No More Buses

Fountain in the Elephant on the Moon Garden

I am done with public transportation in Poland!  Everything was going so well this morning. Someone helped me take my baggage down three flights of stairs in Zakopane. I got a bus to Krakow right away, with a seat right behind the driver, and plenty of leg room.  I put my purse and two bags on my lap, since I didn't want to put them in the luggage compartment.

I pray my transportation curse is finally broken.  Then we reach Krakow. The bus in front of us stops suddenly.  We stop suddenly, but the truck in back of us doesn't.  He slams into the back of our bus, shattering the back window, and denting the luggage compartment, which causes our bus to slam into the bus in front of us.

Human Statues in the Rynek in Krakow 

Thank heavens, I have my bags on my lap to buffer my knees from the jolt.  Everyone seems to be okay, except for a poor old man in the back, whose mouth is bleeding.  Piling off the bus, we wait for an ambulance and the police to arrive.  Our driver manages to pry out the luggage, one by one, telling us to wait for another bus. 

No way!  Playing the ugly American, I demand a taxi.  Seeing I'm adamant, he gets out his cell phone and calls for a taxi.  Handing the taxi driver a business card with the address for my hostel, which I've learned is the best way to handle my lack of Polish and their lack of English, we speed away. 

Feeding the Pigeons in the Rynek in Krakow

It isn't very far away.  Aga, the friendly manager of the Elephant on Moon hostel, has my favorite room ready.  It has a Beatles theme and is on the first floor next to the bathroom.  Seeing I'm still a bit shaken, she orders food for us from a nearby Japanese restaurant, while I sit out in their sunny garden, listening to the soothing sound of flowing water in the fountain.  No more buses for me!

Zakopane is Polish Disneyland

Zakopane is an Alpine version of Disneyland and the Wisconsin Dells, all wrapped up into one big carnival.  There are also many lovely nature trails, beside streams and lakes, in the shadow of the Tatra mountains.  In the busy town, there are arcade games, with flashing neon signs, spelling out Vegas. There are people dressed up as giant cats and dogs, who children run after to shake their paws.  There is an aqua park, with slides and a raging river, and a tilted house.  The main strip is full of shops, selling NY caps and Lego sets, along with traditional black Alpine hats, with white feathers and wooden beads. There are street cafes, restaurants, kiosks, and traditional chatas, full of people.

Everyone is here to enjoy the last official weekend of summer.  People in full hiking gear.  People wearing warm sweaters, along with shorts and sandals, to show off their seriously tanned legs.  Well-behaved dogs on leashes, walk beside their masters. There are young couples passionately kissing and older couples holding hands.  Parents push strollers, while their children toddle along the uneven cobblestones.  Grown daughters hold their mothers' hands, while teenagers congregate in packs.  Navigating my way across the stream of people in the streets can be hazardous, so I opt for a horse and carriage ride to see some of the more historic sections of town. 

Later, as I sit on a bench in the midst of it, writing in my notebook, I realize I have written the last scene of my second novel.  This vicarious life I've been living with my characters for almost a year now is over.  Until the rewrite at least.  I'm elated yet sad, realizing there's no one I can tell about this magnificent achievement.  I am all alone among a crowd of strangers.

Tomorrow I will take a bus back to Krakow, returning to the peaceful gardens and friendly staff of the Elephant on the Moon Hostel.  My journey throughout southeast Poland will end where it began

Waiting for Godot on the Road to Zakopane

Church in Zakopane

Now I know why I've avoided taking the bus for long trips in Poland. They are really cheap, but also really unreliable. I get up very early and take a taxi to the stop a half hour before the bus is due. The bus stop is on the side of a busy road somewhere outside Nowy Sacz.  Then I wait, and I wait, and I wait.

Another bus driver takes pity on me, phoning the private bus company to see what's keeping them.  They tell him they're on their way.  So I wait some more, sitting at this bus stop in the middle of nowhere for three hours, while other buses come and go.  I try meditating, praying, reading, napping, silently weeping, as my anxiety level rises.  What if the bus never comes?

Surveying the local area, I find a bush out of sight in case I need it.  I wonder how comfortable it would be to sleep on this wooden bench?  Would the police come to rescue me if I am stuck here all night?  Can I convince someone who understands English to use their cell phone to ring a taxi for me?

The same bus driver comes back an hour later after his run.  Surprised to find me still there, he phones again.  Just then the bus appears, practically full.  The bus driver apologizes for the delay, saying he had to fix a flat tire on side of the road.  Relieved, I try to nap on the three hour ride through scenic countryside to Zakopane.


When we finally arrive at the bus station, I take a taxi to my bed and breakfast, only to find out my room is up three long flights of stairs.  The housekeeper helps me lug my suitcase up the stairs.  Wheels on the suitcase really don't work on stairs?

At least the en suite room is clean and comfortable, with a lovely view of the mountains, but there's no way I'm going back  down those stairs to find something to eat.  Finding a kettle in the hallway for tea, I eat the bag of dried banana chips my nephew gave me for emergencies.  Maybe tomorrow I'll explore this popular mountain resort.

Pouring Rain in Nowy Sacz

It poured all day in Nowy Sacz, grey skies blending with stone buildings and cobblestone streets.  I visit a museum in an old synagogue, with the usual artifacts in the vestibule, selling postcards of the way the Jewish quarter used to look before the Nazis came. Most of the people were murdered, but there is a story of one Jewish girl who managed to survive by hiding in the town hall clock tower in the Rynek.

Only the walls and heavy black iron doors remain of the original synagogue.  All of its sacred treasures were plundered long ago.  Ironically, inside the main chamber there is a display of Catholic devotional art, with a statue of a bleeding Jesus on the cross.  At first I think this is ludicrous, but then I realized Jesus was Jewish.  He would have felt right at home in a synagogue.

When I left the synagogue, it was still raining hard.  I found a little alcove on the stone steps at a side entrance to the synagogue and cried.  It seemed fitting.  So here I am, sitting on the steps of what used to be a synagogue in a vibrant Jewish community, which is now across from an ugly Communist era apartment building.  I wept for all the people whose blood was spilled on the streets of this ghetto.  I wept for the people who were forced down to the nearby river for selections, fearful they or their family members would die that day.  I wept for all the people driven across the river to the Jewish cemetery, who were forced to dig their own graves naked, so they wouldn't ruin perfectly good clothes with their blood.  These could be recycled for the Nazis.

I cried for the scared little girl I once was, half Lemko, half Jewish, who didn't understand why anyone could hate her so much they would want to exterminate her entire family.  When they threw her body on the trash heap in Auschwitz, did they find the tiny teddy bear hidden in the crook of her arm?  Did they give this precious reminder someone once loved her to a blue eyed, blond haired child? 


When I stop crying, I realize I have found the setting for my novel and my main character, Leah Marie Schoege.    Her mother was from a small Lemko village in the Carpathian hills, outside of Nowy Sacz.  Her father was Jewish from Jaslo.  Their families did not approve of their match, so they moved to a small apartment just outside the Jewish quarter in Nowy Sacz, setting up shop by the Rynek.  Like many Lemko women, her mother was an accomplished weaver and seamstress, but she died when Leah was only 13, giving birth to her younger sister, Ellie.  Now Leah works in her father's shop and takes care of her family, until the German invasion of Poland in September 1939.

So the story begins on a rainy day in Nowy Sacz.  I now understand why I had to come to Poland to write it.

Heaven is in Klimkowka

I did not move one step from Paradise today at the Agroturystyka Barnilka in Klimkowka, Poland.  This lovely wooden house, built in the Lemko style, is owned by Peter and his partner, Jose, who is an amazing chef.  My room is very comfortable, leading out to a wrap-around balcony overlooking Lake Klimkowka.

Originally from western Croatia, the Lemkos settled in the Carpathian mountains in Poland in the 14th century.  In 1947, they were driven from their homes and farms after World War II ended.  Peter grew up in northern Poland and spent some time in Spain.  In the 1960's his grandmother returned to the area and gave the land to him about 15 years ago to build his dream home.


This house is truly spectacular, with a lovely dining room with upholstered deep purple chairs and antiques.  There are comfortable wicker couches and chairs on the veranda with a view of the lake and the miniature chicken house. 

The food is fresh and delicious, with a Spanish flair.  For the breakfast buffet, there are scrambled eggs, bacon, freshly baked lemon cake and bread, with marmalade and clotted cream.  There is also cheese and ham to make a sandwich for later.

For dinner, I have soup with garbanzo beans, sausage, and potatoes, a specialty from Madrid.  The main course is the most tender piece of marinated baked chicken I have ever tasted, with roast potatoes, and a salad made with finely chopped cabbage, corn, red peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers.  Dessert is a strawberry torte with raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce.

If you get the sense my day revolves around eating, it's not entirely true.  In the morning, I watch the sun burn off the morning fog over the lake, and the goats and the chickens do whatever goats and chickens do.  In the afternoon, I pet the two friendly Labradors, read, write, and take several naps, content to watch other guests go hiking in the hills or canoeing on the lake.  And guess what?  I'm not ashamed to say I'm planning to do the exact same thing tomorrow and the next day. 

Transportation in Poland

Garden of the Elephant on the Moon Hostel

I am sitting in the lovely dining room of the hotel in Krosno watching the pouring rain, so I will take some time to discuss transportation in Poland.  I have found the best way for a person with mobility issues, too much luggage, and a lack of knowledge of the Polish language, to travel is with a private hired driver.

Planes.  The planes in Poland are not known for keeping to schedules.  When we arrive in Warsaw, our plane is very late due to mechanical difficulties, which is never something you want to hear just before you get on the plane.  Jet lagged after flying overnight, the last thing you want to hear is how you've missed your connecting flight to Krakow, and the one after it, so now you must wait five hours for the next one.

I have no idea what the airline representatives and disgruntled patrons are arguing about in Polish, so I take a seat and watch the show.  Finally, the harried airline representatives provide us with bottled water and sandwiches, while they present our options.  We can stay overnight at a hotel by the airport and try to get on a flight the next morning.  This would be a good option if I hadn't already prepaid for the night's accommodation in Krakow. 

We can wait in the airport five hours for the next plane or we can take a private bus they've organized, which will take about five hours to get to Krakow.  I opt for the bus ride, since it gives me a chance to see the countryside.  After a rest stop at McDonald's, we arrive at Krakow airport around midnight, and I take a taxi to the Elephant on the Moon hostel.  Thank heavens, the kindly attendant waits up for me at this cute little hostel by the river.

Trains.  After a few days sightseeing in Krakow, I decide to take a train to Rzeszow.  I've taken trains all over Europe and in the United States with no problem, but I'm totally unprepared for the antiquated Polish railway system.  At least I have a place to sit, not crammed in with thousands of people on a cattle car. 

Horse and carriages in Rynek in Krakow

While the trains are cheap, they take twice as long as a bus, and most have stairs up or down to the platforms.  Note to self: 

• Having luggage on wheels is no advantage on stairs.
• Always remember to bring water and snacks since there may be no food cart.
• Never take a train again in Poland.

Buses.  There are plenty of private bus companies, which I am informed are much faster than the public buses.  While they are cheap, it can be difficult to decipher the bus schedules, and the drivers speak very little English.  Small and crowded, the buses are built for short, skinny people, not like me.  Often they pick up and drop off on the side of the highway for smaller towns, leaving you to figure out how to walk into town.  After waiting for several nerve-wracking hours on the side of the road for a private bus to Zakopane (the bus had a flat tire) and then having my bus rear-ended by a truck on the way back, I decided no more buses for me in Poland.     

Rental Cars.  I was warned rental cars are expensive, mostly gear shift, and often get stolen.  I quickly decide not to risk it on my own, especially since I'm mostly interested in the historic market squares with cobble stoned streets and pedestrian walkways.
 

Lemko buildings in Zyndranowa

Golf Carts.  In Krakow, electric golf carts are a good option in the center of town and cheaper than the horse and carriage rides.  They usually include a tour guide knowledgeable about its history.  I soon learn to use them like taxis for visiting the Old Town and the former Jewish quarter.

Private Taxis.  I soon learn the most reliable form of transportation is a private taxi.  Usually the staff at the hostel or hotel know someone who will drive you from town to town or on a private tour of one of the many open air ethnographic museums in the country called skansens for a set price.

Today I was picked up at my hotel by a friendly woman driver who took me to the tiny village of Zyndranowa, where there is a collection of Lemko wooden farm buildings and Jewish chatas. Tomorrow she's going to drive me, with my luggage, to the town of Jaslo, the next stop in my five week tour of southeast Poland.

Salt Cave in Iwonicz Zdroj

Who would have thought how restorative it could be to sit in a reclining chair in a room full of salt?

I decide to take a bus to Iwonicz Zdroj, one of the oldest health resorts and spa towns in Poland.  The hotel staff assure me the bus station is only a minute's walk away.  For once they aren't underestimating and it really is a short walk.  What they don't tell me, however, is the bus is built for short people who cram into it like sardines.  After an uncomfortable ride through winding roads up the hillside, we finally arrive. 

You know how you see a photo of a place which looks idyllic, but when you get there it's not all that.  Not in this case.  On a gorgeous, sunny, warm day, Iwonicz Zdroj lives up to its hype.  Dating back to 1578, the spa town is nestled in wooded hills, with flower beds down the center of the promenade. There are classic Swiss style buildings, surrounded by small gardens and fountains.  The only odd thing is people walking around with what looks like ski poles.  I need to get some of those. 

Of course, under the arcade of a long Renaissance style building, there are the usual vendors selling tacky souvenirs.  In a former pump room, you can buy a glass of the mineral water for which the place is so famous, but I'm not brave enough to try it.  I stick to the well-known curative powers of pistachio and strawberry gelato.

After wandering around for a while, I decide to see if I can get a spa treatment for my bad knee.  Unfortunately the building is on a hill, with the choice of walking up lots of stairs or on a sharp incline.  By the time I reach the building, I really need a treatment.  I'm too late, however, for an appointment for a massage.  Seeing my disappointment, a friendly girl at the counter suggests I try their salt cave.  Curious, I decide to try it, especially since a 45 minute session only costs 12 zlotys (about $4).

Slipping the purple plastic baggies they give me over my shoes, I enter a pleasantly cool room, with subdued lighting, and reclining lawn chairs.  It looks like an indoor beach, but there is salt, not sand, on the floor and on the walls, even hanging down from the ceiling like icicles.  The center attraction is a pillar with a glass ball on top.  When you touch it, a sort of light show begins, with what looks like white lightning coming from a blue flame within the glass ball. 

After we settle in, they turn down the lights even more, piping in the soothing sounds of waves gently breaking on the shore to continue their beach motif.  Most people are ready for relaxation, but not the fidgety little girl across from me.  She keeps playing with her recliner, up and down, up and down, rubbing her feet together to make noises, and running up to touch the glass ball to make it glow, while her mother and grandmother ignore her. 

Eventually even she settles down.  The next thing I know they're switching on the lights.  I wake up, feeling completely relaxed and rejuvenated.  Not even the bumpy ride back to my hotel in Krosno can disturb my newfound serenity.  I must find a salt cave in Chicago.

Sunday in Krosno

What a difference a day makes!  Yesterday evening the market square, called the Rynek, in Krosno, Poland, was cold and deserted. 

This Sunday afternoon it is a pleasant 75 degrees and packed with families.  Dress is casual, not high couture like the market square in Rzeszow.

On one side of the square a stage is set up by the well, with musicians singing and playing the guitar and harmonica.  Children play in a huge sandpit by the fountain, riding their bikes, and chasing each other around the square, while their parents chat with friends and family.  As the sun sets, the street lamps come on, along with lights in the fountain and in the trees, adding to the party atmosphere.  Sitting in an outdoor café under a huge tent, I watch people and write, sipping on a cool Pina Colada. 

Never again will I call Polish food bland.  This breaded chicken roll, stuffed with mushrooms and cheese, served with sweet coleslaw and rice, is very tasty.  I used to think Polish food was nothing but sausages and pierogies, but I haven't had a bad meal here yet.  The vegetables and potatoes are fresh, the soups are savory, the meat is never overdone, and they always have tureens of garlic sauce and a tangy red sauce to accompany every dish, even pizza.

As the party winds down, I head back towards the historic Hotel Sniezka to prepare for my visit tomorrow to an ancient mineral water spa in Iwonicz Zdroj.

Traveling in Poland

It's an established fact Mickey Mouse makes the best ice cream with chocolate sauce in Rzeszow, Poland.  Apparently people queue up in a little corridor inside a building in the promenade for hours to eat this ice cream.
     You are supposed to wear your Sunday best to walk down the promenade with your partner, family, or medium size, well-behaved dog on a leash, at a perfectly synchronized stroll, pretending not to notice if anyone else is watching you.  Of course you know you're being watched, because you're wearing high heels or trendy sandals, are well-coiffed, and your outfit is casually chic. 

If you do happen to see someone you know, then hugs and kisses (three on the cheek) are acceptable, but otherwise you are totally oblivious to the other people walking next to you, sitting on benches, or in one of the numerous sidewalk cafes.  You must hold the hand of your significant other to establish ownership, stroll down to get your ice cream, and then stroll slowly back down the promenade eating it, without getting any chocolate sauce on your perfect outfit.  These are the unwritten rules for a Sunday afternoon in southeast Poland.                          
Clearly I am spending way too much time on this promenade, but short of going to church, which is right across the street from my hostel so I can hear the bells toll and the people singing day and night anyway, going to the museums and pretending to read the signs in Polish, or watching movies in Polish at the cinema, there isn't much to do other than people watch to the strumming of the street musicians.  They even speak Polish in the Irish Pub, which is aptly named the Irish Pub, and is across from the London Pub and Club.
   
This is not really a tourist city, so the only organized tour is the underground cellars beneath the town square where you can see a plastic replica of the remains of some poor Jewish person who hid there trying to escape the Nazis. Clearly they weren't successful in escaping, because only a few hundred of the 24,000 Jews in town survived.  Very little evidence remains of this once vibrant Jewish quarter.  Most of their synagogues and cemeteries were destroyed.  Only a few plaques on buildings remind us of the once infamous Rzeszow ghetto.