Krakow - Home of King Krak!

Less than two months later, Jodie and I were in Krakow, Poland’s second largest city. Even though it was the second country on our tour of the Eastern Bloc, it was actually booked first. A friend of mine had recommended a hotel in Krakow’s old Jewish District (a place used by Stephen Spielberg to direct some scenes from his hit movie Schindler’s List) and told me that Krakow was a cracking place to visit.

After checking out the hotel and flights on the internet, I booked it without delay. Flights for the pair of us were only £140 return with Skyeurope, and the hotel a wallet pleasing £63 for two nights – and that included breakfast!

Warily, we descended into our first Krakow bar.

Following the fantastic time we’d had in Riga, we were expecting a lot from Krakow – after all, it was described as a historic town full of rich heritage. And everything was meant to be really cheap. We landed at Krakow Airport at just after 6pm local time. It was raining outside. Like most airports, everything looked grey and listless.

Half an hour later, we walked through arrivals to see people waiting with name placards. Mine was on one of them because I’d arranged it with the hotel beforehand. Nevertheless, I still got a childlike buzz from seeing my name held up on a placard. As we followed the taxi driver out of the terminal, I turned to Jodie. “I wish I’d put VIP on the end of my name now.”

“That’s because you are sad.”

Twenty minutes later, we were dropped off outside the RT Regent, our place of stay for the next two nights.

After checking in, we went to our room. It was immediately clear to both of us that the RT Regent wasn’t in the same class as the Hotel Latvija in Riga. But it was still fine for our purposes, and the bathroom was clean and modern.

Aware that we hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, I suggested to Jodie that we head out for an initial look around Krakow, stop off at a bar or two, and then pick a decent looking restaurant. With our plan of action sorted, we left the hotel.

It was dark outside, and together with the drizzle, the streets of Krakow didn’t look particularly friendly or inviting. Nevertheless, 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 about Krakow.”

“What do you mean?”

Jodie gestured all around us. “Look! Everything’s dark and dingy. It seems…I don’t know…unfriendly.”

I breathed deeply. “That’s just because it’s dark and raining. Tomorrow it will all look fine. I promise.”

Soon were on a busy street filled with cars and trams. Fifty yards later, we came to a fork near Wawel Hill – Krakow’s famous Royal Castle. Instead of going straight on (which we later found out was the normal route to the old town square) we veered off to the right. This proved to be a mistake. Jodie’s already rapidly fraying temperament was getting worse. After another few minutes of seemingly aimless wandering, she snapped, “Where the hell are we? Where are all the bars and restaurants?”

Sighing, I told her that we were close to the Old Town. “It’s over there somewhere. We’ll have to cut through on that road.” We crossed over.

Eventually, we arrived onto what looked like a central street in the old part of town. Shops were open on both sides, and quite a few people bumbled along, looking at what was on offer.

There were also a lot of lit signs displaying the Zywiec symbol – the most common beer brewed in Krakow. Near them it said bar or beer served here. We headed towards the nearest one but there was no bar to be seen. Instead an arrow pointed down a dimly-lit alcove.

“Let’s try somewhere else,” I said, not wanting to incur Jodie’s wrath by taking her down some dark, dripping alleyway. Jodie nodded without comment.

Further up the road there was another bar sign with an arrow inviting us to go down another shadowy passageway

“What’s wrong with this place,” said Jodie. Do they not eat or drink in Krakow? And what’s with all these bloody dark passages?”

I told her I didn’t know. “Let’s go down one. We don’t have to go in the bar if we don’t like what we see. Agreed?”

Jodie nodded glumly. She looked like she was having the time of her life.

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

Opening the door, 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 (about 85p a pint) and good company were all it took to remove our bleak feelings in a strange city.

We found another good bar down a dim passageway further along the street. And another one after that. Better still, the rain had stopped. We decided to find somewhere to eat, cheered by the alcohol.

Where we ended up wasn’t the best place in the world, but for our needs, it sufficed. And we went back to the hotel happy. It was time to get some rest for the day of sightseeing ahead.

* * *

The next morning, after a delicious continental breakfast in the hotel restaurant, we headed outside on a dry, but slightly overcast morning. It was 10am local time and we were feeling fine. The depression of the previous night’s walk had dissipated completely. Jodie took in the surroundings and proclaimed that she liked Krakow now. “And you were right,” she added with a wry smile. “In daylight things look differently.”

Seeing as we were staying in the Kazimierz (Old Jewish) Quarter of Krakow, 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.

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. Not surprisingly, the passageways between the buildings looked especially dingy. One of them even had a set of grimy communal letterboxes attached to the walls. I snapped off a photo for prosperity.

Heading back in the direction of the hotel, we passed a bar with a cool name. Thankfully it was closed or we might have well gone into the Mini Bar ha-ha, even at such an early hour.

Beyond the Hotel, Jodie used her internal navigation system to get us back onto the main road we’d been on the day before. Twenty yards along it, we came to a prime example of a certain type of shop found in Krakow. All were of a similar size and shape, and sold expected things like cigarettes, magazines and soft drinks. But as well as these items, they all stocked something not normally expected – washing powder and fabric conditioner. Neither Jodie nor I could fathom out why this might be.

Passing by Wawel Hill again (like the previous night) we carried straight on, finding ourselves very quickly 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). Later on in the day I would buy one for Jodie and me to share. It tasted delicious.

After a few minutes we passed a magnificent church on the right-hand side of the street. It was the Church of Saints Peter and Paul, with statues of all twelve Apostles decorating the entrance. We walked on, following the road to the central town square. Construction seemed to be going on everywhere in the square, obviously in an attempt to get everything ready before the influx of summer tourists. Nevertheless, it still looked impressive. We wondered where to begin.

Our first stop was the Town Hall Tower (the only section left from the old town wall) before entering Cloth Hall, a huge edifice with an ornate roof adorned with deformed masks. Open for over seven hundred years, Cloth Hall initially made and sold just cloth. Nowadays, it has branched out, selling 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.”

And she was right. Any kind of shopping mall – even one with such a historic legacy as Cloth Hall couldn’t hold my interest for long. It was a failing in my personality I’d attempted to redress without success. I simply found shopping – especially window shopping – boring. I couldn’t help it. We adjourned to a nearby café before moving off to see the church of St Mary.

Wandering down a small street radiating off the Central Square, we entered the church. People were everywhere, queuing to genuflect towards the altar inside. This didn’t surprise us at all. Krakow was a deeply religious place. Nuns were everywhere, and Pope John Paul II had once lived here. The Poles took their religion seriously, it seemed.

Stepping back outside, we saw groups of people milling about, clearly waiting for something to happen. Wondering what it was, we looked around for something exciting. Just then an elderly gentleman approached us. He was jabbering away in Polish, pointing up towards one of the spires. Then he gestured at his watch, making it clear that something was going to happen at a certain time. 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 never knew.

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. I could see the bugle glinting in the sunlight every now and again as whoever was playing it moved about.

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 wave. Half a minute later, the crowds dispersed, leaving Jodie and I to wonder what we’d just seen.

Later, sat enjoying a coffee just opposite the Cloth Hall, I got the guide book out to find out. It didn’t take long. “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 took a sip of cappuccino before reading on. “And it stops half way as a memorial to some poor sod whose throat was pierced by an arrow hundreds of years ago.”

“That’s horrible.”

“I know. And so they play the bugle every hour, on the hour, with the gap.”

Wandering just along from the Church of St Mary, we came across a small outdoor market. Flowers, small trinkets of jewellery, wooden handicrafts, as well as fruit and vegetables were being peddled in the small stalls. But what caught my eye was a large wooden barrel cart at the far end of the market. It had the word Galicyjski emblazoned on its side in large yellow letters. A woman was sitting inside it, obviously selling some kind of strange brew. I wandered over and purchased some for 5 zlotys (85p) not knowing what to expect.

Bringing it to my lips, I was expecting a strange elixir of exotic flavours. Instead I got a mouthful of hot, mulled wine. After taking only one sip, I declared it unfit for human consumption.

“Let me try,” said Jodie, reaching for the plastic cup. After taking a hearty swig, her reaction was the opposite of mine. “Mmmm, this is gorgeous!”

We sat down on a nearby bench watching the townsfolk of Krakow wander past, enjoying a rare break in the clouds. Just then, a Scottish couple approached the nearby food vendor. As we watched, the woman began peering at what was on offer, while her male companion regarded the Polish menu. A couple of minutes later the woman sat down with her food leaving the man standing at the counter.

“Hi,” I said to the woman. “I hope you don’t mind, but can I ask what you’ve just bought?”

“Aye, course you can,” she said, prodding it with her plastic fork. “But I’m nay sure myself. Tastes fine though. A wee bit salty maybe.”

Her friend sat down beside her. Jodie asked where they were from.

“Glasgow,” said the man in a thick accent. “Just arrived yesterday. What about yourselves?”

“We’re from Yorkshire,” answered Jodie. “And we got here yesterday too.”

After a bit more chitchat, we bid them farewell and set off to find a place to get some lunch. En route I spotted an elderly man slumped in a doorway. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and started grumbling to himself. Then, with true comic timing, he slid sideways, toppling over arse over tit. It was hilarious.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting inside an empty restaurant eating a delicious lunch of beef goulash soup and crusty bread rolls. And for both of us, plus drinks, it came to less than 20 Zlotys (about £3.50). Satisfied with our lot in life, we went in search of more of Krakow’s sights and sounds. Eventually we found a park to sit in. For a while, we lazily watched the world go buy.

Jodie and I had a lot of fun in the park. We pretended we were spies from the cold war. We even sought out other potential secret agents from those taking a short cut through the park. There were plenty of suspects. We then formulated a plan whereby we could take photos of real Polish people going about their business without attracting attention to ourselves. 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 the woman, I mimed lining up a shot of a building just 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 our 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.

With our espionage over with for the time being, we decided to wander around a bit more before finding an attractively fronted café. The bar area inside was quite interesting. On display on the front counter was a strange choice of ornament. It was a huge shank of meat, mounted and preserved to maintain its colour and form. I ordered a pint of Lech from the gorgeous barmaid, while Jodie got a coffee.

After leaving the café (which also doubled up as a wine shop) we headed back to the main square to walk down as many side streets as possible. At the end of one such street we found art sellers displaying fabulous paintings and sketches, most of them around the £100 price mark. We moved on, walking back out of the old town towards the jewel of Krakow – the majestic Wawel Hill.

Built in the 14^th century as a new royal residence and cathedral, Wawel Hill meant a short climb up a slight hill. Being a major tourist destination, 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 in the guide book that Krakow was actually named after the comically-sounding King Krak. “No, he was king before it was built. Shame really.”

After continuing up a winding path, we came to a point on the battlements overlooking the western side of the town. The mighty River Vistula served as a feature separating the old from the new in Krakow. On the other side of the river were some modern hotels, with cranes building even more, and behind us, the Royal Castle, filled with 16^th century tapestries and gold treasures.

Further on from our vantage point, we could see a few people looking down at something. When we arrived, we saw what they were staring at. 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 came up with a cunning plan to rid themselves of the beast. A brave shoemaker filled a sheep with hot sulphur and left it out to tempt the hungry dragon. The creature 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 drank so much that its belly burst open and it died. Nice story.

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.

Deciding we didn’t have enough time to actually go inside the castle, we satisfied ourselves with taking a walk through its inner courtyard, imagining all the historical figures that had stood on the balconies in past times.

After so much walking about looking at history, we decided some respite in the nearby café was overdue. Wandering up to the empty counter, I asked the young lady for a large beer and a white coffee. And then the problems started. To put it into perspective, let’s transport the girl and myself to a pub in England. She is now an English barmaid and I’m a Polish visitor.

“Can I have a beer please?” I say in broken English.

The girl smiles and replies, “Fosters or Stella?”

Not understanding the language, I shake my head and say, “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying. Just a beer please.”

“Yes. Fosters or Stella?”

“No, just beer.”

And this is precisely the conversation I had with the poor girl in Krakow. In desperation, to break the stalemate, she pointed at the two beers available. I made my choice quickly.

Sitting down, 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. What made them odd was their attire. Everyone one of them was wearing shorts. Were they some sort of deranged soccer team? We couldn’t work it out. And why did they have thick jackets on? Perplexing questions, but no answers!

As well as football lot, there were another group of young men, all in their early twenties, 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.

“Do you reckon those two are brothers?” I asked Jodie, looking at two small boys who’d just appeared. They were wearing identical clothes – red jackets and black trousers. And then a man, wearing the same garb, appeared behind them. “And there’s dad,” I added.

Then, from around the same corner, came more people with red coats and black trousers. Ten, fifteen, perhaps twenty of them altogether. Men, women and children of all ages. What the hell was going on? Jodie was giggling like a galoot at the absurdity of it all. We were in Krakpot, not Krakow. King Krak would be turning in his grave.

Getting quite late in the afternoon, we decided to head back to the hotel for an hour or so, before beginning the evenings festivities began. We needed to rest.

* * *

A few hours later, back in the Central Market area, we were 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. That’s not to say Easter goodies were not on sale, far from it, but 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. Jodie’s meal (a chicken dish) was also top notch, and with her desert and half bottle of wine, we awaited the bill with trepidation.

“One hundred and twenty Zlotys!” I cried out when it eventually arrived. “What’s that…? About twenty quid! A tenner each! Jesus Christ!” And when I checked the bill again, I saw that service was included in the price. We didn’t even have to leave a tip!

We left the restaurant (leaving twenty zlotys anyway) happy and content. Our final meal in Krakow had been one of the best ever. We went in search of some bars to finish the night.

By now, the dingy alleyways didn’t bother us in the slightest. We knew that along them there would be a fine bar serving superb drinks. And we were never disappointed. In one, the arrow led us up some stairs where we passed some strange mounts on the wall. They were zebra heads! Welcome to the Hotel Rwanda! We entered the bar in time to watch a great covers band playing hits of the 80’s and 90’s. A fine way to end an evening.

The next morning, at five to twelve, we took off after a successful trip to Poland. “What did you think then,” I asked Jodie as we climbed towards into the low level clouds.

Jodie smiled. “I liked it. Krakow’s nice.”

I nodded. “But how did it compare to Riga?”

Jodie looked out of the window for a moment before answering. “Riga was better for me. It had everything. Great hotel, great food, friendly people and stunning architecture. Krakow wasn’t quite as good. Almost, but not quite.”

I nodded in agreement. I’d really enjoyed Krakow – especially Wawel Hill and hearing the bugle player – but Jodie was right. Riga had been better.

* * *

A day later, 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.

I called Jodie to the computer. “Look at this.”

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.