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I started in the wee hours of the day in Warsaw with a 2 mile walk from the bus station to the train station. Luckily I knew the way as we'd driven straight past it on-route. Having decided not to linger at all in Poland, I was due to catch a morning train to the border, where I work out how to buy a sleeper ticket to Kiev. Maybe. Some language practice was in order so I set out to that international bastion of McDonalds. The menu was invitingly displayed, with inch tall letters next to reassuringly familiar pictures. I could do this, I could read from a board. "Err... dooprovnee a bucherzera?" I ventured, filled with confidence. I recieved a blank look of Katie Price proportions. Sighing, I decided to to stick to what I know.
"Urgg" I said, pointing forwards.
"Uhh?' she asked, pointing at the wrong choice.
"Urgg, urgh" I corrected and all was well.
Satiated, I made my way to Platform 1 for the 07:15 to Przemysl. Amid a cacophony of screeching brakes and a clattering of barely connected parts, a train of sorts did indeed arrive at Platform 1 at 07:15. But clearly there was some sort of mistake, this was not the 07:15 to Przemysl, this was The Nostalgia Special : Celebrating 40 Years of Glorious Soviet Mechanical Failings. My fellow passengers seemed oblivious to the error and piled on with gutso. Risking it, I decided to follow and was presented with two queues I could join. One featured a man carrying his chainsaw. I opted for the other.
Walking down the corridor, the soundtrack quickly became a drumbeat of compartment doors slammed in my face. Undeterred, I pushed on to find one with its door thrown invitingly wide, with but a single other occupant. I beamed, perhaps a chance to catch up on the rest I'd be so cruelly cheated out of by Pietr? No. Another passenger bundled in with the usual Eastern European decorum and turned to bark an admonishment at me; I'd done Something Wrong. I opted for a mixture of childlike innocence and bewildered foreigner, beseeching him with wide eyes and an almost Gallic shrug. He shouted again. I persevered, widened the eyes and deepening the shrug. Unsatisfied, he threw himself to his seat and glared with intent. Shortly after, another man entered and immediately reached to shake the hand of Angry Man. A curt shake and all was well. Was this what I'd missed?
Things quickly got worse, almost as one my new companions reached for a cigarette and lit up. Frantically, I searched a No Smoking sign to tap with indignant rage but I was to be disappointed. My despondency grew deeper still as each cigarette proved to be specially enriched with pure bitumen and quickly filled the small compartment with acrid, noxious fumes. I'd held little hope for the scenery of the Polish countryside by daylight, but even that was denied to me as the team took it turns to block all sunlight in a thicky, smoky haze. The guide book opined that whilst in Poland, you really couldn't miss out on the Auschwitz experience. By my reckoning, I hadn't.
A few stops down the line, Angry Man stood to leave, again reaching to shake the hand of the other male passenger. Seizing my chance at redemption, I thrust my hand out, replete with my most winning smile. He stopped stock still, studied my hand for a long moment, then bolted from the train with a snort. We were still not friends.
A giggle emanated from the other corner of the compartment. "Where you from? I was asked. Sigh. Clearly, I was not fitting in well. "England" I replied trying to achieve the graceful air of a well-travelled explorer. "You've not been in Poland long" Sigh. I'd achieved pity. Still, the following conversation proved fruitful. I learnt my new friend had worked in London for two years and spoke excellent English. She advised me that even as a native, she still struggled with the Polish rail system, particularly with it's habit of trains splitting up to head to different destinations. Alarm bells rang and I checked my timetable. It seemed my train to Kiev was one such train, or as the case may be, my train to Odessa, which whilst in Ukraine, is 250 miles away on the other side of the country.
s***.
"How will I know where each half is going?" "You ask" Well, that's OK, "In Ukrainian."
s***...
A glimmer of hope emerged; "Do you speak Ukrainian?" I asked, "No."
s***.
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