APRIL 21, 2022 – The next day I began my long trek from Zakopane back to Świnoujście via Wrocław—for me, a stopover city, which I explored on foot for an hour between arrival and departure. A German city (“Breslau”) before WW II, Wrocław, in its 1,000-year history, had been under Polish, Hungarian, Bohemian, Austrian, and Prussian rule—before Russian control toward the end of WW II. It was the largest university city in Poland, and had I planned better, I would’ve reserved more time for that remarkable place.
As it turned out, my strongest memory of Wrocław was anything but lofty. It was the lavatory in the basement of the train station. The facility wreaked of an ammonia stench and was staffed by an old woman dressed like a peasant. None of that was unusual for Poland at the time, but the toll she charged was exorbitant by national standards, and she exacted a surcharge for T.P., which, consistent with standard practice, both she and the recipient pretended was something other than newsprint the size of a minor, back-page story. (Fortunately, I didn’t need toilet paper.)
I’d encountered similar “facilities” elsewhere in Poland, but the attendant in Wrocław was more aggressive than most—in decibels and pricing. Also, I was reaching the exhaustion point from the intense experiences of my sojourn in Poland. The “toll” was an aggravation, especially given the sorry state of the lavatory. I protested but to no effect, the woman being deficient in English and I in Polish. In an impatient fit I reached into my pocket and pulled out all of my loose change—worthless złotys—and flung them into the chipped enamel collection bowl held by the woman. In aggregate, the coins’ value was probably less than 20 cents inside Poland; zero outside the country. At least 10 cents’ worth (or half of zero) bounced out of the bowl and onto the grimy floor.
A second later, I felt shame and regret. I was a tourist, a Westerner, for whom privation in normal life was unknown; the toll-keeper was a survivor of who knows what horrors during WW II and its aftermath, and moreover, she was doubtless a “capitalist”—an entrepreneur of sorts, awarding herself bonus coins from the lowest of low-paying jobs, held to supplement a meager pension. In my impatient arrogance, I’d behaved peevishly, if not reprehensively. It was a low point after so many high points in my travels across Poland, and I was 100% responsible for having made it so. Moreover, I’d broken the number one rule of international travel: never, ever forget that you are an ambassador of your country.
With the weight of remorse added to my luggage, I found the late-night train to Świnoujście. As Wrocław—and the low point—disappeared into the darkness, I worked feverishly on my notes. The letter home would be a doozy. There’d been no other place as intense as Poland—not even India.
Aboard the over-night ferry back to Sweden, I caught up on much-needed sleep.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
