Krakow State of Mind
By William Roderick Richardson:
Visit and blog at www.guerillatraveler.com
Prince Krak is not a rap star from the Bronx.
He was the legendary founder of Krakow, the jewel of Poland, the city the Nazi’s didn’t have the guts to destroy. Krak had the magic touch. His namesake is a beauty all right.
Krakow and I are on intimate terms. I’m not bragging. It’s the truth. We’ve been round the block. I know her like the back of my eyelids . . . where and how she looks her best, where she needs a touch of make-up, how she likes to spend her Sunday afternoons, how she whiles away the night in cozy cellars sipping tea or shaking it in a gaudy disco; a minx and a matron, she’s Catholic with a taste for the cavalier, a quiet girl whose waters run deep! To be sure. Krakow is one of the loveliest ladies in the world without a doubt. If you don’t believe me just ask Unesco! The pen pushers, the preservers of monuments put her on their list years ago . . .
So how did we get to know each other? I didn’t plan it. That’s for sure. It just happened—comme il faut with all the best relationships. It was one foggy November evening, very Noel Coward by the way, we were introduced in the Piwnica pod Baranami. That’s right. Muniak was playing that night with the blind pianist, Skowron. Smietana was there too! Krakow put her heart on the table for me that night, crossed her legs and gave me a peek, if you like. I knew she was just a tease, but she was irresistible. I fell in love then and there. I remember saying: “I could live here. This is a place I could live.”
So much for introductions. Fateful meetings always have a special air. They stick in your craw, in your memory, no matter what happens later. I am a treacherous beast. I haven’t stayed true, but then neither has she. . . I fell for other cities and she of course has her dedicated suitors from a hundred countries . . . I should be jealous.
...It’s Sunday, the last day of summer. Night is finally getting even with day. It’s darkness’ turn! Yet, the sun is absolutely brilliant, what the English call a glorious day. It’s a perfect day to stretch one’s legs, one’s imagination, one’s interests. Time to drop everything and hit the road. It’s the only way to stay sane. Iraq is up for grabs. Politicians gabbing. Hurricanes raking the Carribean. Chaos, in short! It’s only to be expected. . .
Two and half hours from Ale. Jerozolimskie. That’s all it takes. You have the unknown beauty of the journey. A little time travel, so to speak. Bear with me. Have you ever noticed how time goes slower when you travel? Moments signify. When you are stuck in the old routine, time zips by, its passing unnoticed. One day you are looking out the window and it’s snowing, the trees bare. You turn back to your computer, send a few emails, make a couple of calls, daydream and whatnot. When you look up the sun is blazing down, sunbathers are reclining in the park and the trees are green as grasshoppers. Sameness numbs perception. It’s all different when you travel. Travel may be a diversion for numbskulls, the province of malcontents, but here is one chump who thrives on it.
Out of the station and the city glistens under the wide blue yonder devoid of nimbus, sky picked clean as a bone . . . the azure fading into white at the horizon. I want to be an eye observing, a homo sapien on a solo romp, possessed of Kodachome, a solitary simmering in silence.
In short as I enter the Florian Gate, the day is already a treat. No strings attached. Late season tourists mixed with residents stream along the lanes. Those cockeyed paintings, hawked by street artistes, still adorn the wall next to the Czartoryski museum. These days McDonalds seduces too. On the corner, my old haunt the Hotel Polski, scene of a dozen memorable rendezvous, has been remodeled. At the foot of Florianski street is Janusz Muniak’s jazz club, just across from the Pod Roza hotel--the best place to stay, to eat in the city. It’s a masterpiece. The rooms and large and comfortable; continental nosh. It’s first rate, though the business-minded prefer the new Sheraton.
Today I am aimless. I want to loaf. It’s Sunday after all. The square is crawling with humanity. It’s a scrum, a zoo. Horses neighing. Carriages creeping. Coiffed ladies in the Sunday best preening with prams. The whole world is out for a walk. One side of the square—the side with the tower--is walled off for some kind of repairs. The other side of the Cloth Hall boasts a flea market and throngs perusing bric a brac – all manner of gear from bits and bobs, knick-knacks and thingamajigs to inane paraphenalia. It’s hunky dory. A perfect waste of time! Under Mickiewicz’s statue I pause, collapsing on a step under the poet’s stony gaze. I’m feeling inert, almost dumb. Don’t laugh. It’s not the loafers who bother people, start the wars, collect the taxes, say: “Hey over here! Follow me! Let’s kick the other side in the ass!” It ain’t me. That’s what the busybodies do with their attention to detail, their stock issues, the price of oil, their poisonous eloquence. . . It’s a fact that once you stop rushing around you have time to think. A day trip is just the right medicine.
Soon I am standing next to the Pizza Hut in ul.Grodska admiring the twelve apostles, carved in stone of course. They were goners a few years ago. That’s right. The acid rain was killing them. Someone cleaned them up. They are pretty spruce now. Across the street a lone teenager is nonchalantly performing pirouettes on his trick bike for the passersby. . .
Suddenly my phone rings. It’s John Lynch, the t-shirt King of Poland. Sound the trumpets! Wharton man, what? You know the drill. A guy with his finger on the pulse. . .We agree to meet later in the day for supper. He’s heading for the links to do some damage with his niblick. I’m taking a short cut to the castle . . .
The Vistula flows by the base of Wavel castle. You can take a water tram on the river here or take a meal on the “Krakow,” a ferry anchored near by. Kids mob the dragon statue which guards the entrance to the Wavel cave. The castle above is the home of Polish Kings, the last refuge over the ages when the city faced invasion. Now it offers a pleasant little trip down memory lane, a brush with aristocratic preoccupations and royal perogative. It’s the heart of Poland. Warsaw is an aberration. Ask anyone. Poland just hasn’t been the same since they moved the capital four. . . or was it five centuries ago?
It’s lunch time. A short walk south is the Restauracja Chlopskie Jadlo. They don’t pull any punches here. The food is superb. It’s all Polish cooking, peasant’s fare. You have never tasted food like this. You won’t have a better meal in Poland. Stuff your breadbasket.
It’s three o’clock. It’s a good time to take the river footpath to Kazimierz, the old Jewish district, which is a shadow of its former self of course. Still, there are five synagogues—there’s only one in Warsaw-- the oldest houses a museum. You’ll find it on Szeroka Street along with several good Jewish restaurants and a couple of small hotels. The museum is a trip in itself. You’ll get the whole history here. You’ll find out more than you want to know. It’s a nightmare. But of course for the full nightmare you can always visit Oswiecim. It’s only a short bus ride away. I won’t pretend that I can do it justice. Some things you have to see with your own eyes. . .
It’s five o’clock. I’m sitting in Alchemia. It’s trendy. Only a couple of streets over from Szeroka. It’s the place in the evening. There’s a fruit market in the square during the day. Then I ran into Marcin. He was just leaving as I arrived. Marcin is an actor, a writer too. He recently published a biography of some famous actor. He plays Jim Morrison in a show at the Rampa in Warsaw. He was with a girl called Ewa. “It’s very Velvet Underground inside,” Marcin said. “You will like it.” I did like it. Pretty soon, Lynch arrived. He illustrated the finer points of Krakow’s golf course. Then we decided to see what was cooking in the rynek, the main square. . .
The crowds were still there. We took a spin round the square. It was getting dark. There was nothing left to do but find a place to sit and talk. There is an Italian place with good service on the southern end of the square right across from the little chapel. It’s called Da Pietro. We found a seat.
“It’s good to be in Krakow,” I said. “Yes, isn’t it?” said John. For him after ten years, it’s home. For me, it’s always a visit.
From the opposite end of the square the heynal, the trumpet call, sounded from the tower of St. Mary’s. The sound rose on the gathering breeze and carried over the square. It announced a tradition that involved us all, insinuating a continuing link with the past, a gentle reminder. . . it was music to the ears of each of us. All we had to do was listen.