Not a Fan of Poland

So after a completely restless night, Wesley and I pack up our things and head over to my parents house with high hopes.  When we get there my parents have made breakfast and they have all the credit card information from my uncle.  We jump on the computer and see that the seats are still available, so we hurry up and buy them before anyone can buy them all  (as if that were probable).

Now I have a ticket, but I know that I will have to fly by myself from Krakow to Warsaw and then to Brussels.  Wesley suggests that he might be able to switch his flight to mine, but I'm really not relying on that happening.  With both of us having our tickets and our bags in the car, we say our goodbyes to everyone.  Of course, someone had to start the crying, and that was Therese.  We all start crying and hugging about twenty times each and after waving goodbye to Therese and Anthony, GG, Grandma Brandon and Dan, Tyler and Grandma Carol, we're off.

The car ride to Chicago is about 2 and a half hours, and the entire ride there is filled with us saying "there's some kinda FYER" or shouting "STAY ON YOUR SIDE!" (don't understand the reference?  Check out the video entitled 'my push up bra will help me get my man' on Youtube).  Then Breanna decided we should play a counting game that should not be described on the internet.

At the airport in Chicago it's easy to find the check-in desk for our flight.  We nervously approach a very disinterested-looking young polish man at the desk and hand him our passports.  Wesley quickly starts to explain the situation from the previous night.  The young polish man stops Wesley and swipes my passport to make sure that I have a flight.  "You have a flight," he tells me, but not before we're already telling him the problem with me flying alone.  He looks at the screen and calmly says, " I'll see what I can do," and walks off!

We stand and wait with my sister and my parents while this polish kid is "seeing what he can do".  After about twenty minutes, he approaches us at the desk and tells us that he can't switch Wesley's flight to mine because the airlines are different, but he can switch both of our flights to one that leaves directly from Warsaw to Brussels instead of first going to Krakow.  It's perfect!  We thank him over and over again, but he only shrugs, says "It's really no problem," and then walks off.

After a few more minutes of waiting, our new found Polish friend comes back and tells us that he manged to switch the flights as well as get us seats next to each other.  I seriously want to hug him!  We thank him again and again but, once more, he nonchalantly tells us that it's "really no problem."  He weighs our bags (while ignoring the fact that mine is too heavy, not charging Wesley for his extra bag and also allowing Wesley to have his guitar as hand luggage) and sends us on our way!

We're in awe and I can't count how many times we each say we want to marry him.  An excruciating goodbye to my parents and sister puts Wesley and I in line for security.  I cry for at least half of the 40 minute wait and receive both concerned and exhausted looks from people around us.  It's not too long and we're boarding the plane for Warsaw.

On the flight a group of rowdy bikers from Warsaw seem to know every person working on the plane and laugh louder than the captain speaking on the intercom!  Wesley and I watch some Louis C.K. (a comedian who I highly recommend to everyone) and by 8:00 it's already dark outside!  Since our previous night was a bit stressed and our morning was early, we're tired and decide to try and get some rest.  I fall into a fitful sleep that is disturbed every 20 minutes by the seat in front of me hitting my knees because this grown man can't seem to sit still, while a woman a few rows away is trying to whisper but is definitely not being successful.  My experience with Poland is already what I would call "less than satisfactory."

I see the sun go down and come back up faster than I ever thought I could.  The Warsaw Bikers have gone back to their post with their fellow Bikers in front of us, standing around, laughing and speaking in Polish.  My patience is at an all-time low (and for me, that's dangerously close to crimes being committed).

After 9 hours of no sleep, loud Warsaw Bikers and nearly shattered kneecaps, we land, exhausted, in Poland.  Already irritated and on the verge of just taking someone out completely, I'm not ready for Poland.  While trying to avoid stereotyping, I need to vent that our 6 hour layover was, to say the least, unbearable.  The people there refuse to speak English to me, no matter how many times I speak to them in English.  They just continue on in Polish while I stand in front of them hoping that I'm really getting a coffee (because at this point, I need it desperately).

The hours are not going by fast enough, and my temper is quickly rising.  We watch a movie to try to pass the time, but I feel more and more sleepy by the minute.  I use to bathroom to freshen up, but then I somehow get stuck in a corner like some kind of animal being herded.  I politely and timidly say "excuse me" to the woman who's enormous bag is blocking me from leaving the now packed bathroom and get to safety.  The woman does not hear me, or understand me, or care; I'm not sure which one.  So again, more loudly I say "excuse me!"  I get no response from this giant-bagged woman, but a small woman standing next to me tries to shuffle out of the way and let me through, but with no success.  So in a bold effort, I tap the bagged lady on the arm and say again, "excuse me!"  She STILL does not seem to notice.  Finally her lady companion grabs the bagged lady by the arm and yanks her out of my way.  I leave the bathroom frustrated, and completely not a fan of Poland.

It's finally time to board the flight and I hurry on, excited to be able to sit and sleep for at least 2 hours in the 15 that we've been travelling.  On the flight, to my dismay, the man who is sitting behind me has worse flight-etiquette than a 2-year-old.  He seems to be dying from something like the whooping cough, and feels the need to brace his feet on the back of my chair every time he has an attack (each of which happen at 5-minute intervals).  It took every ounce of strength I had not to whip around and strangle this coughing, kicking, awful man.

When our flight finally lands in Brussels, Belgium, I feel haggard.   I can imagine that his mother's first sight of me was not promising ( I made sure to dress nicely the next day).   We have some wine and dinner and then Wesley and I finally, finally get to sleep.

Theses are such foreign places.