Got back from Kraków a couple of days ago. There's something about traveling alone... in some ways it intensifies everything. The interactions, the temporary relationships we build, the triumphs, the defeats, the petty annoyances, the small thrills and pleasures. The solace isn't as immersive as one might expect or hope for, probably because it's become instinct to try to keep the loneliness at bay. But, there's always something in that bit of pooled time and circumstance (a stretch of a journey spent alone in a train compartment, night fleeing past the window, landscape rushing past unseen; a purple evening spent walking amidst the roiling masses of people entirely absorbed in the wiles and foibles of daily life) that sings to me.
On the train ride over, I shared a compartment with this Indian girl. I can't precisely remember where she's studying, or even what her name is (although I know I have it written down somewhere). We talked about her marriage, gender equity across cultures, the caprices of globalization, intercultural mobility... our shared ambivalence towards Hungarian food. The 10-hour train ride was kind of brutal, but the randomness of it all can be just a little bit intoxicating.
Upon arrival, I immediately set about finding myself a hostel. (Not a lot of preparation for this trip.) Fortunately, the first hostel I stumbled upon (almost right across from the train station) had a free bed, and turned out to be absolutely fantastic. I stored my stuff, got some supper, and proceeded to get shitfaced with the rest of the hostel patrons. (Somewhere in the midst of all this, I met a guy named Joe from Alaska -- it physically hurt to be polite and not make the obvious Palin pun -- who reopened my festering sushi wounds by rhapsodizing over Vancouver sushi and sashimi and even Richmond bubble tea. Apparently, he makes the trek into Vancouver regularly just for the Asian cuisine. Also, I ran out of mobile load sending texts to Hungary.) We ended up doing a bit of a "hipster" club crawl: mad dogs, cheap beer, rum cokes, chocolate vodka, stone walls, a little pole dancing, great music, Polish drunk anthems, random creepers dispensing hugs and gropes, being obnoxious drunks on the streets (I was hanging out with Americans, what can I say?), and late-night kebabs.
The next day, I made the sojourn into Oświęcim to visit the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum. I elected to join a tour group (something I'm usually loath to do) as I figured it's not the sort of thing I want to do half-heartedly. It's not some generic museum I can weave through, mesmerized by art objects and ostensible masterpieces, telling myself that I can just check Wikipedia for each piece's specific history, because I'm too cheap and impatient to listen to a piddling audio guide. I can't even describe it, to be honest. Throughout the first part of it, I was pretty stolid. I asked the tour guide nit-picking questions, trying to align his spiel with my own shoddy knowledge. It wasn't the macabre piles of decaying hair, it wasn't the middle-aged man reduced to silent tears whom I walked past. It was the valises. All those valises with all those names scrawled on their aged, scarred leather surfaces. All those names, each unique, none of them the same. The graceful, studied curves, the precise and harsh edges of their penmanship. These were people who all learned to read and write, people who each had their own dreams, fears, failures, frailties, eccentricities, memories, loved ones... To be reduced to these piles of inanimate objects... It was staggeringly incomprehensible. It was the valises, but it was everything else. The children's clothes, bits of frayed lace and faded cheery patterns. The shoes, the prosthetic limbs, the eyeglasses, the pots and pans. The hair. It was everything. And, I found myself wondering what the fuck I was doing there.
A part of me wanted to leave, wanted to have nothing to do with this attempt at understanding. Not because I wanted to deny myself knowledge of it. I didn't want to understand it. I felt that, in some small, petty way, understanding this would justify its logic, render it accessible. I wanted it to remain beyond my comprehension, beyond my small realm of experience and knowledge. Those barracks, the bathroom barracks. For fuck's sake.
I was pretty much shattered by the end of it. Frayed, singed, bleak. When I got back to Kraków, I decided to just walk around a bit, not to look for distraction and forget, but to remind myself that we move on. We don't heal completely, but we learn to live with the wounds, the misery, and we move on. The city was all lit up with the imminence of Christmas, and it was soothing. All those throngs of people rushing past, little kids on their fathers' shoulders, mulled wine. There was a children's concert (little boys and girls singing emphatically into a mic with a jolly, rotund man egging the all too willing crowd on), the Christmas market in the main square, and a bunch of random bright and glittering things. (A fight broke out at one point... it all started with a rather decisive man-slap.)
When I got back to the hostel, a bunch of people decided to watch Schindler's List, and we ended up watching it 1.25 times (don't ask). While I was in a better frame of mind (less misanthropic, less morbid), I wasn't in the mood for a jaunt into the "Lizard Lounge." So, I spent the night talking, drinking, and smoking cigarillos with a few others instead. (There was a Québécois guy who was all too willing to share his stash of Polish beer.)
The next day was spent in a slew of typical touristic activities. Spent the morning wandering the city by myself, then in the afternoon, J. and I decided to check out the salt mine in Wieliczka (finding the right bus stop was a bit of an adventure in itself). It was this great sprawling complex of underground tunnels and chambers. The "tourist route" only really covered some 3.5 km of the whole thing, but it was more than enough really. Our tour guide was pretty cute -- but, we only realized this when he got out of his dorky uniform and ran into us at the bus stop. He should really think about using deodorant though. Just saying.
Um, Gossip Girl was kind of alright this week. Some parts were downright ridiculous (as expected, really). But, Chuckles... Chuckles was mesmerizing! With his contemptuously flaring nostrils and his wounded, wounded eyes. ♥
(Yeah, I just wrote about the Holocaust and Gossip Girl in one entry. Seriously.)
On the train ride over, I shared a compartment with this Indian girl. I can't precisely remember where she's studying, or even what her name is (although I know I have it written down somewhere). We talked about her marriage, gender equity across cultures, the caprices of globalization, intercultural mobility... our shared ambivalence towards Hungarian food. The 10-hour train ride was kind of brutal, but the randomness of it all can be just a little bit intoxicating.
Upon arrival, I immediately set about finding myself a hostel. (Not a lot of preparation for this trip.) Fortunately, the first hostel I stumbled upon (almost right across from the train station) had a free bed, and turned out to be absolutely fantastic. I stored my stuff, got some supper, and proceeded to get shitfaced with the rest of the hostel patrons. (Somewhere in the midst of all this, I met a guy named Joe from Alaska -- it physically hurt to be polite and not make the obvious Palin pun -- who reopened my festering sushi wounds by rhapsodizing over Vancouver sushi and sashimi and even Richmond bubble tea. Apparently, he makes the trek into Vancouver regularly just for the Asian cuisine. Also, I ran out of mobile load sending texts to Hungary.) We ended up doing a bit of a "hipster" club crawl: mad dogs, cheap beer, rum cokes, chocolate vodka, stone walls, a little pole dancing, great music, Polish drunk anthems, random creepers dispensing hugs and gropes, being obnoxious drunks on the streets (I was hanging out with Americans, what can I say?), and late-night kebabs.
The next day, I made the sojourn into Oświęcim to visit the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum. I elected to join a tour group (something I'm usually loath to do) as I figured it's not the sort of thing I want to do half-heartedly. It's not some generic museum I can weave through, mesmerized by art objects and ostensible masterpieces, telling myself that I can just check Wikipedia for each piece's specific history, because I'm too cheap and impatient to listen to a piddling audio guide. I can't even describe it, to be honest. Throughout the first part of it, I was pretty stolid. I asked the tour guide nit-picking questions, trying to align his spiel with my own shoddy knowledge. It wasn't the macabre piles of decaying hair, it wasn't the middle-aged man reduced to silent tears whom I walked past. It was the valises. All those valises with all those names scrawled on their aged, scarred leather surfaces. All those names, each unique, none of them the same. The graceful, studied curves, the precise and harsh edges of their penmanship. These were people who all learned to read and write, people who each had their own dreams, fears, failures, frailties, eccentricities, memories, loved ones... To be reduced to these piles of inanimate objects... It was staggeringly incomprehensible. It was the valises, but it was everything else. The children's clothes, bits of frayed lace and faded cheery patterns. The shoes, the prosthetic limbs, the eyeglasses, the pots and pans. The hair. It was everything. And, I found myself wondering what the fuck I was doing there.
A part of me wanted to leave, wanted to have nothing to do with this attempt at understanding. Not because I wanted to deny myself knowledge of it. I didn't want to understand it. I felt that, in some small, petty way, understanding this would justify its logic, render it accessible. I wanted it to remain beyond my comprehension, beyond my small realm of experience and knowledge. Those barracks, the bathroom barracks. For fuck's sake.
I was pretty much shattered by the end of it. Frayed, singed, bleak. When I got back to Kraków, I decided to just walk around a bit, not to look for distraction and forget, but to remind myself that we move on. We don't heal completely, but we learn to live with the wounds, the misery, and we move on. The city was all lit up with the imminence of Christmas, and it was soothing. All those throngs of people rushing past, little kids on their fathers' shoulders, mulled wine. There was a children's concert (little boys and girls singing emphatically into a mic with a jolly, rotund man egging the all too willing crowd on), the Christmas market in the main square, and a bunch of random bright and glittering things. (A fight broke out at one point... it all started with a rather decisive man-slap.)
When I got back to the hostel, a bunch of people decided to watch Schindler's List, and we ended up watching it 1.25 times (don't ask). While I was in a better frame of mind (less misanthropic, less morbid), I wasn't in the mood for a jaunt into the "Lizard Lounge." So, I spent the night talking, drinking, and smoking cigarillos with a few others instead. (There was a Québécois guy who was all too willing to share his stash of Polish beer.)
The next day was spent in a slew of typical touristic activities. Spent the morning wandering the city by myself, then in the afternoon, J. and I decided to check out the salt mine in Wieliczka (finding the right bus stop was a bit of an adventure in itself). It was this great sprawling complex of underground tunnels and chambers. The "tourist route" only really covered some 3.5 km of the whole thing, but it was more than enough really. Our tour guide was pretty cute -- but, we only realized this when he got out of his dorky uniform and ran into us at the bus stop. He should really think about using deodorant though. Just saying.
Um, Gossip Girl was kind of alright this week. Some parts were downright ridiculous (as expected, really). But, Chuckles... Chuckles was mesmerizing! With his contemptuously flaring nostrils and his wounded, wounded eyes. ♥
(Yeah, I just wrote about the Holocaust and Gossip Girl in one entry. Seriously.)
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