I made it! Yes, I'm here. Once I left the Pendolino train in Ostrava, it became a bit of an adventure. My next train, the EC Polonia from Vienna, was delayed by twenty minutes, so I had time to sample a local speciality: the Ostrava latte.
When I ordered it, I thought it must have been a mistake, until I saw about half a dozen people ranging from a young crusty couple to a professional twenty-something drinking the same thing. Apart from hot beverages served in cups obviously designed for cold drinks, Ostrava delighted me by playing the sorts of train station songs (composed of the bell-like sounds that precede announcements of arrivals or departures, and always make me feel like boarding a train for Moscow or Bucharest) that used be common at Hlavní nadráží pre-refurb. I also realized, while there, that I can now understand train announcements in Czech, which delighted me, as I still think I can't speak or understand it properly, even after 100 hours of instruction in the past 4 weeks. Unfortunately, the EC Polonia didn't function as well as my language skills – we had made it one stop out of Ostrava when the train ground to a halt. Forty minutes later, after much frantic running back and forth by engineers in orange overalls and an announcement in Polish that I couldn't understand , we were finally on our way again. I was greatly relieved, since given the start to my journey, an announcement advising us all to detrain and seek accommodation in Ostrava and environs until the next day would not have seemed at all out of keeping with the mood of the journey. Luckily there were no more breakdowns, though the journey did become marginally more interesting at Katowice, when the Viennese hipsters in my carriage were replaced by a mother with two daughters in their early twenties, one of whom looked like she'd just been in a fight. If only I could understand Polish better…
As for Warsaw itself, I had a great weekend. I don't understand why the city gets such a bad rap. Perhaps I'm more predisposed to like it – there aren't many American cities with the concentrated beauty and consistent charm of many of the European cities I've visited, and I suppose if you're used to Bath, or Prague or Vienna, then Warsaw is something of a monstrosity. But for an ex-Philadelphian who's risked life and limb navigating the museum district on foot or going to a concert at the Electric Factory, crossing four lanes of speeding inner-city traffic to get to dinner doesn't create a lot of cognitive dissonance. To be totally honest, I find the motorists of Warsaw a lot easier to deal with – and less intimidating – than the cycling hordes of Amsterdam. I also love the air. The city's built on sand – when you cross the Vistula, on the east bank you can actually see a sandy beach – and the air feels saltier and cleaner than in Prague. It was windy this weekend and freezing for August which only enhanced the crispness. Plus it has some green parts, like this park by Mr. P's flat:
The people watching is fab – lots of cool style going on in Warsaw, which seems not to be plagued by the grown-up skater/punk style that haunts Prague – and great bars. We went out with some of Mr. P's new colleagues on Saturday, which ended up being a tour of places I want to go back to – an arty club in the vaulted-ceilinged basement under the Zacheta gallery, and a lounge with fantastic chandeliers and a retro-glam vibe hiding in a courtyard nearby. Early in the day, we went to Praga and found this delightful, artist-haunted and book-filled café in a converted vodka factory (which reminded me of the set of Karamozovi)...
...then stopped at another on our way back, where we found both Becherovka and a wonderfully atmospheric dark interior. Then there's the sense of history, which is everywhere you turn. The city feels like a geode – grim on the outside, but sparkling inside. Dark and haunted and hip simultaneously. I love it. So far.
As for now, zpatky do Prahy na práci – I am so behind on work. Which I'm going to start doing. On the train. Right now. After I figure out if the men in my carriage are Czech or Polish. I think they're speaking Czech, but they're reading Polish newspapers. But I can read Polish a bit, so they probably read it very well. But I can't understand them very well. Maybe they're Moravian? Oh the endless joys of Slavic languages.
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