Two walking tours of the city, so much history to swallow whole.  On the square for dinner (although the guide says it is overpriced, for tourists alone where they can buy trinkets that say “Warsawa”: magnets and postcards of the vistas you can take on your own).

I try to capture something with my camera: the lovers at the column, the girl playing in the fountain chasing pigeons; the old couple sitting on a bench, they could be anywhere;  a grandma pushing a stroller, back bent.  All of these are failures: the girl moves out of view, her dress is wrong; I tap my screen and the old couple blurred, out of focus; the lovers too far away, or there are people in the background, someone’s head growing out of another’s.  But, still I try to see what is in front of me.

Usually I return home from trips with things that I do not need–expensive blouses or shoes that will wear out in a week or two or three.  I’ve avoided all of that  preferring the old town winding streets; even if rebuilt, some of the foundations and facades remain the same.

Traveling alone you talk to people, although here only moments.  I am already thinking about leaving, not concentrating on where I am.  Traveling with other people is familiar, safe.  You are still at home, but gone.

Beer and ice cream for dinner.

At Sigismund’s Column a man and a woman sit on stone steps; she is in a t-shirt and blue-jean shorts, leaning against him, her head in his lap, dazed.  From my distance it is hard to tell their limbs apart.  He bends to kiss her, passionate and prolonged, hand snaking under her shirt, their mouths locked and searching.  Tourists snap pictures of the column, a stroller abandoned at the base; still they perform.  Perched on a stone wall opposite, I am captivated longing for my camera with the zoom lens.  I watch mesmerized wanting to move closer, am disappointed when they get up and walk away.

I want to pose the scene: the Japanese tourists, nonchalant; the lady in the blue-and-white-striped dress; I want to capture the vignette, the passersby detached.  It makes me ache.  I think of the art in Krakow, someone taking a picture, watching me, watching them.

 

At the cafe, a man sits too close to me; I find an excuse to move away into the sun, stretching my legs on a concrete block, leaning my head back, closing my eyes.  Here, they take their time with their coffees, their heavy breakfast of sandwiches with meat and cheese, mayonnaise or mustard spread.  In America everything is eaten on the go, in a hurry to be somewhere else, in the car, driving from place to place.

The street awakens, a few people peeking out, strolling, no hurry to get from here to wherever it is they are going.  In New York, walking fast fast pushing people out of the way, jumping lights at the crosswalks, taxis honking.  No one lazes a morning away.  Still so many are buried, eyes down in their phones, missing it all.

A girl at the corner table observes me observing her.  Both of us scribbling in our notebooks.  I am reminded of the paintings in Krakow by Marcia Macie Jowski; the artist portraying museum visitors pondering paintings, repeated over and over like reflecting mirrors.  The observers themselves become the art, as do I looking at the girl, looking at me.

8:32 Thursday morning, the plaza is vacant, save a nun walking past, the abundance of birds.  I abandon my croissant letting them have it.  I fear disease, whatever else they might carry and leave behind.  Years ago I walked the back alleys of my parents’ house with Kim, summertime, licking our ice cream sandwiches, the cream escaping the sides of the chocolate cake, our hands sticky with childhood.  Mine fell on the littered ground and I picked it up and continued, not wanting to abandon my icy treat.  My flip flops flap-flap-flapping against the pavement.  Me and Kim.

 

 

 

 

 

The pigeons attack my croissant when I go to the counter to retrieve my breakfast of scrambled eggs.  Amazingly they cart half of it off, brazen bastards.  The children chase them trying to catch them, pet them like small kittens, hands outstretched clenching and unclenching at thin air.

I am cushioned, not paying attention to the world beyond this one.

I am reminded of David Mamet’s short essay, “The Rake.”  The end of which reads: “One could have walked in the stubble of the cornfields, or hunted birds, or enjoyed any number of pleasures naturally occurring.”  What could have been is not what was.

I try the pierogis in the square –savory or sweet.  Filled with mashed potatoes and beef, they remind me of the toasted raviolis back home.  I miss home, but watch the square, the people in it; in Krakow there is more street food: brats and kraut, long baguettes piled with sauce and cheese, topped with spinach, bands playing.  I look for solo travelers but I approach no one.  Yesterday, I walked this square, pulling my carry-on behind me, feeling frustrated with no map and no voice for my frustration, save tears.  Eventually I find where I am going, a faded yellow structure where the bathroom smells musty.

The nighttime sky is filled with colors late; I take pictures of the window from my room looking out at more windows.

 

 

The view outside my window is beautiful overlooking Old Town Square.  I will leave neon and concrete to someone else.