I hate people.

My Irish room mates didn't bowl in until around half 5, way after sunrise. Of that I was grateful, as it meant I got a better night's sleep than I expected, but once they turned up they proceeded to slam doors, chat louder than any reasonable person should have to, and then finally snore and fart their way through the next few hours. I was aiming to be up at half 7, so when it came to the time, like a courteous roommate, I sorted myself out as quietly as possible, packed my bags as quietly as possible and cleaned up the stuff I wasn't taking with me as quietly as possible. I'm not quite sure how the dorm room door stayed in its hinges after the force with which I slammed it on my way out, but it was pretty satisfying nonetheless.

I wasn't going to write about Auschwitz at all. Before my visit there, I was fully expecting to be in pieces, utterly distraught and in a desperate mind to just quit my trip and head home for some familiar company and comfort. But I wasn't, and I'd like to talk about some of the people I saw there that might explain why.

I was very concerned about what I should wear. Showing the proper respect and decorum was imperative, I thought, but apparently not. People were there in garish t-shirts, flip flops, the shortest shorts you've ever seen and some were even wearing Israeli flags as capes like a bunch of football hooligans on tour. I took 1 photo, just one, as I didn't feel right recording everything I saw to share with other people later. I completely understand why people take pictures, because it is such an important and fascinating subject, but when the tour guide tells you where photographs are not permitted I'd expect you to respect the rules. People were laughing, joking, eating ice cream and I thought they really weren't taking in the graveness of the setting, like it was a theme park they were visiting, not the site of the extermination of over a million people. I've just been sat in a bar next to a bunch of middle aged blokes from Bolton who were reminiscing and laughing about how much they'd dicked about on the camp tour, and I even saw a stag do on a day trip there, who all constantly talked about where they were going to get their next drink.

On my train to Bratislava later in the evening I talked to an American girl who said she went to Dachau in winter and it was bleak, cold, silent, nothingness. She said it really creeped her out and in that setting I completely understand the effect an atmosphere like that can have, but in the summer these camps are very different places.

The day I was there was the 70th anniversary of the biggest mass hanging at Auschwitz.