Monday 1 August 1994
So much for having the compartment to ourselves! At six o'clock in the morning, our overnight international express suddenly turned into the Monday morning local commuter run. Six other passengers had joined us in the compartment whilst many more stood in the corridor. It was really quiet and most of the passengers were too busy puffing away on pungent dark tobacco cigarettes to say much. As we travelled across the plains of Pomerania, the view out of the window looked decidedly grim. In true Stalinist style, most of the towns were dominated by swathes of concrete which provided a suitable backdrop to the lines of ashen-faced workers who waited motionless at each station. Graffiti was widespread and someone had even scrawled the words 'Fuck Off!' on the side of one building. It was a greeting I tried not to take too personally. Elsewhere there were walls covered with Metallica and Cypress Hill logos. It seemed that American teenage alienation had finally headed east. 

The train arrived in Gdynia at about 8 am and when we got off, we sat at the entrance to the station for a while trying to make some sense of our surroundings. Across a thin veil of misty rain, timeworn trams clanked their way past the station whilst hundreds of tiny Fiat 126's buzzed along the street. It was hard to spot any evidence that the Velvet Revolution had ever touched this place. If Berlin had given us a taste of what life behind the Iron Curtain might have been like, this seemed to offer a far more authentic experience. Not wishing to hang around the station too much longer, we changed about a hundred dollars in return for what seemed like thousands of zloty. Coinage didn't appear to exist here so I was instead given a great big bunch of notes covering every possible denomination.

We made our way back onto the platform and caught a local train to Sopot, a seaside resort halfway between Gdynia and Gdansk. In contrast to everything else we'd seen of Poland so far, Sopot was actually very pleasant. The town had a fine selection of old apartment buildings, many of which benefited from wrought-iron balconies and shady gardens. These houses wouldn't have looked out of place in the South of France, which perhaps wasn't surprising as Sopot was a premier spa resort during Napoleonic times. Nearby was a fine expanse of sand which stretched right to the horizon. As we wandered through the town enjoying this agreeable scene, a torrential downpour suddenly hit us. There wasn't anywhere to take shelter but as we soldiered on through the rain, a friendly old man came up to us curious to find out who we were. He seemed like a well-educated person and he spoke English very well.

"You'll like it here" he said seemingly glad that someone had taken the trouble to visit his town and country. "The people here are very friendly!" He then qualified his statement by inviting us into his house not only for lunch but also to stay for a few nights if we wanted. We turned down his kind offer but that didn't stop him asking us for our home address as he was planning to visit London and needed somewhere to stay for a few weeks! For the second time in a day, I was forced to hand over a false address although I felt uneasy doing this as he did seem like a genuinely pleasant person. Thankfully as we parted company the sun came out so we said goodbye and continued our walk along the coastal road in search of a campsite.

Once we'd left the old town behind, we passed what must have been the remains of a Communist built resort, a kind of 'Costa del Baltic'. In true Mediterranean style there were high-rise hotels scattered along the beach but most of them were in varying states of dereliction. One of the hotels was called the Hotel Chemik which for some reason brought to mind images of nuclear power station workers coming here to get over a bout of radiation sickness. The beach itself looked much more appealing although my guidebook warned against swimming in the sea as the water had been heavily polluted by industry based further along the coast. We eventually found a campsite called, funnily enough, Camping Sopot which although very basic was nicely situated by the beach. There were a few tourists scattered around the site (all Poles apart from one Romanian family) and most of them were getting ready for a dip in the sea. Once again the temperature was beginning to rise so it was nice to have a shower although the one here was so cold it felt as though the water had passed through an industrial strength underground refrigeration system before coming out of the tap. It was impossible to put more than one limb under the running water at any one time without risking a heart attack but at least we felt refreshed by the time we'd finished. We dried off and then walked back to Sopot where we hopped onto a local train bound for Gdansk.

When we arrived in Gdansk we bought a portion of frytkis (chips) from the station kiosk and then headed over the tram tracks towards the famous Gdansk Shipyard, dodging the swarms of Fiats as we went by. Standing at the gates to the shipyard evoked a feeling similar to the one I'd experienced at the Brandenburg Gate. It was a tranquil scene but it was also one which exuded a certain sense of gravitas. The shipyard was no longer named after Lenin and the murals by the gates now carried the famous Solidarnosc logo. Dominating the entrance was a tall monument which consisted of three tall steel crosses topped by anchors. It was easy to guess what the monument might have represented; the sea, the church and industry, but the silent rusting cranes behind the gates only brought home the fact that the yard had recently hit upon hard times. It seemed ironic that the chain of events started by the Solidarity strikes here would eventually expose the yard to the harsh realities of the global economy but even then I didn't detect any hankering for the past. Maybe the fortunes of the yard would revive in time and I for one certainly hoped they would.

In search of something a little closer to the beaten track we headed in the direction of the church towers that punctuated the skyline of the town centre. This was where my perception of Gdansk completely changed. Gdansk (or Danzig as it was then known) was heavily hit during the war but the city's historic buildings were subsequently restored to their former glory which showed that the Communists occasionally got some things right. Old Gdansk really was a beautiful place and the rows of gabled Hanseatic buildings lent it a resemblance to Amsterdam. We wandered around a couple of churches which not surprisingly bore an aura of unalloyed Catholicism and it seemed impossible to detach the Church from Solidarity and the events of the eighties. St Bridget's was where Lech Walesa came to worship and just inside the entrance to the church lay a statue of Father Jerzy Popieluzko, the priest who was murdered by the secret police after speaking out against the Communists. The statue actually showed him as he died which gave the memorial a startling intensity. After sitting in silence for a while, we slipped out of the church and followed in the footsteps of the medieval Polish Kings by walking back into town along the Royal Way. We found a nice bar where we grabbed a pizza before heading to the quayside for a few more drinks. There were plenty of German and Scandinavian tourists here and the waterfront bars by the old coffee merchants' house gave the quayside a distinctly continental atmosphere.

For a Monday the place was buzzing and it wasn't long before we were engaged in conversation with a couple of locals who had popped into town for a few beers. We couldn't understand each other much but after a few bottles of Zywiec we were chatting along like old friends. One of the locals, a great bearded man who'd served in the Polish Merchant Navy, told us all about his travels; from the women he'd pulled in Buenos Aires to his lost weekend in Liverpool where he somehow managed to survive on a diet of Guinness and whisky. By this point I was beginning to think that the Poles were among the friendliest people I'd ever met and with the benefit of hindsight I don't think I was far wrong.

We eventually said farewell to our friends, caught the train back to Sopot and then walked back along the coastal road towards the campsite. It was a beautiful warm evening and as we finally settled into our tent for the night, the sound of the Baltic Sea lapping against the shore lulled us gently to sleep.

Tuesday 2 August 1994
We packed up our tent, settled our extremely modest bill at the campsite office and once again walked to Sopot Station where we boarded a train bound for Warsaw. We had already reserved our seats but our compartment was empty apart from a weird-looking bearded guy who soon got thrown off the train by the ever vigilant guards for not having a ticket. As we travelled through the countryside, I paid a visit to the well-stocked buffet car, fetched some drinks and sandwiches and then relaxed back in my seat. The train followed the banks of the River Vistula and we went right past the mighty Malbork Castle, once the headquarters of the Teutonic Knights.

Our route took us through rural areas which hardly seemed touched by time judging by the number of horse and carts we saw still being used on farms. The view however changed when we reached the sprawling outskirts of Warsaw, which revived the familiar concrete suburban housing estate theme. As our train continued its long run towards the city centre, I noticed a rundown sporting facility by the side of the line which was probably a throwback from the days when sporting (and pharmaceutical) excellence was symbolic of the old regime. The centre was emblazoned with seventies minimal 'icons' representing sports such as handball and waterpolo but the decor seemed as dated as the ideology that built these facilities in the first place.

When we arrived in Warsaw, we got off the train at Centralna Station which was a nice airy building. We then strolled out into the harsh midday sun and continued along the Aleje Jerozolimskie. This street sported a couple of modern skyscrapers as well as a branch of Ikea which unusually for the Swedish chain was actually situated in a city centre retail building instead of in some vast shed miles away from anywhere remotely convenient. After walking for half an hour, we came across Camping Gromada which perpetuated the same 'basic' Polish campsite theme that we'd experienced in Sopot. However, the woman at reception was very friendly and was even kind enough to offer us the use of the office safe to store our valuables which seemed to imply that there was a certain risk in staying there. We declined her kind offer though as we had nothing much worth nicking and in any case there were plenty of other people at the site so we weren't too worried. We pitched our tent opposite a large party of Dutch cyclists who were sitting down to a barbie in the huge mess tent that they'd brought with them. The tempting aroma of grilled meat wafted over us but we weren't invited to join in the feast so we instead refreshed ourselves under another industrially refrigerated shower before catching a bus back into Warsaw.

We once again got off at Centralna Station and then walked past the nearby Palace of Culture, Stalin's very own gift to the people of Poland, which was probably why most of the local population now wanted it demolished. The building had a real Communist feel and despite local opinion I thought it looked quite impressive, even if it was more typical of Russian rather than Polish architecture. Then again, colonial architecture probably never looked quite so wonderful if you were the one being subject to colonial rule in the first place. It wasn't until we wandered into the old town that we got a better flavour of what Warsaw was really like. As in Gdansk, the old town had a friendly and lively ambience which once again helped to dispel some of my grimmer perceptions of Poland. We took a leisurely walk around the carefully restored old town square which had been rebuilt from scratch after the Nazis levelled most of the city. We then made our way to Saski Gardens where a couple of guards watched over the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. They occasionally changed their positions in extreme slow motion which must have been highly uncomfortable in the heat but they still carried out their duties with aplomb. After continuing past some of the monumental palaces situated on the Krakowskie Przedmiescie, including the one where the Warsaw Pact was signed, we made our way back to the old town via the medieval Barbican. After all our exertions of the last couple of days, we were beginning to feel a bit weary so we were quite happy to sit outside on the town square, just drinking a few beers before eventually making our way back to the campsite.

Wednesday 3 August 1994
After a quick breakfast and another freezing shower we left the campsite and caught the bus back to Centralna Station where we boarded a southbound train for Krakow. It wasn't a particularly long or eventful journey but when we arrived in Krakow we had our first encounter with other Inter-Railers. It seemed like everywhere we'd been so far was pretty much off the established backpacking routes but Krakow appeared to be much more of a mainstream destination. I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted to meet other people doing the same thing as us but it was interesting to compare experiences with a couple of female travellers from Nottingham who'd already spent the last couple of months bumming around Eastern Europe (lucky people). They'd seen quite a bit of Poland on their travels and like us they had really enjoyed their stay in the country so far.

After working out our transport options, we bought a huge bunch of cheap bus tickets from a kiosk and then caught a bus to Camping Krak on the edge of the city. Unlike the campsites in Gdansk and Warsaw, this site boasted modern facilities including a bar and hot showers. Even better, it had a shop which sold bags of ice which was an absolute godsend in this heat. Unfortunately I had an argument with Lorraine over the ice because every time I tried to eke an ice cube (which were shaped more like rugby balls) out the polythene blister pack they popped out straight over our cups and onto the dusty ground. Thankfully we managed to save enough ice to enable us to cool down slightly and after that I took a siesta because I was feeling so tired.

Feeling suitable refreshed after a couple of hours sleep we then headed back into town although we caught the wrong bus at first and ended up in a suburban estate consisting of concrete tower blocks. Thankfully, we eventually managed to find the city centre which turned out to be remarkably picturesque. Unlike in Gdansk and Warsaw most of the buildings here were left intact during the war so if anything the reminders of that era were even more tangible. We started off our tour of the city with a beer on the huge Market Square where we watched the hourly trumpet call being made by a trumpeter positioned on top of the tower of the Church of Our Lady. Krakow also boasted a Royal Way so we followed that route past the old city wall towards Wavel Castle, a formidable looking citadel with views overlooking the city and the River Vistula. Around the back of the castle walls by the river was a statue of a dragon which for added effect just happened to be breathing real fire! According to legend (or at least my guidebook), the dragon had a penchant for gobbling fair maidens so I told Lorraine not to get too close just in case.

There were plenty of tourists around the castle but we left them all behind when we made our way towards the old Jewish quarter of Kazimierz. Like the Brandenburg Gate and the Gdansk Shipyard, this place had a remarkably tranquil atmosphere. We wandered around the small square that marked the centre of this district without saying a word to each other. We then walked past the entrance to the Jewish cemetery and nearby we came across a plaque which recalled the many people from this area who were taken to Auschwitz. It really was quite moving even if there wasn't much to see here although the low-key kosher restaurant and café on the other side of the street reminded us that Jewish culture still had a place here. (Note: I recently heard a BBC radio report which stated that a lot of 'Jewish' restaurants had opened on Kazimierz Square since we visited and according to the report, most of them were run by Poles who were simply cashing in on the interest that the film Schindler's List had generated in the area. JB, Febuary 2001)

After sitting in the square for a while contemplating our surroundings, we made our way back to the hustle and bustle of the Market Square where we went looking for something to eat. My guidebook mentioned that Poland's so called Milk Bars were a good place for a cheap meal so we thought we'd try one out. We soon came across one of these Communist throwback self-service canteens and once in the queue we pointed randomly at a couple of dishes which were duly served up to us in reasonably substantial portions. The food seemed like very good value…until we tried it. It was as if the chef had trained many years to perfect his recipe for deep fried lardballs in a finely seasoned gravy. After one taste I stared at my dish for a while before a toothless old man on the next table gestured frantically at me. He was up for seconds so I was quite happy to pass my plate over to him and walk out without further ado whilst he enthusiastically tucked in. Just around the corner we found a place which did proper wood-fired pizzas which may have lacked local authenticity but tasted great anyway.

Feeling suitably knackered after another long day we caught the bus back to the campsite. We had thought about an early night but we met a friendly couple from Helsinki in the bar who explained to us in great detail the wonderful complexities of Finnish grammar. After all that we could hardly fail to have a good night's sleep.

Thursday 4 August 1994
It was another hot day and we got up particularly early to pack our stuff as there was still plenty more we wanted to see in Krakow. After taking a long hot shower and tucking in to a bread and cheese breakfast (our staple!), we settled our account and walked to the nearby bus stop. We didn't wait long for a bus and we got on with a couple of Spanish backpackers who'd also just left the campsite. We endorsed our tickets in the ticket machine and then stood by the door. We were hoping to get into town relatively early so things were going to plan but as I gazed out of the window a couple of beshaded men suddenly leapt out of their seats and immediately demanded to see our tickets. No problem I thought, as I took the tickets I'd just endorsed out of my pocket. The Spaniards did the same but the inspectors weren't too impressed. They started prodding at our backpacks and shouting at us. The other passengers just stared in silence, they'd obviously seen it all before.

It didn't take us long to figure out that they were targeting us for not having tickets for our luggage but when they started shouting something about the police, I started to get nervous. Not accepting any of the unendorsed tickets I still had (they only cost about the equivalent of 10p each) I offered them a US ten dollar bill which I hoped would be enough to get them off our backs. This was flatly refused so I offered on top of that a couple of packets of Marlboros, as 'western' cigarettes were supposedly a much sought after commodity in these parts. Again I was flatly refused and by this time those sinister jobsworths were getting well and truly pissed off. Not having any Polish money to settle our 'fine', they took our passports and marched us off the bus and led us to an office on the ground floor of one of the many tower blocks that lined the street. We thought we were being taken to a police station but they actually took us to a Bureau de Change. I could only hazard a guess as to what a Bureau de Change was doing in such a grim residential area but the man behind the counter greeted the inspectors like old friends. I wondered what the commission was like in this place. After changing about $50 in cash, the inspectors issued a receipt for our payment and then got back on another bus leaving us helpless victims behind. Unfortunately we couldn't get on a bus ourselves because there weren't any kiosks around where we could buy more tickets so we had to settle instead for a four mile walk back into town. What made it worse was that it was probably the hottest day of our trip so far, which really was saying something. When we eventually made it back to the station, we dropped off our luggage and headed for the Market Square for something to eat and a few beers.

We managed to chill out for a couple of hours in some bars before returning to the station to catch our overnighter to Budapest. Despite today's events, I felt a tinge of sadness as our train worked its way through the suburbs of Krakow and into the countryside for its southbound journey across the Tatra Mountains. Poland had been a great place to visit and I could have stayed here a lot longer. As the train clawed its way through the mountains in the dark, it became obvious that we were going to have the compartment to ourselves for the night so we spread out our sleeping bags and took one bench each. Thankfully our sleep was only disturbed once by an unusually mild-mannered customs officer at the Slovak border who duly stamped our passports and left us in peace.

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