Our plan was to ride the Oslo to Bergen route. Seven hours
of picturesque landscape, some say none other is better.
Climb the ancient mountains, span the lakes of glass,
range the snowy pine you wouldn’t dare disturb with photographs.
Somehow, that dream turned. Another plan wanted wear,
and in its place, spawned descending stairwells, dark basements
dense in drum and bass, spotted floors with faux-leather seats.
The intoxicating snare of Krakow’s nightlife captured us both.
We sampled vodka so pure it lined our throats
with crystal clarity, and drowned our minds in doubt.