New York: tips, taxes and cleansing

"Excuse me, are you Jewish?" the random stranger asked.

"No," I responded.

"Ok."

And that was that. Why? What? I have no idea.

I am aware of the large Jewish community within New York but is this a common curiosity? What if I had said yes?

Apple: this is actually outside the Apple store in Madrid. I forgot to take such a photo in New York so this will do

I found the locals pretty friendly, if a little confused. I was looking for the nearest subway station one day and a guy directed me towards the sandwich chain. On another occasion, when looking for something, it was suggested that I take four rights in a row, which made me realise I would end up in the same place I started.

Going back to the subway, New Yorkers seemed to be as confused as tourists when it came to the network. I guess with the simple grid system, maybe it is better to just walk.

What? You don't have a Chocolate by the Bald Man in your town?

During my time in New York I was constantly tempted to make comparisons with London. Definitely the locals are friendlier Stateside, even if their sense of direction is not great. Another significant difference is the number of people speaking English on the street. Almost everyone, at least in downtown Manhatten, is conversing in this language, as opposed to the centre of London, where there are more languages on offer than any other city in the world.

Moving on, Williamsburg, in the borough of Brooklyn, was visited for a night out. Now this district is well known for its hipster element. But it doesn't seem pretentious. In fact, the healthy smoothies and Starbucks aside, I didn't find too much pretense to NY at all.

This neighbourhood proved to be a top night out, particularly a large German bar whose name escapes me, but where the large beers flowed.

This brings me to my next topic of confusion: the tipping and taxing. Something may start off at $3, but will wind up costing you $5. Why? Nobody really knows. It comes under the guise of tips and taxes, but it applies to absolutely everything. From nights out to shopping, from food and drink to electric cables. The price is never quite what it initially seems.

Cleansing: never really given it that much thought

On the topic of those fruit smoothies, in one such store I noticed this curious advert above. A cleanse coach? Curious... Not sure if that is a cool profession. Imagine the scene at the bar...

Hot girl: "Hi, what do you do for a living?"

Guy: "I'm a cleanse coach."

Girl: "Really? What's your expertise?"

Guy: "Colons."

What a job?!? Do you think the girl thinks 'wow' I want to get to know this guy more. Is it a 'cool' profession?

I think if there is one thing that sums up this city it is the phrase 'Only in New York'. Only here would you find such a profession. It is what makes this city both a bit crazy and alluring.

Pains, gains and bloody ordeals: Rio and Salvador

To follow on from my previous post, some may have thought I got a little over excited about meeting Andy Townsend but I think this boy's reaction to meeting the former Ireland midfield personifies over-reaction: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6nqZM5vhus

Anyway, I don't want to get bogged down in a Townsend wonderland so I'd better move on.

Move on indeed I did, to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil's former capital and number one tourist destination. Upon arriving I decided to take this shot which coincided with a significant tremor, either that or I decided to shake my head as much as I could whilst taking a selfie, I'll let you decide:

Shakin Stevens

Some may feel this to be a pointless exercise. I do not.

Anyway, when I arrived in Rio the local community were shaking in more ways than one as the Selecao (the Brazilian national team) scraped past Chile on penalties. The Brazilians sure know how to celebrate but if you thought my selfie was a waste of time, then surely setting off fireworks in broad daylight as my next video illustrates beats that for pointlessness: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vO_fV-bS6DQ

I had been in Brazil for ten days and had yet to buy a single souvenir so I thought it was about time I rectified this. I decided to buy something typically Brazilian, something that could only be bought here and would signify something to show the samba style of this great nation: a nude Betty Boop keyring.

Betty Oops

Following the shenanigans in the aftermath of the host nation's thrilling second round victory against Chile, I thought I would try and get a ticket for Colombia - Uruguay in the Maracana. However, as I exited the metro beside the great stadium there was a line of police who were happy to manhandle anyone who didn't have a ticket for the game. As a result, I was manhandled and took my sorry self back to town.

No caption required

On the Sunday I visited the Copacabana fan fest for the first time for the Mexico - Holland game and returned again for Belgium - USA the following day. Both were great experiences and I was really unsure who to support for the latter game. I finally made my mind up as I entered the fanzone to the chants of 'Go USA'. I decided this was a nauseating experience that I didn't wish to repeat as the tournament went on and was pleased as the Belgians emerged 2-1 winners.

Go USA, the FIFA fanfest in Rio

Next stop Salvador, in the north east of Brazil.

On the Wednesday, halfway through my trip, I flew to Salvador and found this amusing sign on the seat in front of me:

A photo

I don't know why it amused me so. Little things amuse little minds I guess. I'm sure you'll figure it out.

I went on a walking tour whilst in Salvador and discovered that investing in property here might not be the best of ideas. The sign that adorned this building roughly translates as 'Danger: risk of collapsing'.

Not funny

Sadly, there is very little funny about this, especially when you discover families are still inhabiting these buildings.

Something else that wasn't funny was the feeling I had on the day of the Holland Costa Rica game that took place in Salvador. En route to the stadium I decided to buy a coconut. However, this coconut, let's say, did not agree with me and meant I had to make an emergency dash to a toilet that could easily be described as Brazil's worst toilet. But needs must. I was desperate.

In this photo I thought I was showing the coconut who's boss, little did I know what was to lie in store just moments later. Look at the faces of the riot police, they thought it was funny. Just look at their faces. Look, I know you will.

The coconut and I in happier times

Moving swiftly on, there is an unfair stereotype about the Brazilians not working hard enough, particularly the man on the street, but as the following photo testifies, nothing could be further than the truth:

Men at work

The mirth and merriment continued as we reached the semi finals and the 7-1 thrashing Germany inflicted upon Brazil. With every goal that went in I laughed. It's not that I dislike the country, its people or even necessarily its football team.

But there was something a little uncomfortable about the way the people of this great nation would frequently point to the five stars on their shirts (signifying their five world cup wins) when it was suggested there were big problems with football in their country when they were relying on Fred and Hulk to win them a World Cup. They got their comeuppance.

At the final whistle I thought it was best to return immediately to my hotel for fear of trouble. This proved to be a wise decision when I discovered the next day that another resident in the hotel had had parts of two of her fingers chopped off just metres from the residence, and this was at the reasonable hour of 20:30. Whether her other five digits were in the air in a celebratory manner at the time is unknown but the people of Salvador didn't need much provocation that night.

7 (seven) - 1: front page news

Following this harrowing defeat it was time to catch my umpteenth flight of the tournament and, like all the rest, it was significantly delayed. Well, no worries as it was the weekend of the final and I was pleased to be heading back to Rio.

On the Friday night I went to a club near the Copacabana which was celebrating what can only be described as a sausage fest, or a dude fest as an acquaintance of mine said. I swear, if there were more than 5 girls in the nightclub that housed around 300, I would be amazed. And no, it wasn't a gay club. At least I don't think it was. This was just the 'World Cup Factor'.

Rio nightclub on the eve of the World Cup final

On the Saturday it was back to the Copacabana and here is a great shot, which I didn't take, of the country's most famous beach:

Not bad

Unfortunately, there are sour sides to this tournament, and not just the dangers of walking home late at night. The extreme poverty whilst just metres away lies western middle class exuberance is best summed up in this photo, which I may or may not have taken myself:

This is not me on a bench

On the day of the final I decided to go back to the Copacabana to watch the game but this time to the side of the fanfest nearer the sea. Too near, in fact. I got my trainers wet (I know, I should've worn flip flops).

In fact, the trainers were a part of the most crucial decision of the day. What to wear. In the end I went for this charming little number:

Trainers? Check. Shorts? Check. Marilyn Monroe T-shirt? Check. Comedy glasses? Check.

The main benefit of going beside the fanfest rather than actually in it was the cost of the alcohol. I took 12 cans of beer and managed to conveniently plonk myself beside a guy selling caipirinhas who nicely put them in his ice box for me, on the proviso that I bought a couple of his cocktails. Done.

Also, despite the sea of Argentinians I managed to get a decent view of the screen. Talking of the Argies, I loved the song they were singing disparagingly to their Brazilian counterparts that went to the tune of Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival. A little surreal, yes. I never knew Creedence were so big in Latin America. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtYY5zOg5kI

Sadly for Messi and co this song wasn't enough to push them over the line and they lost in extra time to Germany. Still, I got lucky and managed to sell my two remaining beers to a desperate German for a tidy profit.

At the final whistle, a couple of fights broke out. The first was a mass brawl which I managed to avoid. The second took an interesting twist when a local pulled out a pistol which promptly ended the fighting to calls of 'OK, you win'.

Paper, scissors, pistol

I decided to finish my Rio experience with a trip to Lapa, the notorious area of the city for street parties, to discover the street party of all street parties. People from all four corners of the globe were at hand, including this lovely Peruvian couple who were happy to have this photo with me:

Peruvians? Quick, photo, photo, photo

The delightful thing about this World Cup was this was a tournament for everyone, not just for those nations that had qualified and the Peruvians seemed to be enjoying it as much as anyone else. In fact, you could argue this was a Latin American World Cup in terms of support. More than 100,000 Argentinians were in Rio for the final, camped out, staying in cars, sleeping on the beach, whatever they could. Compare this to less than 1000 that travelled to Japan in 2002 and you catch my drift.

Unfortunately, I cannot end this blog on a positive note or this would not seem like a typical travel blog of mine so I am going to bring your attention to one of the dark arts of Brazil: never have I experienced taxi drivers as bad as in this country. Congratulations Brazil, you have the worst taxi drivers in the world. Sometimes they won't take you as your required destination is not lucrative enough, other times they will take you but will rip you off by charging you an extortionate rate or by taking an elongated route.

However, the worst aspect had to be their lack of local knowledge. More often than not, they were relying on passers by or, worse, me for directions around South America's second largest city. Bastards.

When I finally got back to my hostel I was greeted by this sight and I would like to leave you with that as it was my final memory of the World Cup that was Brazil 2014. The World Cup of all World Cups. A good time was had by all, even if we won't necessarily remember all of it:

Drunk

Not as sinister as it looks: Sao Paulo and Belo Horizonte

First the flight. I was a slightly more nervous passenger than normal due to the poor condition of my passport but thankfully the Brazilian authorities were about as attentive as an England defender and let me pass just as easily as Phil Jagielka and co.

Seen better days

Actually, my nerves were eased by a few beers in Munich en route and then by meeting a lovely Brazilian on the flight to Sao Paulo who proceeded to teach me some much needed Portuguese, the most memorable of which was 'safadinha' which I think roughly translates to slut/tart. Much needed in the weeks ahead no doubt.

This is ostensibly a travel blog so I won't bore you with too much football talk but this is my fourth World Cup and this one, like with the previous two, England went out within 48 hours of my arrival. Stop coming one England fan told me.

Mind you, given the condition of Steven Gerrard it was hardly a surprise that England exited at the group stage for the first time in 357 years.

Captain Fat-tastic

First stop, Sao Paulo. Stayed for five days and the nightlife was great, daytime was fairly underwhelming and I am expecting better things for the rest of my trip.

Going to Ibirapuera park was one of my brief highlights but mainly brought about by this unusual statue.

Bestiality?

I am sure that something very suspicious is about to happen to this pig but I can't quite put my finger on it. I will let you decide.

Anyway, Sao Paulo is good place to top up the carbs as they love to serve meat dishes with large amounts of both rice and chips as this hearty lunch illustrates.

Filling

Anyway, enough of this boring cultural stuff about statues and culinary delights, I'm in danger of this sounding like a serious travel blog. I need to sprinkle some stardust on an otherwise boring blog so thank goodness I bumped into ITV's Andy Townsend (also former Norwich City, Chelsea and Aston Villa midfielder) in Belo Horizonte, my next stop on my World Cup tour.

I say bumped into, it was actually more a case of jogging past as he laboured on his morning run I sprinted past him like an opposing player used to all to frequently in his playing days. And to think he was the engine room of the Irish national side for the best part of a decade. There I was making him look like the has been he is. Though you wouldn't know it from the cheeky grin he gave me. Good lad.

Man about town

While we're talking international greats, next stop Ronaldo. Not Cristiano but the fat one who is surely a part of the most appropriate advertising campaign for this World Cup. He's advertising biscuits.

The Fat Ron

For my first night in Belo Horizonte I went for the MTV presenter look and I think I pulled it off quite well.

Brahma in hand

There were two shockingly bad things I witnessed in Belo Horizonte. One was a Brazilian guy being given a good seeing to by the local police. Twenty policemen with bats and one guy without a bat suggests only one winner. But why they kept bashing him when he was on the ground pleading for mercy beggars belief.

The other shocking thing was the English national side who at least had the good grace to recognise the supporters who made the trip in the vain hope of some on the pitch success.

Appreciation but still rubbish

Oh well, at least the locals know how to party and they love their beer. The beer was certainly flowing at the house party I went to as we watched Brazil thrash Cameroon 4-1. Notice the local delicacy Pao de Quejo (Cheese pastry balls) in the centre of the picture.

Beer and cheesy balls

And before anyone starts to think this trip is just about beer, football and pastries (as good as that may sound), I appreciated the art on offer too. 

Art

A doll's head and severed leg, some mash potato, a plastic glove and a paint brush. Just another day at the museum of modern art. Well, actually it was on a pub wall, but art is art.

And at the end of a tiring day doing all these great things there's nothing better than relaxing in front of the tv with Brazil's best beer, Paulistania, and watching the football. 

Odd socks

What? Why travel 6000 miles and do what you could do at home? Because how else would I bother you with inane blogs like this.

Hoyos del Espino

The Goat

Barcelona has Sagrada Familia, London has Big Ben, New York has the Statue of Liberty and, not to be outdone by these illustrious cities, Hoyos del Espino has a goat as its primary monument. And what a goat it is too. To discover where, why and how you only need to speak to a local. The fact that I didn't bother to do so probably explains why you won't find the answer in this blog.

I did, however, manage to catch up with Maria de la Verdad, who would prefer to remain anonymous, but I have taken the liberty to name and shame. She recently moved here from Madrid. Not by choice, though. No, she left the fiesta, the tapas and the dizzy heights of the nation's capital to teach English here at the local school due to enforced circumstances. She makes the 180 kilometers journey home to Madrid every weekend as she goes in search of life.

Speaking to the children is a challenge in itself as their homes are more like zoos than places in which to live, given the long lists of animals they possess.

I wonder if this place should be twinned, somehow, with Swafield.

Sandwiched between Avila and Plasencia like an unwanted sundried tomato, Hoyos del Espino lives up to all expectations as I didn't have any before I arrived.

I did go for a hike in the nearby mountains which was nice.

Then I got the bus to Madrid.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Seven: the return jouney

With the game and my time in Warsaw at an end it was time to make my return journey. Well, I say return journey, I only had to get to Milan as I had a flight from there to Santander. And I say I only had to get to Milan, actually I had a train from Zurich to Milan, and a car from near the Polish/German border through the car sharing website Mitfahrgelegenheit. If you are still with me, great. If you're not, don't worry. Basically, what this meant was I 'only' had to hitchhike from Warsaw to Wroclaw, in the west of Poland.

I say 'only' as I was surprised at how arduous the journey turned out, given Poland's positive reputation regarding hitchhiking.

My best friends turned out to be truck drivers. I think every journey, bar the last one, was via this means of transport.

Despite my lack of Polish, some of the drivers were very helpful. They even negotiated on my behalf via their walkie talkies and, on one occasion, a driver dropped me off before immediately being picked up by the next.

Sadly, my journey was rarely this productive and most of the time it was hours, rather than minutes, between each trip.

Anyway, there is little else to report other than the it took me 15 hours to travel less than 400 kilometres.

I have to say, the overwhelming feeling once in Wroclaw was that of relief. Job done. When or whether I undertake such a journey again is questionable. What was not in doubt is that this was an experience I won't be forgetting in a hurry.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Six: pole position in Poland

Cheese fondue: easily the warmest thing in Switzerland

It took a while to find a friendly, helpful local (though some people live in Switzerland for more than six months before they have such luck so I should be grateful for small mercies) but eventually I did. He was willing to help and offered to take me to the nearest city. Unfortunately, that happened to be Lausanne and was six kilometres in the opposite direction to which I wanted to go.

A decision had to be made. And with time of the essence, I decided to accept his offer and then take a train to Zürich. Once there, I was confident of getting a seat in a car with mitfahgelegenheit, the German carpooling website, for the short journey to Munich. Failing that, I could always get the train but that was a more expensive option.

I enjoyed lunch in Zürich and managed to get a lift with a German girl through the aforementioned website. She was happy to talk but, after the border, I could no longer keep my eyes open and I drifted off to sleep.

At one stage I woke up and she was talking to me. I just responded with a couple of yeses and nodded straight back off to sleep.

I awoke in Munich, thanked her for the trip, and got on the metro in the city and raced towards the meeting point, prior arranged with my driver to Warsaw. I was panicking slightly, as I had texted him a couple of times without response. Thankfully he was at the meeting point and we were on our way at breakneck speed towards the Polish capital. Breakneck was an understatement. I asked him if he was familiar with Robert Kubicka, the Polish Formula One driver. He said of course in that inimitable Polish style. I said he made him appear slow.

Anyway, at this rate I was going to have little trouble making the next night's match. In fact, my new Polish friend was going to the match too.

We arrived in Warsaw at around two in the morning. He said, where exactly did I want to go? I said I don't know, somewhere with internet so I can book a hostel. He (sorry, I can't remember his name) said I could use his. Once inside his house he offered me his couch and I was one very happy bunny.

I woke up the next morning, had a shower and was just booking a hostel as my host said to me: "you can go now!" I thought, fair enough. I have used and abused his services enough and I was eternally grateful. I bid him farewell and chuckled to myself at the honesty of his statement in the morning as I hastily departed.

Warsaw: the stadium in all its glory, and in sunshine

I checked into my hostel, proceed to have a couple of beers and headed to the match. Once inside the stadium, I was astonished to find the kick off had been delayed due to a downpour. Initially, by an hour and, ultimately, by 24 hours.

Warsaw: so the closed the roof, of course, with the sun blazing outside

All that rushing, all that carry-on, and there was no need. The absurdity was even greater as the stadium had a roof. But they couldn't close it. Why? Because it was raining. To be fair, the locals were mightily embarrassed and when the game was played the next day, in bright sunshine, the roof was closed. Naturally. Welcome to Poland: the land of the illogical.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Five: pulling rabbis out of hats

God's ear: a rabbi points the way to Geneva

I didn't have to wait long before I was on my way again, this time thanks to, you've guessed it, a rabbi.

I asked him if he spoke English. He said "non" so the initial conversation was conducted in French. He appeared so horrified by my attempts that suddenly he managed to muster some English. And it was more than adequate for us to converse until we got to Geneva.

"Are you married?" he asked

From anyone else I would've interpreted this as being a little forward but this was coming from someone who had God's ear, though obviously not Jesus's.

"No," I replied.

"You should marry someone who likes to travel."

"And someone with a car," I mused.

He didn't laugh. I decided to put it down to the language barrier.

"Have you felt the presence of God on this journey?" said the inquisitive rabbi.

"Between Brive-la-Gaillarde and Lyon, quite possibly. But the rest I'm not so sure," I responded.

Not even a smirk was apparent from my driver. Perhaps I was being too smug, particularly for someone whose life was in someone else's hands.

In the blink of an eye Geneva was upon us and I was seeking my next lift. I headed to the lake and sought a trip to Lausanne, or perhaps, if I was to be lucky, Zürich.

A young lad soon pulled up and took me a couple of kilometres to a petrol station where I met a Swiss-French guy who I imposed myself upon.

At first I thought he was going to take me to Lausanne, then Basel seemed to be possible. However, we couldn't communicate in a language either of us understood and, eventually, he dropped me off at a petrol station about six kilometres past Lausanne.

Sadly, the next stroke of luck didn't occur for quite some time. My evening was spent residing in a phone box in an attempt to keep warm, as the gas station was closed and about two cars came through all night.

There was one chink of light, though: I managed, through the wonders of technology, to book a seat in a car through mitfahrgelegentheit (a carpooling website) from Munich to Warsaw. I just needed to get to the Bavarian city by 17:00 to catch that lift. Possible, but I needed a helping hand and this was, on current form, not forthcoming.

I was just ticking off the minutes, which took all night unsurprisingly, until the cafeteria adjacent to the station opened.

When it did I must have asked about 100 people for a lift to Basel, Bern or Zürich but no-one seemed interested in my plight. It was also surprising how few people spoke either English or German, particularly as the latter is one of Switzerland's official languages.

After a further 90 minutes passed by I decided to speed up my journey by taking a step back, to take two steps forward. After all, I had to be in Warsaw within 36 hours.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Four: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France, but this time near Switzerland

Rain

The English. That was the first surprise I encountered. But not the jolly, friendly English. No. The middle class, pompous, bigoted 'we've hired a people carrier in southern France' kind of English.

Mind you, I was finding it hard to disguise my hidden agenda.

Anyway, once they were swiftly encountered I moved onto my next target. A French lady who was stood at the bar in the cafeteria. Sadly, pleasant though she was, she was heading in the wrong direction, towards Bordeaux. Tempting though it was to turn round and give up on my adventure to return home, I declined her offer of a lift.

Moreover, my luck was just about to take a turn for the better.

Just outside the cafeteria and near the exit of the gas station, a driver-by asked me: "Where are you off to?"

"Lyon," I responded, though I wanted to go further. In fact, for a joke, I wanted to say Warsaw but then maybe my abstract sense of humour might be lost on the French. Actually, it tends to be lost on the English too. So much so that I am beginning to doubt whether I have a sense of humour at all.

No matter.

Rain

"And where are you off to?" I continued.

"Lyon," came the welcome response. "Let's go," the driver said in near perfect English.

The next few hours flew by (slight exaggeration) in the midst of a conversation about linguistics in which I was largely out of my depth. Nevermind. I bluffed my way through it.

He (I can't remember his name, probably Pierre) dropped me off at a petrol station just the other side of Lyon and I awaited my next stroke of luck.

And yet more rain

There was free internet so I used and abused this service until just after 8 o'clock when the station closed. I was soon on my way again when another man took me further in the direction of Geneva. He had just dropped off his daughter who was returning to university. That is all I can remember from the one hour journey, apart from the fact that the spitting rain turned into an avalanche of rain.

Now I guess you are wondering, if you are still with me at this point, where the rabbi and Robert Kubicka come into play. Well, you will have to read the next excerpt. Oh, what a tease.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Three: Somewhere in France to somewhere else in France

Hitchhiking: a BMW 4x4 without a latte or a chubby guy

Once again I didn't have to wait long. A young lady picked me up after a five minute wait and I was on my way once more. These toll booths were proving to be a resounding success.

The French woman (I can't remember where she was from) took me about 50 kms (I can't remember exactly how far) to a place that I can't remember.

It was on a road in southern France if that helps. Anyway, it wasn't a toll booth. And there were a lot of Renaults and Peugeots about. The next vehicle to take me on my journey was a 4x4 BMW and I went half hour down the road to the next péage (toll booth in French, I'm struggling for synonyms).

The guy was both chubby and moody. And he had a latte on the go. A bit cliché, I know, but I was in France ya know and he wasn't wearing a hooped jersey, wearing a beret eating snails.

After him this memorable experience I got picked up by a couple in their fifties who spoke good English and were former hitchhikers themselves. They told me about their own tales and they had great empathy with my plight. The only thing missing from our conversation was a campfire but this wouldn't have been practical in the back of a Renault Clio so we decided against it.

They took me to a gas station where I was in for a big surprise. I bet you can't wait to find out...

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part Two: Biarritz to somewhere in southern France

I waited just twenty minutes for my next driver but this time he took me just a couple of kilometres up the road. He dropped me at a toll station, which I figured could be a good place to hitch from due to the slow moving traffic I was trying to hail down. Five hours later I began to review this belief. I spoke to several drivers but all seemed to be heading back towards Spain and not Bordeaux, my next destination.

I trudged back to the town centre of Biarritz and bought a train ticket to the aforementioned French city, sleeping all the way.

Once in Bordeaux I managed to access free wifi at the train station and checked out what hitchwiki had to say regarding a good location to hitch from. I made my way there and got picked up by a guy en route. He dropped me outside an amazing bakery.

There I had mixed fortunes. Great food but I waited two hours in drizzling rain. To add to my chagrin, plenty of people pulled over, only to dash both into the bakery and my hopes too.

When I was eventually picked up I was taken 15kms into the direction of Lyon, the destination that at this stage I hoped to reach by sundown (excuse the cowboy terminology). Sadly, I was, naively on my part, dumped on the hard shoulder of the highway. Just seconds later it began to rain… incessantly.

Luckily the downpour lasted less than ten minutes and I managed to find a toll station once more. I never thought the sight of these road payment stations would be so welcome.

I waited less than five minutes for my next lift. An eccentric lady in her early 60s, who had half of Kew Gardens in the back of her car, managed to make enough room for me to squeeze in beside her (steady).

What was pleasantly surprising was her standard of English - extremely high. And she took me almost 60 kms to the next set of toll booths so I was starting to make some headwind with just over 48 hours until kick off in Warsaw.

From a rabbi to Robert Kubicka: A hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy (well, Spain, France, Switzerland and Poland) Part One: Santander to Biarritz

As first experiences go, there was no lack of effort as I attempted to hitch from Santander to Warsaw in three days.

As I left home on Saturday afternoon with my board with the words ‘Bilbao/San Sebastian’ blatantly inscribed on it, little did I know what was in store for me.

Using the website hitchwiki.com, which has plenty of useful suggestions, I headed for a gas station on the way out of my current hometown, Santander, in the direction of the Basque country.

How could I best describe the feeling after the three hours that followed? Forlorn. Dejected. You get the gist of it. I didn’t move one centimetre. In fact, there were ants that had made more progress than I had. And it wasn’t for the lack of trying. I made all sorts of comical gestures as the traffic raced by - imitating flashing lights, pulling faces and a variety of other childish manoeuvres.

After three hours of no success I made my way to the bus station, with a sense of failure, to get a bus to the border, and then try and hitch from there.

I got to the border town of Irun at around midnight and was picked up within an hour for my first official hitchhiking experience. A young lad, about 22, was my driver and, though I speak no French, it soon became apparent he wanted me to drive. Why? I have no idea but maybe you can work it out. I said I didn’t have my license with me and therefore it may be a bit risky to do so. He kept saying ‘Policia’ to me but I have no idea what he meant by that. Was he suspecting me for being a police officer? Did he want me to drive so he couldn’t get caught for something? Or did he somehow know that ‘Message in a bottle’ was number one on the day I was born?

Whatever it was, I was gripped to my seat throughout the 20km journey he took me on to Biarritz due to the scary nature of his driving.

Anyway, we got there in one piece and he dropped me off at the train station and I went in search of my next driver.

Wrocław - Come here!

Why? Because they said so. And when a Pole tells you: ‘Chodz du’, you do it. The tone is unmistakably firm and is in stark contrast to the much more friendly ‘Dzień Dobry’ (good morning/good day) as you enter most shops, bars and restaurants.

In fact, this warm welcome gives you a false sense of security as everything that follows is not repeated in such dulcet tones.

As for 'Chodź tu', no-one is spared. From an errant child to an innocent passer by, never mind dogs. All obey as they dare not confront someone who utters these words.

Even the elderly are warned to ignore it at their peril. Especially the wheelchair ones!

Anyway, I digress, where am I? Ah yes, Wrocław in Poland. Or Breslau as the Germans call it, and they are never slow to remind you that the town used to belong to them before they came second in World War II.

Which brings me nicely to Poland’s favourite topic. Moaning. The Russians are the first to get in the neck, then it’s the Germans. The Ukrainians are not overly popular. Nor are the British or the Spanish.

The Americans are not liked. Why? It all comes down to the visa scenario. Apparently what bothers them most is that our friends from over the pond don’t require a visa to visit Poland, yet it is not reciprocated. Oh well, there’s no pleasing some.

Anyway, I’m not really too sure who the Polish are keen on. Ah yes, the Monty Pythons. They like them.

Thus far, it sounds like I am not painting a particularly nice picture of my Polish experience in Wrocław yet, as the weeks unfolded, I discovered a depth to the locals that was not apparent upon arrival.

The harsh tones of the people of this western Polish city are soon got used to and actually begin to amuse after a while, particularly when being berated in the supermarket for choosing the wrong sized trolley.

In addition, some of the early frustrations with organisation begin to dissipate when you begin to see the funny side.

Take the coffee machine experience, for example:

Me: Does this coffee machine work?

Polish person: Yes... it should...

Typical Polish response.

In Germany they would just say: Yes, of course it does. 

And in the UK they would say: No bloody idea.

Then you factor in the pleasant streets, the overall safety of the town in comparison to other Eastern European cities and you begin to appreciate Wrocław all the more.

Even the trams and buses are pretty reliable. There is one tram, the 32plus, which puzzled me throughout my stay. What was the plus all about? Did you get free vodka on board? No. Were there heated seats to keep you from the Polish cold? No. Was it something even more special? Most definitely not.

Then I thought, what was the regular 32 like? It must feel so inadequate in comparison to its illustrious rival.

Seriously, you can’t just go giving out pluses willy-nilly. These should be prestigious awards.

I do have one other bone of contention, though. No matter how many times I visited football pitches, longing for an invitation to be involved, it was never forthcoming. I guess the Polish are friendly, but not that friendly.

Oh well, at least the women looked good!