Matching Tracksuits

Just a few kilometers outside Krakow and couple of hundred meters higher lies a small group of homes on top of a small hill that have earned the name G. Is it a town? I’m not sure. When preparing the GPS, I asked my father-in-law, “What street does D [K’s brother] live on?”

“There are no street names in G,” he laughs. “Only numbers.”

Such a small place that has no street names — sounds pleasant.

And a great place to spend the evening after a long day in Krakow. Family and a great view: what else could we want? Perhaps a little entertainment, and the sport of choice in Europe is soccer football.

The mutual opponent: W, who is K’s godson. He’s quite the footballer, and to be honest, both K and I have a hard time keeping up.

When I face off against him, I think in terms of basketball: every beginner has one or two moves he feels comfortable with and repeats. I watch W as we play, figure out his favorite moves (a fake to his right, my left, followed by a charge to his left). He makes the move again and again. I come to expect it. I charge him, hoping to force the move.

Sure enough, fake right, charge left. And every single time he fakes me out. I know it’s coming; I throw out a leg like I see the pros do on television, and he shoots right past me.

If I charge and unfairly use my size advantage, I occasionally catch up and manage to kick the ball out-of-bounds. It works a time or two, but I realize anew how footballers have to be in amazing condition: I’m tired within a few minutes, and panting shortly there after.

Finally, a new strategy: keep my distance and force him to shoot from afar. It works. Temporarily.

In the end, the views win: W goes in to play video games, and I give up panting, looking at the view from our improvised football pitch.

I go inside to find K reading classic English nursery rhymes to the kids. She translates them to Polish, but they just lose something — the rhyme, the rhythm just aren’t there. The same goes with translating nursery rhymes the other direction:

Once upon a time there lived a witch named Baba Jaga,
who lived in a house made of butter.

It just doesn’t sound as good as

Była sobie Baba Jaga
Miała chatkÄ™ z masła

Certainly part of it is cultural: in the original there’s no mention of “a witch named.” Everyone simply knows that Baba Jaga is a witch. Koniec. Kropka.

Before heading out, we gather everyone for a quick group family portrait,

and other with just the kids — something of a trick with the smallest.

From Wawel, we head up ulica Grodzka toward the rynek, looking for food. We find a small restaurant that’s essentially an upscale bar mleczny and sit down for lunch. Nothing special, but good Polish eats — the sign of a good bar mleczny.

Arriving at the rynek, we begin looking for the countless bird seed mongers that traditionally seem to fill the rynek. We can’t find a single one. What’s more, the centerpiece of the rynek, the Sukiennice (Cloth Hall), is closed for renovation, with all the booths moved outside.

It’s not the same rynek.

Still, we have crackers in a backpack, so L wades into the mass of pigeons and begins aggressively throwing crackers at the pigeons.

The result is predictable.

After a few moments, K provides the much-needed assistance. But it seems that cheese crackers are not a favorite of Krakow pigeons. Perhaps there are too many chemicals — after all, what are preservatives? A frightening thought. Maybe we should make our own? After all, how difficult can it be?

It can’t be more difficult than finding refreshment on the rynek for a decent price. It’s something like the airport: cafe owners know that the average person is, at least temporarily, there to stay. Who’s going to walk two blocks to save a few zloty?

And lose such a view? Location is everything, for buyers and sellers.

Given the view, the price might just be worth it. Baby certainly thought so.

The last stop: Empik — something like a Polish Borders Books or Barnes and Noble. Though L has a relatively large library, we’re of the opinion that she can never have too many books. Especially Polish books. And so we arrive in the hopes of loading up on new books. What is L interested in? Disney. The Polish version of the “Princess Collection.”

As K is working to convince L that a Polish “Princess Collection” is entirely unnecessary, I look out the window of the third floor. One of the many street performers begins his act. Relatively original. No face paint, nothing to suggest a clown.

Just someone in a hurry to get home with his shopping. As passers-by stop and imitate, the performer drops the bag, startling observers. He pulls out smaller bags and invites them to join him.

An amusing act, but not the famous Biala Dama. We didn’t see her last year either. We’re not the only ones looking for her.

We sit next to the Basilica of St. Mary for a rest, planning on going inside, when Mass begins and we realize we won’t see the interior this year. Disappointing, but we’re all probably too tired to worry much about it.

The views from the outside are spectacular as it is.

Finally, it’s time to go: the call from K’s brother has come. He and his family are on their way home. Suddenly, we’re in a hurry. Still, there’s always time for a little ice cream.

And a shot of one of the famous statues in front of the Church of Saints Peter and Paul.

A couple of last glances and we’re back at our car.

The spell is broken as we fight our way out of Krakow: aggressive drivers, narrow roads, unexpected detours, and exhaustion all make it more difficult. Next time, perhaps we’ll just buy a small apartment on the rynek.

For everyone who visits it, Krakow holds a special place in their memory. Its cobblestones, countless chapels, churches, hidden cafes, hundreds of churches, and enormous market square invite wandering.

I’ve been to Krakow more times than I can remember; K lived in Krakow for five years. Yet despite all the time we’ve spent in the city, a visit to Krakow is a highlight of a trip to Poland. To come to Poland without going to Krakow is simply unimaginable.

We park on the Wawel castle side of the old town and approach the rynek from the opposite corner, along Grodzka Street.

Wawel is to be our focus for the first part of our visit: with L now able to state her desires and shout her complaints, we have to make slightly different plans. Visiting the Wawel dragon, making the journey though the dragon’s cave, shopping for Polish-language children’s books,  feeding the pigeons on the rynek.

We begin with a stroll through the grounds of Wawel castle, the royal residence.

To take a tour of the residence would be something of a waste: L would get little out of it, and K and I have taken the tour many times ourselves. Instead, it’s a refreshment walk — a nostalgia tour.

We do, however, head to the grave of Lech Kaczynski, the Polish president killed earlier this year in a plane crash. He was on his way to celebrate the anniversary of the Katyn massacre, but became a victim himself. Ironically, just down the street from his final resting place is a monument — one of many — to the victims of Katyn.

We also head into the cave of the Wawel dragon.

According to legend, the Wawel dragon (“smok Wawelski” in Polish) tormented the inhabitants of ancient Krakow by, well, eating them and their livestock.

The king sent all the knights to destroy the dragon, but predictably the reverse happened. As in most legends, it was a commoner — in this case, a cobbler’s apprentice named Skuba Dratewka — who saved the day. He placed a lamb carcass stuffed with sulfur outside the dragon’s lair.

The dragon drank so much water from the Vistula River that he exploded. Problem solved, and Dratewka got his reward: the king’s daughter’s hand in marriage.

Modern visitors to Wawel gain access to the cave via a long spiral staircase that seems to fall endlessly into the ground.

L becomes frightened, refusing to walk on her own. “Hold me! Hold me!” It’s understandable: after all, a dark, tight, slippery stairway is unnerving even for us adults.

By the time we make it to the bottom, though, two things are evident: first, we have to see some pigeons; second, we have to eat. And soon.

To be continued…

In many ways, the visit to Ząb is the highlight of any trip back to Poland. As the most elevated village in Poland, Ząb (Polish for “tooth”) offers incredible views; as K’s mother’s home village, it offers wonderful visits with family.

The views are indeed spectacular. From a field called Formanowa, the Tatra Mountains stretch out in their entirety just a few kilometers away.

It’s a beautiful spot, and it’s still — for now — only used as a hay field. Certainly, it’s the most valuable hay field in the world: I’m sure there are many developers who would be more than happy to build on land with such a view.

For now, it’s a spot for taking portraits

and picking flowers for great-grandmother.

“When you see great-grandmother, don’t be afraid,” K explains. L has had very little experience with the elderly, and we don’t know how she might react. It turns out our worries were for naught. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There were still more pictures to take and flowers to pick.

When we arrive at K’s godmother’s home, we find Prababcia (great-grandmother). L immediately follows, holding the flowers out in front of her, offering them to Prababcia. For now, Prababcia is simply tired and wants to sit down.

As K and Prababcia sit in her room, Prababcia begins to tell stories about the Second World War. Stories about the Nazis demanding information about the number of Jews and Gypsies in Ząb and the leader of the village plainly lying: “There are no Jews here, nor Gyspies,” though there were a few of each. Stories of villagers being arrested, hung, tortured, and shot. Stories of survival.

L and Prababcia hit it off immediately. When the rest of the family arrives, and we go to the living room to sit and talk, Prababcia and L retreat back to Prababcia’s room. L prances and dances about the room, singing, “My kochamy ciebie.” “We love you.” Prababcia sits and smiles, then gets up to tickle L. Fortunately, I’m passing through the hallway, near the camera bag.

A visit with an uncle who still lives in the family home (“This is where grandma grew up,” K explains to L as we enter.) brings the day to a close. The only thing that could make it better is a perfect sunset.