I'm sorry, Dr. Connell, the Wawel Cathedral is as and more beautiful than any of the Roman basilicas short of St. Peter's.* We trekked into town in the grey morning, the whole Polski family, and ascended the hill to Wawel Castle in the heart of Old Town. Yes, Rome is the heart and home of the West, but this is the secret, far away of home of the stones that laced my childhood and formed me, the Gothic castle on the hill, the river below, the fortress walls and the Cathedral in its center. Mass was beautiful and the choir reminded me of when I was young and couldn't see the altar server ring the consecration bells. Instead I heard this noise so intrinsic, this ringing from up ahead, and I couldn't for the life of me understand why no one was as amazed as I was that the Holy Spirit Himself had arrived in our church of all places. The choir was magic, sanctified magic.
After Mass we went to "that awesome market," the name of which I still don't know. I found my brother's souvenir, a beautiful chess board printed with Polish kings on the black squares and hand carved pieces. It was also my first adventure to the Milk Bar, the most beautiful little dive I've ever seen. I ate stuffed cabbage and a salad, and a slice of cake, and cranberry juice (with cranberries in it) all for the equivalent of four Euro. I've been thinking a lot about vocation, and my desperate wish to be as generous one day as all my guides and friends this trip and semester have been with me. I think I could fulfill this in a little restaurant, a stop for pilgrims and devoted Philadelphians alike, a place not for foodies and hedonists but for people. More on that some other time, though probably not here. Forgive me, it's late.
After lunch we went all the way out to the salt mines, which I was excited for, but not really excited for, though I know that doesn't make sense. I was excited by Poland, but the salt mines sounded significantly overrated, a tourist trap, like the Liberty Bell, which is seriously a bell that you can't even touch and it doesn't ring and it isn't in a tour. Maybe it's historically interesting, but not very much, and I thought the salt mines would be this way.
They weren't. We descended almost four hundred steps, and I was already in love. The act of descent has always fascinated me; I prefer cave diving to mountain climbing (theoretically... I've only done the latter but I've only wanted to do the former). We started through the tunnels, hundreds of years old, through fifteenth century chapels and displays of salt-carving gnomes (watch out, Baby Mariska!) and great cavernous chapels and reliefs made in salt, not by artists but by miners. The floor of the Kinga Chapel looked like tile, but it was salt that had been carved to look like inlaid marble. There were subterranean lakes saltier than the Dead Sea, and even more tunnels than tourists were allowed to visit, snaking hundred of feet beneath the ground. It was truly a wonder. The most fascinating thing for me were the chamber locks of tunnels- only one door could be opened at a time to prevent dangerous wind speeds. How does that work underground? I should have asked more.
We then trekked back to Krakow, hungry and cold, and met Peter and Ola (friends of Blaise) by "that cool market" outside the Marian Basilica. They took us to a chocolate factory (I know. More chocolate.) and told us about the Scouts and about the school system in Poland and Peter's dreams of driving race cars. They apologized too for their English. At least they taught me a word in Polish, so I can apologize in Polish for my non existent Polish.
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* Note from Dr. Connell: "De gustibus nou (?) disputandam est!" (Roughly meaning, 'Your taste is not to be disputed!') Leave it to my professors to leave notes in Latin.
Happy Independence Day!
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