Parameter
Mehr zum Buch
Wrocław, Poland's ghost town! From shadowy courtyards to bars and restaurants frequented by ghosts, a spine-chilling atmosphere permeates every corner of Wrocław, Poland's spookiest city. When the Red Army laid siege to Wrocław in 1945, the Nazi high command turned the city into a fortress, using the Gothic torture chambers under Partisan Hill as their headquarters. Screams are said to haunt the corridors, although the only ones I heard emanated from the blondes who now use the spot for clubbing. Instead, I got my ghoulish kicks in Abrams' Tower, a bar in a medieval fortification on the fringe of the old town with dim lighting and arty prints on the bare brick walls. Over wine, I chatted with the Californian owner, Frederick, an artist turned restaurateur. "I'm convinced this place is haunted," he said. "The ghost is known to the old regulars, back when this place was decorated with lots of antique sewing machines. One night all the pedals and wheels on the machines started whirring and spinning on their own." Just as he finished his sentence, a picture clinging to the wall thumped to the ground. Spooked? You bet.
Buchkauf
Wroclaw: The Meeting Place, Beata Maciejewska
- Sprache
- Erscheinungsdatum
- 2008
- product-detail.submit-box.info.binding
- (Hardcover)
Hier könnte deine Bewertung stehen.
- Sprache
- Englisch
- Autor*innen
- Beata Maciejewska
- Verlag
- Via Nova
- Erscheinungsdatum
- 2008
- Einband
- Hardcover
- ISBN10
- 8360544425
- ISBN13
- 9788360544426
- Reihe
- Schlagwörter
- Sachbücher, Karten & Reisen, Reisen
- Bewertung
- 5 von 5 Sternen
- Beschreibung
- Wrocław, Poland's ghost town! From shadowy courtyards to bars and restaurants frequented by ghosts, a spine-chilling atmosphere permeates every corner of Wrocław, Poland's spookiest city. When the Red Army laid siege to Wrocław in 1945, the Nazi high command turned the city into a fortress, using the Gothic torture chambers under Partisan Hill as their headquarters. Screams are said to haunt the corridors, although the only ones I heard emanated from the blondes who now use the spot for clubbing. Instead, I got my ghoulish kicks in Abrams' Tower, a bar in a medieval fortification on the fringe of the old town with dim lighting and arty prints on the bare brick walls. Over wine, I chatted with the Californian owner, Frederick, an artist turned restaurateur. "I'm convinced this place is haunted," he said. "The ghost is known to the old regulars, back when this place was decorated with lots of antique sewing machines. One night all the pedals and wheels on the machines started whirring and spinning on their own." Just as he finished his sentence, a picture clinging to the wall thumped to the ground. Spooked? You bet.