Knihobot

Wrocław

The Meeting Place

Hodnocení knihy

Parametry

  • 15 stránek
  • 1 hodina čtení

Více o knize

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.

Vydání

Nákup knihy

Wrocław, Stanislaw Klimek, Beata Maciejewska

Jazyk
Rok vydání
2003
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(pevná),
Stav knihy
Dobrá
Cena
439 Kč

Doručení

Platební metody

5,0
Výborná
2 Hodnocení

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Podtitul
The Meeting Place
Jazyk
anglicky
Vydavatel
Via Nova
Rok vydání
2003
Vazba
pevná
Počet stran
15
ISBN10
838864968X
ISBN13
9788388649684
Série
Hodnocení
5 z 5
Anotace
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.