A meeting with magic

Three days in Bialystok bring me new acquaintances (like Maka, the young Georgian volunteer, or Grzegorz, the bat researcher) and an unexpected meeting with homeopathy. It’s a farm in the countryside, ten minutes by motorbike from Tykocin, where Beata, a maseuse I had met years ago in Warsaw, lives and works these days. For the past few weeks my shoulder muscles need some fixing, and one of her Hawaian massages can do the magic.

El camino que lleva a la granja

Track to the farm

It’s the typical hippy-commune environment every veteran traveller has known at least once: connection with nature, horse riding, spirituality, homeopathy, lots of love for animals and vegetarian food. Among other people, there is a Florida-based Polish lady here, spending her holidays, who claims to be a homeo-therapist; you know the type: body energy and all that prattle, supposedly efective for fixing all kinds of problems, including–or mabybe specially–anxiety and insomnia. Just what I’d need. So, despite my skepticism, the good references I get from Beata help me leave my reticence aside and try a session, since the planets seem aligned. How much?, I ask with caution. Two hundred USD. Wow! An astronomical fee for an astrological medicine; no, thanks. But she makes it easier: since she’s here on holidays and not in labour mode, I’ll tell a price; whatever I feel comfortable with. Since a real massage with Beata costs twenty euros, I can’t pay much more for the alternative. Twenty five? Deal. Continue reading

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Upon the trodden track

Here and there, through the layer of clouds, a few sun beams shine on the land, cheering up the countryside. Behind me, noise of passing cars and lorries. I’ve pulled to the shoulder for a moment, right after leaving behind Vilnius’ outskirts, and take the day’s first notes. I’m heading Marjampole for merging into the E5, one of the most important highways in our Union, neck of land between–so to say–continental Europe, on one hand, and the Baltic & Scandinavia on the other; the only route–and bottleneck–linking those two halves of our common space. At both sides of the isthmus, there lies the no-go zone, hostile and barbarian land: Russia-Kaliningrad to the west and Belarus to the east. Continue reading

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Inari, tale of a trip and a return (message in a bottle)

etapaInari
Definitely everyone wakes up earlier than me! I get out of bed and see that many campers are already gone, those still here being finishing preparatinons for departure. None of the tents I saw yesterday on the lawn is left, and most of the huts are empty. Only the laziest remain… or those who’re not in a hurry.
But not being in a hurry is, I’m afraid, only an excuse I put to myself for not awakening early (a gift with which I wasn’t born). And I do regret it, as I miss many things because of morning lazyness: from contemplating the dawns (a phenomenon almost unknown to me) to enjoying that particular gentleness of the atmosphere at daybreak, as if it would shatter with a sneeze of the beholder; or watching the growing bustle in town, when it starts becoming alive: street sweepers watering the cobblestones, press arriving to the newsstands, bakeries taking out the first batches of bread, people breakfasting at the cafés, and–well–the one thousand little details of a society who wakes up, which are usually more poetic than those at bedtime.
On the other hand, waking up early would give me certain (purely psichological) reward, maybe only of a moral nature, though it might be something else: Continue reading

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Ristijärvi and Artemiev’s boreal epopee

Puesta de sol subártica

Subarctic twilight

It is no accident that for the past two days an unforgettable music by Artemiev rings at all hours within my head: it’s the soundtrack of Siberiade, one of those  Russian must-see that  –being European movie markets sold to the big capital– never reach our screens. In the film, Konchalovsky tells us the story of Yelan, a tiny God forsaken village in Siberia; and through a family saga spanning three generations shows how the October Revolution of 1917 and other social events of XXth century change completely, and decide, the remote place’s fate. Now, what is the relationship between this emotional drama and my own–much more modest one? Landscapes and subarctic twilights. These long, slow sunsets and these lake spotted, endless conifer forests constantly bring to my memory scenes from Siberiade, whose music seems to drown my brain with a steadfast realism. Continue reading

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The bikers’ brotherhood

Esperando para embarcar en el ferry a Helsinki.

Waiting to get on board the ferry to Helsinki.

Competition among the lines on the ferry route Helsinki-Tallin is big, schedules are flexible and sufficient, fares affordable. From my hotel in downtown Tallinn I headed the wharfs in time to catch an Eckerö ferry at noon, whose price is unbeatable: 35 € bike plus rider. Under a cloudless, bright blue sky, while waiting to embark I chatted for a while with the other bikers gathered by the loading bay. When we were given green light, we rode our motorcycles to the designated place within the hold and fastened them there with the lashes, so they don’t fall down when and if the ship tilts. Not having used them before, I had to ask one of the workers around to show me how, as it’s not so straightforward.

El primer viaje de Rosaura en la bodega de un ferry.

First trip of Rosaura on board a ferry.

The atmosphere on the upper decks was that of merryment and holiday so typical on board of cruises, all full of passengers on light summer clothings. Women seized the chance for showing off bosom or legs, men for blowing their macho trumpets; everyone in their roles, humankind never changes no matter what. I played the lonesome veteran traveler. I had lost track of the other bikers and, leaning on the gunwale over the stern winches, I watched the casting off while recalling my far-off, almost forgotten times as a seaman.

Ambiente sobre cubierta, patrocinio de Lapin Kulta.

Atmosphere on deck, sponsored by Lapin Kulta.

During the trip I came to think over this alleged bikers’ fellowship. Reputedly, bikers wave at each other on the road, help one another, clique togeter and provide support among themselves, linked by a common liking. This, however, is partly a myth. True, we wave at other bikers en route (often quite apathically, by the way) and, in case of breakdown or trouble, we help each other perhaps more often than other drivers do; but as regards to brotherhood and fellowship — that’s quite another thing. And this is not critiicsm; but actually, why should we have more in common than with anyone else? Riding a motorcycle binds us so much as having a cat would do, namely very little. And one can see this clearly when it comes to meeting other bikers by coincidence at a restaurant, a rest area or –for instance– at the ferry queue: at least in my experience, most of the times I don’t see us fraternising a lot. We usually greet each other –sometimes not even that– or engage in some brief, polite small talk, then everybody minds their own businesses. And, though some closer and longer touches do certainly happen — or even a long lasting friendship — this is rather the exception than the rule.
This said, one of those exceptions precisely took place this time. The ferry was already berthing, only two hours after departure, at Hietalahti’s quay in Helsinki; and as I was unleashing Rosaura, a slender Finn by the name of Andrej, tall as a totem pole, came up by me and invited me to join him and a friend to a briefing they would hold at one of the city’s beaches for interchanging information regarding routes and roads; and, not having other curtailing plans, I willingly accepted.
Not minding at all where we were going, I rode behind Andrej along Helsinki streets to a beach so busy it shocked me, because –being a Mediterranean– I didn’t expect many people would enjoy a bath in the cold Baltic waters; however, truth is that Scandinavians — the only Europeans pleased with global warming — take advantage of every sunny hour they can catch like if it were their last. While we waited for Johannes, a Belgian who was on tour to Murmansk (Russia), the northernmost city in the globe, Andrej told me he himself was returning home to Vaasa after a trip around Europe. Then, when his friend arrived, they unfolded their maps (I only had my GPS) on the sandy ground in the pinetrees shade and Andrej gave us some advice and hints about regions and routes in Finland, from the Baltic to Lapland, that I took down just in case I could benefit from his suggestions.

Mirando mapas con Andrej y Johannes.

Taking a look at the maps with Andrej and Johannes.

For the rest, we met there and there we parted, because each of us was heading for a different course: Andrej to the northwest for reaching that very day his home in Vaasa, Johannes northeast aiming the Russian border, and I to the north, towards Tampere, a city that years ago had been very dear and meaningful to me; so, once the meeting came to an end, we wrote each other’s emails, took the inevitable shot, and bid farewell.

El momento de la despedida.

Farewell time.

I had nothing else to do in Helsinki, a capital with which my only bonds are a few memories from icy winter days, some decades ago; so, without further ceremonies I run away from the metropolis taking the first byroad I could find beyond the industrial belt. As soon as I saw myself rolling across the thick woods of the land of thousand lakes, I felt at home.

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Across the rainbow.

After talking in the previous chapter about the new social gods –wild capitalism and crazy consumption– I reach, coincidentally, the city of Toruń, which used to be dearly but not so much nowadays, as a paradigm of those giving up their soul and character to the devil in exchange for the jangling glitter of money.

Inconfundible vista de Torun sobre el río Vístula.

Unmistakeable view of Torun by the Visla river.

Before this metamorphosis, and precisely because of the authenticity of its beauty, Toruń used to be my favourite Polish town, where I was living for some time. It was founded (like almost all in northern present-day Poland) by the germanic knights of the Teutonic Order during the late middle ages, and it has been preserved almost unharmed despite the wars, with its gorgeous historical towers, churches and walls on unalterable red brick, getting the southern sun on their façades, reflected on the Visla waters, by whose shore the city lays. It was the craddle of the astronomer Copernicus, who gave form to his heliocentric dream and has now become the city symbol.
But I’m not going to describe now the virtues of Toruń nor its fast vulgarizing process along the past decade. Suffice to say that I’ve stayed a few days here for visiting some remaining friends of mine, and that a fine hot morning I take the bike again and, on a shirt, keep journeying along the muggy central Polish plain, now eastwards, towards my longed for Podlasie, a Polish region bordering Belarus where everything started and ended; I know what I mean, dreams and rainbows. A few years back I wrote these words about Podlasie, which some reader might even find poetic.
To get there from Toruń the finest route goes across Mazury (or the lake regio, as they call it here), driving slightly northward; but as I wanted to visit another friend at her summer cottage in Popowo Kościelne, near Warsaw, i.e. slightly south, I had no choice but to stand the boring roads of the central plain.

Listo para un paseo al atardecer. Popowo Kościelne.

Ready for a sunset walk. Popowo Kościelne.

So I make a stopover in Popowo, at my friend’s, and the next day I stay overnight in a small town called Ciechanowiec, where the kind owner of Hotel Nowodwory, concerned about the safety of Rosaura and lacking a garage, insists that I park the bike within the very hall of the hotel, despite I told him there was no need for it, being a small town. But. to jest Polska!, he cries: this is Poland! Meaning, there is no safe town in this country.

Rosaura, invitada de honor en el hotel Nowodwory.

Rosaura, honour guest at Nowodwory’s.

By the way, at Nowodwory’s I ordered tatar for dinner, one of my favourites in Polish cuisine. It’s no dish for the faint-hearted: chopped raw meat served with a raw yolk, onion and pickles. Ideal if accompanied by a shot of vodka.

Tatar wołowe.

Tatar wołowe.

Thus, from Toruń and always keeping away from the busy main routes, three days later Rosaura and me finally arrive to the capital of Podlasie: Białystok.
Despite my strong emotional bonds with this city, I admit there’s nothing special about it except perhaps for the noticeable amount of beautiful women; which is certainly no small merit. But, lacking an old town and having been developed mostly during the socialist period, despite calling itself the Versailles of Poland the most a tourist can do is paying a visit to the emblematic Branicki Palace (built by an ambitious hetman who chased his own rainbow and wanted to become king of Poland), exploring its splendid parks and walking up and down along the only pedestrian street in town, Lipowa, which holds most of the commerce and the atmosphere.
On Lipowa there is a plaza, and on this plaza there is a restaurant: Esperanto, thus called because in Bialystok the jewish Lezer Levi Zamenhof was born, who would invent the famous but unsuccessful universal language.

Palacio Branicki, en Bialystok.

Branicki Palace, in Bialystok.

By the way, saying that Zamenhof was Polish is not quite true; it’s like saying that Julius Caesar was Italian or Mozart was Austrian. Zamenhof was mostly Jewish (and we all know that these people don’t admit other nationality than their own), from Lithuanian ascendant, and when he came to life Bialystok was part of Russia. Actually, he was bilingual Yiddish-Russian, and only later he’d learn Polish, along with Hebrew and some other languages.
Living in this Babylon where clash and trouble among people who talked different languages arose every day, quite sensibly Zamenhof concluded that the main origin of hatred and prejudice among people comes from mutual misunderstanding, and that language is the highest wall between nations, a much more powerful and effective obstacle than any arbitrary border. Hece his interest in devising a common tongue. But such well-meant proyect was doomed to fail from the beginning, because this Lithuanian Jew forgot that people stick and even die for their prejudices and chauvinism rather than live in harmony if this means to give up preserving such important part of ourselves as our mother tongue is.
It’s certainly no small task to decide on “what is nobler in the mind to do” and how much should we endeavour for evening out language barriers when it’s about letting die what may form a part of ourselves; but whichever the answer to this question is, only resentful and unlimber minds would raise such barriers, or create them, where they didn’t exist before; only utterly narrow minded people would want to revive dying languages, reopen forgotten debates and stir up problems that were already disappearing by themselves. Such is the case of Galician, Basque and Catalan in Spain, or Gaelic in Ireland, or Lappish in Finland, and many other examples.

Sábanas bordadas en mi hotel de Bialystok. Algo que ya se ve muy poco.

Embroidered linen at Kamienica Hotel. Good old style.

But let’s leave languages aside and take a look at how children reach their own dreams by Café Esperanto.
On hot summer days, it’s customary in Poland (and a privilege of a country where there is no shortage of water) to hook a wide hose to a hydrant and place an iron plate very near the other end, both attached to the ground in the middle of the street, thus creating a water screen where people can play, cool down or whatever. And it’s quite a joy to stand by one of these “fountains” and watch how children play, soaked to the bone, trying over and over to cross the magic rainbow.

Niños cruzando el arco iris.

Childen playing under the iridescent water.

Maybe these images are but a metaphore about my own journey to nowhere. But, in any case, who among us has never dreamt with also reaching the rainbow?

A través del arco iris.

Through the rainbow.

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Catching the Polish soul.

Driving in Poland is something of a challenge for which we, riders, must maximize carefulness; in every sense.
Despite having a vast railroad network reaching every corner and village in the country, when this nation got out of the socialist orbit and into the European one they opted for the dead-easy and short sighted bet: road transportation. Instead of modernizing their tracks, trains and railway facilities, they surrendered to the powerful engine industry and, since then, invest the developement funds in road infrastructure and in favouring the use (or at least the purchase) of cars and trucks. Hence, its routes have a busy traffic, which on top of their aggressive driving habits and the bad pavement of yet many of their roads, results in a somewhat dangerous driving experience.
Poland is, for instance, the only country where I’ve seen this road sign:

koleiny

Koleiny.

Koleiny are two parallel, lengthwise permanent hollows produced on the melting asphalt by the pass of heavy trailers on very hot days. These depressions can “get hold” of the wheel and make us lose control of the steering. On a motorcycle it’s even more dangerous, because of the pavement’s unevenness.
On the other hand, it’s common to overtake on a double line here and with front coming traffic, provided the road is “wide enough”. Such speedy maniacs take for granted that both the overtaken vehicle and the one coming opposite will pull to the shoulders to allow them pass; and don’t think of complaining, because they’ll give you the finger and, if need be, try to make you stop to start a fight, which is one of the favourite passtimes in slavic cultures. And of course Poles love speeding up and also chain overtakings. So, with all these features, the foreigner venturing to drive in this country must take it very easy and be on the watch.
Along this trip I’m always chosing by-roads, but this has proven to be a mistake in Poland, where such routes are often in very bad shape, the pavement being so bumpy that you might think you’re driving on cobblestones.
I’ve spent three days on a more or less straight route, on secondary roads, from Miedzylesie to Torun (my next important stop). First I crossed Wroclaw, a beautiful city which is as quickly losing its character as it’s developing fast, and where I stayed overnight for visiting a friend. Then I kept going north, crossing endless fields, meadows and agricultural lands under a strong sunshine, temperatures having reached 37 stifling Celsius. In summer, this country has — despite my Polish friends laughing when I tell them — a rather tropical climate, with much hot and humidity, which ends up in frequent and dramatic evening thunderstorms. One of these, quite heavy, fell the day I was making a stopover in Jarocin, a town in the middle of this boring region. Luckily rain started at dusk, when I was already under cover in the hotel.
As to “boring”, it’s fair to make clear that I mean only the roads; as, for the rest, and mostly if one knows how to look around with curious eyes, there are many interesting things in this country only yesterday orbiting around the Soviet socialism.

Estación de Sulów Milicki.

Sulów Milicki’s train station.

For example the railway stations, that fascinate me with their enduring brick buildings, almost always neglected if not derelict, their rails grid, the loading docks and those ever present, forgotten freight wagons on the dead ends; all of it witnesses of a not-so-far past, telling us, with their silence presence, of a life and activity that exist no more.

Estación de Kobylin.

Kobylin station.

I leave for a better moment -one of those constantly procrastinated proyects- to make a trip and photographic report on all those hundreds, maybe thousands of Polish railway stations which, with their deserted look, seem to be dreaming of times that won’t ever come back.

Ropas a tender junto al andén 3.

Clothes on a rope near platform 3.

Another one of Poland’s identity marks are the old windmills, no longer used, that we can find scattered along the whole country. I like to take my imagination to those days when families endeavoured together in their farming labours by these or similar constructions, those days when life was as hard for the body as it was easy for the soul, when loves took shape, grew and ripened in the country, and when there were no other changes demanding adaptation, for decades, than those imposed by the seasons. And even today, despite all the modernization and globalization, it’s not difficult to find in Poland dozens of towns or villages whose atmosphere reminds that of three decades ago.

Junto a un viejo molino.

By an old windmill.

Now, to get done with this chapter, behold the Virgin Mary, the other holy character (besides John Paul II) protecting the countryside, crops and houses, starring the lives of these people, traditionally so Catholic and devoted until the modern and sudden intrusion of global market and unhindered materialism have come to redeem them from their religious superstitions and open their eyes to the new gods, Fashion and Consumption.

Virgen María velando por el pueblo.

Virgin Mary watching over the village.

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Memento mori.

Poysdorf is just a border town with a considerable road traffic, as it lies on the main route between Viena and Brno (these four letters are not an abbreviation for Barcelona, but a Czech city called like that, Brno, silly as it sounds). As a compensation, the EU has granted Poysdorf some candy: a little park and the pavement of the road. But if we manage to forget about the many vehicles crossing the town, it turns out to be a fine place.
I left Vienna in the morning, after my logistic stopover there, and decided on an overnight stay this side of the border (despite having ridden only 65 km this far) because I plan to cross tomorrow the Czech Republic in one go, not stopping for even a coffe. Nothing against the Czechs, but I’m not up to exchanging currency and trying to get familiar with a new country for probably only one night.
The hotel I booked online in Poysdorf, Eisenhuthaus, pleases me from the very first moment: a refurbished house with big, neat rooms, though not sumptuous; a luminous and quiet Mediterranean-looking inner terrace or patio, and two nice and serviceable employees. As I have the whole afternoon ahead of me, I take a long stroll on the countryside, full of vineyards. This is a wine producing region of Austria, and there are two wineries in Poysdorf whose produce I’ll taste later.
Upon returning from my walk I come right across the town’s cemetery, and I fancy visiting it. Not that I’m a necrophiliac, but I like to step into a graveyard every now and then, as it helps me to focus and play things down, to take a perspective on life; it imbues me with some peace — despite the emotional pain with which I always regard the idea of death. I believe it’s useful, this memento mori, this remembering that we’re going to die and that all our ambitions and struggles, sacrifices and hopes, cares and joys, all our loves, friends, family, our goals, achievements and failures, the knowledge and wisdom treasured up along decades, the pain and the pleasure… remember that all that will be swallowed by the nothingness in a brief collapse, that last sigh after which not even the absurd of it all will remain, nor a recollection -in the long run- in anyone’s memory.

Humilde cruz de hierro en el cementerio, junto a la Iglesia.

Humble iron cross in the graveyard by the church.

Memento mori. Una lápida cualquiera en el cementerio de Poysdorf.

Memento mori in Poysdorf cemetery. A random gravestone.

And now, after this somber moment, let’s toast to life: as we’re still here, and alive, let’s go for those Austrian wines! At the restaurant I order two of them, whites, dry and semi-dry. Not that I understand much about wines; rather, I only know whether I like them or not; but I’ve certainly tried hundreds of them along half a century, and I must say these two from Poysdorf taste quite good. Thumbs up for this region.
Next day I get on Rosaura and, as I said, we cross the Czech Republic in one go. Right at the Austrian border my odometer indicates that I’ve already left behind, under the wheels of the motorcycle, four thousand kilometres in this journey to nowhere. Not knowing my destination, how many more are yet to come?
As soon as I arrive to Poland I feel at home. It’s not my first time here, of course. Poland is my adtopted land, a country that has seen me enjoy and suffer more than any other, given me bliss and sorrow beyond measure. And it’s only after entering this time when I realize that, subconsciously, I had set it as my first aim this trip. On the other hand, it also “helps” to feel at home the fact that here — same as in Spain — they have a police State: back to the administrative surveying bureaucracy, police cars on the streets (though fortunately not so many on the roads, as Spain has) and the ID control when registering at the hotels.

Poczta Polska, the Polish post service.

Poczta Polska, the Polish post service.

Only eight kilometres beyond the border I find a village called Międzylesie, and, in it, an outdated hotel called Zamek, which means castle (or palace in this case). It was indeed a palace decades ago. Its decline captivates me at first sight, with those large halls and dark corridors, the old fashioned furniture, music from the 70’s, big bedrooms with high windows, all old wood. A very quiet place this is, more a monastery than a hotel. My room overlooks the restaurant’s terrace on the vast inner yard, where a couple of women labour on do-it-yourself refurbishing works and two men burn a few boards on the grass. But their voices and the noises seem to come from very far, as if the air was thinner here and the sound traveled slower.

El hotel Zamek Miedzilesie.

Hotel Zamek Miedzylesie.

The hotel is almost empty: during the three days I spend here — because I’m feeling so good — I come across no other customers than a couple my age and their daughter, a pretty young lady with a nice body that loiters in front of me just so I can watch her. And indeed I do, but out of the corner of my eye, not to feed her vanity.
In my first evening, while I’m exploring the village, I take only two photographs; and when I check them later I realize that, without meaning it, they hold a big part of the Polish social reality. Were I asked to summarize this country in just two photos, this might be the winning combination:
The first picture reflects the veneration this society has for the late pope John Paul II, beatified: there is hardly any locality in Poland where you can’t find, at the very minimum, one image or statue of him.

Polonia venera a Juan Pablo II.

Poland venerates John Paul II.

The second image depicts a scene repeated ad nauseam on the streets and parks of this bittersweet country: a group of men drinking beers on a defiant attitude, often shirtless and always, always uttering the same word: kurwa (whore, bitch), seemingly the only content of their conversations.

A esto lo he acuñado yo como "kurwing around".

This behaviour I’ve coined as kurwing around.

On the morning of the third day I pack my cases and say goodbye to the hotel. The couple and their daughter left yesterday, leaving an even deeper feeling of loneliness. And I go north, towards Wroclaw, and then beyond, towards the wearisome Polish plains.

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