Days 18-25, Quitting Poland

Poland, for me, was not so much a destination, but an afterthought. I was in Northern Germany with plans to head to Prague, but Poland was right there. Isn't Auschwitz in Poland? Knowing little else about the war torn country that has spent much of its existence on the pointy end of history, I entered Poland with a “why not?” attitude. I had no idea how much fun I was in for.


I wont spend much time discussing Warsaw, other than to say that it was a fine city and I mean that in the ordinary sense of the word. It's a bustling business center with bells and whistles – a dazzling array of restaurants and entertainment options, but the city's traffic-clogged streets and unambitious grey buildings can be hard work. Still, Warsaw is a city that has survived everything history has thrown at it - several wars, occupations, and the complete destruction of its Old Town. The Old Town, which is quite beautiful, was meticulously rebuilt after WWII. The story of Warsaw's insurrection against its Nazi occupants in 1944 is best told by the Warsaw Rising monument.

Across the street is an antique shop that could have passed as a museum. Small war figurines, pre-war postcards, old war uniforms and gas masks, pictures taken during the insurrection and endless other trinkets and antiques made for great perusing. Finally, no trip to Warsaw is complete without stopping by the Church of the Holy Cross where Chopin's heart is preserved in the second pillar on the left.


Krakow took me by storm from the moment I stepped on the train. The platform was packed with a mob of Friday afternoon commuters escaping the busy work week for the liberally-paced Krakow weekend. To say there was no available seats on the train is an understatement for there was not even any available standing room. I was trapped in the corridor between cars, trying only to make it to the window so that I could have a nice view. I almost made it too, but a nun literally shoulder-rammed me at the last minute and stole her place by the window where she could observe the heavens. I was relegated to the corner of the hallway by the bathroom where I uncomfortably sat on my bag and had to stand up every 5 minutes while bathroom users wriggled by me in uncomfortable, and sometimes violating, ways. All was not lost, however, for I sat next to Dominika, whose acquaintance with me would lead to a chain of events that culminated with me seriously considering moving to Krakow. Allow me to explain.

Dominika is an avid traveler who used to work at the Krakow tourist agency. People had always been kind to her in her travels and she reciprocated. Before I even knew her name, she was insisting that we forego a hostel and stay at her flat in the city center. Over the bumpy, stuffy remainder of the ride she filled my notebook with suggestions of places to visit, restaurants to enjoy, cocktails to order, and Polish phrases with which to get by.

We moved through her list systematically, our Krakow experience constructed by her advice, and it was at one of her suggestions, a local Polish restaurant, where I met Kuba. Kuba is Swedish, but grew up in Poland and defends his Polish-ness spiritedly. I only stood in line behind him for a minute, but he heard me speak English and his curious and outgoing nature took over.

“Would you like to join me for dinner?” He asked. I accepted the invitation and also joined him after to meet some coworkers. Enter Pekka, a Finnish accountant living in Poland with an intelligent wit and a passion for voicing strong and sometimes, but not often, outrageous opinions. His girlfriend, Marta, a fashion designer and an avid reader, shares his appetite for discourse as well as his hospitable nature. Both are also highly creative. I, of course, liked them both instantly and they liked me. It only took an hour before they insisted I move my bags into their flat and stay with them.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, deservedly, I had a network of friends and a home base. One of Pekka's friends, Brian, came across as quiet at first, but within minutes revealed a playful, outgoing personality that part of me thinks only fully developed in the 4 years since he moved to Poland. He invited me to watch a Blues band at Harris' piano bar the next night.

The band was phenomenal, an untapped gem in a place not renowned for blues music. Then again, music is a universal language. The band, aptly titled Hard Times (and with the Blues, they tend to be), comprised of two guitarists trading rhythmic cues and a singer whose sullen voice captured your mood and whose wildly flavorful harmonica jams willed your head to bob and your foot to tap. During an intermission, I approached them and told them I was a rock drummer with a crush on the Blues. In Krakow fashion, it took two minutes before they invited me to stay at their place join them for a jam a few nights later. For the first time in over a year, I sat on the drum throne and gazed out over a packed, eager crowd and rubbed my hands together. “Here goes”, and I began the count to cue in the band.

And what a band of misfits we had assembled. Only the guitarist from Hard Times joined us, but as jams go, a call out to the audience yielded a phenomenal young bass guitarist, a singer whose voice belonged in a 50's Chicago night scene, and a pianist whose right fingers could run the length of the keys while his left hand sipped his beer. We looked at each other, unsure of our potential, and with a few snaps to set the tempo we exploded into a standard Blues that we improvised on the spot to serve only one purpose – set a foundation for each musician to rock the audience with untamed, passion-induced solos. It was a night for the ages and I added another souvenir to my crowded backpack – a worn pair of wood-tipped drum sticks, well chipped, a reminder of a group of strangers who met on stage, rocked the night away and then went their separate ways, never to play together again.

The days went on and I felt not the slightest urge to move along. I awoke whenever I felt like it, walked the city streets, read my books, ate long lunches. One of my favorite things to do was sit at one of the abundant outdoor patios in Market Square, order a cappuccino and a plate of Pierogis and peel off a few chapters of my King Arthur novel, occasionally taking breaks and stealing glances at people passing by. At the top of every hour a trumpeter would emerge from the northern tower of St Mary's Basilica, the city's ancient Gothic church, and blast an ancient war call that according to legend awoke the night guard and saved Krakow from Genghis Kahn's invading army. Listening carefully, you can hear the song end abruptly, for on the night this tradition began the trumpeter was shot through the neck with an arrow, ending his song, and his life.

On a day trip I visited the salt mines of Poland, which houses an impressive church where everything from the alter, to the walls, to the elaborate sculptures, to the chandeliers on the ceiling, are fashioned from dried salt. I licked them too, just to be sure. Yup. Salty.

I visited Aushwitz and my heart tore from my chest, but that experience is best left to its own post.

In the evenings I ate dinner with Pekka, Marta, and their roommate Matias, who I also become quite fond of. We talked about politics, about war, about religion, about history, about comedy, about great YouTube clips, about traveling, about life.

Suddenly I felt the warm grip of comfort entrapping me. The security of friends. The peace of a home. It felt so good I knew I had to leave right then, lest I stay forever. So I did leave, that night. I didn't want to, but I had to. If I wanted to be comfortable, I would have stayed in California. This trip is for new experiences, new people, and many new memories for me to fondly recount. Dobranoc Krakow, it was a real pleasure to meet you.


See more pictures from Poland here