Wednesday 2nd August 2006

The Salt Mines
מכרות המלח בוויליצ'קה



























My lovely guide
המדריכה החמודה שלי



This morning I am picked up from the apartment to go on the other guided tour I have booked on my arrival at Krakow, to the salt mines of Wieliczka, a small town just outside the city. Today's minivan is a slightly larger Chrysler Grand Voyager (yesterday's was a Seat Alhambra), the driver doesn't crave my company next to him, but politely opens a middle door and I sit behind, quite content to do so after yesterday's experience. Turns out I am in fact the entire group. At the mines I arrange to meet my driver at around midday, and he attaches me to an existing group and takes his leave. The visit proves to be fascinating. Our guide, a young, enthusiastic local girl who lived here all her life - she even studies locally - is simply charming. Her English is limited: most of the commentary she provides is read out of memory, I reckon, and her way of mispronouncing almost every other word, yet never losing track of her speech, never faltering, is at once illuminating and hilarious. Never mind - any imperfections are completely made up for by her natural charm and sincerity. The mines are very impressive. First the climb down a seemingly bottomless staircase, flight after flight of wooden stairs. Then the walkways, various chambers carved out in rock salt, including chapels - one enormous one: at that stage you are told you can no longer take photos unless you buy a special permit. As my crappy camera doesn't perform well in the dark I simply put it away (having already taken some pictures before it became "restricted"). the statues carved in salt are eerily beautiful - look and feel like granite or marble, but a little translucent when you shine a light through them. At the end of the tour I find myself the only person lining up for the additional tour of the mine's museum. I then am treated to a personal tour through the archaeological finds from the mines and the area. That is also where my doubts about my guide's command of English are confirmed, but that doesn't stop us from having a good communication and she skips effortlessly between the official mode (declaiming fluently and clearly her knowledge of the subject matter) and the informal (struggling to express herself on general subjects such as her studies and work). We end our stroll by ascending back to the surface in an old looking (but modern and fast) workmen's cage-lift. I am squashed into a corner by three big fully uniformed guides, my tiny little guide is in there somewhere too - I can hear her - but totally obscured by her large mates. Out side, it still rains, lightly but I am wet before I reach the car. I now look forward to my simple Polish lunch at the local greasy spoon!
After lunch the weather brightens up. I go back to the apartment, check out and take my suitcase to the station. My night train to Vienna is not till 10:25pm. I want to be so tired by then, that I should sleep the whole journey!

Tuesday Night in Krakow

Back in town, and I need lunch! The crazy driver sets me down by my apartment, I bid my new friends goodbye. I will miss the Swedish (half Turkish on his father's side - how cool is that?!) guy especially. But now I must forage for food. I go into a modest, local little restaurant, much like a school canteen only here you can get a beer and smoke. The lady behind the counter confounds my prejudice by speaking English and being helpful! I want the pierogi (let's not go too deep: we'll call them Polish ravioli). They are fresh out. I settle for the Polish version of schnitzel, the local beer and enjoy a simple, tasty fare in an unadorned, basic local diner. Perfect. In the evening I walk around town, again all the way to Kazimierz, and I stop for dinner at an Italian restaurant, on a small, desolate square, flanked from the south side by the Great Synagogue. I sit out on the terrace, and order Polish dishes. I keep it as light as possible - still carrying inside of me that late lunch... It had been drizzling down all evening, and now it is raining so I stretch my stay at the restaurant till the rain thins out to a drizzle again, and I set off to the club I wanted to go to the night before. I get there, this time quite easily, I go in. The club is called Ciemna - it means "The Dark". It's a well, dark (or dimly lit) space, with darker corners, partitions made to look like prison bars, few people but definitely not empty. The area, and some of the patrons may look sinister but the barman is nice and friendly enough. I stay for a couple of beers, then head home. I even manage to catch the night bus this time, and before long I am home and (almost) dry.

Tuesday, 1st August 2006

Memorial site in Birkenau
יד זיכרון בבירקנאו

















the Birkenau monument
אנדרטה בבירקנאו

















one of the tracks into Birkenau
מסילה לתוך בירקנאו

















The gallows in Auschwitz. Its final client was Rudolf Hess in 1946 (not the one who died at Spandau prison in the 1980s, of old age...) The commander of Auschwitz shared that name and was caught, tried and executed after the war.
הגרדום באושויץ. הלקוח האחרון פה היה רודולף הס בשנת 1946. כמובן לא רודולף הס שמת בגיל מופלג בכלא שפנדאו בברלין בשנות ה-80 אלא מפקד אושוויץ שנשא את אותו השם



Thanks to my enforced early night, I am up very early. The minivan should pick me up at 9:00am, then few more people from the city centre and take us to Auschwitz. I test my visa card at a nearby ATM - it works! The burly driver is punctual, and I get the honour of sitting next to him all the way. This proves to be an error: I never asked for, or expected a rollercoaster ride but that is what I get. The man feels around for his lighter, not easy when your other free hand is holding a cellphone and you're trying to run over some frightened pedestrians on a (green light) crossing. He criss-crosses his way on every road with more than one lane, and is determined to race to the bitter end every other vehicle on the road. How I manage to fall asleep for the better part of the journey is a mystery to all but the keenest of psychiatrists. What little view I do get is lovely - all very rural and aching for an artist to paint it.
The visitor centre in Auschwitz is packed with people, and seems to be chaotic. My small group - a U.K. residing Irish couple, and a cute thirtysomething Swede and his youthful mother are my only mates. Our driver runs us like a demented shepherd this way and that, sits us down, walks us in circles (I may be embellishing a little...) eventually we are shown into the auditorium where the official visit starts with a screening of a short film taken during the very first days after the liberation of Auschwitz. It is a disturbing, even harrowing film, yet I can't help feeling the whole presentation is designed to avoid upsetting the visitors too much, or, even worse, boring them with a lot of historical facts and figures. We are then attached to a larger group, one of very many, and our walk through what remains of Auschwitz begins. It is a tough experience, and I still feel disappointed that our guide, a nice enough bloke, is just churning out the same text he speaks almost with no need to think about it as he must have memorised it over time. I don't mind the dull delivery, but I feel cheated out of some of the experience because the commentary often drifts to the anecdotal, almost trivial, with a clear emphasis on fascinating, at times heroic events involving mainly non-Jewish Polish people. As a Jew and the son of two Auschwitz survivors I feel like the very core of my experience here is missing. What did I want to happen? what did I expect? The infamous blocs, home to unbelievable inhumanity, are now surrounded by lush green grass, with tall, beautiful trees along them, making the place look like some suburban avenues. My dear friend Rafi had half jokingly said before my trip that you should only visit there when it rains. Well, today the sun is out and the weather is lovely. Rafi wouldn't stand for this kind of nonsense for a minute!
With the chaos I have by now come to expect we all pile up onto the bus that will ferry us over to Birkenau - Auschwitz 2. It's some 3 kms away, built by the Nazis when the original camp proved too small for the scale of killing they planned. It is said to be 20 times bigger than the first one, and it is indeed shocking to see the enormity of that place. Most of the blocs there have been demolished, partly by local folk desperate for firewood and building materials. The ones remaining intact are grim and dark, and it is almost impossible to imagine the living hell endured by the inmates of that place - had it not been so fully documented by the SS themselves, for as long as they felt they would never be called to account for their crimes.
Our guided visit is at an end. All five of us are met by our scary driver. This time I sit at the very back of the car. Let some other sap sit up front with psycho driver. Our maniacal journey back to town is easier to stomach now that I have my own seat. I look at the countryside rolling back through the window. It looks so serene, so picturesque. How different could it have looked when my mom and dad were incarcerated only a few kilometres away, condemned to death through slave labour and starvation for no other reason than being Jewish. Did the church bells still ring on Sundays, Could my parents hear them in the distance? Could they listen out for them?

Monday, 31st July '06, Krakow

This is a little street in the Jewish Quarter, a square in shape, actually
















Me at the gate to the cemetery. No head cover so I was unable to enter.















Commemorative plaque at the courtyard of the old synagogue
















Rynek Glowny
















The indoor market in Rynek Glowny




At Krakow airport, small considering it's one of the major ones in Poland, I use my visa card to get some money - there was no time for it at Gatwick - then head into town. After initial orientation difficulties (they kept quiet the fact that all around the train station there is nothing but building work, hardly any paved paths to roll a suitcase on, and there is very little signage in English...). I finally manage to find the right tram, in the right direction, having purchased a day pass. I reach the B&B, settle down in my large and comfortable room, and head straight back out the door to explore the old city. I love it - it has old buildings, squares, market places, a wholly touristic fleet of horse drawn carriages of varying shapes
and sizes, but it feels less frantic or exploited than other, more obvious cities in Eastern Europe. I find an official tourist office and book two guided tours: Auschwitz for tomorrow (Tuesday) morning, and at my mom's insistence, Wieliczka's Salt Mines for Wednesday morning. Next I must get my train ticket to Vienna - I plan to take the night train on Wednesday, to arrive Thursday early morning. The train station is lively, old fashioned, with the mandatory service, provided by grumpy, hairy chinned women. At the international bookings a big Russian man is behind me in line. Well, not quite behind me - in true Russian form he is practically trying to mount me from behind, then progressively sideways, staring curiously at every piece
of paper I produce, my visa card, and all the while carrying on a conversation with an unseen woman he is apparently with, with total disregard to my personal space. I read long time ago in some paper that a Russian man will cross an empty Red Square to step on your foot. I remember chuckling at the absurd image... Not any more. Finally, with tickets, reservations and no permanent damage to my person or dignity I walk over to the Jewish district Kazimierz. A visit to the old synagogue, where I realise
I left my hat behind. Typical! the area is really charming, and at places poignant with plaques on the synagogue courtyard commemorating people and families that lived and thrived there till World War II broke out, and the process of mass murder kicked off. I leave the area deep in thought, and as a result get slightly lost... Later the same evening I come out of the apartment and take the tram back to the old town square. Krakow may be no Prague, but it seems quite lively and happening, even on a Monday night. There are stylish bars everywhere, inexpensive restaurants serving almost any type of food you could possibly desire (with the exception of vegetarian - it's all there but a little harder to find). I take a beautiful Polish dinner at a smart restaurant, sitting out on the terrace as it is so warm outside, despite the light rain that had been falling. I order the zurek soup - it comes served in a round
bread loaf that had been hollowed, filled with the soup then covered by the top slice as a lid. Not only does it look good, it is delicious! I can't help wondering what do they do with all that left-over bread - I hope it is used as animal feed or something, ot it would be such a waste... I follow with the grilled (actually fried, in butter) whole trout, all washed down with the local beer. After paying for my meal I realise I need to draw some more money. The first ATM I use refuses to cough up for me. "It's broken" I delude myself. Off to another one, same result, with a curt message to contact my bank. This really annoys me. What shall I do?! I still have a few zloty, so I decide to stop at the one gay club/bar that could possibly interest me in Krakow (there are only two worth their name anyway) on my way back to the apartment. I walk there, just as well after a hearty Polish meal. I get there - it's located in a narrow, dark street, with nothing but (seemingly) lost souls stumbling here and there, hanging silently and menacingly on the barely lit corners. I try to look confident and sure of myself, but who am I fooling? I get there, having finally found it among the dark doorways, I discover I have barely enough money to get in and maybe even get one drink. As I am in a lousy mood by then, I decide not to stop this time, but catch a night bus or tram home. Damn! Just missed one, next one in 30 minutes. I walk instead. In the room I call my bank, trail through the automated, annoying menus until I reach a real person at the Lloyds TSB helpline. "We detected an unusual activity on your card, so as a precaution we decided to stop it" they explain. But why didn't you try to check it with me first, I vainly plead. No, really, they have my phone no... "Oh, now that it is all cleared up you can go back and use it even right away if you like". I don't like, it is way too late and I have to be up early to visit Auschwitz. Anyway, it's been a long day. I turn in.

My Grand Tour Summer 2006

It had a promising start: planned by myself, flight one London Gatwick to Krakow, rooms arranged through EBAB (the German website fixing the gay community for B&B around the world), flight two from Hamburg to London Heathrow shy of two weeks later, printed material about places I would visit, timetables checked, alarm clocks set. But as I am hurtling towards Gatwick on an early Monday morning train, it dawns on me that I had cut it very fine - too fine in fact. And sure enough as I make it to luggage fast-drop (having checked-in online) I realis I had missed the 40 minutes before departure deadline. An indifferent BA ground crew man tells me: "The flight is closed. You'll have to go to Customer Service and they will get you another one". In a state of panic, and now profusely sweating I start the run around from zone this to zone that as the clock ticks away faster and faster, making it less likely I might still make it. Luckily a kind and helpful BA lady agrees to let me go on and board the plane with my smallish suitcase as hand-luggage. She prints a new boarding card and we rush to the top of every queue, including security check ("You can't rush this" says a calm, flying-nowhere ground security man. "Oh, of course, I fully understand" I lie politely). I am now in the duty-free hall, looking for the departure gate. Found it. I run like a madman, shoppers, moms pushing baby buggies, they all scatter as I steam forward. I am finally at the gate, one BA hostess left there, looking frosty... I hand over my boarding pass, embarrassed by my appearance (the sweat is pouring off me. Charming) I say: "My Goodness, you look so calm and collected while I am all over the place..." She just hands me back my pass with a stern "have a nice flight". No smile, of course. Oh, what the hell, I'm in and that's all that matters right now.
On board (and to my surprise I don't seem to be the only latecomer) I settle nicely on the seat I cleverly allocated for myself online - window, first row of Scum Class (running the risk of sitting with baby - holding people). Any minute the sweating will stop, I can calm down now. A lady asks me: Is this seat 4F? Yes it is. "I think you're in my seat" says the irritating woman. I fish for my pass, and proudly show her how stupid... but wait - the ground crew gave me a different seat to my own choice. How dare they?! glasses please, what does it say? 2E? isn't that in Club Euro? It is? oh, I apologise to the sweet lady and vacate her seat (in slightly more moist state than she would expect, but hey, that's economy for ya). I move the two steps to my newly allocated seat, to find another lady already occupying it, and would I mind terribly? Her own seat, 2B will do just fine, indeed even better as it is a front row isle seat and has more legroom. The air hostess says: "Front row passengers must store all hand-luggage in the overhead lockers, including handbags. Not you sir, obviously". I reply: "Of course not. Mine is already up in the locker". Hostess laughs. I laugh. It's going to be all right. My Grand Tour has begun.