I had only one full day in Krakow, with an evening on one end and the morning at the other. The train ride to and from was a little over seven hours.
As I've found everywhere else in Europe, the train was easy, comfortable and scenic. There were several trains heading into Poland every day, and one that came back to Prague, direct. That leg was the one I had to be sure not to screw up, as my flight home was scheduled for the morning after its return.
I love trains. I see the swath of country that local commuters see. There's no fear of getting only the tourist view of a place, and my experience differs from residents soley in deep paranoia about missing my stop for misunderstanding the PA announcements.
From the window I kept thinking "this looks like Baltimore". The grit and graffiti of the passing landscape was near-identical to what I see on my trips between New York and DC. There were more ominous-looking abandoned guard towers on the route, of course, but about the same volume of beautiful decay along the tracks that I'm used to from the Northeast Corridor. I wanted to hop out with my camera at practically every stop.
Between urban areas there were long swaths of farmland. The landscape was largely flat, with only long undulations, just like most of Michigan. where I grew up.
I was traveling during the work day, so the train was only about half occupied. For a guy used to the Sahara-dry turkey sandwiches of Amtrak, the Czech menu was a revelation. Goulash, heated on an actual stove while I watched, was basically perfect rail food.
Arrival at Krakow station was uneventful. In fact, if I didn't know of the much-publicized crisis from news outlets at home, it would have been very possible to walk through the place thinking it was a normal work day in a medium-sized city. A photographer friend I'd consulted before setting off told me where to look for the arriving Ukrainians and the facilities set up to help them. That evening there were a couple hundred people in line or waiting nearby with their children, receiving donated food, water and advice.
There was no air of desperation. People were dressed to travel comfortably, though their faces showed the fatigue of the road and many carried overflow belongings in plastic bags. At the head of the line was the makeshift office that matched refugees with locals who'd offered room at their houses (see my earlier post for more on this). While I was taking photos I turned and bumped into a guy wearing a Mets hat. He looked at my camera and asked "where are you from?". He was a New York filmmaker on his way to the Ukrainian border. We were the only photographers I saw there.
I'd heard and read many quips about Poles being "used to" being in this position. I took those as arrogance-tinged American comments on the troubles of Eastern Europe; but seeing the easy, unflustered way in which the Polish in Krakow station handled their arriving neighbors, I came away hearing those words as compliments.
Given that my visit was a short one, my goal was to walk as much as I could and duck into any bar that might hold locals willing to talk to a random American about what was going on.
Alexandra was at a table in the train station, near one of the spots where Ukrainians were picking up donated food. She and her colleagues were serving homemade vegan soup out of two huge pots. It smelled delicious, and their infectious smiles were visible over their masks, so I stopped to chat.
They wouldn't let me turn down a bowl just because I wasn't a refugee. I caved in after Alexandra scolded me pointedly that this was a traditional soup I'd never get in any restaurant. It was as good as it smelled.
I ate the soup to the side of the table, and in a quiet moment asked what she thought was going to happen with Russia. I guessed that she was somewhere in her forties. Her sunny manner evaporated as she said "This is Russia being Russia. Putin won't stop if he gets Ukraine. He'll want Poland next." There was real anxiety in her voice. "We thought for a long time he was most interested in money, but now he shows he's just another Russian dictator." Her friends nodded. I finished my soup and thanked them profusely.
Walking out into dusk in Krakow center I was smitten by the architectural texture of the old city and the spider webs of elevated tram cables and tracks criss-crossing the streets. Though my evening was washed in purples, if the world had switched to black-and-white it would’ve been difficult to discern the century at a glance. My hotel looked out onto an intersection dominated by a gothic church that loomed over an old street curving artfully out of view. I took too many photos through that window.
Belongings stashed, I went out into the fading light in search of a bar. My selection criteria was ‘not-a-club, not-touristy'. I eventually found a trendy looking spot near-closing and staffed by local twenty-somethings. I ordered vodka, to their disappointment.
What I gathered from a severely language-barriered conversation with the bartender and a couple of off-duty bar staff was surprisingly similar to what I might get from the same age group in Washington. Both the bartender and his friends voiced skepticism about what they see and hear via traditional media. They had few opinions about what Russia was up to in Ukraine, or what could happen in Poland; rather they wanted to express that you can't believe anything these days, and hinted that at least some of the news about what was going on nearby was overblown. And with an unconcerned shrug: "In any case, we're in NATO, so it'll be OK."
The morning of my full day in Krakow was gloriously sunny. I charted a walk that would ultimately land me at the top of an ancient manmade hill named Krakus Mound. It affords a panoramic view of the city and is the oldest human structure in the area, dating back to the 8th century at least, with some believing it tracks as far back as the second century BC, with Celtic origins.
Where Prague's old city has been restored too far, in my opinion, evidenced by ancient statuary increasingly appearing as if it was carved last month, Krakow's historic center is tidy but retains plenty of the soot and patina of a city still living in the present. The neighborhoods I walked showed a lot of what I'd read ahead of time: that this is a city that had dodged the ruin of world war. No soulless rebuilt blocks to be found on my walk, and lots of "what a great pile" architecture, as my Dad would say.
After tromping around Krakus Mound to my heart's delight, it was time to interview another bar. What's that? A boxing gym next to the river with a bicycle-themed spot attached? In a neighborhood that oozed Williamsburg? SPOKO cafe it was.
My bartender was very friendly, and I'd guess in her late 20's. I told her about my observations at the train station and she said that since the 2014 Crimea war they felt much closer to Ukraine. That the influx of migrants during that time established a stronger sibling feeling toward their eastern neighbors than before, and that her personal circles are very much connected to the Ukrainians who came and stayed, and to those who came and returned home. So the natural hospitality to the refugees was to be expected. When asked about what might happen with Russia, her answer was that she was very happy to be part of NATO but worried that the alliance wouldn't really commit if something really bad happened to Poland. She encouraged me to ask the other regulars at the bar, and I did -- but in contrast to her, they clammed up. As I was paying, she shrugged, leaned in and said "They think everyone they don't know here is a Russian agent".
I suppose it isn't surprising in hindsight that my experience with local feelings about the war in Ukraine differed along generational lines. Those whose lives bridged any part of the cold war and included parents who saw World War II's aftermath were deeply concerned; almost resigned to very bad things coming, while those Millennial-and-younger were more interested in misinformation debates than a physical threat to their lives or country.
When researching this train trip I was concerned about competing with Ukrainians for seats on the way back. I didn't want to make anything harder for someone trying to actually survive because I felt the need to take a bunch of photos in Krakow. This concern turned out to be unfounded, as the train, just as on the way to Krakow, had plenty of empty seats.
I enjoyed the Polish Northeast-Corridor view just as much as I had on the way in.
