Quite the little panorama.
Down below the tower the Market Square was filling up, as it does just about every day from Easter through late fall—with tourists, yes, but mainly with townspeople, whose sense of time seems to differ from that of their far more driven countrymen up in the capital, Warsaw. With the transition out of communism, Warsaw has bought into capitalism whole—everyone is busy plotting deals, calculating angles, nurturing contacts, making money. Warsaw, Krakovians are fond of saying, is where you should go if you intend to make a living. Kraków is where you should stay if you want to live.
The transition has been particularly felicitous in Kraków. Fifteen years ago, when the country was under martial law, I used to visit the town as a foreign correspondent, and in those days the Market Square was a dispiriting, dispirited place, often choked by a thick industrial haze, the passersby terminally glum, the state-owned shops closing up tight by early nightfall. The collapse of communism shut down some of the most egregiously polluting industrial behemoths, including parts of Nowa Huta—and the air is much clearer. In addition, the transition unleashed entrepreneurial energies, with cafés and bars and shops and beer gardens opening up in seemingly every nook and corner. In summer the square teems, a happily roiling carnival every night till well past two.
"It's almost impossible to get anything done in this city," a friend who had joined me at my outdoor table remarked as we observed the passing scene. "You can't get from one side of town to the other without encountering someone along the way, being drawn into a café, and passing hours at a time in conversation. Maybe that's why this is such a great town for poets. I can't imagine trying to write a novel here, what with all the interruptions, but the pace of life is perfect for poetry."
Kraków is a great town for poets—arguably the greatest in the world on a per capita basis. With Czeslaw Milosz's recent return from Berkeley, the town now claims two Nobel laureates, the other being the incomparable Wislawa Szymborska. Adam Zagajewski, who is probably the leading poet of the successor generation, is returning too, from his exile in Paris. Tomas Venclova, the great Lithuanian poet (perennially shortlisted for the Nobel), recently bought an apartment here. Dozens of poets of slightly lesser rank call Kraków home, and every three years premier poets from throughout the world converge for one of the most engaging poetry festivals going (the next one is slated for September of 2003).
But then, Kraków is a town of composers and musicians, too. It's the site of an annual Easter Beethoven Festival, featuring some of the world's foremost performers. Krzysztof Penderecki (who often conducts the local philharmonic) lives here, as did the late Witold Lutoslawski, and Henryk Gorecki hails from just down the road, in Katowice. And Kraków is a town of art—with, to cite just a couple of my favorites, the Czartoryski collection, an exquisite Frick-scale trove featuring one of Leonardo da Vinci's most meltingly empathic portraits, Lady With an Ermine; and a museum entirely given over to the legacy of the early modernist playwright and Art Nouveau painter Stanislaw Wyspianski (make time to see, as well, his luminous stained-glass windows in the nearby Franciscan Church). And there's always something fresh and bracing and worth checking out on the theater and cabaret scene.
From the archives:"Trieste Elegies"
Enigma and nostalgia on the edge of Italy, at the heart of Europe. By John Donatich
"Not bad for a small garrison town" is how the ninety-one-year-old Milosz had parsed matters for me the previous afternoon, a gleam in his eye. He was referring to Kraków's Austro-Hungarian incarnation, and indeed, one still encounters a good deal of dreamy nostalgia for that Hapsburg era among Krakovians today. For instance, Robert Maklowicz, a youngish, impish, and quite celebrated local gourmet and flaneur, universally referred to as Bobek, who soon joined my friend and me at that table in the Market Square, began rhapsodizing: "Right over there, at the Secession Restaurant, it used to be you could sample oysters plucked out of the Dalmatian Coast that very morning—lobsters, scampi, fresh that very day!" When was this? "Before the War ... 1912." And just exactly how old was he now? "Thirty-seven." Unfazed, he resumed: "We're at the same distance here from the Adriatic as we are from the Baltic," he claimed, a bit hyperbolically, "and in those days train service was twice as fast to Trieste as it was to Danzig. But then the borders went up—and I still don't understand why, what was wrong with the old way?—and suddenly all you could get was cod. Cod, cod, cod."