It has been said that Poland is dead, exhausted, enslaved, but here is the proof of her life and triumph.I have never read any of Mr. Sienkiewicz's works, but now that I know he is a Polish novelist, I am inclined to do so. You see, I have two loves in my life: my husband and Poland. The first, I fell for at the mere age of 16 and 1/2. The second, in July of 2010, when I first set foot on Krakovian soil. Let me back track a little. My heritage is Slovak. I know, this is not the same as Polish, but close enough. What's that they say? Same difference? One of my best friends once told me that I have a Puerto Rican soul. As flattered as I might be at this sentiment, I now believe my soul was born in Krakow.
Henryk Sienkiewicz
We started our trip in Hamburg, DE, visiting our good friends. What a weekend that was--perfect weather, perfect company and Germany winning their current match in the World Cup. It was there that I discovered the Sunday morning Fish Market, the "real German row boat," the joys of a well-run, efficient public transportation system, and just how exciting World Cup Soccer actually is. Leaving Hamburg, we boarded a train set for Krakow. It was a long, shaky journey. We shared our car with Barto, a tired college kid traveling from Hamburg to his hometown near Krakow. Barto spoke of his native Poland with a boyish excitement and a longing for home. His eyes lit up and widened as he introduced us to his country; much like those of the Poles I knew back home. He described how resilient Poland has been throughout time. Constantly a target for hefty invaders, Poland belonged to Vienna when Barto's grandfather was born, to Germany when his father was born and finally, to Poland, herself, when he, himself, was born. I was sucked into Barto's stories and wanted to know this country of his with greater intimacy. Barto left the train at his hometown. And we continued on to our destination, Krakow.
Stepping off the train at Krakow Glowny station, I immediately felt like I had finally arrived home. As I mentioned above, my family is Slovak, by heritage. But I am sure we are Polish by nature. I had this instant transformation that said, "you belong here." We walked through Plac Glowny, our luggage in tow. The sun was just beginning its descent to wherever it goes at night. Nowhere, I know. But even as the adult and scientist as I am, I still like to think the sun calls it a night and slips out to a night of leisure each evening. We sauntered through Plac Rynek, the Main Market Square. It was alive with tourists and locals walking home from work or to their destinations for the night. I was smitten at once. We crossed a busy intersection, dodging car traffic, trolleys and cyclists, among other pedestrians. We passed the Bar Mleczny or "Milk Bar", the skep spozywczy, or grocery store, the poczta, or post office, where the lines went on forever, no matter what time of day you entered, and finally ended at our destination, the Hotel Amber.
Hotel Amber. A true diamond in the rough. We wanted to stay somewhere modest and out of immediate earshot of tourists. We wanted to feel the grittiness of the city that the locals felt. And, although, we could have gotten more gritty, I have no regrets at our choice of habitation. The staff were young and eager to speak English, which did not bode well with my eagerness to speak Polish. Amused as they were, they were patient with my meager attempts to greet them and ask questions in their native tongue. Besides, what's travel to a new country and immersing yourself in a new culture without a little struggle?
Our little hotel was sandwiched among every day places such as a liquor store and the "poctza" or Post Office. I had read in my guide book that experiencing the poctza can be just as rewarding as any other site. And now I know why. Let me give you a glimpse of my three-day attempt to mail postcards. Day one: open door, see that line is extremely long, everyone looks hopeless, move on. Day two: repeat of day one. Day three: line not as long, people still look hopeless, jump in line anyway. Now I know what 1950s US post offices must have been like. Manual labor in its truest sense. The rhythmic pounding noise of the clerks stamping letters and tossing them into piles was almost soothing. Finally reaching the window, I was determined not to sound like a tourist. So, in the most sincere tone, with the most hopeless look on my face, I directly instructed the clerk to "post these to America" in my broken Polish. Either she was trying to be polite, or I pulled off my heist, as she did not look up as I spoke, but rather, treated me as any other customer. I walked away pleased with myself nonetheless.
Staying off the tourist zone, embedded in everyday Krakow, was thoroughly rewarding. There is no better way to walk away from a new place really feeling as if you had a true cultural experience. As Rick Steves, my travel guru, always says, "Do as the locals do." Next up, my top 10 reasons why I highly recommend visiting Krakow.