Krakow 2004 - Part One

(I wrote this piece in 2004 after a visit to Krakow.)

For most people in West Europe, it seems Poland is a bit of a mystery. Relatively, Poland was more connected with other countries than other Communist states – there are 6 Million Poles living in USA – and yet we know little of it. My good friend and colleague Marek summed up most people’s understanding of Poland – Warsaw, communism, poor, Lech Walesa… and that’s about it. Oh, and of course Vodka.

My awareness of Poland comes from 2 incidents in 1982. My mother organized a business conference for herself and 30 colleagues to Warsaw, and at that time, Solidarity was gaining strength, the government was fighting them, and we saw the results on TV – it seemed like a country turning upside down. My mum was adamant – “that’s just stuff on TV, the country is not like that, why shouldn’t we go?” As I waved her goodbye at the airport, for the second time I felt it may be the last I saw of her. The first time had been when she was on a similar trip to Moscow 2 years before. Suffice to say, she returned from both, enriched and enthusiastic.

My other memory of that year was the World Cup in Spain. Poland had a tremendous team then, led by Zbigniew Boniek (how exactly do you pronounce his first name?) They reached the latter stages and were faced with the prospect of a game against the might of Russia – a draw would see them through. The significance of this game against the Big Bear did not strike me until the seconds after the final whistle. A small group of Polish supporters had been able to make the trip to Spain, and they were crying with joy that their team had beaten their oppressors.

In a 2 day trip I learned more about Poland than in the rest of my life. The visit to Krakow has put much in perspective. I came away flooded with the warmth of Polish friendship, and fascinated by the history of a country which has been passed back and forth between big neighbours, disappeared off the map twice, and which was violently abused to the worst degree in the war by the Nazis. Finally, the moment of joining the EU is a triumph, which the Poles do not celebrate overtly, but which gives them the quiet belief that they have returned to rightful status in Europe.

I told Marek that I wanted to stay in Poland for a weekend after a business trip, and he immediately invited me to join him and his wife to go to Krakow, a 4-hour drive from my usual business destination of Warsaw.

Driving from Warsaw, you begin to realize just how large Poland. There are 38 Million people, but we didn’t see many in the journey. On the way, I asked Marek if there was much difference between the Krakow and Warsaw people. He explained to me “they are different – they walk more slowly”. I took this as a kind of national stereotype for the difference between a big and a small city, but it is really true. As we came to the edge of the city, I noticed that everybody was slower than I had seen in Warsaw (or most other cities) and this gave me a good feeling already. The streets were absolutely beautiful – old buildings, cobbled roads, uncrowded and atmospheric. I could feel this would be a good visit.

After checking into the hotel, we went straight to the Wawel, (Polish for a hill), where lay a castle that has been home to various royal families over the centuries, as well as some less savory visitors. Our guide, Katja, explained in excellent English about the history, which I realized was too long and detailed to follow closely. But certain things really struck me. Firstly was how the battle for independence has been at the centre of Polish history. Often, she would mention various renowned heroic characters who “fought for our independence”. Also the royals were not always Polish, even there was a feeling that it was better to have a non-Polish king. Therefore Hungarians and Swedes were among the past nationalities of the rulers. On top of this, there was even once a female King – no, not a queen, in the 14th century, they crowned Jadwiga as the King. How very progressive!


The courtyard of the castle was a mixture of styles, including Italian influenced balconies and details. Many of the rooms had beautiful wall paintings around the top edges, depicting certain battles, and one that showed the whole course of Life, from first breath to funeral. As well as this, there were many heavy tapestries. These numbered 160 originally, although the collection now stands at 134. After the war, they were taken away, and kept in a collection in Canada, only to be returned after the fall of communism (this was a common theme for many of the treasures of the Polish royal history). These tapestries are made of heavy material, as well as silver and gold, and it took one man one year to make a square metre of the pattern. The largest of the tapestries was 40 square metres. A lot of work and skill.

My favourite rooms were the chapel, and the ballroom. The chapel was a little room with echoing acoustics, built next to the King’s bedroom, and even there was a small window for the King to listen to the service. So, no need to get out of bed to be holy! Then the ballroom was beautiful, with a balcony that meant the orchestra was above the audience. Immediately you could imagine the parties and the glamour of it all. However, the feeling in this room was touched by the news that the Nazis had used it for a cinema during the Second World War. The history of Poland is filled with such contradictions, it seems.

There were of course many paintings of the royals too, and also of battles. There was one very distinct depiction of some battles with the Turkish, reminding me of some I had seen at the Doge’s palace in Venice. Sure enough, Katja told us the painter spent much time in Venice. More contradictions, as on the left of the painting, there was a group of monks chanting, in the middle was the scene of terrible cruelty, and on the right was the sight of the Devil in his boat, taking the souls of the Turks away. The religious meaning is obvious. For some reason, I thought of Bush…

Also at the Wawel was the ancient cathedral. This houses the largest altar in Europe, and the whole building was bathed in gold and glory. Again, I liked the chapels, 21 of them lining the side walls, all ornately painted. Although I don’t have any religion myself, there is always a special atmosphere in such a beautiful church. I really sense the devotion and faith (and certainty) which created such impressive buildings. As we passed through, we found all kinds of tombs and altars of the royals, and the crypt downstairs was also very atmospheric.
The cathedral also boasted one of the largest bells in Europe. We climbed up to see it, and heard that 6 people have to pull to get it playing.

(Part Two will be posted on Wednesday 17th June).

Fear and Loathing in London

On arriving at Heathrow airport, 2 things caught my attention – the embarrassment of over-security, and the double embarrassment that corruption even exists in “good old Britain.”

The first is nothing new. Since 9/11 and subsequent bomb attacks in London, the security measures at UK airports have become increasingly tough. My flight was from Amsterdam via Heathrow to Edinburgh, and as we exited at Heathrow, I entered “Domestic Transfers”. They took my picture, stuck a barcode in my passport and pointed me through to Terminal 1. I was bemused to turn the corner and see a great long line of people waiting to go through security again. Hadn't I already done this in Schiphol? What chance was there for me to have acquired bombs, guns or explosive liquids since Holland? Precisely none.

I joined the queue, and watched as various people of ethnic origin had their bags double and triple scrutinised. There is definitely a nasty element to this and I have seen it before. Almost every single person I have seen to be stopped and questioned at English passport control has been of some kind of ethnic background. The semiotics are clear. Non-white = greater chance of being a terrorist.

There is a sign that says “you may be asked to remove your shoes”. Thank goodness, I thought, hopefully I won't have to. This is not just because I am concerned about the smell. There is something very simply humiliating about shoe removal – I've spoken to others about this and they all feel the same. But alas, just as I am about to walk through the archway scanner, a surly guard says “Stop! Take off your shoes!” Great.

Some small details become irritating too. Of course, boarding at Schiphol it was not possible to take water on board (a precaution I will never understand). So in-flight, I bought a bottle which I had not finished when we landed. But despite this potential terror tool being bought on the previous plane, I was not allowed to take it through to the next flight. Bizarre.

Now of course the logic is that the rule-makers have our best interests at heart and the security measures are for our own good. But unfortunately trust in the lawmakers in Britain has just hit an all-time low. On the British Midland flight they give a complimentary copy of the Daily Mail, and the newspaper is full of the latest scandal – members of parliament cheating on their expenses.

Many years ago I was given the stern advice at Canon Audio “if you want to cheat on your expenses, make sure you can retire on it”. It seems a number of British MP's have been trying to do just that. Every possible expense appears to have been stretched so that all kinds of laughable costs have been possible to claim.

Each day there is a new scandal, it seems, and the newspaper I read was simply full from front to back with details, editor's comment and satirical cartoons about the whole issue. Ridiculously, getting big tax benefits from owning a second home and charging all kinds of costs for furnishing it (1000's of pounds for lamps, etc.) are all technically legal, if not exactly ethical. What has developed is a network of knowledge amongst MP's about how to get the best out of the system.

If they are operating within the rules, it is hard not to feel sorry for some of the politicians who are being attacked. Until you remind yourself who makes the rules. And until you read that the entitlement to a second home – somehow understandable if you live 200 miles away from Westminster – has been used to enable a relative to live rent-free. Or you hear about the minister who claimed bills for his second home a year in advance and then reported a different home as his second. In explaining this, the minister apologised for “an inadvertent error”. I leave alone the various stories of a minister saying they looked forward to spending the expenses on “lots of booze” and the smutty story of an adult channel in a hotel being considered business expense.

The amazing thing about it is that British people have finally been faced with real corruption in their own country. The lawmakers have created rules for themselves and elasticated them so much as to gain massive benefits. In their favour, it is crazy how low the salary for a politician is in UK. Nevertheless, there are ethics. Spending taxpayers money on personal benefits is simply not on!

Before this seems like a rant on the defects of UK, I quickly add that as we wandered through Edinburgh, I was reminded what a fantastic city it is. Wherever you go there is something interesting, with monuments, ancient buildings, views of the castle, lovely parks and hidden streets. No doubt about it, there is a real charm about so many places all over the country, and that is a charm which I do miss. London as a city has a huge array of excitement to offer.

But the airport security is definitely prohibitive to visitors, and somehow a myth about British fairplay has been deflated by the recent revelations.

The Writer's World

In my search for inspiration to write, I came across the BBC World Service World Bookclub podcast. What a find it has been.

The monthly series brings in very successful authors to talk about a book they have written, and the guests have included Umberto Eco (Name of the Rose), Michael Ondaatje (English Patient), Kathy Walker (The Colour Purple) and many other writers of similar stature.

The audience raises questions about their books and the motivations behind writing about certain subjects or characters. As an example, Edna O'Brien wrote a book called The Country Girls 48 years ago. Listening to this 79-year old author explaining what writing is about gives a fascinating insight into the process.

She talks about getting the details right. "You cannot write a book without knowing everything - how the carpet looks, what the leg of the table is like, the details of the person in front of the main character. You must have the reality in order to soar." Wow.

Edna continued about how the details and reality cover every kind of emotion. "Everything goes in. The good things, the little cruelties, and the awful things." I am especially fascinated by the phrase "little cruelties" - it's something I realised we regularly face. Our lives are only occasionally touched by real tragedy, but small pieces of meanness are a part of daily life.

Another question asked about the motivation behind her book. She answered "To re-live and, if possible, transmute the experiences of my life into something richer, and better, and funnier".

And she commented on what it is to be a writer. "Happy people don't write. The need to write, the time required for writing at the exclusion of all else, is not the occupation of a normal, sane person. It's not". I personally don't take that as meaning that I, as a writer, am insanely unhappy! But this explanation does touch on the fact that the harder experiences in life are often creative sources which force an outpouring through words, image or sound.

The program is not all serious, though. When Umberto Eco was asked what his motivation was for writing Name of the Rose, he answered "that is a difficult question. Because now I must remember all the other answers I have given to that question. And each time my answer has been different." And another writer, Armistead Maupin, said he felt life was made up of three basic elements. "Great Job, Great Home, Great Lover". He also asserted that to have all three at once, was a constant but impossible search!

I started listening to the program over a year ago, and it has been a major influence to follow my ambition of writing. What a dream it would be to appear on that show! One day...

Figure Skater Fate

At the end of my first year of University, I turned 21, and within weeks my life started to unravel.

A massive problem in the triangle of me, my girlfriend’s mother and my English-rose-like girlfriend Amanda occurred. During that last term of my 1st year, life seemed impossible as I felt the huge pressure of wrecked relationships all around me. So finding Joni Mitchell at that moment was probably not great timing.

Unwittingly, I had heard a song of hers 2 years before, at a London theatre. The main theme of the play - a midlife crisis - was built around a song with these lines;

Richard got married to a figure skater
And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator
And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on
And all the house lights left up bright

The main character played it again and again at key moments in the play, and it hit me with a deep kind of impending sadness, which I had no reason to feel at the age of 19. But songs do that sometimes, don’t they? As I wrote recently, are you sad because of the sad song, or is the song sad because you are sad? It’s a worrying thought that music could play its part in Fate, prepare you for tragedy, even bring on tragedy’s possibility. This song, with its reaching voice of whoever sang, caught me irrevocably.

In the days before Internet, a fragment of a song was almost impossible to track down, which meant that the joy at finding the source was so much higher then due to that impossibility. Imagine my happiness, amid the misery of my collapsing life, when a couple of weeks into the University summer term of 1988, I heard the same voice reaching out of a cheap cassette player while visiting a friend. Her moody flatmate was sitting together with us in the run-down kitchen, intently listening to music as we talked. The song began, and hearing it for the first time in two years, I recognised it instantly.

“Who is that singing?” A noise close to a snort came from the friend, followed by a clipped “Joni”. These two syllables were obviously enough for the rest of the world, but not for me.

“Joni who?” I asked, no stranger to credibility loss.

After further uncomfortable revelations – I had never heard of the album Blue, never heard “Woodstock” (wasn’t that some concert?) and did not even know that Joni had gone through a “Jazz phase”… - I was instructed about the source of the song I knew as “that one about the figure skater.” Its full title was “The last Time I saw Richard”, and my emotional fate was wrapped up, sealed, and posted into the future, along with the figure skater and the coffee-maker.

“Richard” is still one of my favourites, despite my conviction that the opening imagery and later sections of the song have powerfully influenced my life. And not positively.

All Romantics meet the same fate, someday,
Cynical and drunken and boring someone in some dark café

Soon after my discovery, I bought the record "Blue"and played it to destruction. As the term went on, I got drunk, bored people with my cynicism, left the lights up or down, I didn’t care. And after much romantic agonising, in my real and imagined pain, finally I pushed away the first true love of my life.

Am I really saying that hearing Joni Mitchell, buying the album Blue, and listening to it again and again during those awful weeks was one of the nails in the coffin of our relationship? Can a piece of music and a set of words really make that much difference? Yes, I am saying exactly that. The influence on my life of the final soaring lines of the song only became apparent after I had left Amanda, but in the last days before I finished our relationship, they played in my head like a record with the needle stuck.

Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away, only a phase, these dark café days

The result is I own 16 Joni albums, mostly populated by misery, and I have no idea where Amanda is or what she is doing now, despite our repeated claims that “we will always be friends”. Easily said at 18.

Would I swap Amanda for “Joni”? Difficult to say.

Amanda and I tried again but we never got over my weakness. Who knows, maybe we would have got our gorgeous wings together without Joni’s melancholy intervention. Then again, Joni’s mum never made me feel guiltily responsible for breaking two lives, and Amanda’s mum did.

The answer to the question, sadly, is “no”. Joni will always be a part of my life, and for better or for worse, Amanda never will be again.

Musical Emotion

Music is a major part of my daily life and a huge influence on how I feel and think. I even wonder if sometimes it has set a pattern for how I feel in the future.

In a book called High Fidelity, Nick Hornby's character asks himself whether he listens to sad music because he is miserable, or if he is miserable because he listens to sad music. I have that feeling often.

As I was growing up, I listened to all kinds of angst-ridden songs. Pink Floyd's The Wall has few laughs in it, and when I was 14 & 15 I lapped up the disillusionment that drips out of that album. Yet it was perhaps one of the happiest times of my life! There was no personal frame of reference for enjoying the misery of the sound and lyrics. But it caught hold of me somewhere deep.

Nostalgic music grips me too, something my hero Tom Robinson is a master at. In War Baby, which I first heard when I was 16, he sang these lines; "Smooth skin and tenderness long ago on a dark night, wish I could see you once again to remember that it was true. I want to be still beside you, quiet and still beside you, listening to your breathing and feeling your warmth again." As time has gone by those words have become my favourite lyrics ever because they now resonate with some events in my own life. Yet at the age when the song first hooked me, I had no experience that linked to these beautiful images. Did those lyrics shape my experience in the future to link with the emotions in the words?

Currently I have a song by Snow Patrol in my head, which has the line "Something was bound to go right sometime today". I can't quite work out whether it is positive or negative - it could be taken as "so many things have gone wrong, something had to go right". Or it could be very positive, "I knew today was going to be good, things were sure to go right". So I guess it is possible to steer the way the song makes you feel depending on how your mindset is.

What I do know is that every now and again, a phrase jumps out at me from a song and stays with me forever. And let's face it, the lines that stick are not normally the happy ones. I conclude that music has certainly shaped parts of my life. These are a few of them.

"Everybody is just a stranger but that's the danger in going my own way". John Mayer, Why Georgia

"If you're looking for somebody you're going to need some help. You know you'll never find her if you're still looking for yourself". Fish, Zoe 25

"Don't be reckless with other people's hearts, and don't put up with people who are reckless with yours". Baz Luhrman, Sunscreen

"Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away". Joni Mitchell - The Last Time I saw Richard. (more on this in the next posting on Sunday.)

"The Stranger we all knew so well, the friend we never will". Tom Robinson, Connecticut.

60's change

In another posting, I wrote how I am beginning to see some of the social change in Amsterdam from mid-60's to early 80's. Now what I am discussing with some new contacts is why people started to stand up and say "No".

In 1961, there was a protest here against the Atom Bomb. 10,000 people walked quietly and in an orderly line, as the police calmly observed. There was almost no noise and just a few placards dotted around the crowd. (A friend suggested "It was like going to church", reflecting the strong influence of the church in daily Dutch life up until the early 60's.) This incredibly peaceful event gave no foresight towards the changes coming during the rest of the decade.

Within 5 years, Amsterdam experienced the Bouwvakkerrellen (construction-worker riots). A protest against a reduction of pay for the workers, and the death of Jan Weggelaar, caused chaos. The national newspaper De Telegraaf reported that he was killed by colleagues, but the people believed he was killed by Police violence. The city erupted and for a day and a half, the police battled to control students and workers who ran riot through the city.

Other major events included protests at Princess Beatrix's wedding to Prince Klaus, with Provo playing a major part, and the recently celebrated Maagdenhuis Bezetting - an occupation by 660 students of a University administration office in 1969. Especially the younger people were not happy to stand for the fixed way of things.

I have been trying to capture that "moment of tension" where things changed. Why such a massive difference in just 5 years between the protests in '61 and '66 and beyond?

One point of view is that children born during or just after World War II had not experienced the extremity of the war. In the late 40's through to the end of the 50's, it was just hard work as adults were occupied with re-building the country and the economy. But by the beginning of the 60's, the post-war generation were becoming students and were more interested in questioning the rigidity that had to be put in place in the period of re-construction.

And there were many key events worldwide, in particular the Vietnam war - the first war to be covered so intensively on TV. It is no co-incidence that Holland was one of the biggest protesters against Vietnam, as the major TV company of the time, Philips, sold huge numbers in the Netherlands. People were seeing the world in their front room, and they didn't like what they saw. The Dutch government was one of the few who actively opposed USA actions in Vietnam, as a result of the ferocity of protest against it from the people.

As my research continues, it is clear there are many threads to the story I want to capture. Gradually the timeline comes together and I get to grips with the connections between events. I am always hunting for the "why" - what caused people to change and start to behave in different ways?

My story is forming as the research continues through those times of change. I learned more about Amsterdam in this last month than in the previous 11 years.

Peace and Love in Amsterdam's Jordaan

Some years ago, I started to write a few short pieces. They sat on my computer for a long time until recently when I re-discovered them. I decided to post a few of the better ones on the Blog – I hope you like them. This one is based on a real experience in 2006.

I get my bearings and walk into the Jordaan. Beautiful, small Amsterdam still has streets I don’t know. As I pass the small, independent art and food shops, I begin to think of a drink. I look up and see a Peace flag, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I am conscious of the recent London bombings, and feel happy that somebody shows solidarity. I see the place below the flag is a bar, and wander in.

Even as I approach the door, I begin to suspect this is a Lesbian bar, and the Peace flag is rather a rainbow – the signal of gay pride. As I sit down at the bar, I am still not 100% sure – after all, there are no signs saying “get lost, blokes”, but there are a few hints.

Firstly, out of a dozen people here, I am the only guy. A Postcard behind the bar is from a film called “I prefer girls”, with an image of a strong woman in red standing above a weaker woman, holding her hand up for help. Another postcard shows a wartime propaganda style image of a butch woman in workclothes, flexing her biceps, with the caption “We can do it!”

The barmaid is very butch. The couple that walks in after me are female. The pool players are girls. A woman comes and asks for 3 beers.

Do I feel uncomfortable?

8 years ago, I would have walked out. Why? Prejudice, fear of the unknown, and fear of ridicule – that stupid thinking that takes you from “lesbian bar” to “what if somebody sees me come out of this place and thinks I am gay?” Now I realise one value of journey that has been living and being in Amsterdam for 8 years. I just don’t care about this. I have the feeling they are more bothered by my presence than I am by theirs, but I sit there quietly, writing, not bothering anyone, hopefully.

The woman behind the bar made me feel welcome from when I arrived, asking me “shall I make a tab for you?”, which indicated it’s ok to stay for more than one drink. I get talking to her, and before I know it, she has assumed I am gay. I don’t confirm or deny it, as I have no concerns one way or the other. We get talking (her name is Inssaf) and she tells me a bit about the bar.

It is called Saarein 2 – the original Saarein started in the 60’s and was one of the first all-women bars in Amsterdam. It must have been a great, ground-breaking time, and I tried to imagine the atmosphere of territorial possession that would have welcomed me and any other men that strayed in 20 years ago. But at the end of the 90’s it was renovated, and men were allowed (though it seems they didn’t feel very encouraged, as I was the only man there in the 3 hours I stayed, and their website pictures show only a couple of men…).

At one stage Inssaf tells me about tourists who wander into the place by mistake.

“You should see it”, she said with a mischievous smile. “A bunch of guys, normally English, come in looking for a beer, and of course I serve them. It’s funny to see how long it takes for them to realise. The A-haaa… effect when they realise is great! They are very quick to drink up from that moment…”

She also told me what brought some of them in. “Many of them think the Rainbow flag is a Peace symbol, and come in because of this.” I roll my eyes in mock amusement, tutting about how daft some straight people are…

Inssaf is Maroccan and she told me how tough it was ‘coming out’ at home. She is used to prejudice, being a darker skin than the average Dutch person, and now she experiences the double stigma of Lesbian and seemingly Muslim. None of this seems to bother her much. being a cheerful, sociable and intelligent person, finishing off her journalism degree between long stints behind the bar.

I come out of the bar, a bit smashed. Inssaf had introduced me to a “mini-black Russian”, a small shot of Vodka and Kahlua – yes, a lethal but enjoyable combination. I enjoyed my time there, felt comfortable and accepted, and was reminded of the meaning of community. My hero, Tom Robinson, once said “Community is a word mistreated and misused deliberately by politicians. They suggest that it means we should all be the same, in order to be a strong community. But the real meaning of community is not being the same – it’s about respecting and accepting the difference.” I am not sure how much acceptance Inssaf get's in her daily life, but certainly she and her friends in the bar showed it to me.