After the Wedding

Polish Pretend Son’s Silesian wedding lasted the traditional two days. On Monday I sat outside the countryside hotel’s separate restaurant and admired the formal gardens and Germanic palace opposite while trying not to mind the sun too much. It was blazing away again, and I feared that no matter how often I slathered myself with sunscreen, I would wrinkle into an apple doll before my time. 

Eventually PPS himself emerged from the palace and wound his way around the formal gardens. 

“Beautiful day,” I remarked.

“Beautiful day, beautiful life,” declared the newlywed and went in to breakfast. 

That was the last I heard from PPS. Eventually he and the bride disappeared completely, driven away by the best man, I believe, bound for the airport and Paris.  

There was some confusion as to how his car-less guests were going to get back to the railway station, a repeat of Sunday’s struggle to get 20 people to Mass. There was also a long delay for the Schola had befriended some of PPS’s other traddie friends and planned to return to Wrocław with them. One Trad—the one who looks like a pre-war Austrian officer, being slim, straight-backed, dark-haired, dark-eyed and moustachioed—has a long morning grooming regimen.  

“[Austrian chap] doesn’t do formal,” explained his plump Polish-Canadian pal. He was wearing a T-shirt and smoking a cigarette. Eventually he strode off to the village shop for more tobacco. I tagged along for the exercise and to see this village shop. It was very small, with a friendly lady behind the counter and “Balkanica” thumping over the radio. The Polish-Canadian pal chatted with her fluently albeit with a Toronto accent Polish-Poles at the wedding told him was funny. 

When we returned, the Austrian appeared looking cool and fresh and prepared for a garden party. The village taxicab was summoned, and it was decided that it would take four of us away to the railway station and then return for B.A. and me. It turned out that the cab driver who had charged us double had poached us from this taxicab's driver in an act of inter-village piracy. 

The formal gardens, by the way, had box hedges, and they threw off a wonderful perfume. Wrocław smelled wonderfully, too, thanks to the linden trees. One of the Schola explained that in Scotland it never gets hot enough for our linden trees to fill the air with scent.  As the weekend was simply roasting, whenever we set foot outdoors, we were wrapped in delicious smells. 

After a half hour or more, the legitimate village taxi returned and took us to the railway station, it driver chatting gaily all the way. The little cafe in the railway station had run out of sandwiches, so the lady behind the counter cheerfully allowed us to leave our big red suitcase with her while we walked to that, rather bigger, village for lunch. Sadly, I was still wearing my wedding hat, and so looked rather ridiculous. The hat even inspired a Polish cry of “Look, she’s from England.” However, it was worth it, for we swiftly found a bakery and bought some cheesy pizza bread to eat on the railway platform. The sight of the big Germanic/Polish houses and the romantic Post Office, so conveniently near the railway station, was also satisfying. 

To my joy, the train was one of the old-fashioned ones, with a long hallway and compartments. Even better, as we raced towards Wroclaw, I saw a shirtless young farmer turning over hay with a pitchfork. Such old-fashioned country scenes I see only from Polish trains. I will never forget spotting a farmer, somewhere between Kielce and Krakow, following a horse and plough. (Nor will I forget the Astrophysicist's look of acute embarrassment when I told him of this.) 

The orange castle that is Wrocław Główny railway station swung into view, and before long B.A. was rolling our suitcase towards the Market Square.  We checked into an old-fashioned hotel different from the last, for  I had decided it would be fun to change. B.A. wanted coffee and ice-cream, so after a bit of book-shopping, we found a chocolate shop with tables and chairs on its pavement on a side street. Somehow we both ended up with ice-cream, and it was very good. We enjoyed very much looking at the ochre 18th century buildings and puzzling out the odd chocolate-themed slogans painted on the chocolate shop’s front. 

At the appointed time, we met the others at “Pijalnia” in the Market Square for beer. Our friend the Astrophysicist, who is getting married next weekend, also appeared and, when the Austrian and the Polish-Canadian left to visit the latter’s grandparents, he led us off to classier drinking establishments. 

First there was “Przedwojenny” (Pre-war, i.e. 1930s style), where we ate a number of traditional appetisers and snacks: beef tartar with raw egg and onions, cottage cheese and pork jelly, for example. Then there was a dark and shiny cocktail bar with a glass-enclosed whisky-and-cigar room. Then there was a very long walk hither and thither, around this palace and that monument, as the Astrophysicist led us to a 'Scottish' pub that turned out to be closed because of the lateness of the hour.  I was a bit drunk after my cocktail, so I am unsure as to whether or not we went to two bars after this or just one. I think it was two. 

The Astrophysicist was very eager to buy us a variety of drinks at a variety of places. There was really no stopping him. I recall drinking sweet kriek, which is a Belgian fruit beer, and giving half of it to one of the Schola when the A’s back was turned. The others also drank sliżowicz, which I thought was spiritus and thus a bad idea for non-Slavs. By midnight I was really very tired as well as drunk. When we finished up at “Pod Lantarniami”  (Under the Lanterns), I would drink only grapefruit juice, and when I discovered it was 12:45 AM, I finally made good on my threats to leave.   B.A. came with me, and after a comedy with some gates that seemed locked but weren’t, we returned to our hotel room. 

Alas for your correspondent. B.A., as he invariably does after a (thankfully rare) night of drinking, snored to make the ceiling fall. Also, sad irony, the grapefruit juice was one too much for my tummy, and I was sick. However, the old-fashioned chamber had a door between the bedroom and the vestibule, and the bed was really two singles pushed together. Thus, I was able without waking BA to take my duvet and make a nest beside the loo. The good thick door between the bedroom and the vestibule almost completely stifled B.A.’s snores, and thus I eventually fell asleep.