Freelander

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Virgin Mary watching over the village.

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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.

Humble iron cross in the graveyard by the church.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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Only two chapters back I said that Germany is a boring country, but obviously that is not necessarily true. Actually, once I recharged batteries thanks to my long stay in Bamberg, the day I finally carry on the journey turns out to be one of the most amusing I’ve ever had in this country: first SE along route 470, a charming road, full of corners (most of all from Wiesenttal on) and of hamonious landscapes, geologically peculiar.
Tuchersfeld has been, perhaps, the village with most singular surroundings I’ve crossed so far, with its cute traditional houses among bizarre rocky sculptures carved by nature, bestowing it a special character.

The bizarre rocky environment of Tuchersfeld.

After climbing to the rock in the photograph, along a track longer and harder than it seems, I’ve made the most of the stop by drinking a beer and having some lunch at a local gasthof.
Then, still going SE, always along secondary roads (quite acceptable for a biker), I’ve keep going until, by the early evening, a small sign on the shoulder has lured me into a cozy hotel (Panorama am See) in the little village of Gütenland, which I guess must mean good land.

Good land, fertile land.

And indeed it is good!, most of all under this wonderful and warm sunset light: with its barns and tidy houses on a hill overlooking the Eixendorfer reservoir, the wheat burning under the sun rays, deer and gueese lazying around at a neighbouring farm…

At a farm in Gütenland.

Despite how small and out-of-the-way this place is, there are several customers at the restaurant’s terraze, which is perfectly situated on top of the hill. I order a salad with deer meat chops and half a bottle of country wine, white. Indulging myself in contemplating the reservoir, I relish on every bite of my dish (excellent cook!) and every zip of my drink.

View from Panorama am See’s dinner terrace.

Finally, once satisfied my appetite, and considering that walking is the must-do complement for a motorized traveler, I’ve taken a long stroll along the neighbouring hamlets: Seebarn, Haslarn and Stetten. As I was promenading, the environment inspired me with similar thoughts as those of two chapters ago: despite the houses in German villages being all very fine in their perfect grass plots, surrounded by trees, all neat and dandy, well taken care of gardens with flowers and vegetables, lace curtained windows with cute wooden blinds, their board fences all well painted, and an idyllic smoking chimney, like those little houses we used to play with in our childhood or the ones we cut out and glued together in manual arts classes, daydream houses, fairy tale houses; despite -on the other hand- being uncouth and poor those along the Mediterranean countries, irregular and dissimilar, with small window openings onto their dented walls, without gardens or trees, decayed the woodwork, stones keeping the tiles in place, asbestos patches on the roofs and twenty other flaws, yet those villages in France, Spain or Italy, with their narrow streets, archways and passageways, and their mysterious corners, those have a charm and a magic whereof these in Germany lack. May every house, on its own, be nicer here in the North than there in the South, but as a whole, the overall impression is quite more appealing there than here. That’s for me, at least. Is this again a paradox of perfection?

A weed can be, by contrast, the nicest one.

* * *

And now it’s another day. As I’m heading Austria for a second time, I keep the same SE course as yesterday, picking those roads further from the maddening crowd, which are those closest to the Czech border, passing along forsaken villages like Waldmunchen, Lohberghunte, Frauenau, Freyung or, lastly, Breitenberg, right by the border. It’s all forests around here, in this German region; vast expanses of lush, shady woodlands. I know some ignorant who despises German woods because -says he- they’re replanted. Ignorance is sassy, my grandma used to say.
The storm has come out of a sudden, almost with fright of itself. True, the evening has been gathering clouds in the sky until having it overcast, but not dark nor menacing. My dinner at gaststätte Pension Jagdhof (very tasty; who says Germans can’t cook? Once again ignorance) has taken place outdoors, and I still had time for a daring walk across a little grove behind the village, silent, dark and humid, which lead to the hamlet of Ungarsteig.
Then I’ve come back, now aong the road, to my hotel room. As I arrange some things it gets dark, and suddenly I hear a buzz as of something intangible approaching. I step on the balcony just in time to see how the swift wind gust, like the puff of a god, sweeps the street away and bends down trees and bush. It passes the way ghosts pass as we’re told in the movies: silent, yet leaving an empitiness behind which freezes our blood. Inmediately afterwards, barely a few seconds, the downpour arrives, advancing down the street like a courtain, and all is deluge now. It rains with force, with rage, with strong gusts drawing whip-like water patterns on the pavement; spectacular. And no thunder! Spellbound, I watch behind the window. Finally it easies off and there remains an intermittent spit, which still lingers on by the time when, already in bed, the sleep takes me away.

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