Polish hospitals are not much for ice when it comes to post-op recovery, I discover later Tuesday afternoon, lying alone in my bed back in 538. No ice, no water. No nothing, just me, my bed, a couple of roommates.
Listen the history of Auschwitz, the whole history of Auschwitz in one man’s brain.
Gdańsk is, with Kraków, Budapest, Paris, Berlin and Prague, one of Europe’s great old cities.
Gradually one learns the first lesson of Poland: “Spoko, spoko. Easy, easy.” You get there when you get there. If you get there.
Can I imagine a George Bush Fund? A Dan Quayle Fund? Even a Ted Kennedy or a Dan Rostenkowski Fund? How many Americans, old or young, would donate their wedding bands, or even their talents “for the good of the Republic”?
“The East Germans are angry now with Poles. Poles come to East Berlin and buy up all the food, then sell it in West Berlin, where Easterners cannot go, at a big profit.”
“Each factory was a cacophony of noise, a cloud of noxious vapor, a sewer of pollution. Each factory devoured people whole, laborers and managers both.” The ninth chapter of the book by David R. Pichaske about Poland between 1989 and 1991.