A hearty welcome back to Poland

A rare post from Trevor:

I needed to go to Ukraine. Our options were 1) apply for a visa extension and pay a few hundred PLN and much unneeded legwork, or 2) make a lengthy and unneeded trip to cross the border
into Ukraine but spend only 60 PLN on a weekend ticket to anywhere in the country. The major drawbacks to the eventual choice of going to Ukraine (1. the chance of having to eat some more Ukrainian food, 2. the possibility of being threatened by guns and violence again, 3. no shiny new visa extension form in my passport [I don't know why, but I really like them], 4. massive amounts of time on the train with little relief, 5. far less time to get my home teaching done by the end of the month) couldn't compare to how much sweeter 60 PLN sounded to the few hundred alternative.

The final and best plan was to catch the 6:15 train to Krakow, then have one minute to change trains to Przemysl, then take a bus to Medyka, and cross the border to Ukraine. Return and get home by 4 AM in time to sleep a bit before going to church, where I would be speaking on Elder Bednar's much-needed, much-neglected talk on 'less-actives' and being offended, and speaking during the combined Relief Society/Priesthood meeting about the PBS documentary recently shown on Polish TV, then Branch council, a meeting with the missionaries, and hopefully two home teaching visits.

Well, that 6:15 train was really a 6:11 train and me missing it by 3 minutes was compounded by the near 35-minute wait from my first call to the taxi company to the arrival at the train station (something that usually takes 10 to 12 minutes took 20 minutes longer than usual). So missing that train made an already long trip even longer. Leaving my house at 5:45 (I'm counting it from there even though the taxi didn't come for those 20 minutes), the soonest I could make it back to Lodz was 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. That means 5 hours too late for my talk, 3 hours too late for my combined meeting talk, 2 hours too late for Branch council, and no-real-sleep-for-2-days-aside-from-the-15-minutes-here-and-there-in-the-all-night-cafe-and-the-train-station too late for the home teaching (plus I didn't even really confirm one of the visits). I did end up doing one visit, but I gave up on the other, and decided to count the one I did do even though I was alone.

However, Ashley had had a rough few days as well and I'm more selfish than any of you know (even if you think you do), so even though she had agreed to go get my colon-cleansing medication from the pharmacy (which had to be special ordered at the last minute on Saturday because the original medication was discontinued and I had to have it on Sunday for my 8:00 a.m. colonoscopy on Monday, so that's why we had to get it on the sabbath—though the ordeal did lead to two discussions about the church and my doctor promised to watch the PBS film on 'The Mormons'... but he's also promised to do a lot of other things that haven't happened), I decided to go get it after changing my shirt and putting on some deodorant.

And on the way back from the pharmacy is where our story begins.

I was walking back when, about a block from our apartment, I saw a man who appeared to be drunk. A couple tried to pass him and their glance at me confirmed my suspicion. As they walked by, he stepped into the street, missing a speeding car by less than a foot. In my weakened state, I tried to keep my head down and walk by quickly, but I noticed that on top of his drunkenness, his face had been cut by glass recently, the cuts still fresh with blood. I heard him start to yell as I passed, but I tried not to pay any attention as I've learned from experience that such situations only get worse when you acknowledge them. I hoped he was talking to someone else, as his language was foul and tone violent. I heard the phrases, "Who do you think you are?" and "What do you think you're looking at?" decorated with obscenities, while I walked all the faster. I heard him behind me with heavier steps that muffled his words. I finally heard "What are you, Jehovah!?" I turned back to make sure he was following me, and he in turn started pursuing me even more vigorously.

Instead of out and out running from him (I thought that would only make him madder), I thought I might diffuse the situation. "Excuse me? Can I help you, sir? Is there something wrong?" He started swearing so much at this point that the only words I understood were "you" and "oh you." Not wanting to run, I'm sure I looked silly with my bag of medication, switching between an intense speed walk and a light jog. I think this man was too drunk to run, but I could hear his pounding steps behind me.

Suddenly two girls, who I thought were asking me for a light, stopped me and asked what I was doing to their friend. Both of them, drunk as well, pushed me up against the fence. I started to say, "I don't know your friend, I don't know what's wrong with him" when I was interrupted by the man, who had finally caught up to me, and he promptly head butted me in the face. I pushed him away from me and he grabbed my bag of medication, ripping it in two. He then punched me twice in the face and then once in the neck. I pushed him away twice more and he finished with one more punch to the stomach. I'm sure I said much more in the middle, but the only thing I remember concretely, as I picked up the torn bag, my receipts, and medication, was repeating, "I don't know you. I've never seen you. I don't know you."

Now the man wasn't a trained fighter and drunks are never at the top of their game, but I can't remember ever being punched in the face before. (This is especially interesting considering the post I just wrote about how Latter-day Saints should be interested in Fight Club). After I walked away, the only sensation that lingered was shock and a little adrenaline. (Though there was a couple with a baby passing by whom I warned not to go down that way but they ignored me, assuming that I too was drunk. I realized people saw the whole thing and did nothing.)

I don't have any cuts or bruises, and, if anything, it wasn't nearly as exciting as the four liters of diarrhea juice I drank later that night. But it still makes for a good story, and so much so that the 74-year-old woman I went home teaching to an hour later decided to walk me back home, just so I'd be safe.