Warm Evenings

Despite the numerous questionable haircuts and the egregious amount of line cutting, I love Poland.

I love your rolling hills.  I love the thick forests.  I love your cities.  I love that you can order a liter of beer and the server doesn’t look at you as if you are that strange.  I love the confused look plastered on your infant’s faces.  I love that bike’s are the societal convertible in the summertime.  I love the women riding those bikes.  I love that you have a national park dedicated to sand dunes that once swallowed up an entire town.

I love the high-riding ankle frills on such an inordinate amount of female footwear.  I love the dichotomy between the Roman Centurion and the femininity of the legs wearing these Spartacus styled sandals.  I love the (seeming) simplicity of life.  I love the strawberries that I once denied could be better than those in America.  I love you sausage.  And I love that I can say that I love sausage without a qualifier.  I love the wide variety of people and nationalities I met.  I love your business park in Krakow. I love the Shell Service Center and her diverse array of employees.  I love that fried pork cutlet you gave me for lunch yesterday.  I love those random geriatrics on Rynek Kleparski in Krakow selling strange items to supplement their income.

I love the random sights you provided me, from trucks that weren’t trucks to bare chested Mermaids (Ariel will never seem the same).  I love your giant pier in Sopot.  I love your witty Dances With Wolves inspired name for that wonderful vodka cocktail, Zubrowka + apple juice.  I love your pierogi that is both plural and singular.  I love those fried onions you put on top of them.  I love your traditional costumes that I hadn’t seen worn so proudly in far too long.  I love your Zywiec beer so much I bought a t-shirt.  I love that no one here understands what I do for a living.   I love that I can’t really explain it to them.  I love your funny translations of phrases.  I love your castles and cathedrals.

I love that I treat you like an animate being, but I hate to see you in my rear view.

Sights in a city are quickly exhausted.  This makes the people of the city so important, as people watching is one of the chief pleasures of a trip.  One has time, so one spends it leisurely–with a snack in a park, a beer in a cafe–as the world unfolds.  And it often feels as if it’s unfolding especially for oneself, which is the almost regal power of leisure.

I venture to guess that one of the chief reasons I enjoy traveling in Europe is because of the people watching–but it runs slightly deeper.  It’s the association with the activity.  It is probably misguided, but I feel a connection to the mindset, as one might a friend or >>>?  -not intimately as one might understand an American frame of mind, but there is an association.  Perhaps a common ground, or a common…not origin, but perhaps a common frame of reference: similar historical sins, aspirations, and a general liberality.

It makes the act of travel a bit easier.  And perhaps it is a slight cop out as a result, but I am fascinated by the people I see on the streets and sidewalks, especially here in Poland.  Yet, things are different here.  Pointedly so. It’s the haircuts. Perhaps it’s a Slavic thing, but some of the hairdos are just bizarre.  As you can tell, my new favorite game is discreetly snapping pictures of them.  I mean, on some levels they are kinda cool…but on another level I’m left feeling as if I’m a hopelessly passe adult incredulously gawking at teenagers.  I’m all for free expression, but in many ways I just can’t help but wonder what they were thinking when they plopped down in the barber’s chair.

Unfortunately, I was unable to burnish my camera in time to capture two of my favorite Polish episodes thus far.  The first was witnessing a grandmother and grandson cruising down the Planty together in a motorized scooter.  It was kinda like your driving experiences as a kid, pops working the pedal and you working the wheel.  Except in this case, the “kid” was upwards of 16 years of age and much larger than the grandmother.  He was sorta propped up on the armrest and blazing a path down the sidewalk.  Good times, great oldies.

The second episode is a bit more nuanced in comparison to the Ricky Bobby of Rascals.  I was ambling down the sidewalk when I saw a young gentleman, perhaps in his mid-twenties, walking with a bag slung over his shoulder and determination on his face.  From the front, he seemed fairly proper, his haircut was a bit shaggy around the edges, seemed a bit in need of a trim.  As he neared me, I realized there was something bopping along his pack as he walked.  Within a few more steps I realized it was bundled hair.  Naturally, I had my “what the hell” reaction, so I stopped dead in my tracks to watch this little oddity pass me by.  He had a dreadlock mullet.  Hell, that might not even be the right description…it was sorta half-rat tail/half mullet.  I’m still not quite sure I understand how all this happened, but it appeared as if he regularly washed the majority of his head, but left this protrusion in the rear to stay natty dread.  As he drifted off into the afternoon sunlight, I couldn’t help but applaud his ballsy decision to do whatever the hell it was that he wore so proudly on his dome.

You are excused if you didn’t notice, but last week’s post was a bit lacking (it failed to even garner commentary from the usual suspects).  I would like to blame this on some sort of aspect of travel, but excuses are rather poor form.  So, I’ll just confirm that the post did indeed fall short.

No promises, but I’ll see if I can’t make up for the halfheartedness this week.  Still on the road, so the theme is once again revolving around the traveling life.

I’ve definitely begun to pine for home and nothing quite captures those feelings like “Far Away in Another Town,” the closing track from Justin Townes Earle’s 2008 release, The Good Life.

Faraway In Another Town – Justin Townes Earle

The Kinks have long been a cult’ish favorite among the hipster cognoscetti.  More recently, thanks to His Royal Hipness, Wes Anderson, they have enjoyed a sort of cultural renaissance with a bit broader appeal.  Travel was a common theme in several different songs by The Kinks, one of the more overt is “Life on the Road.”

Life on the Road – The Kinks

It gives voice to feelings that countless youths have felt, that is the need to just get out.  It speaks to those suffering within an inexplicable prison of location.  But the song goes further, it basely states the disappointment that often follows the escape.  We decorate escape with these hopes and expectations.  They aren’t often patently unreasonable, but they are naive because the affliction of sadness has never been about location.   Yet, we continue to stare at the horizon and see a remedy, we see only escape as an avenue for release and renewal.  And it certainly can be.  The stars often line up, but more times than not the resolution of our hopes run parallel to this song, softly fading into an aimless disillusionment.

Fortunately, I haven’t descended into all of that just yet.  Though I’m certainly beginning to itch for home, I’m still enjoying the hell out of myself out here, despite being far, far away.

Far, Far Away – Wilco

Ah…The Nice of the North!  Thanks to a certain someone, I’ve often heard stories about the glories of Sopot.  Though I would have easily spent many days there soaking up the rays and speed eating sunflower seeds, Witty and I were relegated to a mere day trip.  While not the best scenario, we tried to make the best out of it anyhow.

Our trip from Gdansk to Sopot was on Friday and, quite frankly, the weather was perfect: it was a cloudless day of debatable temperature, I was aiming on the high side and Witty the low.  Whatever the temperature reality, we both got plenty of sun exposure.

There’s not much to Sopot.  I don’t mean that in a bad way, just that it is a seaside town.  You are there for the beach, for the sunshine, for the pier, the ice cream, the cocktails in the afternoon warmth.  It is a site of relaxation.  So we did just that.  We hit the sites, such as they are: the trippy, Gaudi inspired “Crazy House,” strolled along the Molo (pier), saw the site of that aforementioned certain someone’s future wedding, and partook in the oldest tourist activity there is-shopping.

The majority of our day in Sopot was spent in the company of a few cold beers as we watched the procession of people cruising around the town.  Though our livers will often tell us otherwise, there is not much better than a cold beer on a warm afternoon.

It was a holiday weekend, so we were unable to stay the night in the Gdansk area as previously hoped.  As a result, our plans to visit Poznan were moved up a day.  After a few hours in Sopot, we made our way back down to Gdansk to retrieve our bags and hitch a ride to Poznan in what was arguably the most uncomfortable train in the world.  We were forced to sit on these molded, hard plastic benches.  Even the added comfort of my girthy haunches provided no extra relief on this ride.  Poznan couldn’t come fast enough.

I wasn’t expecting much from Poznan.  I knew it was home to a large university (perhaps multiple?) and the Lech Brewery.  I knew it had a funny sort of cuckoo clock with headbutting rams, but that was about it.  As a result, my expectations weren’t exactly high.

Naturally, I loved it.  The city was vibrant and young and less than touristed, at least in comparison to the Gdansk area and Krakow.  There was also a ton of pregnant women, which was sorta strange.  I saw more pregnant women in Poznan than I had previously on the entire trip.  It’s not even close.  I would estimate I saw close to fifty pregnant women.   And I suppose the fact that I kept a tally is a bit odd, but whatever…I’m weird.

Pregnant women or not, Poznan was cool.  I told Witty as we were leaving town that if I had to live in Poland, I’d probably pick Poznan.  Which, I suppose, is a bit strange, but as I told him, Poznan was young/vibrant, had plenty of cool watering holes, and lots of movie theaters.  In essence, it possessed many of the aspects that I love about Austin.

We didn’t do much.  The entire reason for our trip was based around a visit to the Lech Brewery, but with it being a holiday weekend the tours were booked solid. Whoops.

Despite our predilections for barley related beverages, Poznan is most known for the clock in the city center.  At noon each day crowds gather in front of the clock tower to see two rams come out and but heads with each other.  It’s a jolly little oddity.

After the goat performance, Kyle and I walked a block off the center to hear a free organ performance at an inconceivably ornate basilica.  Most commonly known as the Parish Church, the Church of St. Stanislaus the Bishop is more than enough reason to visit Poznan.  Hearing the powerful strains of Bach and the orchestral triumph of Handel’s Messiah in the face of such magnificence is awe-inspiring.

The main square is filled with a variety of vendors.  I haven’t spent a lot of time in European “flea market” settings, so my declaration that Poznan has the best may be slightly ill-informed.  That said, it was pretty cool to see people hawking such a variety of wares–from polished cutlery and cast iron decorations to giant grilled kielbasa and jewelry.  If had the capacity to travel with a bit more luggage, I easily could have left with a duffel bag full of stuff.

After the concert and stall cruising, we retired for our afternoon beverages at an outdoor cafe.  My camera battery had died, but Witty was able to get a Sony employee at a Poznan mall to charge it for us.  He left me at the cafe to retrieve the battery and snap some pictures of Poznan.  After he made it back, we broke for an evening meal at a restaurant called Avanti.  This wonderful suggestion came from Magda, one of Kyle’s co-workers who is familiar with Poznan.  For some reason associated with it being a holiday weekend, there was a half-price menu so we feasted: Polish sour soup (my new favorite dish), pierogi, and dessert.

From dinner we went back to the hotel to recharge a bit before the evening adventures.  We started out a make shift beer stand, where we were meshed between a rowdy bunch of (presumably) Turkish men and a mousy girl out celebrating (a master’s degree in tourism) with her older cousin and said cousin’s two kids.  Strange mix to say the least (and even stranger still once some of the Turks started peeing in a nearby alley as others in their party began feeding homeless men and giving them cups of beer).

With this oddly auspicious start to the evening, we set out toward another bar a few blocks removed from the square.  After an hour or two at this hip, low-key bar we moved on to a place called Cuba Libre, which billed itself as a “Latin Dance Club.”  Now, I imagine there are two thoughts right now.  First, “I can’t believe Peter agreed to go there” and second, “Latin dance clubs in Poland? How about that.”  As for the first, no I was not drunk.  I consciously agreed to go to this place.  Why? Because Witty wanted to go and I have my (rare) moments of accommodation when it comes to the desires of others.  This in spite of the fact that the place charged an entry fee (I make it a rule to avoid such establishments unless a band is playing ) and there was a silly line.  The line ended up moving fast and we were soon in the depths of a stuffy little basement…no Latinas in sight, unfortunately.  I didn’t last long.  Witty got us a few drinks and immediately descended into the madness of the dance floor without even a second look.  I hung around a few minutes in this hellish environment, wondering if Witty would survive the night if I left.  Since he had made it twenty some odd years with nary a problem, I figured I’d let him sort out his return to the hotel, so I made my way home post-haste.

I rarely regret going home “early.”  Despite not exactly agreeing with my father’s sentiment that “nothing good can happen after midnight,” I frequently find myself abiding its spirit.  So while I was reasonably well rested this morning, sleeping beauty  didn’t actually get to sleep until the sun was up.

And thus ended our Polish romp.  We made it back to Krakow on Sunday in the early evening hours.  Monday morning means work for Kyle while I expect to stroll around Krakow and make it out to the salt mines in the afternoon.

Our second day coast side started out a bit inauspiciously. Gdansk, like Kyle, was still a bit overcast, so there was a bit of a pall over our early rise and departure for Slowinski National Park.

The trip to get there was a bit cumbersome. We had to board a train in Gdansk and debark in a small town called Lebork. From there we were supposed to catch a bus to Leba, at which point we would essentially be in the park. At least that’s the impression we had. The two glaringly opposite realities were that the “bus” to Leba was a small transit van that housed about 15 people and that we had an extra five kilometers to cover before actually getting to the park itself. Fortunately, the sun decided he’d had enough of those damned clouds as we climbed west and north on the train. By the time we got off the bus in Leba it was an absolutely gorgeous day.

After some slight reconnoitering, we sat down over a pizza before heading off towards the park. It was there that we found out exactly how far of a trek it was to the sand dunes, so we decided to rent some bikes. It was the best decision we could have made. The sun was tempered by a nice cool breeze coming off the coast, which made it a perfect day for bikes. One never got hot enough to make the ride uncomfortable.

Winding our way through the evergreen lined trail, I was reminded of a park near my grandparent’s house in Houston. And with the ever present call of a variety of birds, the further we went the more it reminded me of the Piney Woods in east Texas. Of course the massive sand dunes at the end of the trail sorta dismissed any analogous possibilities, but no thing is ever quite like another.

The dunes themselves were unfathomable. They seemed to just leap out of the earth, extending into the distance as if they had no end.

We traipsed around the dunes for a bit then headed out towards the sea to take our fill of the Baltic. Without the protection of the evergreens, the weather out there was a bit more harsh. Witty dipped his toes into the sea while I chose to stay hoofed, picking up various rocks washed on shore that caught my eye.

After a spell up and down the coast, we made our way back to the bikes. On our way back to town, we hopped a few trails, both fully enjoying the chance to be out in the elements and pedaling around.

The travel gods were smiling on us on the entire trip. Every connection, whether bus or train, had been right on the money. Everything perfectly coincided with our schedule…until we got back to Lebork. Where we had to wait a whopping hour for a train back to Gdansk. Luckily there were two neighboring bars across the street from the station: McBar and Mini-Bar. We took the road less traveled and patronized the Mini-Bar where we had the cheapest beers in Poland. Hell, they might be the cheapest beers I’ve ever had in my life. Two pints of beer cost a whopping 6.40 zloty. For those of you that don’t have a calculator and a handy currency reference guide, that comes out to about $2 total. If it was up to me, we might have waited around until the next train, but we needed to get back. Witty wanted to retake some photos of Gdansk before we left. And it’s a city truly worth every photo one can get.