A Transfer

Black flashes of lightning bit into the damp air hanging loosely over Vysocany, spitting sheets of water onto the shadowed streets. The water, highlighted under a streetlamp outside the window, danced for us as we held our breath, waiting for another flash bang to delight our senses. The rain began to turn peculiar; its dancing had slowed as if it were aware of an audience and wanted to put on its best display. The individual droplets of water began to twirl with one another and pass through the glowing light in a rhythm wholly unique to nature’s whims. The dancers grew larger as the storm seemed to be blowing past us. Their final act was a brilliant nod to the capabilities of a rogue pressure system, leaving the street sides and walkways pale in the corners and reestablishing the cold we both knew would persist for another week. A comment was made regarding the short night of sleep that was in store for us and we curled up, together, thoughts of the past month’s activities raw in our minds.
The morning has an awful habit of sneaking up on the human race. We trudged, burdened by luggage on our backs and in our hands, and fought for the bus station. The bus drivers were jovial and skinny in a uniquely Polish way. Smoking cigarettes they helped us stow the luggage in the compartments beneath the windows. I had forgotten how comforting it is to hear the language spoken and to be a part of the camaraderie that Poles seem to share when grouped together on long distance transportation. They always clap when a plane lands safely.
Our ride went on uneventfully although we had hoped the ten hours would give us a bit more of an opinion on the Czech countryside. Not until the bus made the border and began to wind through the low-lying Tatras were we rewarded for our decision. I had seen beautiful Czech landscapes painted by Czech artists a hundred years ago and more. We had been to St. George’s and the art museum there and it had made the choice of a ten hour day trip easier. I thought we must have gone the wrong way.
We arrived in Krakow just 30 minutes behind schedule. Being on the outskirts, none of the magic I associated with the city was visible, only the graffiti any respectable city can claim. Football is big here. Football is the only team sport that receives any amount of attention and that includes being the topic of the vast majority of the graffiti. The buildings of southern Poland tend to max out at ten stories, and this is rare. None of the beautiful streets and buildings I knew were waiting for us was within sight although we both seemed to breathe easier, aware of their presence nearby.
We knew we had been waiting two years for this moment. Prague is a beautiful city to be sure. It’s steeped in history, beauty, and tourism; the latter being the only quibble in a land that values beer first and the food you may accompany it with second. Great and troubled artists have thrived there and produced there but artists of the same ilk have done so everywhere. Something about Krakow though…
In Krakow the smell of the Second World War still lingers in the nooks and crannies and occasionally reaches out to kick you in the jaw. In a language I don’t know, Poland spells “resilience”.
Two days later we caught the sun winking at us from atop the famed Cloth Hall. Pigeons in heat displayed their wears for potential, although unappreciative, mates. Shimmering colors expanded from the male’s neck as he dragged his tail in full fan. Folks pass by, arm in arm. Every stone that composes the streets and the square is as it should be. If it’s not, blue overalls indicate a correction and young men operate the cranes. We came here to teach English.