Kraków

I held my camera against the lamppost to brace it for the midnight shot. There was a crunch of snow behind me. Startled, I whipped around and my chest felt a rush of adrenaline. There was a slumped man standing two feet from me. ‘Where did he come from?’ I thought as I frantically stumbled backwards. He asked something in Polish.
“Nemluvím… (I don’t speak…)”
‘How the hell does one say “Polish” in Czech?’
“Mluvím Anglicky (I speak English),” I continued.
He asked something again in Polish. I gave him a quizzical look and he returned an equally quizzical look. He then gave up and continued on his way.

Czech is supposedly similar to Polish, so it was the natural choice for me to try to communicate. But I analyzed what I had said and I realized there was more to it than that. Czech was my shield of protection. First, the man would have to parse the Czech, which, while Slavic, is still reasonably different from Polish. Even if he decoded my Czech phrase, he would basically need English to speak to me. No, Czech was actually my way of ensuring that I would not have to communicate with this man.

I regrouped and captured the photo I had been working on before the interruption. The shutter clicked and I was on my way once more. Kraków was not any colder than Prague, but it certainly wasn’t any warmer, either. The cold seemed to have a draining effect on my camera’s batteries, so I zipped both jackets over the camera, sporting a pregnant look. Between you and me, I think it brought my camera and me a little closer together.

It occurred to me on my lone midnight walk back to the hotel just how strange a bird I am. I pondered what my options for the night had been:
Go drinking with American friends $8US
Go clubbing with American friends $10US
Go drinking then clubbing $18US
Wander aimlessly around a foreign city taking pictures 0 Zł (i.e. priceless)

I meandered from church to church back to my hotel, where I sprawled out on the double bed and reflected on the day. I was one of two students to take a train to Kraków instead of taking the bus. Petr, Amy and I rode much of the way in our own little cabin of 6 seats. Amy was a generous travel companion; she gave me a sandwich, reading material, and engaging conversation for a trip that would have been longer without her there.

The most exciting part of the trip was changing trains in Katowice, Poland. The Czech train had been delayed at the Polish border, leaving us an alarmingly small layover in Katowice. There was no platform listed on the main board and the clock was ticking. It was disconcerting to hear Petr asking passersby, “Do you speak English?” but eventually someone helped us find the correct platform. Once there, someone else got us onto the right train. Mental note: students and businessmen are the best bets for English speakers.

After arriving at the hotel, I discovered that volunteering (a.k.a. leaping at the opportunity) for the train had additional benefits: I had my own hotel room.

I snapped out of it. ‘This is the life,’ I thought to myself as I lay on my double bed. I flicked on the TV and found the Eurosport telecast of the Winter Olympics. I watched for awhile and then drifted off to dreams of sausages and wooden chess sets.

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Kraków is a city shaped by history. It was razed by the Tartars in 1287 and essentially had to be rebuilt from scratch. Not to be invaded again, the Poles constructed a city wall with a moat around it. The fortifications protected Kraków through the ages, and the city miraculously survived WWII as well. Today only a small section of the wall remains, and the moat has become a park that encircles Old Town. Many of the churches in Old Town were built during Kraków’s reconstruction and therefore predate Columbus.

Saturday was a dose of tourist concentrate with no water added. I walked for seven and a half hours straight, so it should be noted that despite my complaining about fatty Czech food, I am actually in better shape than I used to be.

It was an extremely warm day, and drips of melted ice fell three stories, pelting my hair. The city smelled like Thanksgiving due to the abundance of chicken kebab stands. On the hour, a trumpeter piped his song over the square from the tower of St. Mary’s. He played the warning melody sounded by a brave citizen when Poland was invaded by the Turks. The citizen was shot by a crossbow mid-song, and the hourly song is cut short to this day.

I explored three churches that day. As a group, we toured St. Anne’s Church.

After the first tour, I bought a wooden chess set, explored the immense, paint-covered interior of St. Mary’s, and entered the Franciscan Church, which contained striking Art Nouveau stained glass.

I grabbed a kebab on the way to the second tour, which was of Wawel Castel and Jewish Town.

The castle rose high above the city and its church was a hodgepodge of architectural styles.

Jewish town was not worth the trek because sadly there are almost no Jews remaining in Poland. Additionally, synagogues generally look like ordinary buildings. The evening sun seemed to burn through my eyes to the back of my skull, so with sore feet and a headache I followed Will to a scrumptious Georgian restaurant and then collapsed on my mattress to more Winter Olympics.