The week just gone started with a job interview in a little town 200kms south of Warsaw namely, Tarnobrzeg, population 49,419.  I left home at 7:30am to catch a metro bus to Dworzec Zachodni.  'Dworzec' is Polish for 'station' and this is where I was to catch the bus for a 4 hour journey to Tarnobrzeg.

The local bus stop is a 2 minute walk from home and I caught the 7:40am bound for Dworzec Zachodni.  The first few stops went smoothly, however 5 minutes into the normally 35 minute trip, I did not count on congested peak-hour traffic.  I checked the list of bus stops which I had written down on a scrap bit of paper earlier that morning, one method I use to help me navigate Poland on an unfamiliar bus or tram route.  We'd only moved 2 of the 14 stops!  Turning onto a major freeway was an ordeal and bumper-to-bumper all the way to Dworzec Zachodni, arriving 45 minutes later at 8:25am.  The bus to Tarnobrzeg was due to leave at 8:30am.  I had the feeling that Polish bus drivers would be unforgiving of any late comers.  Add to the equation not having been to this particular location before and not knowing where exactly to catch this other bus from.

I dismounted the metro bus with 4 minutes 59 seconds to spare.  The lady who hopped off the bus in front of me started running, so I did too.  I wasn't sure where I was running but my feeling was to follow this lady, so I did.

We ran down a flight of stairs, turning right, down another set of stairs and through an underpass, dodging a generous smattering of morning commuters and travelers left and right.  Passing little kiosks that sell newspapers and tobacco, a bakery and a ticket window office I was still following her up a flight of stairs.  Now we were on the other side of the underpass.  At the top of the stairs the day light revealed a train platform.  With not a moment to lose, I quickly turned and ran down the stairs again, turning left toward the direction from which I ran, leaving the Running Lady on her own.  About half way back, I darted up the first set of stairs on my left.  Thank Mother Nature I had spent countless hours back home training at the gym before I left.  I was running with ease.  The top of the stairs, a dirt footpath and half a dozen buses.

I dashed from bus to bus, trying to recognise any signage.  Nothing.  No distinguishable writing eluding to the destination of the first few buses so without thinking I bounded onto the first bus, shoved my printed ticket into the face of the driver and asked 'yes?'  The bus driver studied the ticket, ran his hand over his beard, breathed in and out loudly through over-grown nostril hair, as only the older generation can do and shook his head without looking at me.

The next bus driver was a little more helpful, pointing behind him and muttering something in Polish I could not understand and let's face it, if anyone says anything in Polish to me other than the following words: yes, no, please, thank you, good, apartment, window or sweet pastry item then I am screwed.

Third bus 8:29am.  Paper ticket in bus driver's face.  He took it, looked at it, then scrutinised his clip board with squinted eyes.  Down the list I could see my name.  I pointed to it.  He crossed it off and I sighed with relief as though I had  killed the last zombie of a 48-hour zombie killing spree in a zombie apocalypse with only me and one other survivor, played by Bear Grills.

I collapsed into my bus seat and got comfy with my phone-cum-mp3 player and earphones and 5 minutes later the bus was pulling out of Dworzec Zachodni with only 6 other passengers on board.  I settled in for what would hopefully be a smooth and pleasant trip through the Polish countryside, staring longingly out the window at apple trees, quaint farm cottages made of dark brown almost black wood or red brick with white windows, plump brown cows, plush green rolling hills and the occasional farmer and his wife plowing the Polish fields while I lay back in the red velour seat.

Earlier in the morning and the previous day I had experienced what I like to diplomatically describe as 'a funny tummy'.  I can only put it down to eating some of mama's fruit compote drink - deliciously fruity but with copious amounts of fruity fibre - and home made pickled gherkins, the best I've ever tasted in my limited pickled gherkin tasting career.  Not twenty minutes into the trip I started to stir.  Looking behind me, I get out of my seat to head to the toilet but stop dead in my tracks.  There is no toilet on this bus!  I look around, above me in the luggage racks, under the seat and to the front of the bus.  I'm not sure if I'm expecting to see a WC in any of these locations but good sense has gone out the window.  What kind of a bus doesn't have a toilet on a FOUR HOUR TRIP!?!

I spend the next three hours barely noticing the scenery through the bus window as my body goes through waves of agony.  The pain passes and I am ok once more but then before too long I am fighting again, just like in the zombie apocalypse when you think the worst has passed and you've massacred the last zombie, suddenly from nowhere there's another zombie.  And another and another!  "Brraaaiiiiins!"

I pray I will be ok.  I text a friend, requesting that he too pray to Allah for my bowel's safe-keeping and that I survive this trip without shitting myself.  Literally, seriously.  I wonder if I should stop the bus, ask the bus driver for 'toaleta?'  Surely he would not mind.  It would be in the best interests of everyone.  But the pain subsides again and I feel that for now, I am ok.  The zombies are under control.

Before too long it becomes unbearable and just as I decide I will attempt to ask the bus driver to stop at the nearest toilet, the bus pulls into a service station and a passenger boards the bus.  Thinking we are stopping for refreshments, I am walking up to the driver as he starts to close the door and pull away.  "Noo!"  I say, "Toaleta?"
"Toaleta?" replies the driver.
"Toaleta!" I say.
The bus driver says something like "Przsyz nwdzczysczy czyczy następny piec minuta sprzdż" and I recognise this word, 'minuta'.  It's a no brainer.  It means 'minute'.  I hold up my hand with five fingers spread and ask "in five minutes?"  He replies, nodding his head "Przsyz nwdzczysczy czyczy następny piec minuta sprzdż".  

Sure enough my dependable bus driver pulls into a service station five minutes later.  I'm the first off the bus.  I was off the bus before the door had opened.  I opened the window above my seat and crawled out like some sort of contortionist with the worst case of Delhi belly known this side of the Kashmiri border.  Lucky for me I made it in time.  Unlucky for the other 6 ladies on the bus who were lined up after me to use the toaleta.  I read somewhere, jokingly that if you, quote "hadn't shit yourself somewhere publicly whilst travelling then you really hadn't travelled".  If that is the case then I'd much prefer to remain un-indoctrinated in the comfort of my home and never leave the house again.  Ever.

Alighting the bus once more the time is 11:45am and we're due to arrive in Tarnobrzeg at 12:20pm.  At last I can recline in the red velour and smile at the beautifully sunny day outside and the countryside as we make our way closer to my destination.  Superbly manicured farms and green rolling hills set to the backdrop of mountains in the distance.  You can hear the peace and quiet and feel the slower paced life.  We pass through a small village before arriving at Tarnobrzeg, where I'm greeted by the Director (and owner) of the school, Artur. 

The township of Tarnobrzeg is small but large enough and I'd say well-serviced.  The streets are mostly made with cobble stones.  Stepping out of the car and walking toward the school I can surely feel the slower pace of life in this country town.  Artur and I chat over tea for an hour and a half and he shows me the one-bedroom apartment that comes as a package deal with the teaching position.  The flat is cosy, actually bigger by comparison to most flats I've seen in Warsaw and is fully equipped with everything that a travelling teacher might need and want.  Some pictures on the wall, retro brown and orange furniture, a daggy avocado green lampshade that belongs in a hipster lounge bar in St.Kilda, Melbourne and naturally, central heating.  I say to Artur it's hard to imagine that on a glorious day like today with full sun and a temperature of 24 that a place like this gets so cold in winter.  He tells me it snowed early last year, in October. 

Driving back to the bus stop now for my return trip to Warsaw, Artur asks me if I was offered the teaching position in Tarnobrzeg would I accept.  In a round-about way I tell him I would seriously consider it and more than likely agree to take the role.

Before boarding the bus, I thanked Artur for the lift.  He shook my hand firmly saying it wasn't very often that teachers made the special effort to travel to Tarnobrzeg for an interview.  I felt pleased that I had.

Later the next night I check my emails and there's one from Artur.  He was offering me the teaching position and looking forward to a positive reply.   With a pros and cons list balanced in favour of accepting I emailed Artur the positive reply he was anticipating.  Tomorrow I book a one-way, destination Tarnobrzeg, population 49,420 and a genuine and humble desire to share the gift that is the English language.