Poland, parties & police

John Marshall is a writer and teacher who has had the great fortune to live in Krakow for several years. Krakow’s been good to him and, he hopes, he’s been good to Krakow. Anyway, here’s something he wanted to say about parties …

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a new flat in Krakow is in need of a party. Not to throw a housewarming (parapetwka), dinner party, or a simple soiree would be a clear waste of a practically-empty flat (no furnishings or carpets for your guests to spill wine on) as well as an early opportunity for Krakow’s police to become acquainted with both the flat and the contents of your wallet. Because, if you’ve ever thrown a party in Krakow, chances are that, like me, you have at least once had to pay the police 200 zlotys for the privilege.

Now, I don’t actually throw that many parties these days. Indeed, I freely admit that I have reached the age when I don’t seem to understand anybody under the age of about thirty: metaphorically, due to my age, and literally, due perhaps to my still less-than-perfect command of the Polish language. However, this reluctant middle-aged ex-pat still likes to get down with ‘the kids’ and have a good old knees-up every now and then (it’s good for the circulation, or so my doctor tells me). And, with the festive season in full swing, kitchen annexes groan under the weight of vodka, wine and beer, whilst, outside, balconies the length and breadth of Poland play host to clinking glasses and roars of laughter.

Inside the flat the scene is a cheery one. Guests and host alike are happy, relaxed: old friends make new friends, they celebrate and mingle. What could possibly be missing from this idyllic scene? Your neighbours.

Now, maybe you have wonderful neighbours. Good. Like reliable tradesmen, hold onto good neighbours, for they are golddust. The old lady across the hall who insists on carrying your heavy shopping up the stairs; the otherwise feral gang in the stairwell who doff their baseball caps and, with lowered heads, refer to you as ‘Pan’, and the elderly gentleman next door who, tragically for him though mercifully for you, lost his entire sense of hearing in the pierogi storm of ’86.

I envy those Poles who grew up, cheek by jowl, alongside their neighbours, playing in stairwells and courtyards. They may party all night with nary a murmur from outside. For the relative newcomer, a much more typical party experience involves twenty to thirty minutes of hopeless hallway negotiations with Krakow’s police, having been summoned by a nameless, faceless, yet all-powerful neighbour, their alarm permanently set for one minute past ten and anybody who’s having more fun than they are.

It begins with a cold, official-sounding knock on the door, followed by a rush to the stereo and a hushed, respectful welcome (compliant faces and lots of nodding all around). There follows, perhaps, a gentle, yet misguided, attempt at flattery, the arrival in your hallway of one or two of the more radically-minded guests, last heard praising the Baddher-Meinhoff movie (‘Leave it to me, John, you’ve just got to know how to handle these people’), you asking said guests to stop shouting at the police and shutting them back in the sitting-room, groveling apologies on your part and, lastly, your parting with 200 zlotys for the heinous crime of having played music at three and a half at 10:30 on a Friday night.

Now, lest you think I’m merely a rotten apple with a case of sour grapes mixing up my metaphors, allow me to elucidate. Yes, it is true that I have, in the past, hosted parties of such debauchery and shame that – had the police turned up at any time over the course of those twelve hours - I would gladly have driven myself to the cells, personally, were there not a law in Poland against drink-driving in a stolen police car. But then I have also politely sipped wine from crystal glasses, sat around low glass coffee tables, urbanely discussing politics and Ikea’s latest share price, with John Coltrane murmuring gently in the background, only for our hostess to fall victim to the ire of the unhappy neighbour and the police’s seemingly insatiable desire to cover every square inch of Poland with tickets, fines and receipts.

A friend of mine, recently moved from Warsaw to Krakow, says Krakow parties see much more of the police than in the great metropolis. Are Krakowians, therefore, more intolerant of others’ fun? Are they more sensitive to discopolo than the average music-lover? Or are the neighbours simply angry at not having been invited (even when they have: tip number one)? Whatever it is, houseparties in Krakow can be an expensive affair. So, as you carefully plan the last of those festive bashes, here are a few tips to avoid an expensive New Year financial hangover.

Firstly, and most importantly, invite the neighbours, or at least all those you suspect of having 999 on speeddial. Of course they won’t come but, having been invited, they’d likely feel guilty about calling the police. Second tip: no matter how wise it seems at the time, it is never a good idea to turn the music up after midnight. To avoid those unwanted visits, you must remain king or queen of your own volume control! Thirdly, try to keep to a maximum of eight people per square meter of balcony, especially where grills are concerned. (You know how easily sound – and flames – travel). And fourthly, if all else fails, arrange for one of your better-looking guests to flirt outrageously with any member of the law not sporting a wedding ring. It worked at the party with the grill: the police left without writing a single ticket and I have it on good authority that one of the policemen returned at six o-clock the next morning, off-duty and freshly-shaven, bottle in hand, looking for the party and the girl. Unfortunately for him, both the party and the girl had long gone. Now that’s what I call justice!