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.
Kaboom