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 In this factory—itself a historical document—the photographs found incredible purchase.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.