European Interlude I

“Dude, for the love of God, if you remember anything while you’re in Poland, remember this – don’t drink the Windex.”

Those were MadBeard’s first words to me as I stepped off the plane; express shipment sent straight from Iraq. What two kids from the American West were doing in Warsaw was as much a mystery to us as anyone else, yet there we were. Him, the wandering freelancing computer programmer, too brilliant for traditional pathways, me, a very confused soldier in need of a break.

What better place for a break than passing out on top of the Iron Curtain. I think Churchill said that once.

Maybe not.

Warsaw is a kind of Eastern European steel city, forever stamped with a “Stalin Was Here!” harshness. Western Europe parties to celebrate, here, they party to forget. I wanted to keep a low profile, but between my clothes, basic mannerisms, and perpetual state of perplexity, I might as well be sporting a Captain America cape. It’s okay, though. The Poles’ perma-crush on all things Reagan have made the transition to the non-combat culture a little easier. And even the seriousness of this land can’t help but smile at my clowning antics.

So yeah. The Windex. Apparently, some of his local friends have been known to come up from Krakow with jugs of vodka mixed with blue sugar, arriving like a roving band of gypsies, striking at the most inopportune moments with their lethal brand of Polish moonshine. My old friend, aware that my immune system hasn’t sniffed beer for six months, let alone been steeled for homemade Slavic concoctions, wanted to save me from going blind. A kind gesture, to be sure.

That’s the difference between old friends and new friends.

If and when people find out I’m away from Iraq on holiday, I sort of become an instant celebrity. At first it was cool, until I realized it was the bearded woman type of celebrity, not the Hollywood brand. It’s no one’s fault, of course; normal people just don’t know how to react to things like that. Like that – being – as in – as in being – “Uhh. Yeah. I’m in Iraq. No. I don’t want to talk about it. Does the techno music ever stop here?”

And then. North. Where the sun sleeps less than soldiers.

Punch-drunk peace. The Baltic Sea propositions with prepositions. In. On. Along. By. The way.

By. The way. What in the name of Frederic Chopin’s piano am I doing here? Drinking on the beach watching the sunrise with a group of truly insane neo-Vikings?

Or did I By. The way. when I stumbled into a random public park, surrounded by thousands of rowdy Polska soccer jerseys, lost in a sea of red and white and diehard religious-like zeal?

Things that make you go.

WTF.

The sausage really is excellent, though. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Even if I’ve temporarily left the Desert, I still feel it with me. Backfiring motorcycles always hurt my soul, and according to one understanding Slavic female, “made your eyes look like a rabbit.” I tend to instinctually search the back of those ridiculous mini Euro cars for loose wires and hidden compartments. And yesterday, I walked halfway across a Polish town before realizing I was holding a loaf of bread like an M4 Carbine, poised at the low ready.

Big ups to the old village woman who started clucking at me as a result. It’s the only reason I stopped.

I’ve gone from a stranger in a strange land to a strange in a stranger land. Which, you know, is nice. You generally don’t think about things that way.

I haven’t heard from the Gravediggers, other than an occasional MySpace message, so I know they are doing fine. At least ten times a day, though, I stare off, and worry. They’re fine, of course. The NCO’s have it under control. They always do.

Knowing that doesn’t stop the staring off, though.

There’s more to write, there’s always more to write. But the madmen with the Windex have arrived. MadBeard escaped here to find, and it’s been comforting to share that with him, no matter how temporal the experience.

Time to get gone.

And I’m not talking about the Windex.