Vasrsavia Chopina

It's not often that I get touched by a city as I did by Warsaw.

My flight the previous day from Dublin to Munich ,in preparation to the trip to Poland, had been seamless. Germany, the heart of Europe, is pumping with all the force it could muster. On time arrival, punctual buses, and impeccable trains—all explicitly connected online for the world to see on a phone app. Simply pull out Google Maps, enter where you’d like to go, and Germany will get you there every step of the way and on time! There is little room for interpretation or implication in such a precise society. The brute truth is on display for everyone to see and to benefit from for everyone who conforms. Notwithstanding this brute force, Munich as a city is a pleasure in summer, made even more so with family and friends. Unfortunately, there is no time on this trip for parks science museums, political discussions, or schnitzel. Poland was beckoning—above all connecting with my son who had been backpacking Europe for close to a month. Couldn't think of a better mate to join me on this adventure on--always resourceful, knowledgeable, and eager to see and taste the world ...

Admittedly, I was quite skeptical of Poland in the beginning; and the bare-bone LOT Polish Airlines Embraer 170 plane didn't help much. But I started catching a glimpse of things to come when I noticed that the airport we were landing in is called the Warsaw Chopin Airport. So Warsaw had joined the “Axis of Music” joining the ranks of Salzburg's named after Mozart, New Orleans' named after Louis Armstrong, and the Liverpool's named after John Lennon. I thought. It says something when a city honors a musician above all else ... Hmmm …

"Dad do we have some Zlotys?' he asked after we had embraced and were on our way to catch a bus into the city.

"No, what are those?"

"It's the national currency. Poland is in the EU but not in the Euro zone.” 

"Why did I think they were part of the EU. OK let's get some."

As the bus headed into Warsaw, I noticed trees elegantly lining up the avenue leading us into the city. What appeared to be several universities with a lot of young people hopping on and off the public bus provided a sense of brightness. Young people are so awesome …

As we got closer to the city center things began to look a lot busier; and the avenues grew wider. The city was clearly modernizing with high towers being constructed. Their tallest tower, however, a brick building with a clock at the top remains a landmark of the city and visibly its highest point. At 237 meters it towered over everything else, and quite interestingly is titled the Tower of Science and Technology. Now that ladies and gentlemen tickles the heck out of my fancy, and bodes well for Warsaw.

Suddenly, as we got off the bus, a Polish man with a device in one hand and round spectacles on his eyes (could well have been just one) approached my son. I had noticed him eying my son suspiciously n the bus but made nothing of it.

“Ticket!” he said firmly.

I could see my son fumbling for his ticket in his backpack, his other tummy pouch, and a small bag.

“I just bought 2-day tickets with Zlatans,” I tried to assure the inspector, showing him mine, for which he didn’t seem to care. He was eyeing the cheater—no doubt the disheveled hair and thin beard, which he had carried along with his backpack. The more the inspector looked sternly, the more the more my son fumbled around … “

“Sorry, sorry, will find” said my son in his makeshift Polish accent to make the inspector understand his English. I guess it had gotten him this far in umpteen European countries with different languages, why not!  Interesting that, Europe’s ability to have integrated so well, while it’s people have such different languages and cultures. The funniest thing of all is to see European neighbors, like Germans and Poles, or Swedes and Fins talking to one another in English- to the chagrin of the French, I am sure.

“And voila!” said my son finally with a naughty grin for having overcome the bus inspector’s suspicions; sending him into the oblivion of travel stories never to have collected his hefty penalty.

“Next time have ready,” was all the inspector could muster.

Reminded me of the time we were driving through Italy and accumulating parking tickets in a rented German RV. Why one might ask? It’s just Italian parking signs are a lot more difficult to understand than Italian hand signs, particularly those you get after you pass their run down Fiat 500 on the highway! “Eh Jermany, youa goa to hell eh !!!”

Anyway, after a while, I got tired of the tickets, and began ditching them, figuring I would be travelling back to the US in a few days … Characteristically very un-me I admit, but I thought heck if someone is going to solve Italy’s ballooning debt problem, it ain’t gonna be me … But then I got to Genoa, where I decided to park close to a marina wanting to try some the local fish that I figured Christopher Columbus must have tried at some point as well. But of course! Upon my return there was a rather hefty carabinieri lady giving me a ticket. I started had gesturing with all the God-given muscles, trying to get out of it a-la-italiani and make her unwrite what she had written. She would not budge, until finally trying to be smart, I said, “But looka here office, Ia go back to da US tomorrow, eh! I don’t have timea to pay dis!”

“Ahhhh!” she looked at me. “You goa back to da US?”

“Yessss,” I said.

“Den you payyy now!” she said pulling out her wallet.

Turns out Italy is not so chaotic after all. I started getting all the other unpaid tickets sent to my home in the US. That darn Polish inspector must have been on the case !!!

“What do you think we should do, Dad, we have twelve hours to kill in Warsaw.”

"How do you feel about meeting Mr. Chopin?" I answered.

“The musician? Sure. Can we grab lunch first?”

“Find us a place close by then, will you? Polish perhaps …”

Nothing beats ethnic food when on the road. Doesn’t matter if it’s street food, fast food, home-made, or restaurant food. It will tickle a traveler’s taste buds one way or the other.

“There’s a Polish restaurant modeled after turn of the century Polish restaurants and it’s highly ranked and affordably priced. Only a few blocks from here.”

“Sound like a plan Stan.”

“Follow me this way, Sir.”

As Mr. Google guided us there, we began noticing several road blocks impeding our passage to the Polish food promise land. Unyielding, we wiggled our way until we finally found a sudden clearing. Unfortunately, it was filled with police and army all assembled and wearing ceremonial outfits.

“What’s going on Dad?”

“Beats me champ,” I answered smelling the scent of a story. Straddled with backpacks and all, we walked right up to the railing with no one stopping us. As it happens, the President of Poland was giving a speech marking the 100^th anniversary of some battle or another. We were less than 200 feet away.

“Poles are very trusting dad,” whispered my son.

“You can say that again, ” I answered looking at the backdrop, which was the Saski (Saxon) Palace, or what remains of it. It had been a rectagular U-shaped two-level palace with a facade full of columns, which had been destroyed in WW2, with only a dozen or so columns left standing. Turned into a monument, it now commemorates the Polish unknown soldier. The Poles have kept it in its current state with picture exhibits showcasing atrocities for all eyes to see, perhaps because they do not wish to forget; perhaps as a reminder to keep them on top of their plans to rebuild it in its original grandeur …

Once the President finished his speech and the crowds began clearing up, and we wiggled our way to the Saski Garden in the background of the old Palace. A beautifully landscaped park with water fountains and “WIFI Available Here” signs everywhere. Who said you can’t have serenity and internet hustle and bustle all at the same time.

The restaurant turned out to be just around the corner from the park. Its décor did not disappoint, transporting one back to the turn of the last century with frescoed walls, deep red carpet, and carved wooden tables and chairs with lusciously padded seats. The waiter was a helpful fellow offering some interesting suggestions in food as well as Polish geography, “Poland has really good fish; and a sea where you can swim. You would love it; it’s only 2 hours away from Varsovia.”

Funny, I had always thought Poland was landlocked. “Fish sounds great …” hmmm still feeling the guilt of the plant based, “How about this one instead?”

“Aubergine Schnitzel is one my favorites, if you would believe it,” he answered. “It comes stuffed with cheese and tomato on a bed of rocket and parmesan salad.”

Boy did it prove to be a dish to remember, as it also came with balsamic oil that brought out the best in all ingredients.

A few minutes later he came out with a plate, “On the house for you to try Polish fish tartar.”

Complementing him on the meal and thanking him for his tasty suggestions, the waiter was overjoyed, and said, one more gift before you leave. Disappearing for a few minutes he returned with two Polish shots, which my son and I assumed, based on the shape of the glass, to be some polish alcoholic beverage.

“What do we do now, Dad? How embarrassing! He’s such a nice guy.” Whispered my son all embarrassed since neither of us drinks.

With the choice of either becoming drunk due to alcoholic intolerance and risking soliciting the reappearance of that Polish inspector; or embarrassing the incredible generosity of the waiter, I whispered back, “Quick plant behind you before he comes back!”

Just as Karim was about to pour the glass, the waiter reappeared. Sensing the situation, I waved my hand, “One last favor, can I take a photograph of this wonderful place?!”

Whew! That was close.

We could tell the waiter was ecstatic when he noticed the glasses all dried up!

“Now that was absolutely delicious! Thanks and so long !!!”  

“Dad Bus #28 will get us to Chopin’s Museum. Gets here in 4 minutes and there in 26.”

I have been an avid Chopinite most of my adult life, having grown to appreciate his his music while still in college. It was after a music class in Freshman year, and my father had said, “Take an art and music history class at some point. You will enjoy them.”

He was right. All it took was a single less than two-minute listen to his Prelude #4 in E Minor … Somewhat serendipitously, as we entered the Muzeum Frederika Chopina, as it is called in Polish, the very piece was playing. Touching. Housed in a multi-level city Mansion, the museum brings together real-life artifacts (a replica of his hands showed them not to be large or particularly long, pointing to his innate virtuosity), musical scores, and multi-media to provide an experience transporting one to Chopin’s time. The coolest was a grand piano with several binders of some Chopin Etudes. Opening up the binder and placing it on the Piano’s music rack (desk), it automatically turns on the piano music, while showing hands playing the piece in the background. Quite the visual effect … All that was missing was Chopin himself! But one could feel him on his piano located on the upper level in the middle of a French salon. How awesome would it have been to listen to him in such proximity?

Warsaw’s musical scene is not limited to Chopin’s museum but in reality is pervasive everywhere in overground and underground Warsaw. The old town of Warsaw with its brick castles, serves as a wonderful backdrop for violin players playing tunes as varied as Vivaldi and Paul McCartney (I guess hauling a piano around is somewhat more difficult, hence the violins) easily raising the importance of Warsaw’s music scene to the likes of Salzburg and Vienna. As if all this were not enough, the Lazienki Park, which houses a beautiful sculpture honoring Chopin is surrounded by forests, lakes, and castles. The beauty of the parks is perhaps only outdone by the detailed attention to Chopin’s music, which can be played from marble benches at the press of a button, to the utter enjoyment of the patron.

As we departed Warsaw that evening, I reflected on this city, which I felt was like an innocent and pure maiden, surrounded by the harsh roughness of history. Warsaw is joy, beauty, atrocity, and melancholy all embodied in one, and it leaves one touched …