Matching Tracksuits

“You know what I’m looking forward to?” I asked K before we left for Poland. “The smell of an old church.”

“Oh, me too,” she replied.

It’s an odor of slightly metallic dampness, old incense, leather, wool, and a thousand other notes that probably only a sommelier or blender of fine pipe tobaccos could notice and describe but which merge for us mere mortals into “old church.” It is to be in the midst of history: the structure is older than America. It is to be in the midst of profound calm: even in the most tourist-filled church, there is reverent silence.

A day in Krakow, responsible only for myself. I decide there is only one thing to do: go into churches. I begin with one of K’s favorites: the thirteenth-century Gothic Basilica of the Holy Trinity.

With so many churches in the Old Town of Krakow, it’s surprising how many masses the Basilica has. There are more on a weekday than on a Sunday at an average Catholic church here in the Old South, a clear illustration of the difference in relative demand. Then again, this particular church is popular among university students in Krakow.

So many of the churches in Krakow — they begin to blend together after a while. That’s the tourist view, I’m sure. To parishioners, there’s a history and a relationship.

Yet, there are little details in each church, little architectural touches that set each one apart. The basilica, for example, has a small upper chapel.

The view provides a little different perspective. Instead of looking up — a common action in gothic churches, and very much by design — one has the opportunity to look down. Somewhat blasphemous in a certain sense: we mortals are to be looking up to God, and here I am looking down. And on what?

A young monk explaining an upcoming ceremony to four young men. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and every picture I take turns out later to be completely, irredeemable blurry. I make a logical assumption: these young lads are about to become monks themselves, but I’m not certain. I can’t eavesdrop without making it obvious, and something prevents me from simply walking up to them and asking. What’s stopping me?

The conspicuousness I always feel as a tourist certainly has something to do with it. Walking around, snapping pictures, changing lenses, taking more photos, changing lenses again — I’m simply a cacophony.

What’s worse, unlike the Catholic tourists, I don’t genuflect as I pass the altar, and I don’t cross myself on entering. I surely stand out, but what’s the problem? We all stand out.

Is it false modesty or simply an overactive ego?

Parking in the Krakow Old Town can be hard to come by. Just ask this driver…

Krakow, like all European cities, is a mix of the old and the new. Young people walk along ancient cobblestone street checking email and updating their Facebook status on their cell phones. McDonald’s sits on an ancient street in a building that is at least twice as old as the chain itself.

Often both are present at the same moment, in the same building. Visiting such an old city is a reminder that often, what’s at street level is the least interesting sight. Or, perhaps more accurately, that which is above is at least as interesting as that which is at eye level.

As I strolled along, taking a meandering walk from the rynek to Kazimierz, the old Jewish quarter, I began to pay attention to the balconies.

In an urban setting, balconies are often the only part of one’s property that has anything at all to do with the out of doors. Parks, beautiful as they are, are after all public property. A balcony is the only “yard” a city dweller might own.

A few flowers and it’s positively garden-like.

Storage is another balcony option. I had a good friend in Warsaw who had a “balcony” at his apartment that couldn’t have been more than ten square feet: just a little spot to stand. He stored his bike and a couple of other items on the balcony. After all, what else could you do with ten square feet? As a non-smoker and non-coffee drinker, he couldn’t even enjoy a morning cigarette (if such things could be enjoyable) and cup of coffee on his balcony.

As in most urban areas, space is at a premium. Some decide to turn their little bit of outdoors into an additional room. Then neighbors get balcony envy and enclose theirs,

resulting in an alleyway of enclosed balconies.

Given the size of some apartments I’ve visited, it makes perfect sense.

Still others, with a more classic balcony, simply leave it alone. Then again, if one’s balcony is the size of others’ apartments (and I have been in apartments in Warsaw that tiny), one probably has enough apartment on the other side of the balcony to make such a conversion unnecessary.

Yet not everyone has a balcony, especially in the Old Town. This is not to say they haven’t carved out their own little outdoor garden. Some, more extravagantly than others.

It makes for a bit of color in an otherwise gray setting.

Many, however, just leave well enough alone. Perhaps they figure it’s not worth the time. Perhaps the reason that there’s not much use, given the state of the pre-war facade.

With all the renovation going on all over the city (thanks, European Union), it’s only a matter of time before such sights disappear. In a way, that’s sad: such decrepit facades bear witness to history. They show the gritty underside of Poland, and they serve as a reminder to visitors that, as with much of Europe, the city hasn’t always been filled with days of Italian ice cream and walks in the parks.

It also shows one of the paradoxes of modern Poland. The building above is literally on the rynek: the most prized location in Krakow real estate. Yet the roof is literally pathetic. It’s the same as in Furmanowa, the meadow overlooking the Tatra Mountains in Zab: prized real estate that’s used for cultivation.

And yet the irony: so many Poles lament how so many of their compatriots have turned so materialistic in the last few years.

“Bolą mnie nogi,” was L’s chorus. Aching legs was something to expect: after all, taking a little, semi-city girl for a walk in the mountains is no walk in the park, if one will excuse the obvious pun/cliche. Especially when she’s the kind of girl that wants to climb every obstacle she encounters.

A beautiful morning with no other plans, though, called for an introduction to the Tatra Mountains.

We set out with two rolls, a container of strawberries, and a bottle of apple juice. And a plan: walk as far as we can up Dolina Kościeliska (Kościeliska Valley). With a prognosis of rain only a couple of hours away, I wasn’t terribly optimistic, but even a twenty-minute walk would have been worth it.

The two rolls lasted only a few minutes.

“Can I something to eat?” the Girl asked shortly after we started walking. Immediately after finishing the first roll — obviously not even pausing for pictures — she asked for a second. The strawberries lasted through the first two breaks.

Surprisingly, and proudly, the complaining about the legs didn’t happen until we’d almost reached the point at which we actually turned around: a small chapel situated between two large pines. Up to that point, it was all fun and smiles. Horse-drawn carts traveled up and down the road, and the Girl only expressed regret that we weren’t travelling in more style.

It seems to me that a three-and-a-half-year-old stomping her way up a small incline toward an unknown reward is style enough. Still, the Polish idea of recreation is different from the American idea, and the Girl wasn’t the only, or even the youngest, child heading up the valley. In fact, it was from another three-foot sojourner that the Girl got the idea of aching legs.

“Bolą mnie nogi,” a young girl said as she passed us with her father. Shortly thereafter, L declared, “Bolą mnie nogi.” Coincidence? Definitely. At the same time, certainly true, considering how far she’d already walked.

We took a break at a small chapel, and while L polished off the strawberries, I snapped a few pictures and glanced at the sky. The wall of gray that characterized the Polish sky during most of my years in the country was bearing down on us. Literally a wall: sunny, blue sky on one side, solid gray sky on the other. Behind, the sky was an ominous dark gray that strongly hinted at rain. It was two hours later than forecasted, and for that I was thankful.

And so was the Girl.

“You want to head back now?” I asked rhetorically.

“Do babci?”

“Yes.”

She slammed down the lid to the container and declared, “Tak!”

I first made the journey to Krakow in the summer of 1996. I took an 8:00 am train from Radom, an industrial city just outside of Warsaw, to Krakow along with a compartmentful of co-volunteers from the Peace Corps. An industrious group took a train leaving at five something in the morning, but valuing my sleep more than sightseeing, I waited for the next train.

In ’96, Krakow Główny was an average Polish train station. There was a parking area in front, and across the street from it was the main bus station: a sad, dirty affair that I came to avoid at all costs. Krakow Główny wasn’t much better, particularly the waiting area.

These days, it’s somewhat more spectacular.

The approach to the market square is much the same as it was fourteen years ago.

Out of the station, a broad walk leads to a passage under Westerplatter Street.

In the mid-ninties, this was where the “shopping” started. The intended clientele here was not the few Westerners who might, in comparison, be relatively rich. These small shops and kiosks sold things for Poles; by and large, they still do.

Emerging from under Westerplatter Street,

the walkway passes beside the Juliusz Slowacki theater.

The walk to the rynek continues down ulica Pijarska past the only real tobacconist  I could find in Krakow.

It was here that I first bought what became my favorite pipe tobacco: Dunhill’s Mixture 965. Dunhill no longer produces the blend, and even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to buy it here now: no real tobacco blends to speak of.

The walk continues by the Florianska Gate,

turning left onto Florianska street.

The MacDonald’s on Florianska has been there since my very first visit. Whenever I was in Krakow, I dropped by. Not for food, but for the one thing that American chains did better than just about anyone else in Poland at that time: bathrooms. Only at McDonald’s could I count on clean facilities, and apparently others discovered that as well: within a year, McD’s had switched to a pay bathroom, something seemingly unthinkable for many Westerners but common at that time (and still quite common). One had to be a customer to use the restroom, so I bought a small order of fries.

My first visit, I was completely unaware what awaited me at the end of the street.

Stepping onto the rynek (main market square), it’s difficult not to stand motionless in awe. But that’s for another day.

I always feel a little guilty, heading out with a camera and my backpack of accessories to take a walk in Jablonka and photograph people who are putting in a normal day’s work in the field that is harder than I do most days of my life. That is why I always hesitate to approach. A massive zoom lens — call it the coward’s approach.

fortunately, hard-working Poles are not the only attraction. Much of the farm work here — such as turning hay on the fields for drying — is done with somewhat antiquated machinery by commercial/industrial Western farm standards. The machines are rusty but elegant reminders that not all heavy machinery needs computer chips and miles of cables. A few rusty springs will do just fine.

At first, one might say, “There is no comparison to the scale of large, commercial Western farms,” and that’s correct, partially. But when you see how Orawians load a trailer with hay, it puts questions of scale into proportion.

Remember: this trailer was load manually: one or two guys on the ground tossing up pitchfork-loads of hay to one or two guys (or women, or even adolescents) standing on the growing pile. At least that’s how it ends. The wagon actually has a device that forks the hay into the wagon bed automatically, but one doesn’t make wagon loads this high by letting machines do all the work.

The odd thing about the fields they’re working is their shape: long and narrow. Most of them are no wider than thirty or forty feet, but they are often three or four times that long.

It’s the result of generations of inheritance: dividing the land to pass it on to further generations creates not a checkerboard but, well, yes a checkerboard, but out of some Dali painting, where the dimensions and shapes of everything are exaggerated and warped.

The big mystery: with so many fields crammed side by side, how does anyone know anyone’s borders? I go out for a walk and find one field’s hay cut, neatly put into piles; the neighboring field is wild with grass and flowers. How does the owner know where his land stops and his neighbor’s begins?

“They just know,” I’m told.

Apparently, though, some have gone to the cost of having surveyors come out and set boundaries.

Others use less technologically-dependent methods.