Bus schedules had been checked and rechecked. My eyes blinked open early, and after breakfast I made my way on a drizzly, cold day to the station. But the nine o'clock bus to Oswiecim was nowhere to be found and my rudimentary Polish was useless in getting information.
I paced the platform as if I could will the bus into place. I studied and re-studied the schedule. I kicked myself for my mistake. Or was it my error? Inside the station it took a total of one minute to deduce a coherent conversation would not be viable with my language skills.
The nine o'clock bus? Oswiecim?
I pointed to my watch in a silly clichéd movie gesture. The ticket seller waved me aside.
Back outside, the posted schedule indicated the next bus would leave Krakow at noon, if these itineraries could even be trusted. Because I planned to leave Krakow the next morning, this was my only opportunity to visit Auschwitz. It was beyond my comprehension to have come so far, be so close, and not pay homage to the terrible place where so many lost their lives.
A stocky gentleman of maybe forty years hurried toward me. Dressed in a worn beige overcoat and with an errant lock of thin sandy hair falling over his brow, he gave me an energetic look from bright blue eyes. He wiped his hair back with his bear paw of a hand and asked, You like to see Auschwitz?
Well, yes, but I missed the bus....I'll come back later.
No, no...young lady...I take you....Here...my car. And he pointed to a beige wreck of a Volkswagen Rabbit and urged me forward as if it were a stretch limo. How could I get out of this? What excuse could I drum up without insulting him? The Rabbit hardly appeared capable of a trip around the block, let alone out of the city. And who the hell was this guy, anyway?
Ummm...thanks, but I can wait for the next bus.
No, no...I take you....I show you....Private tour!
How much?
Instantly I was negotiating, translating Polish zloty to U.S. dollars and arriving at fifty-three dollars for a return trip. This was one of those moments. One of those spontaneous travel moments. The rush of the back and forth over the money clashed with deciding whether I could trust this guy.
Okay.
My name, Kaspar.
Nice to meet you.
From the back seat, I listened to the engine of Kaspar's Rabbit grumble as he gunned us out of Krakow and into Polish countryside on an hour-long journey to the concentration camp museum. The car rattled and shook along with my nerves. I was certain a single pothole would doom us to wreckage.
Once we were out of Krakow and on a two-lane road, I grew more alarmed at the carefree style of my driver. Kaspar wanted to chat. He seemed to see nothing wrong with turning halfway around in his seat to converse with me. His hands stayed on the wheel but his eyes were rarely on the road, and the highway was hardly straight. My crazy chauffeur careened around bends with no more than a casual look-see beforehand.
Kaspar also believed his English-language skills were top-notch. I had zero idea what the man was saying. Truly, I was mystified, and I didn't care. I just wanted him to face front and focus. And yet I couldn't overcome my good manners. Whenever confronted with a language barrier, my habit is to simply nod, laugh, or express dismay as I pick up clues from my conversational partner's tonal quality or sound level.
No kidding?
Oh, yes, I know...very frustrating.
Terrible.
Yes...ha, ha...funny.
It took me nearly the entire trip to understand what Kaspar meant when he jabbed his index finger at the window and cried Crumbles! Crumbles! After six such interjections, I realized the man was pointing out crash sites. He was communicating that this was a dangerous road on which foolish drivers made deadly mistakes on a regular basis.
I trusted. There was little choice from the back seat of a Rabbit in this Polish Grand Prix. And we eventually pulled into the parking lot of the Auschwitz camp. I stepped out of the car with rubbery legs. Kaspar, as it turned out, was a fair and good travel guide. He led me into the main building of the museum, made sure I had the correct ticket, and we coordinated a later meeting time when he would give me an extended tour of the camp. Private tour!
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