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Poles, Priests, Prostitutes and Pupils: Bydgoszcz is a large town in Poland that has recently been given its own diocese. One of the results of this has been the creation of special Identification Cards for the priests of this area. Aga, my gorgeous Polish friend, is a graphic designer, and has shown me these cards she is helping to design. Now they would be turned away, so to speak, at the celebrant altar, because their I. Anyone who thinks Poles are to a man, woman, and child, deeply religious, and have infinite respect for all priests, should think again.
On the grounds that ignorance is bliss, and as a joke, Aga and her colleagues had a lot of fun with the photographs of the priests when put onto their computer. They gave the men of cloth bug eyes, extended their noses, or added a moustache. This computer graffiti horrified only the boss, who accused them of being a bunch of children. The theory was that they could concentrate more on learning English if they did week-long intensive courses in a hotel far removed from their workplace, and so their everyday work would not intrude on their studies.
So, Emma, a colleague, the business people and I were farmed out to a small place called Swiecie, some 40 km north of Bydgoszcz. The reason behind all these witticisms became clear: The downside to this place was its location.
It stood right next to a paper mill, and the air stank so much that you had to close the windows to breathe in fresher air.
The hotel was also close to the local lunatic asylum, and after dark, a security man with an Alsatian dog prowled the grounds of the hotel in case they should either come across a thief, or an escapee. The staff did not seem to have been affected by these two drawbacks; they were resolutely normal and polite, and coped with the idiosyncrasies of the guests with titanic detachment.