The Journal of the Drunken Madman.

Day 1: Venice.

Venice always makes to think about mystery. Maybe there, inside the houses, occurs something hidden. It is possible to take for assuming that it still can be a relevant from centuries ago, as it could be a gathering of a secret society or a guild. Venice is centered on mystery, as it became notable, as a city that manufactures masks. Long time ago, anybody during a period of carnival could wear one of them and enter into estate of a nobleman. It was until the Austrian Empire received the Lombardy-Venetia region from Napoleon Bonaparte after signing with him the Treaty of Campo Formio that ended the first war of the French Emperor. The new ruling cancelled the carnival, having a fear that masks would contribute to a potential unrest. I didn’t have anything what was unknown since I was there last time. I arrived in this city because a ship was waiting for me here.

I was in no hurry to step on it. Besides, the vessel wasn’t ready to accept me before 1:30 pm. I should have to wait three hours. I already saw my lovable Italy in the garbage on the roads from a bus that drove me to the city and opened these such beautiful views that you strangely don’t see on commercial postcards. The same could be said of Sicily in why they never show the littered rows instead of the vistas?

The Museo Correr became available for free. My basis was always an interest. I hadn’t that here. I wasn’t attracted by the overloaded luxury. The premises themselves don’t remind the mystery of Venice. Anyway, there were no fine pieces of art – only rough works.

I decided to look inside the Museo di Palazzo Fortuny. I had known about it before, but nothing had attracting to me then. Before that visit, I committed a meticulous research, and I found out some worthy pieces of art.

The mystery of Venice met me again when I watched at the masks behind the windows. Yet they were sometimes among of trinket shops that make the other side of the town’s coin. They hadn’t anything secret, and obviously screamed about fakeness – that destructed Venice’s mystery. The disgust of overcrowding pointed on that I had arrived at a wrong time. I thought that I wouldn’t wish to live here. I wanted to leave this town instantly.

The Museo di Palazzo Fortuny isn’t a renowned location, therefore it could satisfy people with misanthropic tastes. Fifteen euros for a ticket are money that a bum could collect in a very short period, yet you don’t see much riveting there. Among the hanging paintings–of the place that was based by the noble Mariona Fortuny who collected these pieces–are those with decent ideas that weren’t realized. Many of canvases aren’t unique. A room with images of naked women who are in the process of doing action are the most fascinating as ideas, and they have drawn proportionally. I returned to there later. The only frustration, as that everywhere in the museum, was a terrible lighting of premises that ruined the vision. I couldn’t see one of these dames properly.

Additionally in a beautiful, a small collection of armors and melee weapons, likely from Asian lands, is attracting for their rarity. A painting of chickens that was placed inside of a long wardrobe is a creativity that succeeded.

The recreation of a past century was a failed attempt. You see that items of the master are new. The clothes lead to the assumption they’re from second hand. A premise of workshop and library, which interior doesn’t impress itself, because includes books and tools that close to modern times. There are period items, but I didn’t see unusual in that just old silk. My eyes spent time for peering on old cameras, which are significant items of the early XXth century.

A premise of contemporary art had a usual reaction: you entered and you already want to move back. There were no ideas, as always. Different colored bags. I thought this part of the museum was still a work in progress.

Afterward I reached Piazza San Marco. That overcrowding made sufferable despite on everywhere beauty. Venice hasn’t wonderful museums. You need to be only on its streets. I reached the bank where watched how a local worker politely asks kids no to sit on the steps. The Italians love to restrict in according to fascists instead to keep an order. I convinced of it once again. They can be arrogant and rude, but show an anger when something goes against their insolent worldview. At least it is easier to deal with these savages by hitting them in face. I couldn’t bear to be there anymore facing human overwhelming. Luckily by that time, I could move to the ship.

Twenty-five minutes away from Venice and almost ten minutes–that seemed as half an hour–when a little boat finally approached the vessel. Should I search for a logic in why the boarding was far away if it had an Italian organization?

I was sent on MSC Armonia. It began sailing in 2004. I had a second cabin from the stairway. It was too much common with Larry who circumstantially won the cruise in his second adventure. After he heard the number of his ship’s room, a ticket checker said, “This will give you an excellent opportunity to hear all the subtle inflections of our diesels.”

Fortunately it wasn’t awful, especially I hadn’t these views on the islands’ docks that reminded dark future films. They were on the both sides. The only frustration was the TV set offered far-left news channels, as usual.

I needed only drink. I hadn’t anything since Spirytus Rektyfikowany zbozowy, a beverage with 95%. The moment I saw it I understood we were fated to be together. Stay under the Moon. My heart started to pound faster in that late night when we met and were strangers to each other.

That thing is recommended to blend with something. However, I could guess about it without these words. I used a carbonated water for that.

A first smell after opening is medicine. It transforms into herbs, which were associative with Becherovka, but not the same abomination in using. Once it had a taste of vodka, but the unfavorable herbs stay eventually.

I made a first gulp. I already began to sense that I go through space… I could control the universe! BHA-HA-HA-HA!!! Alcohol hits after a little sip, and it effect increases. Of course, it depends on portion. I was in the middle drunkenness.

I wanted to take the drink singularly and add the water. I poured the liquid. I thought that I have an acid, which begins to do it chemical reaction. I spitted it in a glass. I made that drink again. But even combining with water, I added the second after a gulp. Anyway, I couldn’t relish the beverage with these percentage, as I assumed.

No effect in the aftertaste. Spirytus Rektyfikowany doesn’t bring to any pleasure. You’re getting drunk easily just as a fact. A drunkenness without rapture. Its initial intention for cocktails, but that yokel taste wouldn’t make beautiful. The most god-awful is that these filthy herbs are chasing you! That stage makes you a realizing a taste of a cheapo rotgut.

I sent the rest into a sewer and sensed a smell of vodka from the depth of a tube.

Day 3: Dubrovnik.

It is strange that docking was without smashing into the bay if an Italian captain controlled the ship. I wanted to leave it on the second day. Their feeding was torturing. It was twice when I ordered a meat and received pieces that looked and tasted as a ham. I usually expect other when see “turkey” in a menu. That long time of waiting between dishes makes you hungry again, which was in the first days. Especially after “turkey” and basil that served in modern abominable approach with a line of blackberry jam around. The next time, I should expect trout and milk in the menu from such logic. I forgot how to walk after two-hour lunch when I decided to drop hopes on getting a lousy tea from an Indonesian-alike waiter who smiled to me and promised to bring it. They were generous with that jam, because it was with fried Brie in my dinner. Next time they should mix it with other blueberry jam.

I abandoned the vessel as a burning house. Of course, it was not before breakfast included a terrible water, which was the same that I had in a shower. The best way to dilute it was take a lemon bag tea and add pieces of lemon to there. But I needed a stronger stuff. The alcohol shop of the ship had short and uninspiring choice. There was a bottle that mixed whiskey and liquor. I’ve told a salesclerk “It is not my cup of tea.”

It was magnificent that I visited Dubrovnik after Venice because you experience a mirror difference. I fell in love in this city, but I couldn’t find a working wine shop in its old part. Either they were temporarily or–much worst–permanently closed. I was in panic mode. However, I resolved that issue before stepping on the Croatian land. I visited some locations about which I won’t bore you except that a woman who was selling tickets at Rector’s Palace asked about my belonging to students. I don’t know how that happened. I had honed myself by drinking too much while I still heard that nonsense. Anyway, I come to the substance part. The bar Prime fulfilled my desires. I’ll tell how I got drunk on 14,50 euros, though the owner counted two euros less.

It started with a glass of wine that was almost 200 milliliters of local Babic grape from the bottle calling Plavac. A drink of 2019 with 13 degrees. I received a saturated harvest in smelling. The taste is getting maturity and aging. It includes a small acidity, which is good in this case. The aftertaste is stable.

I followed that with a double of Slivovitz (0,06 milliliters). I wanted with something stronger while there were only forty percent. A moonshine in sniffing. I sensed a naked alcohol before it moved into inside. That drink uses if you want to get harsh. Its aftertaste is plain.

I realized I couldn’t leave the bar. Meanwhile other tourists that visited, included Spanish matured females, whose coming led to a brawl with one of them. They took a table to my left. That a conflicted one took a menu and put on my place in front of me. I couldn’t accept that, and returned it back. I hadn’t invasions of attempts from that woman after that who, as most visitors, had a boring beer (however, I witness that nonsense around the world). Definitely, it wouldn’t end up wonderful if I had any relationships with Hispanic ladies who relate to beautiful yet they are also infamously known for their showing “I am the law” and that you can’t do any decision without her approval. It would have turned in my situation as “a husband killed his wife” – it would be generic. Why Gary Cooper’s Will Kane couldn’t stay with Kate Jurado in High Noon because two strong personalities. As we know, two magnets with the same pole don’t contact to each other. However, that movie has the same shortcoming as Rear Window, which is Grace Kelly. She never was a definition of “a good actress”. Aside that, the main hero of this classic western chose a shy and calm blonde girl, which makes a balance, but she isn’t a mighty personality, and that’s not good. Anyway, I ordered rakije Wild Grus (0,03 milliliters). The bartender said the drink’s basing ingredient is “pear”. However, it took time to understand him. It doesn’t relate to incident but I want to say that Balkans don’t like vowels. The beverage has a smell of a pear that dived into alcohol. That taste is clear alcohol – a moonshine with the pear. The plain aftertaste with a taste of the pear. I found the drink as lovely after all.

No idea why I felt myself wonderful at that moment. I sensed a Croatian myself after drinking in that bar. I want to say that getting drunk in Dubrovnik takes the second place where the best to do it because Paris is undisputable. If Croatia would be a choice of being born – that would be a brilliant offer.

I visited the Church of St. Vlah after the bar. Where else could a sinner go after that? I never was in these places in that state, though I didn’t intend, it wasn’t right, and I wasn’t long there. I walked through the streets of Dubrovnik, disclosing its secrets.

I was cut off from the civilized world. The far-left news are incapable to make a lie. You see what actually goes through their intentional antagonistic interpretation. I couldn’t listen another so-called expert who considers the war with Iran was an “illegal attack”. Make such characterization when Iran through their terrorist organizations fights in the Middle East, as one of them attacked Israel not so long ago. I just imagine that America and Israel were supposed to say, “My dear Iranian government, would you kindly to accept our invasion on your territory?” The Iran’s committing disturbance via their affiliations is one more reason why the regime must come to the end.

I already hear about the idea that we must leave NATO and create an alliance with countries that execute the requirements. Donald Trump said before, but uttering it now led to meeting with Mark Rutte. If take a look, it wouldn’t create a danger for European states if we say goodbye because this unification will stay stable and strong. Make alliance with countries that pay fees at full and don’t characterize tyrannical regimes as fluffy legalized states is what we already should begin to do. It is true that a genuine NATO abbreviation is “No Action Talks Only”. I wish that military union has stay and everybody has followed to requirements. Unfortunately, it isn’t probable.

The only happiness was having a good beef in dinner (but I won’t talk about UFO-shaped plate in which it was served) whereas I was suffered through non-native speakers–those were mostly Hispanic of Latin American origin–whose English was either terrible in pronouncing or they couldn’t understand my Elvis voice in hard rock edition.

Day 4: Corfu.

The third day of sailing had a stop in Greece with which authorities I have issues that caused to cease investments in that country. My staying on the vessel was a demonstration of my rejection them. Furthermore, nothing to do in Corfu–the island where Armonia stopped–and the Greek authorities asked three euros for the entrance, which I hadn’t for them. Some Spanish endomorph crewmember–who were of those with whom speaking English had both aforementioned nuances–disclosed me that Venice takes five euros per man. I wouldn’t find these money too.

The dinner menu of that day contained medallions from… turkey. I lost a trust to it. I ordered a veil leg on the dinner. At least it was written in the menu because reality was alike of frozen fish reaches your face. I received thin pieces of it. I asked the waiter, “Is it the veil leg?” He firmly confirmed. I responded, “I imagined it different.”

I didn’t see a good wine in offers. No indication of year and prices made an assumption about limitation and cheapness respectively. However, I needed something to do with my sobriety. I tasted Sauvignon Isonzo del Friuli DOC, Tenuta Villanova from Friuli-Venezia Giulia. The fine collection of grapes in sniffing. A little bitterness and the same quantity of acidity in drinking that both enhance in the aftertaste till disgust. No water could cure it. This wine is intrusive as the plague in the Medieval.

A glass of Bordeaux Rouge, Chateau Bel Air from 2023 and with 13,5 percentage was served on my table for the so-called “veil leg”, and a plate of cheeses later, which weren’t finest and just good in that day. It has no soul in searching for aroma. A taste is bringing of cheap wine materials. Holding longer is a big regret – you get acidity that makes impossible to hide your reaction. Anyway, that facial look I demonstrated in the aftertaste.

Day 5: Kotor.

The fourth day on the ship was arrival to Kotor. A little town of Montenegro that behind of many mountains. I touched this land before the clock hit the eight. I won’t move into historical and philosophical part about that town except climbing to St. John’s Fortress has open cliffs that aren’t protected and which put to a thought. I stayed with one guy at such dangerous place and I wanted to express that depth to this human which was, “A perfect place for murder”, but I spared him.

It is a small city, and nothing other than getting drunk there. Anyway, I couldn’t leave that town sober, especially I needed to take off the stress after the experience with non-native speakers. I had a degustation venue Fine & Wine. I wouldn’t come to there if I didn’t notice their support of Arabs on the wrong land in a small badge. I was already in drinking of a short bottle of a local grape Krstac with a goat cheese, which I also acquired there. However, girls were sweet because one of them cut the half of the cheese while another told me about an origin of this wine. I don’t know if they are believers and familiar with politics. Maybe they are as those naïve people who chanted for communism decade ago. At that time, I also was devoted to wine what usually happens when you have it. That’s beverage with twelve percent has a smell of great-squished grapes. This wine was young, but accepted as matured. The converted effect was in that Krstac–in which can see Montenegrins don’t like vowels too–is a dry wine whereas the taste had a non-intrusive sweetness. I had the maturity in the aftertaste. I would acquire a second bottle, but my thought was that Israel must finally resolve that dispute about land by the variant, which I’ve told.

The drinking searching of myself wasn’t over yet. I wanted to have a local rakija, which the most famous in Montenegro is Lozovaca, basing on a grape. I could discover only a big bottle whereas I wanted a small. I stepped into one store where I soon discovered the searchable. Perhaps, spirits called me to visit this place. The embodiment of my desire was in Crnogorska Lozova Rakija. One hundred milliliters of clear beauty that reminded a nymph, which was calling me. And it was lonely, as me. The salesclerk wanted to pack it, but I said that I’m going to have it now. His misunderstanding look showed he doesn’t approve my alcoholism. I left the store and opened it.

The forty-degree drink has a scent of grapes that put into alcohol. You have grapes dived into alcohol when I took sips. The aftertaste was plain with grapes. I started to love it.

I was drinking in the city with the goat cheese, which wasn’t the correct snack both to Krstac wine and Lozovaca. Besides, it wasn’t unusual food. Nevertheless, it hadn’t matter. My journey through Eastern Europe showed me that my skepticism toward wines in these lands was realized while I had a correct feeling that I should taste such drinks in origin places.

I took sips of Lozova Rakija on the streets of Kotor. Once my back touched the wall of St. Tryphon Cathedral where I poured another portion. I didn’t walk inside the temple – that would have been disrespectful.

Luckily, I received a roasted meat on dinner, as the menu claimed in that time, even though it was a low-cooked.

Day 6: Warsaw.

I abandoned Armonia on the sixth day in Brindisi. Its look through virtual map caused a wish to a buy a booze on the ship and begin to drink before stepping on the ground. The town disgusted in that watching. These unattractive buildings had too bright paint. Nothing to do in the city itself.

I looked on it from the window at breakfast. It was Pakistan crossed with a dormitory district. The water was transparent, but fuzzy. It was after the transparent cleanness in Dubrovnik and Kotor.

I headed to a local airport that was supposed to move me to Katowice. This town recalled my sweet memories. After that first trip to distant areas in Italy, I entered in a café on a bus station. I didn’t discover it immediately because it was on the second floor. I was served by a cheerful young waitress from whom I ordered everything, even food that I usually don’t eat, such as nuggets that had been held in a microwave. Local dumplings with onion were likeable, though it wasn’t a place for a genuine experience. All that hadn’t matter because I was in happiness after the Italian misfortunes. The older colleague of the waitress didn’t speak English, but I understood her telling me that acquired from them an ice cream Magnum would melt if I don’t start to eat it. I was supposed to do it, but this thing was stayed celestial.

Things turned out to that the workers of the airport decided to strike at that day. Italy met me with miseries, as it always loved to do. It wasn’t well when I asked a port worker who believed that only through taxi can reach the airport from the train station. He didn’t know about that a bus goes to there. His English wasn’t phenomenal, and his colleague took his duties, which was a student girl. She looked on me wild when I named a street on which she pointed because I wanted to understand and helped to find a right word in explaining. That female didn’t accept when I said Italian “thank you”.

Of course, I experienced a strike of train workers while I never had that with an airport staff.  I found about that fact before I left Brindisi. I strolled to the train station. The cars stopped in front of me either it was from unlikely politeness or that was my confidence. One driver was forced to ignite the engine again.

I arrived at a good time, because the bus to the airport was there. I reached the location. That would be logical if all three windows of ticket help should work. However, I was in Italy. Luckily, it was almost soon when I entered into conversation. It led me to a long talking with a ticket help worker who couldn’t admit my irresistible English simply ignoring my questions instead of asking, as all polite people do. I could in one place to fill my data, but I said that don’t understand her letters. She did it with surprised by considering that as a simplicity. Her behavior didn’t hold my thought. I called the Heavens in front of her while she didn’t understand it. Eventually, the woman rescheduled me to the flight from Bari to Warsaw. The other Italian nuance was in printing a confirmation for me, which was in that a printer didn’t work. A big queue of people was already behind me. There I had a unique opportunity to see an expressive Italian woman. However, if be honest, she had a ghastly job because it also included with giving cards to her co-workers. After all, the ticket help worker presented me a printed piece. I realized why Italians do cross.

Everything was finished and I was supposed to wait a call about a transport that ride me to Bari. At that moment, I could forget about being in the clean and lovely airport and move to that which I promised never to use again. I didn’t think that I will have a reason to be in it, but I was coming to there. I shouldn’t leave the ship here. I was supposed to limit the visit of Italian territory. I had assumed that I would reach Brindisi’s Train Station, take the transport to the airport and leave in a few hours. After less than thirty minutes, a loud voice of Brindisi airport called me. I received my other papers.

A shuttle bus that assumingly was to deliver me to Bari Airport came late–as it should be in Italy–and its driver whose English wasn’t his language said about waiting of five minutes, or one cigarette in Italian. I didn’t care; I had a lot of time.

I arrived in Bari Airport. The help ticket worker didn’t hear my question about strike’s period. I received an answer from a woman who also moved on the same shuttle bus. However, I decided to find out on my own. Through the laptop was revealed that a party goes from 1 to 5 pm. A ticket to Warsaw was at 8.40. Certainly, don’t say over until it will happen. I could feel wonderful only a plane take off from the ground and leave the territory of Italy. You don’t fell save in this state and forced to fight. I sat on a chair while my backpack was on a table. A little child of one small female sat near my stuff on which he put hands soon. I could explain to a person of that age by moving away. He stopped to do it. His mother looked at me. I made a glance to her, but she already turned her head away. It is disgusting that Italians have no respect to property of other people and don’t like when you indicate their rudeness in that. The family pair has left. I relocated the backpack for occupy the whole space. However, soon came a much adult woman, who without saying a word moved the stuff for take a sit. Airport tables aren’t comfortable places and I don’t choose them even there are no alternative. However, I could put aside my things if Italians could talk, but they prefer to be rude and don’t be aware about that. It wasn’t a situation that asked stricter acts. I expressed to her my frustration, “You could ask.” The female turned to me, simply made a hand gesture and a facial look that both depicted she couldn’t do anything. I called her “rabble”. This word isn’t familiar to regular non-English native speakers, and that woman probably spoke one Italian. I usually avoid using swears, especially I don’t wish to speak them in front of ladies, but she forfeited herself as female. I expressed an “f-word” on that situation. She was a savage while the backpack wasn’t in danger. Later, when a seat near me was free, she took it. I made a little turn on her side, and she turned the head away. Perhaps, I needed to use the most understandable and precise word to her, which was a “fascist”.

I noticed that such insolence comes from Spanish women, which due to their mentality. I had several situations in my voyage when Hispanic representatives wanted that I walked in other direction when they tried to cross my path, but I didn’t react on that. They returned to their original positions.

I had a thought, which was a regret that I still have no a driving license, but I assumed it would take more time and probability of traffic jams or whatever else could happen in that country. It would be impeccable with a driver who does as must be. How could I use the Italian airports after finding out that their unions support terrorists in Palestine?

Italians are prone to hurry, as that characterize that their breakfast is a cup of coffee, but they late when should do the job. I was leaving without haste that the ticket help worker, while the one man already couldn’t hold himself and started that uncomfortable for him speaking about his issue. It was when I was leaving the seat in Bari Airport. I had an Englishman pace in packing the laptop and its plug. Some group on the other side wished that place because I noticed them. A man asked me in English–which probably was caused my characterization of the one woman–about my leaving. I responded, “I’ve finished.” His face changed on confused look by my answer that was spoken in my wild tenderness pronunciation.

I needed to make the period with my situation. I met with Bari’s ticket help worker. He wasn’t special, as everybody. That human didn’t want to find out what I’m saying, as well. However, the conversation with him hadn’t take much time. I just needed to receive a boarding pass at 18.30.

A screen monitor informed that two gates of that flight will open at 18.10. It was after the first given time when a woman occupied one of these places. She began to accept passengers at 18.45. Her colleague left a security zone and looked at monitor when was 18.52. He began to accept clients at 18.55. I have increasing sympathies to Japanese people. If you didn’t appear at the exact time, they walk out.

I left Italy that day.

The only wonderful thing that was done with compensation was receiving a room in a four-star hotel Novotel Warszawa Airport. It had a deep comfortable bed and glorious Polish breakfast.  The single dislike was in a shower that hasn’t cover whole body. From there opened a wonderful look on the street where I only regretted that trees still were in fall. The same was with the weather. The spring hasn’t come in Poland yet. It was only in my soul.

Day 7: Lublin.

I had a meeting at the US Embassy in this country after which I had no any other business. However, I needed to spend few days somewhere aside from Warsaw. I could choose more romantic cities, but I rode to Lublin. The evening experience that I had couldn’t suit for having a honeymoon there if you are not Bernie Sanders.

Two hours later by train, and I was there. The station was left behind, but I couldn’t understand my printed map. Being in that town already sensed that you’re in a province, and find a man speaking English wasn’t easy. I was among people who saw communist times. I walked to a group of guards asking about city’s castle for easiness. A person to whom I addressed called the only young person in their company who could speak my language. I called my destination on which required time because my accent, which could only understood people who heard Rick Astley in reverse form. He didn’t know the location while his senior colleague needed to recall this “fuck”. I understood a little bit their speaking. He succeeded in that. The direction through the young person was showed to me. I thanked, and received a “no problem” in reply.

I didn’t learn about movement of buses. I wanted to experience this city. It was an Eastern European province in which I noticed a lot of black people. I’ve never saw that quantity in Warsaw.

Most of the map lacked the streets titles. Nevertheless, I walked to the living place correctly. I crossed the wonderful-decorated fountain square, which included a masterfully carved a liberation monument with an eagle. There were also a statue of one imperialist on which I’ve never make a look.

The hotel was discovered. I paid for it except breakfast for which should be committed a separate income. My magical English didn’t work on a receptionist as well, and once she didn’t understand about my question of alternative payment machine, assuming about ATM. I was in Larry’s situation who had a credit card of The First National Bank of Libya in the original adventure, or Iraq in 1991 remake, that didn’t work. Perhaps, I had credit cards from The First National Bank of Iran. Reasonably, you always keep cash. I just only had euros. And it was Saturday in Poland. I realized all that later, but most of currency exchange office were closed when I went out from the hotel.

I wanted to give a chance to Lublin Castle. Although I wanted to detect a town’s mall whereas I entered into old city. I crossed the imposing brick gates and had a full experiencing of how people lived centuries ago. I was impressed how is big the territory of the city’s past. I turned to little streets that charming look called to see further, but they usually hadn’t anything unusual. Nevertheless, there forgets the rest Lublin. It was touchable to see a medieval piper who had around him fluffy mouse and a fat cat, which look all of them are lovely.

The old town included venues of variable cuisines, and also had currency exchange offices and a restaurant offered a cebularz. Not the profitable place to get zloty and pay for a bun that presentation exaggerate there. I wished this dough creation despite on my doubt.

The castle wasn’t riveting. I went to the left and the right angles for see how it was desecrated in overbright white color and change of interior in modern windows and iron gates. As I concluded before, it was destroyed by communists and nowadays.  I walked inside. The destruction committed large square pots with trees, metal roofs and contemporary pieces of art. I declined in an idea to acquire a ticket. Nevertheless, it was interesting to look on the inner yard, the old gates, cannons… Through these committed maiming, I could feel what happened there.

I returned in the old town for stop and observe the ruins of the first Parish church St. Michael, which could take a breath away. I understood a signage informed that Stefan Wyszynski lived there in the years 1925-1929, a person who played a significant role for future John Paul II.

I returned to the brick arch. At the entrance, I detected that a very first wooden stall sold my searchable cebularz and Lublin’s other characterizing oscypek, a smoked cheese. I acquired them for 35 zloty. I found a bench on which I began to eat the bun that was created by Jew. I haven’t make a misfire saying that it isn’t a uniting combination. Poppy seeds disrupted the rest. Cebularz itself wasn’t warmed enough in a machine the brought me it. The onion was raw – it slayed balance. I needed to leave this town after that.

I couldn’t detect the currency exchange office. Eventually, I asked one family, and a woman with limited English showed me a path. I followed to there. I discovered a lot of kantor, which all of them were closed. I returned in the hotel where I disclosed oscypek. I expected a smoked cheese from the smoked cheese, and it was the smoked cheese on taste, which wasn’t a finest in quality. There I found some working kantor. I moved parallel to Lublin Castle and close to the bus station where I memorized that late night. Perhaps, I couldn’t find a better place in Saturday. An oldtimer which was behind the window used a calculator. You usually avoid such places, but that one was honest. He didn’t speak English, as expected, and therefore he couldn’t get a satisfaction from my accent, which was an evening baritone on the sawmill. I could use few Slav words when he asked speak something Ukrainian. I received money after all. I had an accurate quantity of coins that gave to the hotel. Everything was done. I only needed to wait Tuesday for meeting in the US Embassy.