100 Easy Ways to Lose a Man

Or, One Really Complicated Way to Lose an (unwanted) Man 

Written: September 28, 2014, 8:36 pm.

Posted: September 29, 11:30 pm. 

Today’s adventure in Poznan was based almost exclusively in my desire to wander around without a set goal and see as much as I possibly could. This totaled out to be an 8 mile hike through the town, searching for certain things (the old town) and stumbling unexpectedly on others (a bakery with gigantic loaves of bread with seeds and nuts baked right in. I was terrified that the bakery might have a “you selfie with it, you buy it” policy and if I took a picture, I’d be saddled with an 80 dollar loaf of bread the size of a modest wedding cake. However, the smell poured out into the streets with an almost cartoonish presence. I’d just eaten breakfast and my mouth immediately watered. There are certain smells that I never really grew accustomed to growing up. One such scent is baked bread. After I spent perhaps an inappropriate amount of time yesterday writing about burning leaves, I’ll spare the senses from another rant on a smell that virtually everyone likes. Just trust me that this smell was everything wonderful in the world.

This brings me to the Old City. Pardon my French, but holy schweet hell. I’ve spent my entire life dreaming about being in Europe. Specifically, the grand medieval towns that somehow survived the terrible war and remained intact. United States history, being relatively brief, robs modern Americans of the astounding architectural intricacies of Renaissance and medieval central European style. The Poznan old town did not disappoint. 

I’ll pause in our narrative to insert pictures and captions. 

1. Statue with a yellow church behind it with an almost chemical blue sky. 

The inside of the church doesn’t allow photography and mass was actually going on when I walked inside (thankfully, I was quiet and didn’t draw much attention to myself which is in itself a miracle worthy of some sort of religious significance). I’d never seen a church that looked like this since I was in Israel staring at the garish decor of those ancient churches where crusaders slashed their names into stones and where the alleged miracles absolutely happened according to pre-colonialist European fanatics who based the destruction of entire cities and cultures on hearsay. There was a priest in white, a bunch of people sitting in the pews, and walls with no blank space. If it could contain a painting, an alter, or a marble statue, it had one. My response was not what I expected. I usually find religious iconography to be…almost tacky? I have trouble distinguishing between intricate, ancient churches from Carrie White’s house. There’s something vaguely violent about it to me and it makes me feel nervous. However, there was still some kind of beauty here that flashed quickly enough for me to appreciate it for what it was. It was undeniable impressive and maybe it’s just for the best that you cannot take photographs inside. 

2. Pictures of the Old City. My words won’t do it justice. I was privately freaking out but am really working on not being socially incompetent on every continent I find myself on (I failed spectacularly at this later, as you’ll soon discover). 

Here is where our narrative picks back up.

“How I interacted with my first panhandler in Poznan.”

So after these adventures, I make my way the Adam Mickiewicz University campus and sat waiting for the next streetcar when a man holding a sign comes and stands in front of me.

Cold panic immediately sat in. I can say a few words. I can order coffee and buy a streetcar ticket. These are covered in early chapters in my Polish instruction book. 

“Tactfully but firmly refusing to give money to panhandlers while still recognizing the economic injustices of capitalism” isn’t coming for a while.

Honestly, if I had a few zlotys, they would have been all his. However, I just spent my last three on the tram ticket. I tried to quickly explain that I didn’t speak Polish. He then began demanding dollars (the only word in English throughout the conversation) , Euro, and Zloty. I use the word “demanding” to mean “using the word over and over, increasing in volume every time I said ‘no.’” This went on for roughly 30 seconds. He then asked how I bought a ticket with no money (I assume, anyway. I only recognized “ticket” and “no money” out of what he said). I decided enough was enough and opened up my book and continued reading so he’d get the hint. 

He apparently took this as an invitation to sit down next to me and start feeling my pockets for loose change. 

I’m not the kind of person who loses his temper easily with total strangers. To do so would be un-Southern. However, I’m also not the kind of person who likes being touched without permission ever and this instinct trumps manners. 

I bolt up and am scrambling for something to say besides “No.”

My Polish failed me. English would’ve been ineffective. I relied on the only other profanity I knew. With a loud,  "Verpiss dich! Arschloch!" (some of my minimal German)  I bolted up and walked away as quickly as possible. 

I keep walking, embarrassed for making a scene in public, feeling totally violated at the thought of being frisked for pocket change at a tram station, and processing everything that had just happened.

I write now and wonder if I overreacted. Was there a better way out of that situation?
The burden of proof was not on me to show him my empty wallet (with the exception of the 10 rand note that has been in there for four years).  He was in no way entitled to my or anyone else's money. Yet I keep thinking back to this moment as one that I could have avoided without making a splashy, unbecoming display on the third day I’m here. 

I’m now enjoying the last few hours of the evening sipping some more tea (I think it’s pear-flavored), rereading Fun Home, and taking some temporary refuge in the solace of a familiar and beloved book. It’s an absurd and dull cliche, but when we start something new, I suppose we all have to rely on the cliches, the banalities we may privately despise for the sake of juxtaposition. The weaving conflict of newness and a dull but persistent hunger for the familiar results in a mental scramble. At least it does for me. I’m working on sorting that out, so you’ll be so kind as to bear with me.