My first impressions of Poland were, by and large, completely as expected. Not only are there the omnipresent fading embers of a communist system that never found its socialist footing, but even more apparent is the strongly rooted Catholicism which so famously contributed to the downfall of the Soviet stranglehold.
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Whilst walking to my apartment, after a particularly gruelling train ride from Warsaw (a completely different story I'm afraid), up the countless concrete steps and past the local church, I felt a sudden itch in my groin.
After correcting my crotch, I noticed a pottering Slavic lady looking distrustfully in my direction, whose next move was to ‘cross herself', as if begging forgiveness for my shameful act of indulgence. If the language barrier hadn't been quite so prohibitive, I would have kindly explained that I was not the geriophile-pervert I seemed, and was merely responding to God's wish. Unfortunately, and more damningly, all my monolithic Polish could muster was a ‘ Thank you' .
The Tri city area in the north of Poland is almost exactly what one would expect of Eastern Europe in 2006; vibrant, chilling, passionate, derelict, beautiful, evolving and stagnant - basically, adjectives which are as contradictory as they are apt. The ‘cities' making up the Baltic trilogy are the well-documented Gdansk , and its lesser-known sisters Sopot and Gdynia .
The advantage of the relative proximity of these places is manifestly evident on even (and maybe most strongly) the shortest of stays. Whilst Gdansk provides the historical and most aesthetically stunning of the three, Gdynia counters this with sheer metropolism and variety of modern amenities. Sitting, both metaphorically and geographically, in the middle of these two, Sopot is one of Poland 's foremost seaside towns, and boasts wonders of architecture and a generally relaxed atmosphere.
My lodgings being in the aforementioned Navy-town of Gdynia , I decided that my stay required at least one outing to Gdansk , and I set off at 10am . My mode of transport was the relatively uninspiring SKM local train line, which failed to make much of a positive impression, what with the shiny red plastic seats and faintly urine-like aromas. After 35 minutes of similarly bleak landscape (mainly concrete buildings adorned with graffiti), and wondering if the beauty of Poland was all just a post-1989 tourist board myth, the train drew into Gdansk Glowny' station.
To the non-Polish speaking Englishman, the word Glowny seems to invoke humour, despite meaning, when translated, ‘ main ' or ‘ central '. My suspicions are that this must be at least partly due to it sounding rather similar to the English word ‘ Clown '. This is an observation which first struck me whilst watching Schindler's List , a movie which begins with a shot of the ‘ K rakow Glowny' sign. Now, I'm sure you don't need telling that this is one of a handful of films which it is (quite rightfully) considered bad taste to laugh during, and so my sniggers were sympathetically stifled. For those intent on still seeing Spielberg's Holocaust Opus, a word of warning, it contains NO clowns.
Gdansk itself holds a great position within the history of twentieth century Europe . It was not only the city towards which the first shots of World War II were fired as the Third Reich began their invasion of Poland, but also saw the Solidarity uprising of the 1980s. Beginning in the City's shipyards, this was the hard push that the Domino Rally of Soviet imperialism could not withstand. Essentially, it is the city whose siege gave birth to fifty years of turmoil, and whose populace's courage and determination in the face of a stronger force helped to end it.
The picture postcard tall buildings that line the streets of both the old and new towns perfectly encapsulate the fairytale mood of this town – I'm pretty sure at least one of them was made entirely from Gingerbread. This is all the more impressive when you discover that, because of Nazi and Russian atrocities, the entire city was, like Warsaw, rebuilt from the ground up, with an estimated 90% of the ‘Old Gdansk' reduced to what nearly every known guide to the city describes as a ‘ pile of rubble and brick dust ' by the time the Soviets claimed control in 1945. The dedication to the cause of reconstruction has, it is a pleasure to say, paid off in terms of the visual appearance of the city today, with its unique character attributable to its mixture of old relics and more modern expertise.
The Town's main street is simply named ‘Long Street', or Ul. Dluga . A road of incredible mystic charm, its pull is such that the background noise which is in existence seems to simply cease. Ok, so I know that's not strictly possible outside of a vacuum, but it's the only way to describe the relative silence .
This may owe a great deal to the mesmerising allure of the shop fronts and elongated buildings, decorated with any manner of designs ; from frescos depicting some sort of medieval last supper to mini statues of armed guards watching over the entrance. Parts of Germany , Austria and the former Czechoslovakia have streets of a comparable style, but once I had walked into ‘Long Market' ( Dlugi Targ ) – a huge ‘town rectangle', it was clear that this is somewhere very special indeed.
Immediately, I was drawn to Dlugi Targ's centrepiece – a fountain of Neptune . ‘ Centrepiece ' is a misleading word, with it being in fact placed in the corner of the market, bit it is the definitive attention grabber. With his trident apparently striking those who dare betray him, he is also a slightly unnerving sight to behold. Thankfully, a 6'2” man dressed as a witch complete with Navy Blue Cloak, hat and blackened-up face was able to harass me out of my wonderment, my hurried escape being too much for someone who kept tripping over the bottom of his garment. Why he didn't just climb on the broomstick that he so eloquently tried to poke me with, remains – I am sad to say - a mystery.
My time in the market had been marred by this heretic, and so I decided the best course of action would be to employ some good old-fashioned exorcism. St Mary's church is purportedly the largest Brick Built Gothic Church in the world (105m x 66m), complete with the largest Gothic Astronomical Clock (at 14m high). Whilst her interior was burnt out during WWII, a great deal of Art and historical works were saved by what would seem to be a combination of divine intervention and excellent foresight by the Gdansk residents.
At this point, I'd love to say that I spent several hours looking at the marvellous collection of artefacts and precision engineering contained within the quite frankly massive guts of the Church, but I had been told that there were 405 steps up to the clock tower, with the reward for their ascension being awe inspiring views over the entire city. I my haste, I even forgot to remove my hat, leading to my second disapproving look from a deeply Catholic Pole in as many days.
Amongst the rooftops and spires of the neighbouring (and less well-endowed) churches, the real beauty of the cobbled streets and amber strewn roadside jewellery cabinets glistened through; fixing me in a solidified sap induced trance. Remembering that I had promised a few people back home some Baltic amber, I made my way down to street level, eager to exchange some Zlotys for cold hard semi-precious stones. Admittedly, my enthusiasm was spurred by the ‘If I don't get them that, then what the hell do I get them' factor which was rallying further towards the front of my mind, but nonetheless I was still looking forward to picking up a few bargains.
Ul. Mariacka is the amber buyer's Nirvana. A small and pleasant street, it is crammed almost exclusively with twenty or more amber dealers, which intermittently make way for the occasional café – presumably to re-energise the fanatics for another round of Jurassic Park -inspired ‘find the mosquito'. Amber is famously the same colour as the SLOW DOWN! or HURRY UP! traffic light, but also appears in a green variant, which is more striking and slightly classier.
After an hour of pondering various designs and types of bejewelled garments for the women in my life (including a pathetically predictable pit-stop at one of the aforementioned cafes), I made several choices, disregarded them all and ended up purchasing only one item – a bracelet - whose asking price was reduced simply by looking anxious when the original sum was quoted. Of course, this is only my side of the story; the vendor would no doubt tell you that I looked slightly constipated and she dropped the price so that I could go and assist medical assistance that little bit quicker.
After the first of many under-priced and overly enjoyable Polish meals of my stay, I embarked on a cross city trek towards the shipyard area, or more correctly, towards the monument to the Fallen Shipyard workers and the Solidarity ( Solidarność ) museum located adjacent. The multimedia exhibition charts the movement's rise from underground protest to eventual governance under the Presidency of moustachioed icon Lech Walesa (after whom Gdansk 's airport is named), at the expense of the wheezing and decrepit communist regime.
The monument itself is located in the middle of a semi-plaza, and towers 42 metres into the air, reflecting the tall-reaching sacrifice made by the 44 workers who lost their lives in the riotous protests against the state in 1970. There is certainly no beauty about it - in form, it is no more than three overbearing concrete crosses with harpoons attached to signify the whale, whom, ‘ no matter how much he struggles, can never get rid of it ', yet it definitely inspires awe. The romantic streak in me likes to think that this says something about human nature and the fact that even the dullest of testimonies to lives lost can be, in their own ways, rather breathtaking. The unromantic part of my personality agrees.
The museum commemorating the struggle is situated right next to the monument, and so this was my next port of call. Surely I could not fail to pepper this article with such phrases as “The flames of revolution were tempered but never tamed” and “those who gave their lives to the struggle live on in this fantastically well assembled document of the era”? Well, I promise I would have done – if it hadn't been shut.
For all the disappointment that this causes to both you and me, I'm afraid that this is travel writing, warts and all, and so I can't tell you anything about the ‘Roads to Freedom' museum, other than, on Saturdays, it appears to shut rather early. Ironically, here I was, standing outside a shrine to the struggle for transparency, unable to even glimpse at what lay within. With a whimpering sigh, I trudged back to the train station, vowing to return one day. Only a bit earlier.
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