My friend and I decide to take the two-and-a-half hour train to Krakow. Though the routes of the trains have not changed through all these years nor did the train stations, the trains themselves look somewhat cleaner and more comfortable. We sit in a compartment with three other people (one compartment is intended for 8, which translates into sardines crammed in a can). It is quiet so I tell my friend Ania what happened one day when I was alone at her house. Someone rang from downstairs. I answered and the man informed he had fresh eggs. I was a bit surprised at this kind of service, that is, eggs being delivered to someone's house, so I checked: "Why? Were they ordered?" Everyone in our compartment bursts out laughing. When I think of that man, however, I feel bad I did not buy those eggs from him. What if that was his only job and since eggs go bad after a while, does he have enough money to get by?
Krakow has always had a calming effect on me. I find myself on the Main Square and I am happy. Today I am a bit disturbed by the number of people storming from each and every side, but if I ignore that, I'm happy. Just moments ago I felt like I was in America again as we passed through an immense shopping mall connected with the train station. Nonetheless, in the Main Square is where I feel like I am back in Krakow and I am relaxed and peaceful inside. We sit at one of the many gardens and I know I have to do everything to be able to come and live in that city for a while. Only here I enter in that state of bliss; nowhere else and I can't really pinpoint what it is that makes me feel this good. The university, the old churches, the incredible and mysterious Jewish neighborhood... I don't know. It's Krakow and, magically, I'm home.
Going to Krakow from the North, one can spot many abandoned factories that boomed during the Communist era and now stand as these blind giants (with broken down or, better yet, stolen windows) scarred with obscene graffiti. As the train lazily passes these forgotten structures, I begin imagining what kind of people worked here, whether they liked their jobs, if they made decent money, and where were they now. Not all of them are as bitter about those years as it may seem. Their faces now look even more lost, withdrawn, disappointed.
Interestingly enough, that Saturday night in Krakow we end up in two places that monopolized on the minimalist Communist ideology for entertainment purposes. The place is called "Społem", a word I know all too well, in fact so well, I had to look it up. I know it from all the grocery stores that still today bear that same sign they bore during Communism. The only difference now is that the shelves offer a much wider variety of products than anyone would need, while back in the day, these same shelves stood completely bare collecting dust.
This is the kind of "Społem" people remember and know and my generation is the first one to poke fun at its survival because although the food is available now, the store still looks exactly the same way it did back when I was a little girl standing in a long line for a loaf of bread.
Standing in line is definitely something the Poles have in their blood because it requires great skill, not patience as one might think. I have witnessed and experienced it many times and every such occurrence puts a big smile on my face. Try to stand in line to buy a train ticket or anything really and you will see what happens around you. Polish people simply need to cut in line at the slightest opportunity they get. You might be standing first and turn your eyesight for a second. Chances are before you realize it, there will be five different people standing in front of you already and the ones behind you will be breathing down your neck.
At the airport in Amsterdam going back to NY I spot an older man that I know has to be Polish. As soon as a line begins forming to go through the gate, he shimmies his way through the entire crowd all the way to the front. Just to see what he will do, I approach him from the side, which means I am trying to cut in. He grows extremely uncomfortable and blocks my way with his entire four feet or so posture. I look down and notice a plastic bag bearing a picture of the Madonna and a name of one of the sanctuaries in Poland. Ha! And he was a religious too, but he was even more religiously guarding his sacred spot in the line! I hardly resisted bursting into laughter.
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