KRAKOW: October, 2000

Book, book, book. Food, food, food. Bed, bed, bed.

This was how I jumped off the train in Krakow. A woman with a list and a mission.
While traveling I read, a lot. In restaurants, on trains and in hotel rooms. I was downing an average of five books a week as I scurried across Europe. I'd turned the last page of a novel at the end of the six-hour train ride from Olomouc to Krakow.

The railcar creaked to halt and I alighted in a city painted gold as the sun dipped. A promising vista, but I was without a hotel reservation, I was hungry and I had nothing to read. And that was before I learned some sort of business conference had most of the city's rooms booked.

Filmu.

Krakow sits on the Vistula River and, like Prague, was left fairly undamaged after World War II. The German army invaded Poland and used Krakow as their headquarters. The small city houses a population of just over seven-hundred thousand and is divided into walkable districts. The most engaging area is Stare Miasto (Old Town), a walled center enclosing a large market square attractive to tourists, locals, and certainly me.

In Old Town I searched for a hotel room and found a place for exactly one night. The next day, after much scrounging, I would luck into another room for two nights. Both hostelries charged thirty-eight dollars a night, including breakfast. A water closet down the hall meant no private bath, but I was used to that. Neither was comparable to my expansive apartment in Prague, but to even find a pillow on which to lay my head was fortuitous.

After a cursory glance at my first hotel room, I raced back out to the streets to find a bookstore. There were many, but none with books in my language. I whipped through four stores before spotting one lonely rack of English paperbacks. Not exactly bestsellers, but I was desperate and grabbed a couple of British spy adventures.

Room: check

Book: check

Dinner: Hmmm?

Twilight settled over Krakow. Restaurant windows framed in lace glowed amber in candlelight. Cobblestone walkways reflected lamplight and the scents of roasted meat floated from doorways. Couples swayed, teetered and giggled, presumably after pre-dinner cocktails. The city's atmosphere radiated warmth and giddiness.

A stone-walled restaurant caught my attention. Tapered candles stuck in wine bottles flickered with tiny flames, casting shadows off the ancient brick. Settled at a table with my book and a glass of wine, I exhaled with satisfaction. Small potatoes roasted on the hearth of an open fireplace in the center of the room. Customers helped themselves to tender charred morsels. I dined on borscht, pork stuffed with prunes, two glasses of red wine, mineral water, cappuccino and as many of those potatoes as I could pluck from the hearth.

The next morning my I started my exploration of Old Town. As in the Czech Republic, a youthful exuberance resonated from cafes offering internet services. Posters hanging on city walls advertised all sorts of artistic performances and gallery viewings. I trekked up Wawel Hill to Wawel Castle and Wawel Cathedral, and further on to the Jewish district with its synagogues and cemeteries.

Across the main square, pigeons fluttered into nooks and onto windowsills of apartments and offices. I rested on a bench alongside the Vistula, munching on an apple and a homemade pretzel, salty and warm, I'd picked up in a farmer's market. Under the shade of a stone archway, I studied the details of the architecture around me. I was grateful this jewel of a city had not been obliterated in the war — but the next day I would see, up close, the handiwork of the Nazi regime.

In a short telephone conversation with William, it was impossible to describe all that I'd seen in these three cities. The routine of his workdays continued unchanged and he seemed content with that.

"I miss you."

"Me too."