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The Land of King Krak

by Jason Smart in Europe , Poland

Hustle and Bustle, downtown Krakow

It was dark outside, and with the drizzle, the streets of Krakow didn't look particularly inviting. We headed towards the Old Town, a place noted for its bars and restaurants. After only a hundred yards or so, Jodie stopped walking. 'I don't like this. I'm not getting good vibes.'

'Look!' gestured Jodie, water dripping from her hair. 'Everything's dark and dingy. It seemsÃ-unfriendly.' We wandered on.

Soon we arrived in the old part of town. Shops were open on both sides of the street. Lit signs displaying the Zywiec symbol - the most common beer brewed in Krakow - shone with bright neon. We headed towards the nearest, hoping for shelter, but there was no bar to be seen. Instead an arrow pointed down a dimly-lit alcove. 'Let's try somewhere else,' I said. Jodie nodded without comment.

Further up the road there was another bar sign with an arrow inviting us down another shadowy passageway. 'What's wrong with this place,' said Jodie.

Walking into the dark passage felt distinctly unsafe. In downtown London, doing a similar thing would've almost guaranteed a knife in the back with a stolen wallet to boot. And at the end of the alley, we arrived at another arrow, this time directing us down some iron steps. Warily, we descended into our first Krakow bar.

Opening the door, we prepared ourselves for ducking the projectiles. However, we were pleasantly reassured. The place was not the haunt of robbers and thieves. It was a trendy bar dotted with students and couples having a quiet evening. We sat down with our drinks, heartened. I turned to Jodie. 'This is alright, isn't it?'

She smiled for perhaps the first time in an hour. 'Yes. This is nice.' And for the next forty minutes, we enjoyed ourselves in Krakow. Warm surroundings, decent beer and good company were all it took to remove our bleak feelings in a strange city.

* * *

The next morning, we headed outside on a dry, but slightly overcast morning. It was 10am local time and we were feeling fine. The gloominess of the previous night had dissipated completely. Jodie took in the surroundings. 'You were right,' she said with a wry smile. 'It look different now. I like it!'

Seeing as we were staying in the Kazimierz (Old Jewish) Quarter, we decided a short walk around our immediate vicinity was in order. Heading south, we soon came to a small market square straight out of old Russia.

Pretzel Fever

Burly men were setting up stalls while thick set old women were spreading out carrots and potatoes on blankets. This was the real eastern bloc - poor and in a state of disrepair. No wonder Stephen Spielberg had chosen it as a location for Schindler's List.

In the Old Town, on virtually every street corner, were pretzel sellers. These individuals stood behind their little wheeled carts, selling huge pretzels for 1 zloty (17 pence or 32 US cents).

Our first stop in the central market was Cloth Hall, a huge edifice with an ornate roof adorned with deformed masks. Open for over seven hundred years, it initially made and sold just cloth. Nowadays, it sells trinkets of silver and amber, as well as scarves, hats and beautifully carved chess sets. Further along another stall sold Russian dolls - the type that fit inside each other, and then we were out the other side, much to the consternation of Jodie.

'Why can't you ever stroll?' she said. 'We were in that place for five minutes, if that.'

Church of St Mary - Listen to the Bugle

We wandered off to see the Church of St Mary. People were milling about everywhere, clearly waiting for something to happen. Wondering what, we looked around for something exciting. Just then an elderly gentleman approached us. Jabbering away in Polish, he pointed up towards one of the spires. Then he gestured at his watch, making it clear something was going to happen very soon. With a toothy grin, he was off, pointing once more at the nearest of the two spires. Jodie thanked him, but if he understood, we couldn't tell.

The crowds were suddenly bolstered by the arrival of a horde of Japanese tourists, led by a pamphlet waving guide. 'Over here,' he shouted in Polish accented English. 'It will happen soon!' His party looked up, digital cameras at the ready. And then we heard it, the distinctive sound of a bugle call. It was coming from the taller of the two spires.

It was almost eerie. The whole square became quiet apart from the musician. Half way through the performance, the bugle suddenly stopped, then started once more. A minute later, the last note sounded and a hand waved from a small recess in the spire. Cheers and applause greeted the gesture. The crowds dispersed. 'What was all that about,' Jodie asked.

I got the guide book out to find out. 'It says here,' I said, 'that hundreds of years ago, the spire was a look out point against attackers. Some bloke used to play his bugle when invaders were coming.' I paused to read some more. 'And the music stops half way as a memorial to some poor sod whose throat was pierced by an arrow.'

'That's horrible.'

'I know. And so they play the bugle every hour, on the hour, with the gap.' We decided to find a park to sit and eat out pretzel.

Pretending we were spies from the cold war, we sought out other potential secret agents from those taking a short cut through the park. There were plenty about. Our first subject (whom I code-named The Sleeper) was a small elderly woman approaching from our right. She was walking slow enough to spring the trap with ease.

Whipping my camera out, pretending not to have noticed her, I mimed lining up a shot of the building opposite. Completely unaware of our unhealthy interest in her, the woman walked right into the centre of the frame and I pressed the button. Snap! Captured for the files!

Our next subject required a change of position. A man dressed in suitable spy attire was approaching quickly from the right. I stood up opposite Jodie, mimicking taking a photo, but I had to be quick, the agent known as The Binman was moving at a rapid pace. Here he was! Snap! The man was captured on film.

Then the man began to act very suspiciously. Perhaps he was a spy after all. To Jodie's left was a large public bin. The man headed straight for it. After rooting around for what could only have been microfilm, he sped off once more, hood pulled tightly around his bowed head, destination: Moscow.

Wawel Hill, Royal Residence

Built in the 14th century as a new royal residence and cathedral, Wawel Hill meant a short climb up a slight hill. Being the major tourist destination of Krakow, a few beggars lined the street, heads bowed and cowering. I gave one man a two zloty coin. He waved his arms about in joy, animatedly thanking us in Polish. We moved on, soon arriving at the entrance.

'Is this where King Krak lived?' asked Jodie, pointing at the battlements and castle beyond. I shook my head, laughing at the old monarch's name again. We'd read that Krakow was actually named after the comically-sounding King Krak.

'No, he was king before it was built. Shame really.'

Hungry Dragon

Further on, we could see a few people looking down at something. It was a large bronze dragon breathing fire every once in a while. According to local legend, the people of Krakow had been terrorized by a nasty dragon, and so had come up with a cunning plan to rid themselves of the beast. A brave shoemaker had filled a sheep with hot sulphur and left it out to tempt the hungry dragon. The creature had scoffed it down in one go. With its belly soon burning, the dragon had no option but to drink from the River Vistula. But it had drunk so much that its belly had burst open and it died.

Up another slight incline we came to a large grassy area with an open air café in one corner and Krakow Cathedral in another. We headed for the latter, attracted by its ornate domes covered with gold. After posing for a photo, we moved on, heading for the castle itself.

Sitting down in the cafe, Jodie and I began people watching. There weren't any crowds as such, but there were some peculiar groups about. For instance, over by the cathedral a group of about twenty people were all stood together. Everyone one of them was wearing shorts. We wondered why. Were they part of some deranged football team? And then another group of young men, all in their early twenties, appeared. All were wearing long flowing black smocks. As we watched, they walked past in twos or threes, heading around the corner. They were, of course, trainee catholic priests studying at the academy opposite the castle.

One of the Many Art Sellers of Krakow

Back in the Central Market area, we began browsing the shops. Once again, the difference between Easter in Poland and the UK struck us. Back home, chocolate would be for sale everywhere. Not so in Krakow. Not once did we see chocolate Easter eggs - not even in specialist confectionary shops. Instead of chocolate eggs, beautifully painted wooden eggs were being sold. We wondered what kids in England would make of that.

We decided to seek out a good restaurant for our last meal in Krakow. The one we found seemed a good choice. No riff raff apart from us. We were shown to our seats and given the menus.
My starter was delectable, but my main course was even better. Butterfish served with vegetables, all served with a mouth-watering sauce. It was truly delicious - perhaps the best fish meal I'd ever eaten. And a couple of large beers to wash it all down, I was stuffed. We went back to the hotel happy.

* * *

A day later, back in the UK, I got diarrhoea.

With most diarrhoea, stomach cramps are the norm, but with mine, there was nothing, apart from the diarrhoea itself. Even more bizarre was the orange oil. It accompanied the diarrhoea in squirty horridness. Inside the toilet bowl it looked like I'd poured curry oil down. An orange slick had coated the sides. On the toilet paper, it looked like I'd mopped up the oil. It was disgusting and disconcerting. Orange oil - what the hell was that about?

'Jodie,' I said when I'd cleaned the toilet as best as I could. 'I'm melting from the inside. Orange oil is coming out of my arse!'

'What?'

'Orange oil. I'll show you if you want?'

Jodie declined, but grew concerned as I described my ailment. We wondered what to do. Half an hour I was back on the throne with another oil slick making an unwelcome appearance.
Afterwards I did a search on the net and quickly found the culprit. Apparently a fish called Escolar (also known as oilfish, gemfish and rudderfish) had caused orange oily diarrhoea in lots of people. And after reading some of the accounts, it seemed I'd got off lightly. In some people, the orange oil had dribbled out at work, forming oily puddles on chairs and clothing.

We read that Escolar was made up of about 20% indigestible oil, which the human body passes straight thought after about 48 hours. What compounds matters is the fact that the true Butterfish doesn't cause these symptoms at all - it's only the Escolar, but some restaurants pass it off as Butterfish. A day later, I was right as rain again.

June 28, 2006 from travels Apr 2006

Published 28 Jun 2006 |