few phrases I picked up from Duolingo.

In short, I would not be a brilliant conversationalist in Polish just now. But I live here and, soon, will have to present myself in front of the magistrate to plead for the right to stay here.

Don’t you think I should get on with the language studies?

There are several reasons I am not yet eyeballs deep into learning Polish. Probably the main one is that I am still getting set up/established.

As mentioned in the last article, I had to open a bank account. In doing that today, I found that I must log on to online banking AND the banking app (on the phone) at least once a month for my account to remain current.

That’s where the trouble came in.

Before I left China, Gary gifted me a brand new, top of the line android phone so that, no matter what, we would stay in touch (we have; it’s great!).  The only problem is that that phone, manufactured for the Chinese market, does not permit anything Google: no maps, no apps, no play store.

Downloading the bank’s app must be done through Google’s play store.

I will now step on a soapbox and go on a tiny little rant; a full aside of the topic at hand.

It seems that Google has formed an illegal monopoly in that anyone who wants any type of app for their android phone must download it from Google’s play store.

One cannot simply access the play store from any device they own even if they have a Google account; it must be a Google-registered device, with all of the Google apps already installed on it.

Considering all of the recent news about Google’s privacy invasions, I’m sure you can understand why I don’t necessarily want a Google device tracking my every move, logging my keystrokes and perhaps even listening in while I sing in the shower.

Taking the broader view, I have to wonder why Google has not been brought up on antitrust charges in its home country. (Europe recently fined them a whopping antitrust fee which Google is currently appealing). Their exclusivity in the app market – forcing people to buy/sell Android apps exclusively through their platform is the very definition of illegal monopoly under the Sherman Antitrust Act of 1890.

Out of necessity, I bought a Google preloaded phone. It’s worse than I thought.

If I want to use the camera, the calendar, the clock... I must give it permission to access my contacts list, make phone calls, etc.

Why does a phone camera need access to my contacts and the ability to make phone calls???

Of course, the phone gives me the option of not granting access, but then I do not get to use the app in question. You might say that the opting out process is a bully’s way of telling you exactly the power they wield over you: you either give them what they want or they withhold use of the convenience you bought and paid for.

That was it; my tiny rant. Now I have to cave.

Caving? How odd I speak of that subject; I am reading a book about a woman suffering locked-in syndrome due to a caving accident...

I had to cave because I need that bank’s phone app in order to maintain my account, and I have to have that account in order to pay my rent by bank transfer.

Now with the bank account established (the bank officer spoke some German; the rest was negotiated via online translator) I decided to walk home because it was a beautiful day.

 While walking, I again entertained the idea of creating a Facebook account so I can keep up with my family, so scattered and not all of them necessarily email-prone.

In fact, most of them consider email on par with snail mail: who emails anymore, anyway? When it’s so quick and easy to Facebook message?

Leery of the danger inherent in a Facebook account but so desiring to chat with my Kat-kat (she has messenger kids), let alone the fact that I’m not making any strides in learning Polish – who am I going to talk to once the flurry of settling in is done?

And as long as I HAVE to have a Google-loaded phone anyway...

Oh, brother! There’s some serious uwaga going on here!

Back to learning Polish, now.

Two, more pertinent, reasons I am not picking up language skills just yet:

1. I am seriously behind on my Superprof assignment and am doing all that I can to meet my deadline

2. I have no Internet connection (another reason that I am seriously behind on my assignment, even though I am using my phone as a WIFI hotspot to do my research and uploading, in spite of an wiffi connection). The tech is due tomorrow to install everything.

In spite of all of these blocks, curiously enough, I understand a few words in Polish; they seem to have roots in Latin or German. Such as ‘offering’, which becomes offerta. Pharmacy is apteka (similar to German’s apotheke).

Quite a few words are ripped from English, especially those related to technology.

And a substantial portion are words I know from other languages, with a -ski slapped on the end of it: the best example that comes to mind just now is Edam, the cheese – Edamski, in Polish.

By the way, the word for cheese in general is ‘ser’. When I bought my first package of Edamski, ser w plastrach was printed on the package, under the name of the cheese. The handy translator revealed that phrase to mean ‘cheese in slices’ - a totally redundant label, as I could very well see that the cheese was sliced!

A few other words that have already stuck in my brain have their roots in Slavic: chleb – bread, kawa – coffee, ulica – street, Płac – plaza... and, of course, pok, or room, that I gleefully wrote about in another article.

Looking back on all of this, it seems I have picked up on more than just a few words!

But... could anyone have a decent conversation in the ulica about a kawa they drank at the Płac and the ser w plastrach they bought to eat with their chleb when they get back to their pok?

Uwaga! 

  

I Have a Pok!

Yes, this is a gleeful proclamation, meaning that, after over a year of being effectively homeless – staying at others’ homes, I finally have an address all my own.

Not that I’m not grateful that I had clean, relatively safe places to stay during my stateside sojourn – of course I am!; in no way am I claiming that I lived rough this past year, as some are forced to do.

However, there is something about having a key to one’s own domicile that is just so validating...

I have a pok., short for pokojach, which is Polish for room.

I am aware that I could have simply written I have a room but there is already an entry with that title, and its tone is a bit sad and forlorn.

This one is meant to be gleeful! 

Besides, there is also an entry titled I Have a Box, so I guess you could say I am keeping a theme about what I have – which is ironic because of my minimalist bent.

My pok is actually a 2 bedroom, one bathroom apartment on the 4^th (top) floor of a 1920’s building. There is no elevator.

The main room will function as my main room – because the apartment owner has reserved the usage of the second room for herself, for storage. I will be the sole inhabitant of these quarters; the kitchen and bathroom are for my exclusive usage – no sharing!

My room has 2 futons in it; I envision one functioning as a bed and the other as my couch. There is a coffee table and two mismatched miscellaneous tables, a wardrobe and an area rug. The room is bookended by a wall of windows on one side and a wall unit – entertainment center cum china cabinet on the other.

The kitchen is small but functional: a gas range, a small table and plenty of cabinet space. Within one of those cabinets, we discovered a juicer that has to be nearly as old as I am!

There is cutlery and dishware as well as cookware at my disposal, all included in the rent.

The rent is 600 zloty a month: about $160. Please tell me where, in the states, you could find a fully furnished apartment for that amount of money?

But then, there is the landlord’s administrative fee, to be paid in conjunction with the rent: that is 700 PLN – more than the rent itself!

I have no idea why there is a monthly administrative fee or why, in the case of this pok, it is higher than the rent. Other apartments we’ve looked at only charge 100- or 150 zloty administrative fee.

That makes my rent just under $350 per month, and I will also have to pay for gas (for cooking) and electricity. Water is included in the rent (maybe that’s where the administrative fee comes from!)

Heat is provided by the city – a welcome change from China, where there was virtually no heat at all.

I will admit I wasn’t thrilled with this pok, at first. I was ecstatic about having a place all my own, though.

I am not happy about the four flights of stairs between my pok and the sidewalk; that is going to make carrying my two suitcases up there a test of endurance.

Who needs a gym? I’ve got a stairmaster built right into my lease!

All of the little things one might buy to make a pok theirs for the duration: bed linens, shades for the window... perhaps even a microwave: all of that will have to be purchased piecemeal, unless I want to make several trips up and down.

Also, I would rather have had a bed than a futon, but I can always buy a mattress topper (and carry it up the stairs!) to make it more like a real bed. 

And, if I turn one futon this way and scoot the other one further down the wall...

Yeah, I’m starting to see myself live there.

What I’m not seeing is any sense of urgency on my part.

When I moved to China, it was all I could to do temper my impatience to learn everything I could about Wuhan, about the bus system, about the culture and how society works.

And the agonizingly slow process of learning to speak Chinese! Which, in retrospect, really did not take that long... 

In the week I’ve been here, I have met more English and German speakers than I would have originally thought: both of my lovely realtors, Luisa and Evelina, a supermarket checkout clerk named Ursula – her husband is English and has declared himself incapable of learning Polish, so she has no choice but to speak his language if she wants to communicate with him!

And, in an amazing stroke of luck, my marvelous landlady, Wanda, speaks German.

Of course, I expected to meet German speakers; Szczecin is so close to the German border and, at one time, was actually German. That is one reason I chose to settle in this town – not because it was German but because of people who potentially speak German.

One aspect of being here that I had a genuine sense of urgency about was my morning coffee.

Like everyone else, I like my coffee a certain way and, while I can live with it being differently flavored, I prefer MY coffee: mildly sweet and creamy.

The only trouble is that, with my stomach woes, the creamy part must be generated by powdered creamers; very little that is dairy sits well in my abdomen.

Compounding the problem of the pursuit for a perfect coffee was the fact that, apparently, the Poles like their coffee black.

And so, the hunt was on.

I know from living in China that Nescafe makes a delicious pre-blended coffee and I was lucky to find some here. No economy-sized bags, though; that will make drinking my coffee very expensive, in the long run.   

Some instant coffees are branded ‘creamy’ and appeared to be blended with cream but, after trying it, I found that it was merely a smoother blend of black coffee; not a blend of coffee and cream.

By now, I am doing the grand tour of grocery stores in search of coffee creamer.

Germans generally like their coffee with condensed milk and I was lucky to find some at the second store I visited. Unfortunately, it only took a couple of cups to determine that it doesn’t sit well in my stomach.

I even made my way to Metro, that fabled store of foreigner foods that I routinely shopped at in China. In Poland, it is called Makro.

A store by any other name... still doesn’t have powdered creamer or preblended coffee.

In despair, I thought of ordering creamer online. Indeed, one Amazon shipper would send CoffeeMate to Poland, but it would be so expensive!

Mind you, I only drink 2 cups of coffee per day, so I want them to be good and satisfying, and preferably not expensive.

I had just about resigned myself to drinking coffee with sweetened condensed milk – not a bad solution, but then, I moved into my pok.

The previous tenants had left a bunch of food behind: preserves, spices, rice... COFFEE CREAMER!

Indeed, I had seen the royal blue bags with gold lettering on grocery store shelves but did not want to spend money on something that might just end up being more black coffee. So, when I had a chance to open the left-behind bag of creamer, imagine my delight at finding it was exactly what I was looking for! 

Once everybody left – the realtors and the landlady, I made my way to Auchan, a German superstore not far from the house.

On the shopping list:

·         bedsheets

·         pillow with pillowcase

·         electric kettle (none of the ones in the apartment work)

·         fresh rolls for breakfast

◦  and a pastry, an essential part of the Polish diet!

·         coffee creamer

Of course, upon returning home, it being late in the day, I couldn’t treat myself to a cup of coffee and still hope to sleep but, this morning, the coffee was bliss!

Now that the coffee question is settled, I have a new urgency: to open a bank account. Rent is payable by bank transfer... and so is Internet service.

I’d better get on it...

The Day of Walking

Monday morning: time to hit the ground running. I was to meet Luisa and Evelina, the adorable but tough as nails real estate duo at 10AM to tour apartments and, hopefully, lease one.

At 3:30AM, my eyes popped open, declared I’d had enough sleep and started the day, whether I wanted to or not.

Although the bounty of time was great for writing my Superprof articles, the fact that the WIFI died on Sunday afternoon put the kibosh on any research and writing... ALMOST put the kibosh on it!

Turning my phone into a WIFI hotspot got the job done, allowing me to get my job done – at least, that installment.

At the appointed time, around 9AM, I laced up my boots, took one more look at the map and took off walking.

I’d been put off by the public transit system because I had read about how to buy a ticket to ride but had no idea how to actually do it and, besides, didn’t have the language skills to.

Thus, I’d been walking everywhere – which is fine; this is a very walkable city.

I came to regret that sentiment, somewhere around 10AM because, by that time, I had already exceeded  my pedometer’s expectation of 5,000 footsteps by over 3,000.

And the apartment we viewed was... at the bottom of the list of desirability.

It was in an old building – here, they’re all old buildings! One fairly large room to myself, with shared kitchen and bathroom.

Although I could see myself living there, after the past year of rooming with people, I was ready for my own place – not that I am in any way ungrateful to everyone who let me stay with them.

The shared spaces is what makes it at the low end of desirability. But, if I have to, that could be my address...

“No, no!” entreats Luisa, “there’s more. Just hang around town, we’ll arrange more viewings and then call you...”

I wasn’t going to say anything about my aching feet; I just agreed to their plan. After all, they are working for me.

And so came the phone call, at noon, to meet at the realty office at 1PM. Fortunately, I was close-by, reasoning that being in that vicinity might be a good move.

Equally fortunately, the next apartment was just across the street – not too far to walk (by now my pedometer was registering over 10,000 steps taken).

I. LOVED. That. Apartment!

Again, a pre-war building: high ceilings, wood floors, large, claw-foot bathtub and dated furniture. It even featured coal ovens, although the building had been modernised to include radiators, making the coal-burning ovens more of a decorative feature.

And, it had a balcony!

I can’t imagine why Luisa was so surprised when I told her I wanted that apartment...

But then, hefty, heated Slavic negotiation ensued.

Apparently, a wealthy gynecologist owns that property and is very picky about who he rents it to. Concerns over how I earn my money and what I will do to the place – nothing! I love it! prevailed and my realtors pitched my desirable qualities as a tenant hard.

All to no avail. It seems the mistrustful owner had rented it on his own, to a friend, the day before, and failed to tell the realty he listed it with. I didn’t find that out until the next day, though...

After suffering that most crushing disappointment, we were off to see another apartment, located close to the first one we saw that day.

“Arrgh! Don’t make us walk that far again!” my feet screamed.

Imagine their relief when Evelina said we’d take the tram – my first time riding public transportation in this city!

Really, the only thing that kept me off the trams was the fact that I didn’t know how to pay for them.

Walking past various stops, I did not see any automated ticket dispensers, as in the states or in Germany. Nor did I have the language skills to purchase a prepaid card, as they use in China, from a vendor.

Now riding the tram for the first time, courtesy of Evelina, I find that there are ticket dispensers onboard, and you can use your credit card to purchase them: for a 15 minute ride, a 30-minute one; you can buy a 5-day pass, if you so desire!

Without any braggadocio at all, I do admit I am a quick study. After watching another passenger make his purchase with his card, I figured it cannot be terribly hard for me to do the same in the very near future.

Returning from that afternoon’s disappointing apartment viewing – the rooms were small and common areas were filthy!, after parting company with my lovely, hardworking realtors, I tackled riding the tram myself.  

But not before enjoying a delicious kebab in a nearby restaurant. The opportunity to sit down was perhaps even more delicious!

Along, the yellow, two-car conveyance rolled, rumbling to a stop. Weary to the bone, I shuffled onboard, with the other passengers, and waited my turn to buy my fare from the onboard kiosk.

And, just like that, I was riding public transportation.

Too bad I didn’t know enough about it to ride it all the way to my current digs. Instead, I got off at Plac Rodła and walked past several bus stops and tram stops on the way home.

As it turns out, the very tram I had ridden, on my own, to that familiar Plac (plaza) also stops near my hotel. I could have ridden Tram Line 11 all the way home!

To heck with dinner! To heck with checking email! To heck with that lovely fruit pastry, bought from a street vendor, that I meant to enjoy with coffee once I got home!

I peeled off my boots, stripped into house clothes and passed out on the couch, sleeping the clock ‘round.  

The next day, I had to pay for my hotel room extension: Luisa had called to give me the bad news about that most desirable apartment, which prompted me to call the hotel reservation desk to extend my stay here.

I was in no mood or shape to lug my possessions to another hotel, so I was quite grateful to be granted a 3-day extension in this room.

The only catch was that I had to go to their office to pay.

Thanks to technology – Google maps, I found it was not very far at all and also discovered that the German grocery store, Lidl, was on the way!

I’d been looking for Lidl... the sister-store to the more familiar Aldi...

But I wasn’t going to walk there; no siree Bob!

I joined the huddled masses at the bus stop just outside my hotel (we were huddling because a wicked wind was blowing), boarded in concert with them and discovered that the ticket issuing machine will let you choose between 4 languages!

The better to make your ticket selection with...

On the tram, yesterday, I don’t recall if that ticket vending machine was scripted in any language other than Polish. Still, it wasn’t hard to figure out what the machine was saying even though I do not know any Polish, but I was grateful for the opportunity to select a language I do know when buying this new ticket.

I was able to buy a 5 day pass!

You know what that means... right?

I’m gonna ride the buses! I’m gonna ride the buses!

I’m gone to ride the buses. 

Incidentally, that infamous day of walking yielded nearly 20,000 steps taken, for a total of over 13 kilometers walked. I felt every single one of them.

Why Szczecin?

I have neither family nor friends here. I don’t speak the language and know virtually nothing of the culture or how this society functions.

Of all the places in the world that I could hang my hat, why did I choose this specific locale?

Have you ever heard of Szczecin – Stettin, in its German incarnation? Until I was looking for places I could live, neither had I.

Wasn’t I formerly so enraptured with life in China and Chinese culture? Indeed I was and, for the longest time, life was pretty sweet there, for me and other expats. And then, the rules regarding foreigners changed as the country’s government got more protectionist.

Soon, the restrictions became overbearing, forcing my departure.

I am still enraptured with China and Chinese culture, by the way. Only now, I get to admire it from afar and through occasional contact with friends and former students.

From what I’ve seen of this town so far, I couldn’t have gotten further away from chopsticks and festivals.

Why here, then? Why not Thailand or Vietnam, where the culture is similar to China’s?

You might understand if I gave you some context.

I grew up in Berlin, Germany, at the tag end of the cold war: The Wall was still up.

I remember gazing across no-man’s land from any of the viewing platforms in West Berlin, vowing one day to get past those barriers – and now, I have.

Not through any special effort of my own, mind you. It’s not like I am some kind of hero, risking my life and freedom to smuggle people away from an oppressive regime, as others have done in the past.

By comparison, my transition to this formerly east-bloc country was a breeze!

I chose Szczecin for several reasons: for my childhood defiance in the face of oppression, for the fact that this city is so close to Berlin that visiting there would be a day trip, and because the cost of living is so very low.

Also because of it being a former German territory and being so close to the German border, there is a good chance that I might get by speaking that language, at least until I learn more Polish.

I’ve said before how self-defeating my walking away from my postal job was, but there is no time for looking back: moving forward is the only way.

As such, I had to find a place I could afford to live in, especially seeing as I now know that I am completely on my own – no family support in sunset years for me!

Not only is the cost of living here exceedingly low, the exchange rate is especially favorable. As I earn about 1,000 Euro per month from my Superprof writing gig, that translates to a little over 4,000 zloty, the Polish currency.

That is about 1,000 zloty more than the average citizen here earns in a month, which decidedly puts me in the ‘well off’ category.

Also, consider how low the rent is on an apartment. Even in city center, I can rent a room for about 800 zloty; utilities included (that’s a little over $200). Not only can I put quite a bit away for my sunset years, I can also afford to travel!

Which brings me to the second reason I selected Szczecin: it acts as a gateway to eastern Europe, and everything is connected by train.

Once I obtain my ‘green card’, I will be free to travel anywhere within the Schengen zone: all 26 member states of Europe and the 4 countries that have European agreement. 

Hungary! Latvia! Estonia! Belarus! All open to me!

I will have to get a visa to fulfill my dream of touring The Hermitage in St. Petersburg, though. And also to ride the Trans-Siberian Express from one end to the other. Russia doesn’t allow people to randomly travel around their land.

In the meantime, I have the thrill and excitement of discovering and learning: a new city, a new language, a new culture; a new way of life.

Even though I don’t have a sponsor, like I did in China, I have fewer qualms about being here alone.

In fact, it might have been my reliance on Sam that permitted my laziness in learning and discovering China... there’s food for thought!

For one, I look like everybody else: I am not a giant or a foreigner – by appearance, anyway. Even my body type is common here; I no longer feel like an oversized freak.

Nor do I feel judged and condemned, as I did so often in America. Does that sound paranoid?

·         Taking a smoke break while out, in Oregon, a total stranger shouted at me from across the street that I’m not allowed to smoke... in that parking lot.

·         Walking my son’s dog, whose nervous bowels threatened to let loose, someone shouted at me to clean up after Zeva from a moving car – he couldn’t know that I was going to get a poo-bag!

·         Arriving in Ft. Worth, waiting at the transit station for my sister to pick me up: security informed me I may only stay inside the terminal for 10 minutes – maybe they thought I was a vagrant?

·         Waiting for a city bus on a hot, Texas day. Unwilling to stand in the sun, I stood in the shade, apart from the actual stop, in front of an office building for only a few minutes before a security guard informed me I could not stand there – on a public sidewalk!

·         Waiting for my daughter in a North Carolina shopping center parking lot, I quickly closed the car door because someone was whipping into the parking spot next to us. He got out of his car and demanded to know why I closed my car door, and then hit me!  

All across the country, while perpetrating completely innocuous acts, I have been shouted at, vilified and assaulted. If I do sound paranoid, I come by it honestly, don’t you think?

Fortunately, I don’t think such things are going to happen here. I know this much about the culture: one is not expected to smile, nod or say hello to complete strangers. That fact is borne out by no one smiling at me in the grocery store, in the elevator, or anyone walking down the street. No one has even made eye contact, and that includes the store cashiers! 

To be sure, I am acknowledged; people don’t bump into me and they give me room in the elevator. In fact, just today a young man boarding that conveyance at the same time as me actually deferred to me, allowing me to enter first... all while staring at his phone!

Perhaps later I might find that distance offensive and/or annoying but, for now, it suits me just fine.

Distance. Loneliness...

For all that I was made to feel unequal by all of that shouting and rudeness that I endured stateside, if I wanted to, I knew I could strike up a conversation with anyone: in a diner, at a shop... Maybe they’d think I was weird, but, at least, social contact was possible in the states.

Here, everyone I’ve dealt with so far has been friendly, but I’m not kidding myself: after Evelina gets her commission for negotiating my apartment rental, I’m fairly sure we’ll be done being friends.

Ditto with Alina, the very nice person who arranged my phone service.

Once the immediate flurry of interaction to get set up is finished, will I have any social contact at all?

And, if not, will it quite nearly drive me crazy, as it did in China?

I think not.

For one, I am better prepared for this adventure: in better health, and more aware of the dangers of aloneness.

For two, I will not be as isolated as I was in China: alone in the enclave of the deserted campus (over winter break), with it being such a stuggle to get anywhere, and everywhere being so alien – territory I wanted to explore but, because of feeling so sick, could not bring myself to do.

For three, I have a fantastic support network.

My conspirators, who saw me through all of the travails of living in China are still with me on this new adventure. Yes, they are still responsible for publishing every article – be sure to thank them!

Gary, my dear friend, always available via WeChat; Olaf, now but a train ride away, in Germany.

My family: when the chips are down, they would be here for me, I’m sure.

I am also quite optimistic – both of what this adventure could bring, and of the human ties that bind me.

And you: together, we shall explore Szczecin and make it our home, OK?  

 

New Land, New Life

As promised, there was (is!) more travelling on the horizon, and said horizon has been met!

Greetings from Szczecin, Poland, where I have chosen to hang my hat.

And I do, in fact, have a hat to hang; not just clothes.

Speaking of clothes...

I own 2 very nice, very large duffle bags in which to carry my earthly belongings. The black one, I ordered from an online merchant, albeit warily, because customer reviews stated that the construction of said bag was rather flimsy.

Many reported the bag actually tearing on the side with the wheels; the panel that acts as a base when the bag is stood upright.

I invested in a roll of Gorilla Tape to reinforce the bottom. After boarding no fewer than 4 planes, three buses and one train, that tape-covered bag base shows wear, but only a little.

The better reinforced bag that I bought in a store did not fare so well.

The stitching is still fine and the base side is mildly scuffed but... imagine my surprise when I opened the bottom compartment and found my clothes wet and moldy smelling!

Either being parked on the floor of a leaky roof’s house during Hurricane Florence or, somehow, in my travels, without the bag coming open at all, that compartment apparently flooded and it was up to my clothing to absorb it all.

And, arriving here on Thursday night, I saw no need to unpack everything because I would only be in this admittedly cute studio apartment for five days.

It was only in scrounging on Saturday night for something to wear when meeting the realtor on Monday morning that I felt compelled to inventory my wardrobe, thus discovering the horrible smell that permeated a quarter of my wardrobe!

All of that hand-washing to remove said smell did not do my arthritis any good, let me tell you!

I got way ahead of myself, there. Let’s backtrack a bit so you can hear all about the journey.

The train ride, from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania to Penn station in New York went off without a hitch. Actually, there were several hitches, it being a rather long train, but there weren't any problem. Does that make things clearer?

That was a good thing because the panic and feeling of being overwhelmed the morning of my travels forbade any breakfast or peaceful thought.

Getting from Penn Station to JFK airport was only mildly stress inducing.

I had decided to cab it because I did not envision myself wrestling two large duffle bags, a backpack and a small lunchbox onto New York City’s public transportation in the rain.

That would have entailed a subway ride and two different buses: could there not have been an easier way to transit to the airport besides a cab? Nope!

That ride was a one step up from highway robbery.

True enough, the car’s decal advertised a flat fare to JFK, but I still questioned why the driver did not engage the meter.

“It maybe cost more use meter” he said.

I have a bit of experience with drivers who do not engage the meter. In China, before all cabs were outfitted with video and RF units, it was common practice for drivers to cheat passengers in that manner, especially if they were foreigners.

Had he not said ‘maybe’, I would not have wondered. As it was, I wondered but, already tired, felt it wasn’t worth the argument.

I did argue though, when he dropped me off. He complained about the $10 tip – after explicitly and repeatedly saying that tipping is optional! I sure gave him a piece of my mind... 

As that ride took all but $5 of my cash money, it was a good thing indeed that I had that lunchbox and all of the goodies therein. (thanks so much, Marjorie!)

Next came the airline. As I had made it a point of being at the airport extra early, intending to drop my bags off and head to a terminal with free WIFI access so that I could work on my Superprof assignment, I discovered that that counter wouldn’t be staffed until sometime around 9PM.

I arrived there at 5... and spent a significant amount of time wondering why only one terminal was outfitted with free WIFI; not all of them.

Unwilling to lug my bags half the length of the entire airport, I resigned myself to doing what I could: sending last minute messages to loved ones.

Oh, yeah: and calling the bank to let them know I was traveling. wouldn’t do for them to freeze my account on account of there being card activity in London and Poland.

I have to comment on this...

The young lady addressing my banking concerns was quite nice and very thorough; as she went through the steps to ensure I would stay liquid on my travels, she informed me that she wanted to celebrate her 30^th birthday in Dubai next year. That would be her first trip abroad.

“So... London is in... France?” she asked me, certifying my itinerary. No, I’m not kidding!

I hope you will join me in marveling at the fact that the person protecting my bank account is geographically challenged, yet has to power to revoke my access to my money and would have, had I not appealed to her.

Our plane out of JFK was late so I actually had time to chat a bit with those loved ones that were still awake, mainly those in other time zones than Eastern.

Around 2AM, it was time to board. Not surprisingly, totally exhausted, I soon fell asleep on the plane.

But not before fighting for the aisle seat I had paid extra for. This was a budget airline where everything costs, even a small bottle of water. 

Because we were late taking off, I worried that I would not make my connection in Reykyavik.

Fortunately, that plane was late too, so I actually got to set foot on Icelandic soil, if only for a few minutes, in their smoking area.

And then, after another minor skirmish for the aisle seat I had paid for, it was off to London.

I knew I would have a 23-hour layover and I anticipated just overnighting in the airport.

Ironically, even though I planned and prepared for every step of this journey, I didn’t think to check Sleeping in Airports. Had I done so, I would have learned that Stansted airport, in North London, does not permit anyone sleeping on the floor or anywhere else.

I probably wouldn’t have hit the floor, but it was a good thing that there was a hotel within walking distance of the airport. Making use of the free airport WIFI after collecting my luggage, I booked myself into one of the few rooms they had left.

At nearly $200, that was a pricey stay! But so well worth it because I was simply exhausted, and there would be breakfast the next morning. And, I wrote 2 articles in one sitting!

That’s a good thing because I am so far behind on my assignment this month... fortunately, my boss is really understanding. 

Finally, at 3:30PM, it was back on a plane, this time bound for Szczecin.

In flight I reflected on my difference in attitude in moving here, as opposed to moving to China.

Not that I have anything against Europe or Europeans, but China is where I wanted to be. On China-bound flights I could hardly sleep for excitement; on these flights it seemed all I did was sleep.

Nevertheless, arriving here held eager anticipation.

By this time in my world travels I know better than to let preconceived notions cloud my mind; I was quite matter of fact – not gleeful at all – when the customs agent stamped my passport, entitling me to a 3-month sojourn here.

I got a stamp in London, too. These stamps look so nice among my collection!

As I was able to prearrange everything from transport to lodging online, all I had to do was sashay out of the terminal with my bags, ask the waiting driver if I may take a minute to get some money out of the ATM and then sit back while he whisked me to my hotel.

As when I moved to China, everything here is uncertain: I don’t speak the language and I don’t know the culture. Unlike moving to China,  where I had an advocate, Sam, who arranged everything for me; here, I will have to take care of everything myself.

Let’s take a minute to think about this whole situation.

I am now in a foreign land where I know nobody and my chances at communication and human interaction are virtually nil at this point.

Nevertheless, I was able to secure transportation and lodging online and, within my first 24 hours here, managed to buy food at a grocery store, get phone service and engage a realtor to help me find a permanent place to live.

None of this lands me any accolades; technology gets all of the credit.

I feel emboldened because I typed a few phrases in my phone’s translator, screen-shotted them and, when I need to use them, I simply whip out my phone, select the right picture and show it to whoever I am trying to communicate with.

Ok, I’ll take credit for a bit of ingenuity in thinking that plan up.

So far, I’ve been able to buy a bottle of water from a vendor and order food in a restaurant, all without saying a word.

Well, I do say dziecuje – thank you.

People seem really happy to hear that.  

The American Travel Nightmare

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it is exceedingly difficult to travel in America.

Don’t get me wrong: this is a beautiful country, with wide vistas and plenty of one of a kind sights to see and, along the way, there are wonderful people to meet, greet and talk with.

The problem is that you really have to work at traveling, in America.

Unless you are on either coast, there are no trains to speak of. America being a car culture, one might think that that is not so bad; after all, who wants to stop at railroad crossings all the time?

And there is really only one long-distance bus service: Greyhound. I’ve written about them before, generally in flattering tones.

You won’t get that in this essay. More on that later.

The great shame of the American traveling system is that it is only a point-to-point system that permits you to see nothing along the way, unless you drive there.

You can visit any tourist attraction – say, Branson, in Missouri. You can get there by car – from wherever you start out at, or you can fly in and rent a car.

You can also take a bus but, generally speaking, those who ride buses aren’t looking for fun times at the end of their journey.

In fact, the average American does not ride Greyhound. This is a service generally meant for poor travelers, those who wear their desperation as a physical stink or as an umbra of hopelessness, or both.

I don’t consider myself poor or hopeless; merely economical. And longing for travel opportunities available in such countries as China, Japan, and all over Europe: trains galore!

I can wish all I want but the fact remains that, unless I want to fly everywhere I go in the states, I am compelled to take the bus.

Taking the bus from Fort Worth to Jacksonville, N.C., my next port of call (as it were), went fairly well, even though the bus out of Fort Worth was late, risking my Dallas connection.

Fortunately, the early bus out of Ft. Worth was late also, but just in time for me, and that driver kindly allowed me on, putting me in Dallas just in time for the announcement that the bus out of Dallas would also be late.

On my last Greyhound foray I expounded on the fact that this bus system is a marvel of inefficiency; I just didn’t write about it because... how often do you need to hear how bad this service is?

You’ll hear about it this time because this one is a doozy. 

I’d been in North Carolina for a few weeks and, bearing in mind my departure overseas was imminent, scheduled a fare out of Jacksonville for the Thursday the so-called storm of the century was due to hit.

Ever mindful of the ominous radar images, I pondered whether I should rebook my passage. My daughter suggested I plan to leave on Wednesday but I found myself unwilling to leave my family in the lurch – “great hurricane headed your way, see ya!” is not my style.

Greyhound took matters into its own hands by sending me an email saying my trip would be impacted by the storm, and that I should call customer service.

In conversation with them, I was informed that buses had been canceled for the two days leading up to the weather event, and it was uncertain when service would resume afterwards.

I couldn’t have left early if I had wanted to!

I tentatively reset my ticket for the Sunday after the storm, assured that I would still have time to visit with Marjorie in Pennsylvania – the next stop on my itinerary, before heading to New York to catch my flight out.

Going overseas, I understand having to fly. However, if I could, I would book passage on a freighter to get overseas.

Travel plans made, there was nothing left to do but ride out the storm, and it was a doozy.

We hurricane-proofed the house as best we could and then hunkered down.

The power went out at 8PM, Thursday night. All of our batteries were charged and we had already had dinner, so it was all good. I volunteered for first watch – we were going to sleep in shifts, in case things got so bad we had to flee our shelter. That meant that someone had to be awake at all times.

During my shift I wrote an article for my Superprof assignment, finishing it just as my computer’s battery was dying. At 2AM, I woke Jennifer up; it was her turn to watch.

It was a disquieting time, hearing branches hit the roof and the wind howl. Somehow, all but Jenn, we slept.

In the aftermath, it rained for days. Try to stay busy; try to find something to do: rake leaves out of the gutters so that they don’t dam the road up and cause flooding. Pick up and stack large branches out of the yard.

Have a competition: how many roof tiles can we find?

And so, we passed the time until Sunday, when I expected to travel.

With no connection to the outside world, we had no idea that the town was flooded. I had no idea that Greyhound had again canceled the bus, until I called them. They shifted my ticket to a Monday departure, still with no guarantee that there would actually be a bus.

By now, weary of the isolation, the humidity that set in after the massive rains and the demands of a bored 8-year-old, and ever mindful of my imminent departure from the country, I was rabid to leave.

Once again, Greyhound canceled the trip. This time, I asked if they had buses going out of Raleigh; they assured me they did. They would not refund my original ticket so I had to buy another ticket to depart out of the city located 70 miles from where my daughter’s family lives.

I didn’t simply take it upon myself to decide a trip out of Raleigh should happen. It was Jenn, with her unlimited data plan, who scoured the ‘Net to find me a trip.

And it was she who drove me to Raleigh, in defiance of her husband’s superior officer ordering all Marines and family members to stay on base.

We arrived at the bus depot in Raleigh with no problems: no flooding, no sinkholes, no backed up traffic and no devastation along the way.

In retrospect, I daresay that some of those storm damage reports were overdone, and so was the attitude in the aftermath of the storm.

Much to our surprise, the Raleigh station’s doors were sandbagged shut, the lights were off and there was a notice taped to the door: “In light of Florence...”

How could Greyhound sell tickets for buses out of a depot that wasn’t open for business?

I wasn’t the only angry passenger: there were about a dozen people, waving tickets and shouting in their phone.

I lost it. Poor sleep, days of inactivity and frustration, the urgent need to be elsewhere or forfeit my plane ticket out of the country... I broke down.

Jenn took charge, booking me into a hotel overnight and scoring a cheap plane ticket to Harrisburg the next day (she paid for one and I paid for the other; bless her!)

That night’s sleep in the hotel was not much better than in the stuffy, now moldy-smelling house I’d left my family in. Still, I was grateful for the internet connection; rebooking my flight for a week out and arranging for a place to stay once I made it to Poland.

That’s two stressors, knocked out of the way!

Visiting with Marjorie for 5 days, I had opportunity to talk with Greyhound about refunding the price of those two tickets, and here is where any esteem I had for that company evaporated.

First, they wanted me to call back the next day, ostensibly to verify that the bus I was scheduled to ride was, in fact, canceled.

When I refused that illogic – surely they know whether they’ve canceled a bus, don’t they?, the customer service clerk demanded ALL of my credit card information, to include the security code on the back of the card.

I am aware of the purpose of that code: it proves to online entities that I am in possession of that card; I didn’t just lift someone’s information off the face of their credit card for nefarious purposes.

I don’t mind that layer of security when I make online purchases but there is no need for a customer service agent to demand that code in order to process a refund.   

My next attempt to request a refund on both tickets was via email, which Greyhound never responded to.

I printed out the email, but not before I added a judicious summary of my attempts at redress so far. I had intended to mail that letter while still on American soil but did not get the chance.

I wonder if my missive will have more impact, coming from a foreign country? 

I am done riding Greyhound. If I ever return to America to visit, I will have to figure out a way to travel around them.