A Room of One’s Own

I’ve been riding clouds since I made it to Warsaw: having a room of one’s own is mood uplifting - the best thing a girl could ask for. It turns out that being on the third floor isn‘t so great, but all the climbing I’ve been doing can be overlooked because I also had my very own bathroom, and that just might be the nicest thing that’s happened this trip.

In a peanut’s shell, Poland is colder than the Walkerville IGA in winter. And here ended my love affair with snow. Every time I stepped outside, the sun was shining, the skies were blue, and I knew it would be a perfect day. And every single time I had this thought, I would arrive back to my hostel icing white, my teeth a perfect match for my new winter’s coat.

I spent as much time knee deep in snow as I did eating - and that’s saying something.

Milk Bars. Now my guide books had nothing complimentary to say about such places, other than that they were cheap (words that clung to the fluff of my brain - milk, bar and cheap rolling around and around until I knew I must visit). These places are left over from the communist era, diners where at one time most of the meals were milk based, hence the name. Now I have no idea if this still holds true as the menus are in Polish, but my faith in guide books has taken a downward spiral. I ADORE milk bars. Not only are they cheaper than a bus fare but they also offer cold-weather-comforting food.

Through a guessing game where finger pointing is key, I ended up with a big bowl of hearty - or as close to hearty as food’s likely to get - mushroom soup and potato dumplings, and on another day, pancakes with onion, potato and quark, and then the next day I had a plate of spinach with my soup, as the girl who sat opposite me had a plate of spinach and some type of body-cleansing beans, and this scene made me think that perhaps some vegetables, as opposed to dumplings, weren’t such a bad idea.

But, though you may doubt me (and I‘ve given you good reason to doubt; this seems to be more a food blog than a travel one), I didn’t spend my days in Poland just eating. I paid a visit to the Warsaw Uprising Museum, which was achingly sad. Dates, facts and names drilled into your memory during high school history lessons only outline the story; the colour comes from walking Warsaw’s streets. The Stare Miasto -
the old town quarter - was completely levelled during the War and has since been restored brick by brick to replicate the original - as if to prove that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men really could put this place back together again.

I spoke to a girl over lunch at the milk bar, who, besides wanting to know all about my travels, wanted to know what I thought about Polish people. I said those I’d met had been genuinely friendly - nice - helpful - a true, if hollow-sounding, description. What about sad? she asked. Do we seem sad? To which I said: not that I’d observed - even amongst the older generation.

Perhaps I haven’t been looking closely enough or in the right direction, but the resilience of these people astonishes me. I would have been born mad had I been born Polish.

Looking for some lighter entertainment, I decided to trek 10 kilometres to Wilanów, home to historic Wilanów Palace (the Polish Versailles) and home to my destination: the acclaimed poster museum.

The sun was shining, the skies were blue and I knew it would be a perfect day. Eight kilometres in I hopped on a bus as my footpath appeared to have run out, cut off by the merging of new roads, and snow was beginning to tumble down and I was feed up with the wind’s whipping of my hair. Then the snow really started to fall: the museum was closed for an exhibition change, a fact some one had failed to disclose on the website.

Now it’s when I’m all alone, grumpy and wearing wet socks that I make rash decision. The problem with backpacking is that you can only shop for ephemeral things: when the cold pushed me in through the nearest set of doors, I emerged in the hair dye section of one of the biggest supermarkets I’ve been in yet. I didn’t want a hair-changing experience, just brighter, happier-looking hair, like what was promised to me by the model on the packaging. She looked ecstatic and her hair was awfully pretty; I wanted what she had. Unfortunately a combination of Polish instructions and me not paying attention to the clock has ended with my hair being the nearest colour to black you will find - which doesn’t make me a brighter, happier-looking or even ecstatic person. Lesson learned.

I went across the river a few times to visit Praga, the only district untouched by war, but other than the really old vodka distillery, which gives the impression of being maintained, all the buildings are hard done by, as if they know everyone has given up on them.

I also did my tourist duty - followed the trails mapped out by the guide book, took photos of the statues and the buildings, wandered through the parks until my feet refused to wander any more. And before I forget, I found a terrific English second-hand bookshop, right around the corner from my hostel so I’m fully stocked up.

I made it to Krakow - grey skies all around - and after a harrowing bus experience, I’m sitting in what just might be the nicest hostel room I’ve seen. If I can work out how to put photos up, you might get to see just how nice.

Love to you all - I hope none of you has done anything silly like dye your hair black.

Mad xox