Scanning the menu, I ordered the kaczka pikantna z warzywami (“spicy duck with vegetables”). Considering some of the other options, it was the best choice for a simple reason: all-you-can-eat situations wreak havoc on the psyche of the American male. Now we’d see if Poles could pull off what so many American restaurants (a certain mall-based chain with the word “panda” in its name being the foremost of these) failed to do.

They did.

Tangy, but not too spicy, the crispy meat of what used to be a waterfowl was neither doused in a slathering of sauce that was overly sweet nor as dry as the Sahara might be. The vegetables didn’t taste as if they’d previously been frozen and, to boot, the rice actually tasted like, well, rice. Even my hot chocolate (secret: spicy food actually compliments such beverages quite nicely) had an authentic kick to it.

I was amazed.

Cozy as the restaurant was, I knew I couldn’t stay forever if I was going to see more of Poznań. Loathe as I was to return to the unceasingly unpleasant elements, I headed outside. Thanks to John Paul II, Poland is now one of the most devoutly Catholic countries in Europe, and the evidence was everywhere: it didn’t seem possible to so much as swing a cat without hitting at least two churches, a Sunday school, and a local parish. But they added flavor to the city; plus, I hadn’t seen so many men walking about in black robes since I was in the Republic of Georgia.

My wanderings led me to the Old Market Square (Stary Rynek), one of the oldest parts of the city. The square was originally laid out around 1253, with each side divided into 16 equal plots. Major changes were made in 1550 by Giovanni Battista di Quadro, who reconstructed the Old Town Hall and several other buildings in the Renaissance style, as most had sustained severe damage following a fire in 1536. Boutiques and cafes cater to the large student population predominate today; it took all of my strength to resist the temptation to wander inside and ham it up with a shop owner or another barista. Curious as I was about what was hot in the world of Polish fashion, I did have a plane to catch later.

It was my first regret of the day. My second soon followed.

Navigating through a colony of pigeons on par with the crowds at the Hajj in Saudi Arabia, a strange sensation began to take hold of me: weariness. I was sleepy — really sleepy. It seemed all the hustle and bustle of the past few days was catching up with me.

But I was in a bind. I had neither time, nor money, for a hotel room, and it was just a little too wet to take a nap in the grass.

So I found the nearest place to rest where I wouldn’t become wetter than the audience at SeaWorld: a covered bus shelter in front of what, judging by the cross symbol, was a pharmacy. Setting my mobile phone alarm to go off in a couple of hours, I lay flat on the bench and shut my eyes. Darkness soon descended, the pitter-patter of the steady rain fading into the background.

Something jabbed into my side. Groggily, I opened my eyes.

Standing over me was a black-clad policeman. Tall and with a youngish face, he looked like he could have been me, were I to stop exercising and, well, if I were Polish.

Ugh, another encounter with the cops. And why did I feel so hung over?

At the police officer’s side was a long baton, and holstered on his right hip was unmistakably a gun. Yikes.

He said something to me in the stern tone I’d come to expect from Eastern European law enforcement. Past experience (see: mishaps in Lithuania that resulted from airport officials suspecting my passport may or may not have been a fake) taught me humor, or even pity, was a trait many of them usually did not possess. This one didn’t seem any different.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still a bit groggy. “I don’t speak Polish. Do you speak English? Oder Deutsch?”

“A little,” he said. That was a relief.

“Why are you sleeping here?” he demanded.

Uh, I was tired. What else was there to say? I explained as much to him, turning my bright “clueless foreigner” smile on as high as I could.

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?” I asked.

I turned to where he was pointing. In front of me was a sign which, though I couldn’t understand the Polish writing, clearly meant “no sleeping” thanks to its illustration. When did that go up?

I was at a crossroads. Run? The odds of this male version of Rosie O’Donnell catching me were slim. But he did have that walkie-talkie to call his friends with. How stupid would I look getting deported from the world’s more tolerant countries?

I decided to keep up with the inept visitor shtick. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I had no idea I couldn’t sleep here. I have a flight to Germany soon, you see, I was up all night yesterday, and I guess time just escaped me. Wild nights in Berlin, let me tell you, it’s like wildebeest and water buffalo.” My favorite expression usually succeeded in diffusing stressful situations.

The policeman was not smiling.

“Maybe next time you should get a room,” he said dryly.

I was tempted to tell him that maybe next time he should attend an open mic night.

There was an awkward silence between us, the tense kind that had nothing to do whatsoever with romantic attraction.

“Get out of here,” he ordered.

Understood; I ambled away in the direction I thought was the airport, at least if the airplane symbol on the signage was any indication. Wisps of light rain wafted past in irregular intervals, dampening my clothes as much as sweat had the night before.

Despite the grayness of the skies, I was struck by how colorful much of the architecture was. Pastel hues plastered the facades of buildings like tubs of sherbet in an ice cream parlor, obliterating previously held notions of Iron Curtain stereotypes. Why couldn’t Hollywood pick up on this trend? I decided then and there that if there were a major film set in the “new” Poland, I’d be among the first in line.

And I’d make sure not to fall asleep.

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