The Wild Wild East (or How I Lugged a Backpackful of Dirty Clothes Through Eastern Europe)
“Do you mean you honestly can’t smell that”?
My nose was clogged and my dreams were twisted as our British roomate properly reprimanded Jeff for closing the window to our dorm room in Danzig during an early morning’s traffic jam. British politeness can be such a comical pain sometimes.
I’m sure the stench was nasty though. A few days into our trip, the sweet scents of middle school summer camp were wafting from our wrinkled clothes through the nostrils (a towering smell that could only be compared to Sam Jackson’s high school track locker, which at one point involved his collection of pet gnats). By this point, the dire end of a three long jaunt through Eastern Europe, acclimation had set in and my sense of smell had grown rather apathetic to the situation.
I obviously hadn’t planned on acquiring a stank along with my disposal of money during our trip. The days before the trip saw time slip away from me (again) and I just never did get around to doing that one load of wash that would have solved all the later problems. Damn you indolence! I pulled my Saturday’s best out of the dirty clothes hamper and loaded it into my bag, ran out the door and caught the 6.57 AM train to Warsaw, planning all the while to get the wash done there. A Sunday of closed businesses followed by a Monday of National Holiday proportions, took me into our little cabin amongst the woods of the Polish Masuren with my bag still overflowing with dirty clothes. A great opportunity to return to the roots and handwash my clothes immediately presented itself and I quickly took charge of the situation. The drying of the clothes was the step I’d failed to account for. The air in the Masuren was so moist that the clothes would never come close to drying on the clothes line set up in the shade of the house (I know—I gave my clothes 48 hours to dry… unsuccessfully). Finally the oven was employed. It gave my socks a rather crisp cruch to my step.
Enter: Men in Action — A new option had to be set in place. One involving the sun. Jeff and I felled some timber, dug out some foxholes, and by sundown errected an 8 x 8 meter clothesline any pioneersman could be proud of. It promptly began to rain and wouldn’t let up until the next sundown.
One last day of sun allowed all of us to wash the essentials, but the jeans and shirts were left to fester in the bags. Our next leg of the journey brought us into Lithuania, land of beautiful churches and non-existent wash houses. When the situation seemed to have reached its critical mass, we were accosted by attractive girls handing out advertisements for a 35% off sale at one of the local market stores. Why wash old clothes when you can simply buy new ones? 10 Euros later, I was decked out in the latest of East European fashion, including a t-shirt, sweater, socks and a Gilligan hat. We continued to carry the stenches with us back through Poland on our way to Berlin, attempting at all times to conceal them in our rooms, under our beds, behind the shelves, while roaming the beautiful streets of Danzig.
I did 3 loads of wash when I returned. Swept and mopped my floor. Cleaned the refrigerator. No more living in the drecks!