Travel

The village bar, so called because it’s the bar and in a village, is a smallish one-room affair. There are a handful of tables and folding chairs likely purchased from the equivalent of a Bed Bath & Beyond were such a thing to exist here.
There is one beer on draft. Several beers are available in bottles. The bottles are stored next to the bartender, stacked three cases high. This explains why your beer is warm.
A pint of beer will set you back 65 cents. A bottle runs about 78 cents. Assuming you have a few dollars, you will be able to experience the whole range of warm beers and the cold draft one. If you’re in the mood to dine, potato chips are available. There is an electronic darts game for your pleasure, wedged between the wall and the bar. Make sure no one is sitting at the bar or they will be sitting in between the electronic dart game and your darts.
The front door of the bar was recently bricked over because village people felt it was wrong for a bar’s door to face a church and school. The entrance is now in the back, with the door opening on to anyone who may be playing darts.
The bathroom is remarkably clean, considering it is a bathroom in a village bar and that it is unisex. The bar is not handicap accessible, nor are there any plans to make it such. Smoking is totally allowed, and in fact may be mandatory.
The village is home to several folks, many of whom know each other. They may or may not be congenial depending on several factors, including but not limited to whether you slept with someone’s significant other, or told someone’s significant other that their significant other has been sleeping around. Some of the folks you may encounter include:
-A gentleman your brother-in-law knows who is celebrating his birthday and is so drunk he can barely stand up.
-A gentleman with an eye patch energetically declining the last cigarette. This is apparently due to the widely held belief here that “even a whore” wouldn’t take someone’s last cigarette.
-A gentleman passed out face down on a table. I was told this is called “stamping documents” because the posture resembles a bureaucrat hunched over a desk.
-A gentleman who gained an extra girl because his friend is “stamping documents.”
-Various people staring at you because you’re not from the village.
-A gentleman named the equivalent of Martin, described as the “gasoline guy.” He lives near the village pharmacist and would like to discuss rising oil prices.
-A couple married for eight years with an eight year old daughter.
-A lady who works at the town hall. She is considered a power player because she can get you in to the big New Year’s Eve party.
The village bar is open from whenever until sometime. Air conditioning is manual. The village bar does not accept credit cards, but you can run a tab and pay later. They trust you. Dress code is farm casual. Reservations are not necessary. The village bar is located on the village’s main street, right around the church, school and everything else for that matter.

Virgin is the greatest airline ever in the history of flight to cross the Atlantic. I have flown numerous carriers over the years, most of which suffer suck to the nth degree, despite the $20 billion bailout they insisted the U.S. government make the taxpayers hand them.
Virgin is what the Wright Brothers might have had in mind if they were at all thinking about the commercial potential of aviation. They were probably much more concerned with not dying, but they would undoubtedly give a big thumbs up to Richard Branson and the Virgin experience if they weren’t so dead.
My love for Virgin began at check-in, though they did not have us at ‘hello.’ At ‘hello’ we made the mistake of getting in line behind a dozen or so folks from Nigeria who were trying to bring a flea market on board the plane. This is apparently not allowed, and you are liable to be standing there a long time while the details regarding the embargo on their horrid little country are sorted out. Forty five minutes later, they apparently were.
Immediately in front of us was a man, probably a militia member from Texas, who did not for one second cease talking. He was the potbellied, denim-wearing, bearded, creepy type who probably listens to radio host Art Bell religiously and assumes all airplane vapor trails and helicopters are part of some vast government conspiracy aimed solely at him.
During his time in line he hijacked a poor Englishman who was unable or unwilling to utter a single word, such as stop. The Englishman simply nodded at Mr. Gabbermouth whenever he deemed it appropriate. To make matters more lovely, Gabbermouth came equipped with Demon Breath which required turning away so as to avoid attacks of nausea. As Gabbermouth babbled away it occurred to us that the Englishman was his victim, not friend.
After the disclaimer “I’m not racist but–” you don’t expect to hear anything too enlightening, and Gabbermouth did not disappoint. The poor, silent Englishman was introduced to Gabby’s non-racist theory that Orthodox Jews were annoying because they all “stand up as soon as the plane touches the ground” presumably because they were “all the same” and “weird folks.” Based on his experiences with rapid-standing Jews, Gabbermouth posited that they must all think they’re better than everyone. To sum: Gabby’s “not a racist” though he sounds the same as a 1937 German propaganda film. During the whole presentation the poor, silent Englishman nodded as his mind no doubt drifted off into a paradise where he was free from the confines of his body. Eventually God arrived and saw to it that Gabbermouth was summoned to the counter. Free at last, as the good reverend [not Al Sharpton] once said.
After the Nigerians, Gabbermouth and the Silent Englishman had been handled, it was our turn. I told the ticketing agent smugly that he could upgrade us to First Class if he wanted to. Ha ha. The sarcasm was ignored, our tickets were issued and we were on our way. It was only at the gate that we realized that he had in fact upgraded us to Virgin Upper Class. I love this man dearly for doing this.
This was my first trip on Virgin. In several years of flying Delta, I have never once been upgraded going overseas, much less felt the slightest bit appreciated by them in any way. Virgin instantly made us feel like royalty. Better yet, I watched as Gabbermouth was marched off to the cruel confines of Economy Class where I prayed he’d be seated amongst the Chosen People. There would be no better justice than him being chafed to death by all the kooky sitting and standing he feels they do.
Whereas Air France endeavors to test the limits of your endurance, Virgin seems to understand the things that make an airline not suck. Like having a pleasant attitude. Like a selection of movies that aren’t crap. Decent food. Great service. A lady that goes around giving massages. A bar that you can sit at. These are things that make time pass sweetly, which is what you want when you’re on a long flight. Virgin is the kind of airline you would create if you were told to build an airline that you’d actually like to fly on. Air France is the kind of airline you’d create if you felt like punishing people to get back for the ass-kicking you received at Agincourt.
On the London to Warsaw leg I attempted, twice, to use the same upgrade technique. No takers. That was fair enough. We had already been blessed for the longest leg of the trip. Besides, the only difference between Business and Economy on Lot Polish Airlines is that the stewardesses in Business are a tad prettier. The seats looks like they took a row of three Economy seats and made them into two and a half by moving the inside arm rests a few inches. The end result is a seat in the middle that looks like it could hold a briefcase, or someone the size of Webster‘s Emmanuel Lewis.
Bags in London and Warsaw seemed to take considerable extra time to make it to the claim area. We assumed it was due to heightened security. In reality, it’s probably because we were in England and Poland. “We’re definitely not in Switzerland,” as one traveler put it.
The puddle-jumper to Poznan was even less eventful. Poznan Airport is a relatively new, space-age looking thing that seems to only turn on when you arrive. When we rented a car once, I watched them enter the Hertz booth and open for our sake. Once we had rented the car they exited the booth, shut the lights off and went home. Or perhaps to a Hertz booth in another airport where someone else was going to be renting a car.
The drive to the village took a lot longer than normal on account of a truck accident. Poland’s road system lends itself to accidents of all sorts. This particular one was either a chemical spill or chickens, because the fire department was sweeping a whole lot of something off of the road and on to the shoulder.
No trip would be complete without me developing a throat infection. Fortunately I know the signs and had the foresight to stop at the village doctor, who lives across from the village priest. At 5pm the wait for the village doctor is zero seconds. I was examined and handed a prescription. The cost of the visit was zero dollars because the doctor knew my wife’s father. The cost of the prescriptions came to about $7 for penicillin, multivitamins, vitamin C, and anti-fever medication which had been prescribed “just in case.” This is hardly a suggestion that socialized medicine is a good idea, but one must call a bargain when he sees it.
The road to the farm — for years, a rim-shattering, tire-flattening, hole-riddled obstacle course — has been completely paved. Some sort of civic road-repair program? No. My brother-in-law had simply gotten the village Mayor drunk and made him promise to fix it.
Back on the farm, a hearty dinner of pork cutlet, beets, cabbage and potatoes. At bedtime you’re faced with the one thing a New Yorker finds oddly disturbing: absolute and steady silence.

Banterist will be dispatching from an incredibly inconvenient part of Poland beginning today. Our geographic location will be seven hours from Warsaw, seven hours from Krakow, five hours from Berlin. If you’ve heard of Bydgoszcz, and most likely you haven’t, it’s even two or three hours from that too. Really, I’m standing in the middle of a huge field. I could fire a Scud in any direction and all I’d do is burn some wheat.
Regardless, there are plenty of topics to write about. Like my brother-in-law buying to ostriches. Wouldn’t you be inclined to read something titled My Brother-In-Law Impulse Purchased Two Ostriches? Of course you would. You’d probably want to know why he did that. So do I.
I could write at length about the terrifying wolf/dog that patrols the yard at night. I’m not supposed to exit the house when wolf/dog is patrolling because he may be tempted to attack, maim and/or kill me. Antisocial, life-threatening wolf/dog that holds me prisoner? There’s some material there, I’m sure of it.
So please, stay tuned for exciting dispatches filed at 1200bps from the field. Or a field.

Poland is a country of approximately 38 million people, all of whom will stop and stare at you as you drive by. This is especially true in the smaller villages (i.e. any town that is not Krakow or Warsaw) where they assume they know you and your car, and are puzzled when you and your car do not look like anything or anybody they’ve seen before.
Poland has a rich history. Rich in getting their asses kicked repeatedly by aggressive neighbors. From the Germans to the Russians to the Swedes and more, the Poles enjoy a rich history of ass-kicking. As a result, they greet every stranger with warmth and kindness, in the effort to make them feel bad if and when the visitor kicks their ass. It is with great amazement that I learned the Swedes kicked anyone’s ass, for in all their rich history all I’ve ever known them to do is give the world Abba.
Years of ass-kicking have left the Polish in a much poorer economic state than their European brothers. As a result, the U.S. Dollar is strong and you can enjoy a fine meal or Ukrainian whore for the price of a sock.

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