Post thirty-six, to Krakow again

Spring seems to be the season everyone wants to come to Poland. Cris, my step-mother, came to Krakow to give a lecture last weekend, so I went down to meet her. I arrived early-evening, and we had a great dinner (tartare!) before turning in.

The next morning, we took off for Oświęcim (Auschwitz). It was understandably hair-raising and terrible.

Yes, those birds are washing. The only thing cuter than this is them drinking.

Later in the day, we wandered around and I found a fantastic shop that does basically what I want to do—it sells things third-hand. The designers acquire a piece of fabric that isn’t wanted by anyone else, and sew a garment out of it. I think—should I ever have a shop—I want them to be my partner. At any rate, I bought an awesomely versatile dress and rested satisfiedly on my laurels. Later we ate more pierogi and possibly the best ice cream I’ve ever had: kiwi (great) and chestnut (awesomely gloriously shockingly magnificent). And then sleep.
Sunday we walked down to the Jewish quarter to take a gander at the old synagogues, and on the way stumbled across the procession of Saint Stanislaus.


This entailed a lot of pomp, lots of piped-in chanting, and cardinals in funny hats. We walked with them for a while, before schisming off to Kaszimiersz.
Later, we had lunch with a colleague from the Jagellonian University (the oldest in Poland, or Europe, or something). Then Cris and I separated, and I submerged myself in Krakow’s glorious PhotoMonth—a city-wide month-long photography exhibition. I saw amazing, world-class exhibitions in empty apartments all over the city, proctored by teenagers texting on their phones. The show was crowned by five photographers whose works hung in the former Schindler Enamelworks factory south of the city. I have a new found respect for gallerists, and their enormous dedication to hanging works where they belong. In this factory—itself a historical document—the photographs found incredible purchase. Most remarkable was Kill House, which was hung in an attic space, with only the light coming through the uneven slats in the floor illuminating the space. It was eerie and claustrophobic, and enormously effective.

I fast-walked north to the hotel, to meet Cris in time for ice cream. I had hazelnut and something else, and then we went to a church we’d noticed earlier was having a Chopin/Mozart concert. The acoustics were the best I’d ever experienced (I guess I really know now what people mean by “great acoustics”), but the concert was oddly disappointing—kind of a “greatest hits” of classical music.

Post thirty-five, Official Traveling Day seven

I taught an ultimately disinterested class in the morning, and then Emma and I continued to Warsaw, so she’d be in place to take the plane home in the morning. It became clear that I wouldn’t get back to Chelm in time to teach my class on Tuesday, and I (instantly) reconciled myself with it.
We hunted out a good milk bar to have dinner in (pierogi with cabbage, vegetable soup, and a tasty beer named after chestnuts), and then went to the fantastic bar with plush carpeting on the ceiling (and remarkably sassy bartenders). Then: long awaited sleep. In the morning I took a bus back to Chelm, and taught more unresponsive classes, and I assume Emma met her plane, and went home to America.

Post twenty-four, Official Traveling Day six-point-five

We boarded the bus after eating a super version of the Ukrainian (writ large: basically eastern European) specialty Borshch. An hour before we reached the Ukrainian-Polish border, Emma and I heard the odd sound of 90% of the passengers taping things together. Yeah, that sound is noticeable. And if they’re taping cigarette packets together, you tend to wonder what’s going on. 45 minutes from the border, it became clear. They were stuffing the packets wherever they fit—inside the seat-cover linings (and then sewing them up), within the foam seats, under the seats, under the walkway, above the seats. One woman strapped them—suicide-bomber-style—around her midsection. Cigarettes cost half as much in Ukraine as they do in Poland, and these women (and man) were smuggling as many as they could across the border.
At the Ukrainian border, no one batted a lash about the smugglers. Instead, they gave me and Emma a hard time, just because they could. I’m sure they know the excruciating discomfort Americans experience when their passports are taken (and its unclear whether they’ll be returned); they milked the discomfort as long as possible. When they finally gave up our passports, we advanced in the bus 20 meters and reached the Polish border. Here we were all forced out of the bus, with our baggage. The baggage and the bus were both thoroughly searched. From the latter the border guards emerged, a full hour later, with bulging trash bags full of smuggled goods. Emma and I imagined we’d be in a bus of despondent smugglers, but on the way from the border, a remarkable number of smugglers threw themselves on their smuggling hideaways, and came away with sacks of cigarettes themselves. I’m still not sure if the ruse is cost-effective, and it certainly isn’t when the time required to search the bus is factored in—however, if you’re Polish, and you’re poor enough not to count your time by the hour, perhaps it makes a profit.
At any rate, Emma and I arrived in Lublin, after traversing 120 km, 6 hours later. It was too late to take the last bus to Chelm, so we took a cab, got back to my apartment, ate heaps of pasta, and went to sleep.

Post thirty-three, Official Traveling Day six

We awoke—or rather, came to—in Lvov. Outside the city proper, at a pathetically provincial (this is before my unreasonable prejudice against Ukraine—I say “provincial” because there was a cow grazing on the median) “International Bus Station”. We took a poorly-marked (and incorrect—thanks crappy LP Eastern Europe guide) tram to the “center” to look for the famed real-coffee-serving Lvov-ian cafe (after 14 hours on a bus, it’s a matter of life-and-death). LP says “Lviv is known for and proud of its many cafes, where they serve actual coffee (not the Nescafé served in lieu of the real stuff in most former Soviet Union countries)”. Finally we found an art-nouveau cafe, then had a kebab, and returned to the station (via a charmingly confusing cab) to catch a bus back to Lublin, Poland.
Oh yeah. This bus. I feel like it deserves its own entry.

Post thirty-two, Official Traveling Day five

We awoke leisurely, and (awesomely) took showers, before eating a great breakfast of savory French toast, more glorious preserves, and tasty ham. And—of course—great tea.

Before breakfast, Alexi had researched our further travel; as the bus to Lvov didn’t leave until the late afternoon, we had the morning to sightsee.

These little kids were yelling into the fountain as loudly as they could

We returned to the market, and then had a fantastic (and thoroughly Moldovan—no pizza—) lunch (Mamaliga: polenta with soft cottage cheese, scrambled eggs and stewed meat) , before getting on the overnight bus. I bought some (what turned out to be non-) chocolate bars, and we settled in for what Alexi cautioned was a 14-hour trip. Just before vanishing behind the bleary curtain of night, I remember stopping at a…well, stop, and experiencing this toilet. The stalls were short, so we could see one another over the walls. And the grey water was saved in barrels for…something. The walls of the anteroom were incredible.

Post thirty-one, Official Traveling Day four

In Iaşi we hired a private car to take us to Chişinău (Kish-i-now, or—a la Russe—Kish-i-nev), Moldova. If you want to know the moral implications of this, write me.
Chişinău is lovely. It’s terribly run-down, but still has beautiful allees lined with trees, and good restaurants, and designer shops. We had an elongated breakfast (eggs, salad, kasha, lots of coffee) at a great restaurant and thoroughly fortified, wandered through the market to the bus station. We found a bus to Tiraspol (remember, that was our goal?), and took it. We were hassled at the border, but not terribly, and got through on 10-hour visas. Emma struck up a conversation with an International Chess Champion, on his way to Tiraspol to coach his Apprentice in a match. Our hold-up at the border had made them too late to compete, so they took us sight-seeing with them instead.
Here intrudes a comical episode, which the champions would probably resent me telling. In his extreme helpfulness, the International Chess Champion, Alexi, removed a bag from the bus that he believed belonged to us. It was a common sports-duffel bag, and Emma and I assumed it was his bag. Thus, he carried it for a good half hour before commenting on its odd clinking noise, and wondering aloud what it contained. We both said we had no idea, and it came out that he’d stolen the bag, intending to be helpful.

We searched the bag for identifying marks. There were no papers and no name tag. The bag was filled with empty jars. Thus, the problem how to dispose of the bag presented itself. We couldn’t return it to the bus station, because there was none proper. We couldn’t send it to the owner, as there was no address. Therefore, we (actually, Champion and Apprentice) wrote a clever note and furtively left the bag on the street.

(five minutes after we left the bag, it was gone)

Then we amused ourselves in Transnistria (watched a decidedly non-communist teenage break-dancing competition, ate pizza, bought groceries).

Street-racing, TransD style

The break dancing competition

Forbidden things at a popular disco....daggers, boxing gloves...the usual

We took a bus back to Chişinău and stayed the night with Alexi, his wife, and Vova (the Apprentice). They lived directly downtown, and we experienced the horrible singing of the Moldovan Eurovision hopeful (in a giant festival) before reaching the apartment. We had tea and magnificently great raspberry preserves and pickled mushrooms before turning in for the night. The bed was perhaps the most uncomfortable I have ever experienced, and I have never slept so well. Ever.

Post thirty, Official Traveling Day Three

From Debrecen, full of a kind of brittle and exuberant optimism, we took a bus to Berettyóújfalu (still obviously in Hungary), and from there walked to the train station (past a gloriously fragrant powdered hot-chocolate mix factory),

and got money, just (really just—you have no idea) in time to catch the daily train to Oradea, in Romania, and to experience the charming Hungarian border guards.

It is thus described: “Of all the cities of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Oradea best retains its 19th-century romantic style.” It is shockingly lovely. The city seems almost like an abandoned structure (a la Calvino) that has been overtaken by a foreign civilization; the current inhabitants seemingly have little to do with the faded grandeur of the buildings.

We had lunch in an art-nouveau arcade

and continued on our way—taking the train across the exceedingly beautiful (I think I remarked on its beauty, on average, about every 20 minutes) Romanian countryside,

(Haystack taxonomy)

to Cluj-Napoca. We ate a disappointing pizza dinner (why is pizza the only dish any restaurant serves these days? What happened to regional dishes?), Emma discovered that her bank card didn’t work in Romania (“Too Dangerous”), and we settled in for the night on our train to Iaşi (Yash). Romania is large enough that the train took all night. I noted only sleepily that an elderly man shared our compartment, but apparently Emma spoke with him; he was our guardian, and kept trouble at bay. I wish I had—however blearily—thanked him for it.

Post twenty-nine, Official Traveling Day Two

Woke up to mysteriously disappearing hot water and a typecast Polish Intellectual in the breakfast room (he called himself a Poet-Teacher, and was holding the collected Ginsberg).
Took a bus overfilled with Polish holiday-making students through the stunningly bucolic countryside to the Slovakian border, and walked across. We would’ve had to wait hours for the bus on the other side, so we hitched instead. I figured it was OK because
1. It was Slovakia, where I bet lots of people hitch (actually, the guide, which discusses hitching for every other of the 18 countries included, said nothing),
2. Because it was mid-morning, and
3. Because there were two of us.
And of course it was OK. We got a ride with a young Polish couple on their way to Zagreb for the long weekend. We communicated in a mixture of French and English, and I think it was an auspiciously multilingual start to our trip.
We were deposited in Prešov, Slovakia, whence we took a bus to Košice, Slovakia. We deposited our bag and went into town for lunch. I wish we’d had more time—it was beautifully cheap and very cosmopolitan.

After lunch we collected the bag and dashed for the train which took us across the Hungarian border to Miscolc. I have no clear memory of how we got to our next goal—Nyíregyhaza—but Emma has drawn a little train next to this trip in her tabulation, so I will assume it was by train.

Luxurious seats in our Hungarian train

At any rate, we hated the look of Nyíregyhaza—provincial and mean—and had come to the depressing decision that we should abandon the chase and go to Budapest instead, so we took a train to Debrecen, in order that we could be better situated to take the train to B. in the morning.
We checked in at a flop-house near the train station, which coincidentally contained an internet café. Where I coincidentally checked my e-mail. And coincidentally read an e-mail from someone (you might know who you are) who mentioned that we didn’t need a visa to go to Ukraine. This changed everything—it meant that we could still make it to TransD in time to take an overnight bus back to Poland, and therefore make it back for my class/Emma’s plane. A night of plotting and furious plan-making followed. I should also mention that the hotel was creepy enough for us to lock one another in the room when we went to the bathroom.

The ingenious faucet/shower contraption

Post twenty-eight, from point A to point B via A.a, A.b, A.a.a, A.a.b...

Emma and I took a day off to recuperate (she’d just flown, I’d just gotten a cold and traveled on it) in Chelm, and then set off on our odyssey: to reach (and return from) the self-declared republic of Transnistria, or Pridnevstrovskaya Moldavskaya Respublika (they say “self-declared” because no one else will recognize them), in six days.

Official Traveling Day One: We set out for Lublin mid-morning (after—and Emma will agree with me—delicious coffee) where, sitting in the bus station, I—practically accidentally—read the following in my February 2005 Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guide: “Always get your visa in advance and disregard anything you read that tells you that you can get any kind of visa (including transit) upon arrival.”
So now I know what the death-knell sounds like. Not something I’d ever like to hear again.


Anyone with a map (kindly provided for those of you who don’t have one) will see that the quickest way to Moldova (thus to Transnistria) from Poland, is through Ukraine. Logisch. I was close to panicking. I figured (as I would for the next four days) that we’d never make it, that we should give up, cut our losses, and go somewhere touristy and unchallenging—like Budapest or Belgrade. Thanks to Emma, we decided on the southern assault instead: we’d travel through Slovakia, Hungary, Romania and Moldova (by any means necessary) to Transnistria, instead of the easy-peasy straight shot through Ukraine. Well, OK. We got on a bus to the southernmost point in Poland--Krosno, avoiding Zakopane for reasons that only Emma knows. We arrived in the evening, and found lodging in a roundabout way (wandering around, finally finding a hotel, discovering it was full, being sent to another, discovering it was also full, then being driven to another by the previous owner’s husband, and there finally finding a room). We had lovely beer and delicious pierogi with kapusta (cabbage), and went to sleep beneath this disturbingly three-dimensional painting.

Post twenty-seven, at the Shore

I haven’t written lately. In my defense, I’ve had far more “wheel time” than computer time in the last weeks. Now that spring seems both to have arrived and been replaced by summer, I’ve done the traveling I had considered longingly during the winter.

I spent the last weekend of April in Gdansk, in the north of Poland. Getting there required an overnight journey—shortened enjoyably with beer, and lengthened consequently with numerous bathroom stops—in a van propelled solely with contraband Ukrainian gasoline.
My first sighting of the Baltic! I vowed to swim in it, but woke up with a nasty cold, and subsequently weaseled my way out. I guess I’ve spent too much time looking at maps—I had somehow imagined that we could see to Sweden. And everyone says Europe is small!
Gdansk is remarkably beautiful. I suppose I felt more at home there than in Warsaw or Krakow because all of the signage is in German—and perhaps because Gdansk was a free City in the past, it reminds me of German cities. It also seemed un-Polish, and quite international. And of course the waiters serving gloriously real cappuccinos spoke halting English.

I wandered into a church Sunday morning during service, and had the incredible pleasure of looking at one of my favorite works of art—a stunning Northern Renaissance altarpiece—in its original setting, while listening to a choir. It’s enough to convince me that there’s room for me in secular Catholicism. The photograph doesn’t do the altarpiece justice.

Students protesting a phosphorus plant, in the city center

Clearly, I'm not the only person whose French has degraded

Malbork Castle, founded by an order of Teutonic Knights