Of course, we didn’t expect the roof to fall in during the night. Nothing could have prepared us for the freak 4am wake up call. The night before, drunk and not used to the Polish cold, we had whacked the heating up to the highest setting and conked out on our beds. The heat and humidity of the room had gotten a little too much for the ceiling plastering, and it gave up the ghost in a dramatic middle of the night exit by crashing down with an almighty bang.
To say we shit ourselves is to completely undersell the synchronised fear of god that flashed through Emma and mine’s mind. It is the middle of the night, we have been discussing the finer points of the Taken plot all day and we were only half joking when we lavishly barricaded our hotel room’s front door, and we are one hundred and ten per cent about to be fucking kidnapped. Well, we weren’t, but we couldn’t tell for sure just yet because in the blackout darkness Emma had frozen, rooted to her mattress like she had literally turned to stone, so couldn’t outstretch her arm to turn on the only light.
‘What the fuck was that Farrah’. A low, deep urgency.
‘I don’t know Emma, turn the fucking lamp on’. She reanimated, hand shooting out of her duvet to scramble at the switch. Nothing, just the room staring back at our alarm. The radiator that lines the wall is pumping out heat with such determination that the air is thick and soupy. Looking at the pile of smashed up plaster on the floor, in our sweaty, panicked daze, I don’t think either of us were convinced that it wasn’t going to come to life and murder us. Eyeing it with suspicion, we settled back into our beds, and fell back asleep with the light on.
Silly, dazed and breathless laughter the next morning, we swept up the plaster and got ready to start our next Krakow adventure…