Do you like Flockie?

It is now story time in the life of Audrey Paulzak.

We're on Day 3 of our summer in Poland, and already we're getting into trouble. Not the bad, scary kind... but the kind where people roll their eyes at you and consider that you're possibly the dumbest person alive. Courtney broke glass Red Bull bottles all over the tiny grocery store near the dorm, I got ambushed by nurses at the hospital when I tried to find a trash can for an unwanted cough drop, and both of us keep getting muttered at repeatedly in Polish - though I guess I shouldn't be offended because I don't understand a word.

The language continues to be frustrating. Kind of analogous to a cultural Berlin Wall, and so far I only know two phrases and a single, lone word.

(And Mom, I'm not writing this to be offensive, but simply to relate the truth.)

They are as follows: (written phonetically, of course)

"Gen-coo-ya" - meaning "thank you." (we use this a lot).

"Wissy cool-va" - meaning "bald bitch" (there is a hilarious story here)

and the single word is the name of the city where we are living, Lodz, pronounced "Wouldj" as in "Wouldj you get me a drink." 

On to my story:

We had to go to a traditional Polish lunch with Dr. Mitura today and it was definitely an experience. He asked the University to make a small restaurant where students could eat well for cheap, and this is where we dined. Apparently it was such a successful venture that they even named as soup after him!

Speaking of soup.

Courtney and I entered the restaurant in a disoriented state. We had just left the hospital, and ridden our rollercoaster Passat through town, when I spotted Mitura, Stanishevsky, and company walking along the sidewalk. We promptly  parked the car (half on the curb) and jumped out of the car, shepherded into this tiny restaurant that was too cramped for the 11 of us to all stand in the vestibule. So we were pointed in the direction of a tiny table in the corner, where I set down my medicine and cough drop ladened bag, and looked up to see Courtney dropping a chair onto her foot. She was jumping around in pain (the welt was enormous almost immediately) as we were audibly accosted from every Polish/English speaking person there - "Do you like Flockie? Do you like Flockie? Do you know Flockie?" - or maybe it's spelled "flocky." 

Either way, I'm trying to kiss Court's foot while she's howling in pain, everyone is hyper aware that we are not from around here, and all I can hear is Flockie, Flockie, Flockie. It was quite overwhelming.

And damn these people (sorry again, Mom). NO ONE EVER TRANSLATES FOR US!

It turns out that Flockie is a soup. It's actually a traditional Polish dish that Mitura especially mentioned that he wanted me to try because of my heritage... and that it is soup made out of cow stomach.

As I was handed a bowl of this prized, yet vile, repast, I noticed that the meat was settled calmly at the bottom of the dish, cut into thin strips that, as far as I can guess, were the most aesthetic way to show off the tough meant with tiny (what looked like) feelers on one side. Imagine squid tentacles and you'll have a pretty perfect mental image. One sip of broth was all that they got me to eat, in the spirit of not offending the former president of the University.

And just so that everyone is clear... No, I do not, in fact, like Flockie.