Day 136 & 144: HOLIDAY in Poland Edition

A very very long blog post, featuring: Poland, pierogi, panic, over 20k steps a day, history, sausages, ancestral ghosts, and one terrified British boyfriend meeting The Parents.

My loves, gather close.

This is the Holiday Edition of The Mounjaro Chronicles.

The Odyssey of JABatha Christie.

The almost 9-Day Polish Whirlwind Tour, where I:

• dragged my British boyfriend across four cities,

• walked more steps than a Fitbit employee on a performance review,

• ate more food than should legally be allowed on a weight-loss drug,

• survived cold on Mounjaro, Christmas markets, excessive Polish feeding culture, trains, cobblestones, and my mother’s interrogation skills.

Let’s make a few things clear before we set off:

• I am Polish and proud.

• It was about time my other half saw my homeland, my childhood, my history.

• And yes, it was time he met my parents for the first time.

• And yes, I was sweating more than a roast chicken.

So…

Buckle up, drink your mulled wine, and let’s begin.

DAY 136 - ARRIVAL IN KRAKÓW: COBBLESTONE CARDIO & MIDNIGHT MADNESS 🇵🇱

We flew into Kraków, full of excitement, romance, and the delusion that our apartment would be “only 10 minutes away.”

Polish 10 minutes = 40 minutes, uphill, on cobblestones designed to punish every bone below the knee.

Dragging luggage, dehydrated, exhausted, walking like two lost goats in medieval Europe, we finally arrived just after midnight, sweaty, confused, and spiritually broken.

We picked up water from a late-night shop like survivors crawling out of the desert, collapsed into bed, and prayed for strength.

DAY 137 - AUSCHWITZ & BIRKENAU: THE DAY THE AIR FELT DIFFERENT

This day deserves its own chapter - and an extra one - because it is impossible to sum up in a few lines.

We woke up early, bundled ourselves like two Michelin men, and set off on the one-hour journey to Auschwitz.

The closer you get, the quieter everything becomes.

Even the bus felt muted.

No chatter, no fidgeting, just a group of strangers preparing for something they couldn’t quite understand yet.

Auschwitz in winter hits COMPLETELY differently.

The cold isn’t just cold - it slices.

It makes you think of the prisoners who stood in that freezing air wearing nothing but thin striped uniforms.

And then you walk through the gate.

“Arbeit macht frei.” Yeah right...

It’s one thing to see it in photos.

It’s another to walk underneath it.

Our guide took us through the barracks - each one like stepping backwards into a horror you can’t process. The piles of shoes, suitcases with names still written on them, human hair, brushes… everyday objects turned into evidence.

The silence was unreal.

Not a single bird.

Just snow, footsteps, and the cold.

My boyfriend was absolutely silent.

The man who normally needs commentary like oxygen didn’t speak for over two hours. His whole face changed - that “I understand now” look I’ve seen on people who visit for the first time.

Then we drove to Birkenau, which is like stepping into a void.

Auschwitz is already horrific - but Birkenau is vast.

Endless.

The railway tracks stretch straight into the camp like a scene frozen in time. The watchtowers line the horizon.

The barracks seem to multiply as you walk.

And the cold there…

It gets inside your bones.

It’s the kind of cold that makes you shake, even in thermal socks.

The guide explained how the chimneys are all that remain of many barracks - because the Nazis blew most of it up when they fled.

The huge expanse, the emptiness, the rows upon rows of ruins… it’s overwhelming.

We walked along the tracks, stood by the platform where selections were made, went into the women’s barracks, looked into the latrine rooms - the humiliation, the starvation, the disease, all of it somehow still lingering in the air.

We both had tears in our eyes.

And again - that silence.

No birds.

No movement.

Just a heaviness.

You don’t leave Birkenau the same.

We certainly didn’t.

After the tour, we came back to Kraków needing to feel alive again.

So naturally:

Christmas Market Therapy

Warm lights.

Food smells.

People laughing.

A direct emotional contrast to where we had just been.

The whole Old Town (Rynek Glowny) was glowing - wooden stalls covered in fairy lights, giant gingerbread hearts hanging like medieval medals, mountains of pierogi sizzling in pans the size of hot tubs, and smoky oscypek cheese grilling so intensely it should have had its own soundtrack.

Mulled wine bubbling away in enormous cauldrons, children running around like tiny glitter-covered squirrels, and tourists buying ornaments shaped like every possible farm animal.

AND - tragedy of the trip - I saw a pierogi-shaped pillow, decided I’d “think about it,” didn’t buy it… and now I regret it with my entire soul. I could’ve been sleeping on a potato-and-cheese cloud right now.

I got a small pierogi shaped fridge magnet and pink socks with cute pierogi.

It was chaotic, loud, comforting and exactly what our hearts needed after the silence of Auschwitz.

Dinner → bed → OUT.

Emotionally drained.

DAY 138 - FULL KRAKÓW TAKEOVER: WAWEL, WATCHES, CHRISTMAS MARKETS & ARTISTIC BASEMENTS

20k steps?

Darling, we exceeded 22k.

Mounjaro was shaking, judging me silently, probably muttering something about carbs and chaos.

We explored:

• Wawel Castle - Home of Polish kings & queens, dragons, and at least 17 ghosts lurking behind every tapestry. The views of the Vistula were spectacular, and every corner whispered centuries of intrigue, power struggles, and “Did someone just hear a ghost?” moments.

• Cathedrals - Packed with graves of famous Poles: poets, warriors, dynasties, aristocrats, artists. Standing there, surrounded by history, I couldn’t help imagining tiny me running up the aisles with no fear, because back then, fear was reserved for exams, not centuries of dynastic drama.

• My friend’s workshop - visited the magical place where he MAKES WOODEN WATCHES like some kind of time-bending wizard. Honestly, I wanted one for every wrist in the family and possibly to mount on the wall as a decorative timepiece to judge us silently.

  Well I do have one actually!

But then… Christmas Market magic struck again.

After all that walking, exploring, and culture, we decided to refuel.

And by refuel, I mean eat everything in sight:

• Sausages sizzling over open flames, smoky, garlicky, the stuff dreams are made of.

• Bigos bubbling like a potion - cabbage, meat, onions - heavenly, soul-warming, entirely worth the extra steps.

• Pork szaszlyk, skewered meats glistening in the cold air, juices dripping into my gloves while I tried not to look like a ravenous monster.

Mulled wine in hand, lights twinkling above our heads, children darting like festive ninja squirrels, and couples arguing over who gets the last gingerbread heart… it was total chaos and I loved every second.

I also spotted the pierogi-shaped pillow again and regretfully didn’t buy it. My bed could have been a pillow-sized carb fantasy, but no.

Mistake.

Huge mistake.

Then the evening: the icon, the legend…

Piwnica pod Baranami (The Cellar under the Rams) - an underground cultural temple of jazz, poetry, bohemian chaos, and cigarette smoke from 1972 still living in the bricks.

Cosy, warm, magical, and a perfect contrast to the market madness outside.

By the end of the day, we had walked enough steps to circumnavigate a small country, eaten enough food to feed a village, and absorbed enough history to make a historian weep.

A perfect Kraków day.

DAY 139 - 5 HOURS TRAIN TO POZNAŃ: TRAINS, PIZZA, AND CHRISTMAS MARKET CHEER

Up and at ‘em!

Another early start because apparently, sleep is a myth on holiday.

We jumped on the train from Kraków to Poznań - five hours of scenic Polish countryside, people-watching, and trying to convince my other half that yes, Polish trains are slightly faster than tortoises on espresso, but still slower than a European bullet.

Arrival in Poznań was a minor miracle.

We dumped bags in our hotel and immediately went exploring because rest is for amateurs.

First stop: Stary Browar (The Old Brewery), the shopping centre that used to be a brewery. It’s modern, arty, and full of shops, bars, and restaurants - basically a grown-up playground.

We had a few cheeky drinks at Whiskey in the Jar, very Instagrammable, very cosy, very “we definitely look like sophisticated travellers and not slightly exhausted gluttons.”

Then dinner.

And oh… the pizza.

At MISKUZI.

Authentic Neapolitan, chewy, saucy, deliciously dangerous to any diet. Thanks to my niece for the recommendation - my life is forever improved.

And then… Poznań Christmas Market.

This market was next level, people.

Twinkling lights reflected off the cobblestones, carol singers warbled beautifully (or attempted to - one was clearly tone-deaf but I didn’t care), and stalls were overflowing with Polish festive treasures.

We sipped mulled wine, steam curling like smoke signals in the chilly night, wandering between stalls, soaking up the lights, music, and festive chaos.

We didn’t eat here - our stomachs were already over-capacity from earlier meals - but the atmosphere alone was enough to lift our spirits.

And sadly, we didn’t get to see goats butting their heads on the clock in the Old Town due to lack of time.

Of course, all this walking in search of “just one more stall” pushed our step count well past 20k, making us feel marginally virtuous.

Virtue offset by the 3,000 calories we just inhaled at dinner, but we’ll gloss over that.

The evening ended at Just Friends, a tiny bar/restaurant that felt like someone had bottled cosiness and served it with a warm cocktail.

We toasted to surviving Kraków and Poznań Christmas Market chaos, then rolled back to the hotel like two festive dumplings, exhausted but exhilarated.

By the time we fell into bed, our brains were full of sights, smells, history, and sugar, and our legs were screaming “never again!” - which is basically a standard day for any JABatha Christie holiday

DAY 140 - MEETING THE PARENTS: THE FINAL BOSS LEVEL

Truly the scariest part of the entire holiday - scarier than stepping on a scale after Polish food, and definitely scarier than the five-hour train ride we barely survived the day before.

We brought them cakes and flowers.

We prayed.

We mentally rehearsed every possible scenario, from casual chit-chat to “oh no, did I just insult their furniture?”

And… they LOVED him.

It was like watching a video game cutscene where the hero triumphs against all odds. My boyfriend communicated through Google Translate like a diplomat negotiating world peace - and somehow charm points were maxed out.

My mother fed him like he was preparing for hibernation, sliding plate after plate his way with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker.

He ate approximately every 90 minutes - because that’s the Polish way, and resistance is futile.

We even went for a stroll through my childhood town, where memories came flooding back in a bizarre mix of nostalgia and mild embarrassment - “Yes, that’s where I tripped over a fence when I was six. No, don’t take a photo.”

More food followed because apparently, sightseeing in Poland requires at least three main courses and a dessert sampling for proper cultural immersion.

By the time we rolled back to Poznań, we were absolutely stuffed, slightly delirious, and utterly relieved.

Final boss?

Conquered.

Bonus level unlocked: my parents adore him.

DAY 141 - GDANSK: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT (Again)

Three hours on a train and suddenly… hello, my favourite city!

Gdańsk, you’ve been missed.

The moment we stepped off the train, the Baltic breeze hit like a dramatic welcome-back hug, full of salty air, history, and that subtle chaos that makes this city impossible not to adore.

First stop: the Cloud One Hotel.

Perfection doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Chic, airy, quirky in all the right ways.

Beds that whisper “sleep here forever,” lighting that says “Instagram this,” and just enough festive charm to make you wonder if Santa himself secretly stays here.

We dumped our bags, quickly assessed our train hair (it was dire), and decided a little liquid courage was in order.

A couple of drinks in the hotel bar later, we were sufficiently loosened up.

Cosy lighting, festive decorations, and cocktails that were basically edible hugs. My better half looked uncannily sophisticated holding a glass, which is a relief because if he looked out of place, that would have ruined my entire aesthetic as the “cool, local guide.”

I may have also practiced my “nonchalant local” smile in the reflection of the bar mirror.

For science.

Then… Christmas Market time.

Oh, the Christmas Market.

Twinkling lights reflected off cobblestones like some sort of cinematic dream, steam from mulled wine curling into the chilly air, and the smell of roasting nuts, gingerbread, and suspiciously delicious sausages everywhere.

We wandered between stalls, sipping mulled wine like seasoned pros, pretending we weren’t basically tourists whose main goal was photographing literally everything.

My man, usually sceptical of anything too sparkly, was caught humming along to carols he didn’t understand - a miracle, really.

I may have dragged him into a stall selling handmade ornaments and made him hold them like he was auditioning for a festive commercial.

After that festive warm-up, it was time to meet my niece for lunch at HAOS. Incredible Asian food awaited, and I may have temporarily forgotten the concept of moderation.

Mounjaro who?

I ate a LOT.

Every bite was a little explosion of flavour - spicy, savoury, sweet - basically a symphony in my mouth. We tried to navigate chopsticks like we were defusing a bomb, which was highly entertaining for everyone except us.

My niece was fabulous, chatty, and clearly proud of her aunt who shows up to feed her like a professional gourmand.

We laughed, shared stories, and I may have accidentally made my man look like part of the family just by being nearby.

Post-dinner, we wandered the city streets, absorbing all the charm.

Every alleyway demanded a photo, every building seemed to wink at us, and yes, even the cobblestones have personality in Gdańsk.

My boyfriend's attempts at pronunciation of street names were delightfully awful, and I encouraged it - because it was the cutest thing ever!

We popped back to the Christmas Market for one last round of mulled wine because clearly, it would be sacrilege to leave without proper festive hydration.

By now, my cheeks hurt from smiling, my stomach threatened mutiny from all the food, and my better half looked like a man who had survived the perfect storm of travel, taste, and “fun aunt energy.”

Finally, we returned to the hotel, utterly satisfied, slightly dizzy from the combination of excitement, food, and alcohol, and completely in love with Gdańsk all over again.

This city never disappoints - and somehow, by the end of the day, we earned honorary Gdańsk citizen status.

DAY 142 - HISTORY MARATHON: SOLIDARITY, WESTERPLATTE & THE WWII MUSEUM

Today was a full-on history marathon.

By the end, our brains felt like they’d been through a PhD program in 20th-century European history, our legs were protesting in multiple languages, and our stomachs were quietly plotting revenge for the sheer amount of walking and emotional heavy-lifting we’d endured.

First stop: Solidarity.

The air here hums with quiet power, and standing in the shadow of this iconic movement, you can almost hear the echoes of protests, chants, and courageous whispers that changed the course of history.

We may have gotten a little teary-eyed - or maybe it was from the wind, I’ll never tell).

Every plaque, every photograph, every artifact felt like a story begging to be remembered.

Next: Westerplatte, the place where WWII began.

The site is hauntingly beautiful.

Waves lapped at the shore while we walked the same ground where soldiers once stood, caught between duty, fear, and heroism.

And then… the WWII Museum.

Mind-blowingly good doesn’t even start to cover it.

The exhibits are immersive, the storytelling unforgettable, the scale overwhelming.

There were moments where I genuinely forgot we were in 2025 and felt like I’d been transported back in time.

Interactive displays, original artifacts, personal stories - it was emotionally heavy, powerful, and beautifully done.

We wandered for hours, occasionally pausing to let the weight of history settle in. We both were quite angry at that point and sad for the poor Poland and its citizens...

At the end our brains were full, our legs were seriously questioning life choices, and we were officially “history-saturated.”

But of course, no JABatha Christie day ends without food.

We strolled the streets of Gdańsk, discussing what had hit us hardest, sharing moments that moved us, and laughing at our mutual exhaustion.

Then came dinner: Re.Bro Ribs, Burgers and Steaks.

Oh.

My.

Word.

The smell hit us before we even walked in - smoky, savoury, utterly irresistible.

Boyfriend's eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.

The ribs were fall-off-the-bone perfection, the burgers juicy and seasoned to absolute perfection, and the steaks… well, let’s just say I briefly considered moving in permanently.

Every bite was a revelation, a tiny culinary celebration after a marathon of history.

We washed it down with perfectly paired drinks, raising glasses to surviving the day, to history, and to each other.

Laughter bubbled up between mouthfuls, along with small groans of food-coma anticipation.

By the end of the evening, we rolled back to the hotel like two fully fed, slightly drunk, completely exhausted adventurers.

Drinks → dinner → collapse.

And honestly?

Perfect.

A day of history, reflection, laughter, and incredible food - exactly what a JABatha Christie holiday should be.

DAY 143 - SOPOT: MY SEASIDE BABY

Before heading to Sopot, we made a quick but awe-inspiring stop at Bazylika Św. Brygidy. This church is a gem tucked in the heart of Gdańsk, and the famous amber altar inside is nothing short of breath-taking. Golden, glowing, intricate - it’s like the sun itself decided to retire in one spot and just dazzle anyone who walked in.

We spent a while marvelling at the craftsmanship, taking it all in, and trying (and mostly failing) to capture it in photos.

A short train ride later, and suddenly… hello, Sopot!

The city of my childhood holidays, sunburns, sand in every possible crevice, and memories that smell faintly of salt, sunscreen, and ice cream cones.

Instantly, everything felt familiar and magical, like stepping into a slightly windier, saltier, and infinitely more charming version of my own personal nostalgia.

First up: the pier.

The longest wooden pier in Europe - and let me tell you, it lives up to every story, postcard, and Instagram post ever created.

Stretching out into the Baltic, the view was nothing short of cinematic. Waves lapped against the pilings, seagulls argued loudly in their seagull way, and the wind… oh, the wind.

Strong enough to exfoliate organs you didn’t even know existed.

Mr valiantly tried to hold onto his hat, his hair, and his dignity all at once, and mostly failed spectacularly.

We walked, taking it all in, letting the breeze slap us awake in a way that only a seaside can.

The beaches were everything I remembered (well, I was there 2 years ago) - soft sand, wide horizons, and just enough chaos from sunbathers, kite flyers, and a lone dog who clearly thought he owned the place.

We wandered, reminiscing about childhood games, salty ice creams, and that inexplicable magic that only Sopot seems to carry.

Every corner held a memory, every seagull dive reminded me of a past holiday mishap.

Sopot isn’t just about the pier and the beach.

The streets are charming in a way that feels unforced - pastel buildings, cafés spilling onto pavements, and little shops that tempt you with everything from amber jewellery to Polish pastries.

We wandered, exploring nooks and crannies, absorbing history in the architecture, the plaques, the faint echoes of jazz from a street performer somewhere down an alley.

It’s a place that whispers stories if you listen, and we listened enthusiastically - between laughs, of course, at Mr's dramatic re-enactments of my childhood antics on these very streets.

After our seaside wander, it was reluctantly back to Kraków.

The city was alive with tourists, crowds, and chaos, and our hopes for a nice, calm dinner were rapidly crushed.

Every place we tried was booked, overflowing, or full of “locals” who clearly had better insider knowledge than us.

By now, our stomachs were growling in protest, and our patience was thinning faster than the wind on Sopot pier.

Rescue came in the form of Pasibus, right near our hotel - fast-food royalty, the unsung hero of weary travellers everywhere.

We dove in like we were auditioning for a competitive eating show.

Burgers juicy, fries crisp, sauces mysterious but addictive - it hit the exact right note after a long day of history, walking, wind, and nostalgia.

I may have suggested ordering twice, and he didn’t even argue (which is either true love or shock from hunger).

Dinner devoured, we settled in for nightcaps at the hotel, reflecting on Sopot’s charm, Kraków’s chaos, and our continuing culinary adventures.

A film later, we collapsed into bed, tired, happy, and absolutely stuffed. Bazylika Św. Brygidy, pier, beaches, streets, and Pasibus - a perfect, slightly chaotic day in true JABatha Christie style.

DAY 144 - RETURN TO REALITY: THE HOMECOMING SAGA

The cruellest part of any holiday: the early flight.

Our alarms went off at an hour that can only be measured in pure suffering units.

The airport was already alive with fellow humans who clearly had no concept of mercy, sleep, or decency.

I slept on the plane like a tranquilised bear, curled in awkward positions that should have been illegal, dreaming of Sopot pier, amber altars, perfect ribs, and burgers that defy the laws of physics.

Food?

A distant memory.

Air?

Barely palatable.

And then… home.

Nothing prepares you for the subtle chaos of returning from a holiday.

Our suitcases exploded their contents across the floor like confetti at a very disorganised parade.

Jackets, scarves, stray socks, the mysterious sticky thing that is always in the bottom of the luggage - all made a dramatic pile at my feet.

And then came the cats.

Molly and Ruby, fierce, judgmental, and utterly unimpressed.

They circled, sniffed, meowed, and gave me the kind of looks that could melt steel.

Clearly, ten days of absence had left them plotting a tiny coup of the house. I apologised, bribed with a few treats, and hoped they’d forgive me… eventually.

I jabbed, 2 days later so I knew there will be side effects.

I collapsed into bed, the ultimate sanctuary, and let the weight of travel, emotions, and general chaos wash over me.

Netflix became my personal therapist.

Christmas films flickered on the screen - some nostalgic, some ridiculous, all comforting.

I may have dosed off at some point, completely surrendering to the post-holiday nap that was long overdue, while the cats alternated between demanding attention and glaring like tiny feline judges.

Eventually, hunger reared its ugly head - so I thought!

Enter butter chicken for dinner creamy, spicy, indulgent, and exactly what my exhausted, jet-lagged, holiday-traumatised self needed but I only had maybe 1/5 of the normal portion...

Mr may have had a little too much too, and I might have tried to convince him that seconds were mandatory - well he ate my portion!

We reflected on the trip, the pier, the amber altar, the cobbled streets, the chaos of Kraków, and laughed quietly about the ridiculous perfection of a holiday well-lived.

Finally, fully stuffed, Netflix-warmed, and with the comforting weight of cats sprawled somewhere nearby (though judging us still), I curled up under the duvet.

Every suitcase item that hadn’t been unpacked suddenly didn’t matter.

The world outside ceased to exist.

All that mattered was a tiny portion of butter chicken, cosy blankets, tiny purring judges, and the quiet satisfaction of surviving ten days of chaos, history, food, and laughter.

Home again.

Exhausted.

Content. Mildly terrified of tomorrow’s laundry but already dreaming of the next JABatha Christie adventure.

And missing Molly and Ruby terribly… but secretly glad they were still plotting, because that is exactly how cats should be.

MOUNJARO SIDE EFFECTS (HOLIDAY EDITION)

Occasional retching

Vomiting with alcohol → so I’m DONE with drinking

Toilet sprints

Tiredness

But still walked over 20k steps every day like a machine

And yes - I didn’t take the jab with me.

No fridge.

And I would have lost it.

Let’s be honest.

THE FINAL VERDICT

My man LOVES my country.

He LOVES the food.

He MET my parents.

He SAW where I grew up.

He LEARNED the history.

He ATE like a warrior.

He SURVIVED the feeding culture.

He WALKED the steps.

He FELT the emotions - from Auschwitz to Christmas markets to seaside nostalgia.

And most importantly:

He saw where JABatha was forged.

Poland - you legend.

My heart is full.

My legs are dead.

My stomach is traumatised.

My soul is happy.

With Love,

Absolutely knackered JABatha Christie