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About Wroclaw

Lemme tell ya, I got mad once – saw this chick, couldn’t’ve been 19, heels wobblin’ like a drunk giraffe. Made me wanna scream, “Get a real job!” But then I’m like, who am I to judge? Don’t pee on my leg with that “they chose this” nonsense – half these girls got no choice, trapped like Ida’s aunt in that movie, chasin’ ghosts. “You’re a slut,” she’d spit at herself in the mirror – harsh, but real.

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Then, I head over to the industrial park. You know, the one near ul. Słowackiego? Yeah, that place. I’m meeting with some suppliers. I’m all pumped, ready to negotiate some killer deals. But guess what? They’re late. Like, really late. I’m pacing around, checking my watch, thinking, “Did they get lost or what?”

How bicycling through Poland and Germany connected me to the story of my late father, a Holocaust survivor