Luke, around the world.

Myslovitz, a veteran rock band from the city of Myslowice, recorded Krakow back in 1999. Four years later, when the legendary Marek Grechuta was nearing the end of his earthly road, he joined the band in rerecording the song. I’ve always adored that collaboration. The context is important here – Grechuta was on his last leg, he strained to sing well, but his immeasurable genius still shone. His performance in Krakow is akin to Johnny Cash repossessing NIN’s Hurt, a dramatic lament performed with the certainty that one of these days, and quite soon, there will be no tomorrow.

I listen to both versions of the song on repeat as I enter the city blighted by traffic jams and air pollution. It’s the first rainy day of my trip; I get soaked waiting for the tram that takes me to the Bagatela theatre, close to where I stay. Upon reaching the hostel, I become acutely aware of my increasing needs and requirements as a 35-year-old man. No more dorm rooms for me, I want to retire to somewhere private, a quiet room where it’s just me in the four walls, the lack of inhibitions, the need for snoring. As a futile attempt at compromise, I decide to get a room with a shared bathroom, and I know I’m going to regret it. Showers are brief and uncomfortable, no whistling or singing, get in, get out, avoid any fungal afflictions you can drag back to your room from the shower bed.

I soon venture out to look for something to eat and I decide to enter a Turkish joint that has overwhelmingly positive reviews. Their signature dish is called tantuni and it’s heavenly. In spite of the original recipes from Mersin calling for lamb or beef, I go for ground chicken, still bound by my promise to self to eat less red meat. The meat is mixed with lots of herbs, diced onions and tomatoes, wrapped in lavash bread, and topped with ajvar. The portion could be a little bigger, but I know I’ll be coming back to the place.  

An obligatory walk through the Old Town as the rain keeps falling and the memories start flooding in. I moved here at the beginning of 2016 to salvage a relationship that was unsalvageable; back then I confirmed my decision with a coin flip, the degenerate gambler that I was, and the fateful toss only delayed the inevitable. I was living far from home, further than I had ever lived, but not nearly far enough. Eventually, Krakow became a springboard towards greener pastures in Malta. But back in 2016 it was all about K, back when neither of us knew that her feeble mind was schizophrenic. All of her phobias and paranoias and psychotic episodes, which left an indelible mark on my own psyche, were only beginning to manifest. Walking through the rain I almost hoped I would portal back in time and see her again, when she was still unchanged by multiple long-term stays at laughing academies, but then again, what would I even tell her? The realization that even with perfect knowledge I couldn’t have saved what we had is tragic, but necessary to move on. She’s gone, stuck in the morass of her mind’s hyperactive circuitry, and despite seeing her in every face on the main square, deep down I know “I won’t take any more pictures” with her silhouette in the viewfinder.

The rain disappears the next day and I’m not quite ready for what will prove to be the most intense day of my trip yet. And I haven’t even left Poland! I first meet with M, a work colleague from 2016. He comes in with his little daughter; I’m not exactly comfortable around kids, but they don’t bother me too much either, and H actually is as cute as a button, though a bit shy in front of the newly-met uncle. Me and M reminisce about the good old days of working together; we try to track the fates of some of our colleagues; I cannot not mention O, and where she currently is, and what she does, a fishnet-stocking-wearing breathtaker meant for higher purposes and further reaches. It’s chilly but the sun is out, so we go for a short walk across the Old Town, the Krakow Cloth Hall, the St. Mary’s Basilica, eventually settling down in the Little Market Square, getting some ice cream, relaxing among the droves of tourists exploring the once-upon-a-time capital of Poland. 

I am at over nine thousand steps by the time I meet with J in the evening. J is a friend from uni and the last time we saw each other was for a three-day bender through Paceville, Malta, back in 2018 or 2019, back when I could still survive 72 hours of almost non-stop drinking. This time we behave ourselves, even if every now and then we get drowned in a bit of politically incorrect raillery. J wants to walk and I know I will regret it later, but it’s always better to regret the things you did than the ones you did not. Our first stop is in the Old Jewish Quarter, Kazimierz, where we eat a so-called maczanka, a pulled pork sandwich with extras. I take the greenest option available, lettuce and mizeria (sliced cucumber with cream.) My taste buds have undergone a metamorphosis over the last eight years and the taste is just acceptable, a telltale sign of how my mind tends to exaggerate and inflate the things it has a nostalgic connection to.

The next stop is a bit of a surprise: we move across the river towards the Podgorze district, and climb up the Krakus Mound, arriving there just past the sunset. ‘I am using this opportunity to see all the things I usually can’t see,’ chuckles J, and it’s a fair point. Once you live in a certain place, once you become a local, you stop appreciating what the city offers, it’s the work-home-sleep routine, a hamster wheel to pay off the next month’s rent or mortgage installment. But not tonight, tonight the sky is still Monetesque and people are gathered at the very top of the hill, drinking wine, relaxing, not a care in the world. I am trying to figure out what mountains I am seeing on the horizon, to no avail. I see Krakow spread out under my feet, and a little bit to the southeast, in the distance, I notice the communist-era housing districts that I once lived in, back when I was still less cynical about love and attachment and relationships. It’s a clement evening, very little smog, its usual acrid smell replaced by a waft of flowers in bloom. I breathe deep.

Clocking in more than fifteen thousand steps, I make a managerial decision to uber back to the Old Town. The penultimate element of the evening is a 25th anniversary concert at the RE club. ‘Do you listen to them?’ I ask J and he cackles and says that he’s not heard a single song by the band. They turn out to be slightly inspired by the later works of Swans, except Trupa Trupa don’t follow a formula of bloated song structures where a single listen sets you back twenty minutes. I have a glass of house wine, since I lifted my self-imposed ban on alcohol for the duration of the trip, J has a zero percent beer. But it’s so unbearably hot inside that I have to make another note to myself: it’s not 2005 anymore, avoid tight spaces where sweaty people roam.

Just before we part ways, we decide to visit a Witcher-inspired establishment. The kitchen is closed but we still manage to get a couple of non-alcoholic drinks. We are supposed to mix them ourselves, as if they were recipes from Kaer Morhen. It’s fun, with a piece of dry ice in a vial and ingredient bottles marked by different colors, but in the dim light of the basement, mixing is quite difficult. ‘I would fail the elixir classes with Snape,’ says J, and I agree with him. For a short while, we are both Hufflepuffs.

The next day, my lower back is ruined, to the point where I am reconsidering the very idea of the trip. It’s not the first time it happens, but it does immobilize me greatly for the rest of the day. I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t take a short walk back to the Old Town, once more for the Turkish tantuni, and later for something more homely, a sizable plate of chicken broth and chicken-and-chanterelle pierogi. The lady at the latter establishment is collecting my plate and she might have briefly noticed what has been open in my browser. Another human being scarred by my irresponsible search history. But at this point I have bigger problems, I am in pain, I am thinking about my options, the health anxiety has returned in all its glory so the very next morning I come back for one more ultrasound, on the off-chance that my back pain is caused by cancer. It’s not, at least not by the one I am at the highest risk of right now.

I’ve always thought that once I start travelling, my health-related nightmares will subside, but so far it seems to be a lie and maybe my shrink was right. Maybe I still need medication and therapy. My hypochondriac mind is a topic for a separate entry, though. 

However, I’m supposed to cross the first of many borders soon. In a moment of despair, I turn once again to Eric Goodman’s foundational training. By the time I leave Ostrava two days later, my back pain will have all but vanished, and I still can’t believe what a goddamn miracle worker Goodman is, as long as you do the required exercises everyday, for the rest of your life.

The journey will be all about finding the right rhythm and playing the long game. I enter the Czech Republic knowing that from now on, I’m just a stranger in a strange land, no more family, no more friends. From now on, I can try to shape it any way I want. From now on, as Ella Fitzgerald used to sing, anything goes.