Graffiti and Street Art from Around the World: Krakow, Poland

A Day of Remembrance

November 11th. It is, and has always been, one of the most important days of the year to me.

In Poland November the 11th is well known as independence day. They celebrate their gaining independence on November 11, 1918. Though, those aware of history may see that this requires a little bit of fudging. And the slightly tipsy gentleman I wished a happy independence day to last night, just after midnight, seemed to agree. “Independence? What independence!” he screamed. Lovely guy though, good talker, “look, I know you want to leave – so I'll make this short.” He did not.

For me the 11th is better recalled as remembrance day. A day when we think about those who have served in the armed forces around the world. Those still fighting; those who have fallen. My respect of this day has caused me no small amount of trouble, especially during the high school years. Especially when my principal refused to play tribute to the day. Words were exchanged. Things were said. He was shamed. It could have played out very differently. But, as I said, this day holds a lot of value to me.

Whether you agree with the wars going on, or that have been fought, is one thing. But you respect the troops. You respect those people who put your personal freedom and safety in front of their own. And you respect those who have fallen for no reason other than that they were in the way of someone else's goal.

So on this day, what more could I do, then go to the location where over one million lives were snuffed out? When members of the S.S. cruelly stated to all those arriving that the only way out was through the chimneys. Where else could I go but the concentration camps of Auschwitz and Auschwitz II?

The pollars gets you on the one and a half hour bus ride headed out towards the camps. And once there entry is free. It is a heritage site that welcomes all viewers because none should ever forget what had happened here. Those, as they say, who forget the past are destined to live it.



Getting off the bus, I was almost thankful for the rain which poured down from overhead. Walking under the entrance gate proclaiming that “Work Brings Freedom” I had a hard time imagining what this place would be like, with bright delightful sun shining overhead, in the brilliant blue skies.

As I walked the paths past the various buildings I tried to imagine the horror that transpired. I tried to imagine the beatings, the cruelty, and the pain. But I could not. It was all so far away. All so big.

If you told me that you had one trillion dollars, and then told me that you had one hundred trillion dollars it would all seem to same to me. Yes there is a vast difference, but my mind can not handle it, can not process it. To me you just say I have [one large number] of dollars.

One and a half million people were killed here. Some would say murdered. All would agree expunged unjustly. Well, except maybe for those that were here for crimes that would have put them against the death penalty anyway.

It's important to remember that Auschwitz was not just about the extermination of the Jews. In fact, it wasn't even created with that purpose in mind. Very shortly after construction, it was set towards that goal – but at first it was to put the Polish prisoners who rebelled against the German occupation (remember when I said that 1918 was an awkward time for Poland to call their Independence day?)

Auschwitz housed Gypsie prisoners, anti-socials, Jewish prisoners, homosexuals, and – well – just about any other prisoners that the Germans could round up. Some were treated better than others, but all had to endure the work camp.

While much of Auschwitz has, unfortunately, been turned into an overly tacky museum some important areas are not to be missed. And I know what you're thinking – but here me out. Auschwitz has had the buildings were thousands were stuffed in small corners turned into art galleries for school children, or flashy multi media presentations. It's hard to appreciate the scope and horrors of the holocaust when looking at bringing coloured images displaying nonsense.

And I'm not alone here in thinking this. A number of the Polish locals that I met made the same claim – everyone feeling awkward to be the first to put this idea forward. There are no ghosts here, because they've been expunged and replaced with easily controlled emotions.

Cell block 18 has been converted into a bathroom for tourists! Imagine being a survivor of the horror, having spent your life in fear, only to return and find that where you once suffered is now a urinal for the masses?

But, as I said, some powerful areas still remain. Block 4 and block 5.

Block 4 details the horror and the suffering. Portraits of those who did not survive stare out at visitors who walk through the halls. Looking at the eyes one can't help but wonder what they thought when their photos were taken. Some eyes scream out in anger, others in defeat. Others still are charming, verging on seductive. It is impossible to know their thoughts, or even who knew the truth of what was to come. In some areas the concentration camps were shown to be resorts, places of pleasure where jobs would be provided to those in need. Propaganda videos are a powerful tool.

On the top level is 1950 kilograms of human hair, shaved from the heads of the victims after their lives were ended in the mass gas chambers. Their hair was used to create wigs, and cloth, and other textiles. Examples of this haircloth are also on display. Chemical tests reveal trances of the Cyclon B that caused their final moments.

Cell Block 5 offers a chilling reminder of how many of the Jewish prisoners were tricked with the videos. Told that they were being relocated to a better place, they brought their most valuable possessions with them. Seen here are hundreds of suitcases, with return addresses and names printed on them, glasses, bowls, clothes – everything they had was taken from them and resold to the Germans, the soldiers, the towns people.

Most of these possessions were destroyed in the days before liberation, as the Germans tried to hide their crimes. Until then the goods were stored in the warehouses that the Germans, ever so kindly, named Canada – due to the beauty of those things kept inside.

These are the two areas that will chill you, and cause you to think of the pain and the suffering. The other aspects of Auschwitz are – I don't know. I don't understand why they are the way they are. And to be honest, I would suggest going to this camp as your second stop – because it truly is a way to feel better about what you've seen. It's a way to leave with a smile on your face, having walked through themed exhibits to put your mind at ease.

Where I would suggest starting is Auschwitz II – Birkenau. This is a concentration camp as it has always been. And it is a terrible terrible thing to behold. Walking down the road (it is three kilometers from the first camp) you see the death gate from a ways off. It was here that the guards could oversee the entire camp. And it was here through which the box cars carrying hundreds of prisoners in each, often for journeys lasting a week at a time – during which most of the old and young perished – passed.

Walking the tracks, you find yourself passing hundreds of barracks – some mostly destroyed, others fully standing. Eventually you arrive at the sorting platform, where those who could work were shoved to one side, and those who could not were ushered into the gas chambers. The barbed wire fences, and guard towers, still stand erect - haunting reminders of what once was. There is no pretense here. There is nothing to make you feel better about yourself. There is just the horror, and the pain.

Inside each building stands the triple layered bunks on which up to eight people would sleep on each level, on cushions of moldy straw. The further back you press, the closer you get to the ruins of the gas chambers and crematoriums. Though mostly destroyed – once more by the Germans trying to cover what they had done, you can still see the undressing rooms – where the Jews were told to disrobe before their showers. Better to preserve and resell the clothing – especially clothing for children which was much needed by the German soldiers at the time, for their own growing families.

At the extreme end sits a pond, murky with the ashes of the dead decades later.

It is here that you will see the holocaust for what it truly was; it is here that the ghosts of the past still walk around, not sure whether they wish to be remembered or forgotten – but there all the same.

Start here. Finish here if you must. But take the time to see this site:

Lest we forget.

Poland is Poland

Poland continues to look like Poland.

Aristotle might have said that this is because it is based on the idea Poland – but I've never really quite agreed with Aristotle on this point. I believe we form the idea Poland based on our perception of Poland itself. The same can be said for horses.

Walking out into the dreary rain, I once more feel as if the weather is working its magic to convey to me, the image I had in mind. Grey skies overhead, with water filling the cracks between the cobblestone roads, running down off buildings, getting lost in the concrete cracks, wooden slivers, and splintering walls.

It is nothing but a short walk from the doors of Hostel Zodiakus, where hot wine with cloves is freely offered – made by the staff - as a way to fight the flu, to the Jewish district. Once more, I send myself into that part of the town to explore its hidden treasures, and see what it has to offer.



My first stop is the old Jewish Cemetery.

The cemetery hosts hundreds of years of history, and has the more recent passings of being used as nothing more than a garbage dump during the Nazi occupation. Stepping into the cemetery, my first thought was of being in a place that time forgot.

Seeing aspects of the world, as they will appear hundreds of years after our passing, is one of my favourite things. This post-apocalyptic obsession was most likely started by zombie movies, the Doom video games, and the Days of Future Past storyline; it has continued to flow through my life. It is the main drive behind me desire to some day see Chernobyl.

Walking under the train tracks, and past the stone wall, you will glimpse a lot filled with crumbling stones, some completely covered with vines and leaves. The world has started to reclaim this lot, with trees pushing their way up between monuments, leaves and weeds crawling along granite, and vines completely encapsulating some stones, much like the Master Sword in the final pages of my all-time favourite comic book (which I, of course, do not own – due to the very limited print run of it. - but which I have just discovered can be purchased from used book sellers on Amazon.com. Hmm.)

The cemetery finds itself ever so perfectly mapped against the natural setting that surrounds it. Paths from one part to the next could be easily confused for those of game trails, rather than footpaths to be followed. And like everything else I've found here in Krakow, it was exactly how I had hoped it would be; living up to, and exceeding all possible expectations.

As the rain dropped down from above, I thought it best to finally make my move away from this location, to my next stop of the day. The Schindler's factory. You will recall him, of course, from his ever so famous list. Aside from the name recognition, I recommend that you skip this stop. Honestly. It's not too close to the centre of town, and it' little more than a basic building with flat walls, and a plaque. Inside is a museum – and while it costs less than three canollars – six pollars – to get in, you can see most of it through the windows outside. It's nothing more than signs on the wall, printed on glass, creating a doubling effect by the shadow cast behind, making you wonder if you really did need those glasses you were warned about. The signs explain the history of the factory. The whole history. The way Tolkien might – making you want to rip your eyes out by the time you're done reading. There is also some information on the Jewish treatment, but odds are if you're at the factory, you know all this already.

There are only two real things of note. I will tell you them: The S.S. were not as corrupt as Spielberg makes them out to be in his movie. Hmm – why would someone with a name like that want to make the S.S. seem more corrupt? But honestly – why bother. They were Nazis! you don't need to work to make the Nazi's look worse. They – were – Nazis. Quite possibly, the only thing in all of creation that we can all agree we hate, and kill in video games without remorse. The Red Army troops come close, but they're still – more or less – viewed as people. Nazis are up there with zombies for level of empathy. I hate zombies!

Also Schindler wasn't really into the whole saving the jews game, as much as he was into saving a couple bucks – because having jews as workers allowed him to lower wages quite a lot. It wasn't until after the war that he said how his thinking towards them started to change. Still – he saved a thousand lives. That's probably more than I'll ever save. Probably.

Lots of good things happen in the name of capitalism.

From there, I headed back. I had plans to go to the mall, but the temperature, and the rain sapped the strength from me once more. I did, however, stop for the most delicious bowl of soup I've ever had at a restaurant within the Jewish district, called Kuchnia U Dorthy. I imagine this to translate as Dorthy's Kitchen. And that sounds just right to me. It was a traditional home cooked meal type of place, packed with locals. Feel awkward sitting alone at a table for four? Don't worry – people will come join you on the other side ever so shortly.

I never knew until that very moment, that I loved beet soup. But I do. It's wonderful. And it cost a mere one canollar, fifty cents. I'll have to try and find more! And there was a sausage too. It was good – but not beet soup good. My god, that was delicious.

Back in the hostel I tried to make time for myself to dry off. It would be nice to have feeling once more in my fingers. As I worked on this through the practiced art of being inside and trying to move as little as possible, the two people who were sharing my dorm came back from their day adventuring.

Stories were shared, tales were told, and cards were produced. Unable to choose a game, with such a myriad of possibilities before us, I suggested a game that everyone knows, and would require no teaching to play. The game? Crazy Eights.

“What's that?”

You've got to be kidding me! As it turns out such a game does not exist on the far side of the world, but – there is a similar game called Last Card (far more complex, but interesting that if you have to pick up cards you miss your turn, and if you play a two on a two, you don't have to pick up anything. And there are fives too.

After playing through that many times, and learning the new regional variants of King/Asshole (or president, or – well it's almost the same as Big2) and playing through that a number of times, it was off to dinner. We headed to a restaurant that was suggested as a good local diner. Wasn't I proud as punch when it turned out to be the very place I stumbled upon earlier today? So back we went.

And more beet soup was devoured! As was meat stewed in sauerkraut, and pirogies with cheese and potato. Fantastic. And how much did this variable feast cost, you may ask? About six canollars. Sigh. Poland. You're wonderful – you with your economy that works for me. This must be what British travellers feel like when they go – well, anywhere.

The rain had cleared up by this point, and it was only slightly chilly. But not for me of noble Canadian blood. No – I scoff at the supposed cold. Well, I do for now. Give me about another week, and I'll be looking for some extra thermals.

On the way home, we picked up tiny bottles of vodka. Vodka being the national drink here, you understand. Vodka, or Wodka as some of the labels call it, is proclaimed to be the best in the world, in this fair country of Poland.

The Russians staying at our hostel disagree. They claim that it's a good – drink – but vodka? No. It's something completely different from vodka. The Poland/Russian war rages on. The playing field? Vodka.

Speaking of alcohol wars – Czech and U.S.A. have one too. It's over Budweiser. Look into it. It's a dozy. Apparently not all bud is terrible, after all.

Well – with many a traditional Polish thing done today, I felt that I had succeeded in my attempt to live well, live as one with money, and get the most out of the city. At last it was time for a well deserved rest. Tomorrow, after all, would be an early day.

Kosher Salt

How is it midnight fifty?! It was just seven o'clock. And I was walking home from the salt mines with my bag full of groceries – eating Chinese from a box. But then I ran into two people from my hostel, and one thing led to another – travel stories were shared, places to visit were exchanged, and now I guess it's midnight fifty. They have to get up in the morning for a fun filled day at Auschwitz. Or something like that. No one is ever really sure how to talk about that place – they want to say that they “enjoyed” their visit, but that's not the right word, is it? So there's the awkward pause, and then finally someone fills the silence with a mutually acceptable term.

I'm saving my experience for the following day – which also happens to be Poland's independence day, amongst other things. Although I'm told the bus schedule is a little bit different then, so I'll need to find out about this.

Anyway, all this is about how my day ended. We should really be starting where it all began. And begin it did, at eight in the morning. Bright and early so I could check out the breakfast that this hostel offered – how it offers free breakfast and free wifi when rooms are only four euro a night, I have no idea. But I'll not complain. And as I ate the cold cuts sandwiches, and drank the tea, and enjoyed the pickles I had nothing but pleasant thoughts for Hostel Zodiakus.

Outside it was raining. This would be no fun. it's not that I mind the rain – I shan't melt like some eight hundred year old salt carving. No – but my camera... ah my camera. It will have to have its lens cleaned, and I'll worry about damage. I'll also have my rain fly on my pack, which means that I'll have to spend precious moments taking that off and putting it on for each shot I want. Truth be told, many photos just do not get taken in the rain.

So I stayed inside and flitted away the time. There's also a practical reason for this too. If I get back to the hostel too early, I'll feel like a failure. But – if I leave late, and get back late, it will still come across as a full day.

When ten o'clock came, I could not longer feel like a success if I stayed inside, poking around the depths of these here interwebs. So, I packed my bag, put on my rain coat, and headed out into the soggy soggy world.

I had mapped myself a trail to the train station, hitting up all sorts of places of interest along the way. I then proceeded to lose my map. At which point I sheepishly asked for another. I saw the look in their kind eyes, as if giving me the proverbial pat on the head thinking, oh sweeties, we just gave you one three minutes ago. Don't worry – the big bad world won't hurt you that much.

With map 2.0 folded, marked, and ready for exploratory action, I headed out into the soggy soggy world – for real this time.

Stop one was the castle. I'd been warned about going into the castle – as it was expensive, and not all that great. But I'd seen my fair share of castles, so all I really wanted was the photo. Because of the rain this was hard to accomplish. I would line up my shot, get ready to snap it, someone would walk into frame, and I'd have to wait. The second they cleared a drop of rain would hit the lens at which point I had to dry it, then re-frame the shot, at which point someone would walk into frame and - - -

This happened more than I would have liked – and trying to take a picture of Harley just made it all the more difficult. Of what? Never mind. Moving on.

From there I walked to the main square, which had monuments, and towers, and giant heads all around. I snapped some more pictures, with painstaking precision, trying to time my shots for the least amount of lens exposure to the terrible, and hurtful, elements. Then I was back on track for the train station. Walking there required taking the sidewalks next to a dipping road. The dipping road allowed for the gutter to fill with water. The gutter filled with water allowed for a car to pass by, plunging its wheels into it. The plunging wheels offered the water an express, and one way trip, off the street, through the airs, and all over my shorts. Well – at least it didn't affect my photography. Water on me? No worries. It'll dry. Water on my camera – man, do I hate that. And then everything you're wearing gets wet, so what do you dry the lens with then I ask you?



The train station! For the first time I truly saw how ridiculous it was that I took to bus to the hostel rather than just walking – but, again, I had no map then, so what was I to do? At the train station I went to the ticket office. For the first time I met a ticket agent who spoke no words of English. Good – great – fun. Prague I said. Confused she looked. Czech Republic, I suggested – unknown words were spoken back. Pu-rah-aye-guh I attempted, turning on my North American charm of saying the same thing slower, hoping for results. At least I didn't yell each syllable. Prah-ha? She asked. Oh god. Czech? I questioned? More unknown phrases returned. Eventually a schedule was printed out for me. I circled the time I wanted, and waiting to buy it. She looked at my blankly. Can I buy? I tried – more confused stares. Price? She asked. Yes. Price – I said. That would be a good start. Window 10, she offered. What? Window ten? Window ten, she said pointing with animated glory. I then saw twenty windows selling tickets. The ones at the international counter all manned by english speakers.

What the good god damn was I doing in this ticket office? What is the point of the ticket office – its like foreplay from hell. Teenage foreplay. All you get it the build up. You can't buy your ticket. It's more work than it needs to be. It's confusing. It's frustrating. And no one really knows what they're doing. But then at the ticket windows, you're in the big leagues.

The woman there responded immediately when I asked for a ticket to Prague, hooked me up, told me there was a special price, and sent me on my way. Sent me on my way wondering where the hell this train will end up in a few days. Look – I get it, special price and all – but the internet told me this would be a 165.00CAD ticket, and I walked away having only dropped 35. Something is a foot. Hopefully a good one. With a mighty fine big toe. That someone may ask the condition of in the future.

But, there you have it. I have a train ticket to somewhere, and isn't that – after all – the greatest adventure of all?

On the way back I noticed a tour for the Wieliczka Salt Mine. It's a UNESCO site, you know. This tour was only 90 Poland monies, instead of 120 that I had seen elsewhere. What the heck, I took out way more than I would ever need in this country so why not hit up this tour. Sure I could have saved twenty pollars if I took a bus out and figured it out myself, but – really – that's only eight canollars, so what did I care? It's not like these bills would have any use in a few more days.

I had two hours before my tour would leave. Just enough time to head down to the Jewish district. And head down i did. I saw the synagogues. All of them. There are over half a dozen. They have plaques. Oh – it's important to note that at the train station I discovered that I had my camera set to ISO1600 from a map I had taken a picture of the night before so I could make my way around. For those in the know, that means that every picture I had painstakingly took in the rain, was completely useless. Too grainy and of low quality for any real use. All that effort – wasted.

I would need to retract my steps on the way to the Jewish district, re-shooting them all. But, hey, at least the rain cleared up. So there's that.

The Jewish district was a very lovely place reminding you about the tragedy that had taken place all those decades earlier. But it was in remarkable condition – just waiting for all those kebab restaurants and Indian food houses to move right in.

As I was pondering these developments, my alarm went off, reminding me that I had only thirty minutes to backtrack to the tour stand, and catch my mini-bus to the mines.



The salt mine is “the only open mining facility in the world working continuously since the middle ages,” so says my brochure. The tour of the mine begins by walking down a dizzying number of steps. Except, because the shaft is so narrow, it seems like you're walking down the same seven steps each time, turning just to face them in some sort of nightmarish loop. It can feel as if no progress whatsoever is being made. And this feeling continues for longer than you would like, until you reach the bottom. It is only then, on solid ground, that you can try and stop the world from spinning. So tight are the corners in the stairs, that it is as if you have just spun on the spot, forehead on a baseball bat, ready to take part in some juvenile (yet most likely delightful) obstacle course.

The tour shows the mines for what they are – a salt mine. All the caverns are carved from the salt, and there is a statue of – well there are lots of statues of lots of things carved from salt, but the first one you see is – Mikolaj Kopernik, known to us as Nicolaus Copernicus. Why is it, again, that we feel the need to change all these names? The tour guide said it really was salt, and that if we wanted we could lick it for proof. The group had a good laugh. Ha ha, what a funny joke.

I waited until everyone had moved on to the next room.

Believe you me, it's made of salt.

You then hear about horses were kept in stabled carved into the mines, because they were so hard to lift in and out. And then you're told about the workers, and how breathing all the salt in the air is quite good for their health. Then you notice your saliva does taste rather salty, doesn't it?

Then you hit the church. Yes – this mine had so many levels, and people spent so much time in it, that churches were carved into it. And religious sculptures were also created – most melting now due to the raised humidity in the caverns.

And the first chapel you see is really quite something. But then there's another. And another. And – blah blah blah – but then you get to the great room. It is at this point that the tour guide says he forgot to mention that it cost ten pollars for a photo permit, and that you could buy one from the man opposite, if you wanted. I noticed this sign outside the entrance, but choose to ignore it, like most others. Then when given the option to buy it, you still don't – and you still take pictures – and no one cares. And then you feel bad for the people who felt they had to.

Look – I just paid one hundred something or others, I don't feel as if paying more to shoot photos makes sense. And clearly neither do the guides, because they never mention it again.

There's a salt statue of the pope, and a salt reproduction of the last supper, and a salt alter, and salt chandeliers. It's really quite something. But, by this point, you've seen salt carvings, and you've seen salt chapels, and so you recognize that its neat, but you're just kind of like – so? What's next.

But there is no next. This is the show piece – and it's just so hard to really understand that you're 130 meters underground, and you're in a huge room, enough for a 300 person wedding, all carved from the salt of the earth. For a flickering moment you may remember that, and then it's fantastic again.

Part of me wanted to be the annoying child and ask – And the statues what are they made of salt? They are. Ahh. And the walls? Oh – salt too. And what about that bench is it sal... it is! You're kidding?! What about the chandeliers ar... WOW! Get out? Made of salt? But what about the tiled floo...

At this point I imagine the guide would snap and scream: salt! It's made of salt! Everything is bloody well made of salt down here! O.K.?! Do you get it?

And then I'd ask – what about those wood support pillars – and his head would explode. And those innards may, or may not, be made of salt as well. Sadly, at this point, there'd be no one left to ask.

Moving on though, there was also a restaurant. I bought a bun. It was delicious. I ate in a restaurant 130 meters under the ground. What did you do today?

Also there were posters about a movie filed in the mine called sexquest, sextrek – ah! Sexmission. That's what it was called. Filmed in the mine, it was. Seems like an odd thing to be proud of. Google it, it's true.

And then was the quick ride up the elevator back to the surface for some good ol' clean air. The fog outside was thick as to make a hardy breath impossible, but still, the attempt was a good one.

Back in Krakow I looked into my wallet. Well – this money wasn't going to spend itself. So why not explore the market. I bought a full sized candy bar, all for me (too much chocolate!) and a bread stick, and some tzatziki sauce (70% real this time! A quasi success!) and a tartufo. And a Pepsi Plan B (isn't that what the morning after pill is called? What have I just devoured?) All that came to 11.11P. Hmm – that would only be half my food budget in other countries. So walking home when I saw a chinese noodle shop selling a box of noodles for just 10P I jumped right on it.

Yes – that's right – a box of noodles. Chinese food, eaten from a box. Just like in the movies, but never in the real life... Ahh, how proud I was. Until the most depressing thing that could ever happen, happened to me.

I dropped one chopstick.

One.

I still had the other to spoon with, like some sort of uneducated swine – but I could no longer pick up, no longer grasp. I looked as if I was new to these strange and unknown hand twigs. But there sat the partner, in a small puddle from the morning's rain. Forever unreachable. Sigh.

Still – Chinese food from a box!

Right as I finished the noodles, and tossed the box in the bin, I ran into the two people from the hostel. And the rest you know.

It's also worth nothing that I say the word Tomato differently now. Not unlike how I say Banana. Basil has suffered the same fate. All hope on reclaiming the Canadian pronunciations is lost. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Krakow Dreamin'

My day began at the delightfully early hour of six aye em. This is too early for any day to begin, even if you did go to bed so early that everyone coming into the room at eleven felt the need to tiptoe around and whisper. Whisper in that register that is impossible to ignore. But still – it was a nice gesture. And I hardly remember being woken up, just that I was briefly, so it's like it never happened, yeah?

Now – when I checked into my overpriced Zurich hostel, I was upset that I would miss out on the free breakfast. But all my worrying was for not – as this hostel starts serving breakfast at the god awful hour of six. Normally this would spell doom for me, but today – well today it worked perfectly.

For the first time in ages: cold cuts sandwiches for breakfast! After days and days of Nutella, I can't tell you how much I actually missed them! Ahh how delicious they were, filling my belly for the long day that was to come. And – get this – they had fruit salad. A giant bowl of fruit salad! Why I had apples, and orange, and pineapples, and grapes, and all sorts of other wonderously naturally sugared treats! And I capped it of with not two, not three, but four glasses of orange juice! I was bouncing down the road to the bus, by the time I was through.

And then I was bouncing around on the bus at 6:45, all the way to Zurich HB (the biggest train station you'll ever see) and then I calmed a little on the train to the airport. Then – at the airport – I was frightened into not moving. A great fear came over me. A fear that would cost me two dollars to use six minutes of internet time.

What caused this terrible terrible fear? Well, I'm glad you asked – let me inform you.

So there I was, just hanging out, doing my thing, going through the self check-in. Then I went to the baggage drop off, and got shouted at for crowding the lady, who was apparently just getting in. I dunno, I saw an open baggage drop off booth, no one in line, I figured up I'd go. So I did. While she was busy calming herself into the morning ritual, I placed my carry on and my pack on the scales, weighing them, trying to see how much I could transfer from one to the other, and still not have to pay terrible extra fees.

You see, I have too much stuff. Books – buying books has done it. And if I could only drop them off... but I can't! They're stamped with being bought from Shakespeare and Co. and are my only souvenirs of this whole trip thus far! Well – those and the stickers on my laptop.

So as she was doing her thing, I too was doing mine. My rain coat that I was wearing had its pockets stuffed to avoid the fees. You can only have so much in the bags, but if you're wearing it, it's all good. My coat pockets literally cover the entire inside of the coat. I had books from my waist all the way up to my arm pits. And my camera was in there somewhere too.

By the end of it all, I was down to two books and my camera in my pocket. All the extra time the woman took getting her butt groove just right in her Air Berlin stool really paid off in my comfort level. I hate to think how it would have been, had I not transferred some of that stuff.

So then, she was ready and she took my tickets. Just to print out new ones. What's up with that? Why bother with the self check-in if she's going to print new ones? I'll tell you why – to avoid the normal check-in line. I still don't understand why people wait in those lines, like suckers, if a quick scan of your passport gets you the fast track.

Now, this is where the slight snag was hit. She handed me the ticket for Düsseldorf. That was no problem – but then she came to my ticket from Düsseldorf to Krakow. She looked at it, halted, checked my passport again, and paused. Much German was quickly spoken between her and her neighbouring employee. All i could make out was “Krakow.” She eyed me weird, and then looked at my passport again.

“Do you have a visa for Poland?”

What? A visa? Clearly not. Look at my passport – it's Canadian. Visa. Pssh.

But I said nothing. More hurried German. “Where is your visa?”

“I don't need one.”

More hurried German.

“You need a visa for Poland. I can't give you your ticket. You don't have a visa.”

This was going to be a fun game, to be sure.

“I don't need a visa. I'm Canadian.”

But she would not budge. She was adamant in this, and would not change her stance. She flagged her boss over, and talked with him “german german german krakow german german.”

“Sir – do you not have a visa?”

Are you kidding me?! “Nope. 90 days in country without one. I'm Canadian.

The both eyed me strangely, then relented, and handed over the ticket. Sweat was on my brow by this point, let me tell you! But then I had my ticket, and all was well – wasn't it?

First, I'd like to point out a few things about this situation:

1. Because there's no passport check in Poland, due to travelling from Europe to Europe, there needs to be something set up to avoid this from happening.

2. Maybe the airlines could have a computer system that, when nationality is entered, and destination is entered, the appropriate information is displayed on the screen for them?

3. People must have been turned away in the past for thinking they needed a visa they did not. Honestly, I wasn't sure – I was just arguing to get my ticket, and I'd deal with the fallout later.

4, If there is no passport check in country, and they eventually relent because someone like me keeps telling them they're wrong – that is some crap security! I mean, if I needed a visa, then what? I'd still have gotten in country without anyone knowing or checking. Seriously – is security this lax all over Europe?

So – by this point I was terrified enough that I was wrong. I really was sure I'd checked – but... how sure was I? So I tried to find an open wireless network. I failed. I was not going to pay six dollars for one hour. But – then I found an internet point.

I wasn't going to pay six dollars for one hour – but I could probably find what I needed in six minutes – that would only cost two. Sure, that was my soda money I'd been saving – but what would I do if I entered the country and was stopped without visa? (Not that anyone checked anyway... So what would I have done? Just walked in, same as everyone else.)

I couldn't find the Canadian government site! I'd already used a full minute! But then I remembered, I linked to it on my site, so off to oneyeartrip.com I went, and quickly confirmed what I thought I knew all along – but, they were airline staff. You think they'd know best? projectvisa.com (which is sometimes wrong) also confirmed what I thought. And so too did the Poland site. So fine, good – I was out a soda, but the piece of mind was well worth it.

Seriously – not giving me my ticket? What's up with that?

So off I flew to Düsseldorf. Upon landing I quickly scanned for open wifi networks. I had written some emails the night before that I wanted to send off. But all were pay ports. Ah ha! And AirFrance gate! Air France and British Airways have a tendency to love you like other airlines done. And often, from their gates, you can grab free wifi. This was the case today as well. Remember kiddos, a smart traveller never pays for internet.

Unless they're terrified of deportation.

In which case they just might.

But this gave me two hours of youtube uploading, facebook checking, email sending, and all other sorts of nonsense. Then I noticed the time, and hurried off to my gate, where I'd have to board a bus and be driven to the airplane. Then it was another short hop over to Krakow.

On the plane I was given a Twix bar.

There's something about having a chocolate bar all your own. Knowing that every bite is yours to savour. That you can eat it as slowly, or quickly as you want. It. Is. Yours.

Food has taken on a completely different sense these days. It's the type of joy you get when you're given a candy bar as a child. Fantastic!

But then I was landing in Poland. The land where – I'll remind you – Canadians do not need a visa for stays of up to 90 days. And then it was out of the airport. To the nonsense land of fear and mystery.

The trip from airport to hostel would not be a smooth one.

I walked to the train station that would take me to the central station. All the way I passed crumbling cement and barbed wire fences. You know – Poland was starting to look exactly how I thought it would. At the small train station, i waited – rock and mortar walls lined the tracks. Grey, drab, falling apart. I think Poland needs to remember this most people's first impression of their country. Maybe a – I don't know – building to wait for the train in – with heating – would be nice? Krakow is a touristy city, lets get with it.

I cursed myself for not running to catch the train leaving just as I was getting there. Who knew there would only be two an hour?! From the airport to the centre of town, you'd expect – I don't know – some regularity? And, once again, maybe a place to sit would be nice? But no – I don't fault them. Because this is what I expected Eastern Europe to be like, and they were playing right into my hands.

Finally on board, I had to pay for my ticket. Eight [insert money name here]. And that may sound like a lot, until you realize that's really only two euro. So off I went to the station. When I got there, I headed to the streets, following the signs to the street cars. I bought a pretzel, a giant New York style one (without the god awful amount of salt that New York tried to kill me with) for the equivalent of fifty cents Canadian. Ahh Eastern Europe – I had arrived!

Then the signs got weird, and once more Poland proved to be a crazy country. Getting the tram to my hostel took an hour. Not the two minutes it should have.

First I found the stand for tram 10, bought my ticket, and waited. And waited. And waited. Where was it? A sign pointed 10, down an alley. Really? But it wasn't coming here. So off I headed, down steps, across the street. There too was a tram ten stop. But a girl there told me it was for the other direction. I'd need to head back to that from whence I came. So I did. No ten, no ten, no ten.

I went to check the times. It should be here – wait – Sunday? Ohh good, the tram runs once every two hours, instead of every ten minute, on Sunday. Great. Thanks.

Lets try number 19. But what 19? What direction? All the trams have a list of stops in order – all except 19, of course. So it was a crap shoot. Fifty fifty odds. Not bad. I jumped on one, and – yes! I was off the right way. Which is good, because trams don't stop at the same place for both directions, and finding the nearest place to turn around? Not an easy task.

This is the short form of the story. There was more fear, and rain, and awkward conversations that I couldn't really understand, bringing us to this point. But then, off the tram, a clearly drunk man just wanting to take his lady friend home and do who knows what with her, pointed me the final bit of the way.

And then I was home. For the next four nights anyway. And I'll tell you what – for ten dollars a night, free breakfast, free internet, and all the comfort and safety you could want... it's a bargain! Eastern Europe, where have you been all these months? Except for you Tallinn – you still don't count.

It's also worth mentioning that I could have waked from the station to the hostel in about ten minutes. Stupid lack of a map.

Ohh well – time to sleep. Tomorrow will be my first real day in Poland, and it looks to be a good one!