The wooden stairs were well worn in the middle. The paint was gone, though it was obvious from the coloring along the edge of the banister that it had once been there. Dust and dirt were permanently collected at the bottom of each double-glass window. I could see the Wawel Castle from the stairwell, but hardly had time to appreciate it as I lurched forward trying to wrestle my overloaded suitcase up the four flights of stairs necessary to reach the Orange Hostel.
Like everything in Krakow, our hostel was in a building I can only describe as The Beauty of Urban Decay. I appreciated it even more after staying in Warsaw, which was quite the aesthetic opposite. I found myself craving the worn paint and old stone structures, side streets cracked down the middle with age, cafe tables wobbling uncertainly on unsteady ground. I needed a city that felt its history every day. The former capital of Poland didn’t see the physical destruction of WWII as Warsaw had and was able to preserve more of its antiquity. This was more of what I had expected from Poland.
Eric and I sat outside at a traditional Polish restaurant under a big white umbrella. It began to rain and I put the provided lime green blanket over my legs. (It seems all the outdoor restaurants in Poland provide a pillow and blanket with every chair - a nod toward the cool weather or just genuine hospitality. Maybe both.) We were in Kazimierz, the Jewish section of Krakow, awaiting our perogies. For all the terror this place had once seen, it was still beautiful. Intricately designed stone buildings stood all around us. The Synagogue loomed quietly over the cross section of two streets, one block away. It looked unchanged and I suddenly felt very small. I wish I could have seen this part of the city then. I imagined it was loud with people rushing through their busy days: buying this or that, eating here or there, praying, learning, living.
The streets were quieter now and the air seemed heavy. People walked by with umbrellas and maps, trying to navigate their way through history where it was once just a neighborhood filled with families. How strange how it all changes when people’s lives are obliterated in one fell swoop. When it ends so quickly, it’s like time stands still. No one is given a chance to mourn the loss of their family’s former home as they choose to change neighborhoods or cities. No one packs all their belongings, loads them into a truck, and reenters the home one last time to survey the empty property and say one final goodbye.
We’ve all done it, whether it was when we left home for college or left college for the real world or moved from one house to another. You always go back into the place you’re leaving just one more time. One look around. One time to see it empty and make peace with it before you leave. Then you walk to the door. You turn the knob, walk out, and shut the door behind you. Lock it one more time before you have to return the key. Say goodbye and take a step toward your future.
That’s what is missing. There was no packing up and loading belongings into a truck. There was no final time to look around, no time to say a proper goodbye. That feeling hangs in the air; an awkward awareness of a task left incomplete. Unlike Warsaw, the neighborhood has not been rebuilt to look new. There is no hiding history under shiny modern buildings. It’s painful and uncomfortable; it should be.
The perogie plates were now empty and my latte had become cold khaki-colored milk at the bottom of my cup. The waitress came and we paid the check. As I waited for her to return with the credit card slip, I looked up at the edge of the white umbrella. Clear fat raindrops rolled down the side and splashed onto the sidewalk, adding to the already massive, unavoidable puddles. I thought it would have stopped raining by now, but it hadn’t.
Until tomorrow and the new adventure…
Rachel
