Wanderlust in the red skies

This short story is about a short trip and one thousand short thoughts. There are also many shorter stories in it that I will try to tell you.

It’s a trip that I’ve done in a weekend; because I don’t have to wait for holidays for long travels.
It’s been a trip abroad, but crossing the border has been as easy as walking, from one part to another of the same town. We came to Český Těšín where we met a friend, with her we went to visit the city, and walking on a small bridge we left the Czech Republic and entered Cieszyn in Poland: because borders are just a human invention.
A mini-bus offers a cozy atmosphere, until we start freezing, but the people who get on are warm and curious. As to say, goodbye to the “friendly” Czechs.
This trip is another super-multi-cultural experience; the group counts people from ten different countries. At our hostel, many visitors have hung up on the wall their flags: I recognize Colombia, Brazil, Bosnia and Herzegovina, then Sardinia, and Catalonia, accompanied by the message “Catalonia is not Spain”. Even in times of economical efforts, people are travelling, some of them for learning, some others to share their local identity, some to mark their borders. Everybody has their own reasons.
Krakow is a big and lively city. Its people speak a language similar to Czech, but they appear to be a bit more cheerful than their cousins. The aspect has something of the shining Prague, and of what I imagine and I’ve been told of Ukraine, especially of that part of Ukraine which once was a territory of the Polish — Lithuanian confederation, called Galicia. Not the Spanish one. Because not only the Polish language is confusing.
The first impression is familiar, I can’t stand big cities anymore. Soon I realize why I keep preferring Brno: its party life is more various, more friendly, safer, funnier, while here I’m surrounded by horny tourists and locals, rude bodyguards and some ponds of vomit.
As any other city devoted to culture and tourism, Krakow has many nuances that are worth to be noticed and written down: the people here have a special coded language that imitates the sound of some bells, pronouncing various “zin zin”; a trumpet echoes from the ancient walls, but in the centuries its player got a hiccup; the youngsters ride bicycles and they park only half of them here and there, mostly on the walls.

For my only full day here, I have my visit plan. I couldn’t find any interesting tips on the internet, so I’ve looked for an article from a source and in a writing-style that I trust:
http://www.electronicbeats.net/en/features/monologues/a-day-in-the-life-24-hours-in-krakow/
I search for this street called Estery (easy to remember) and without even noticing, I’m in the Jewish Quarter. I stop at a souvenir shop, where Katya starts chatting with the girl who’s working here, and surprisingly she’s an ex-EVS volunteer! Again, it’s Katya suggesting me to tell her about my project, so I arrange to meet the girl on the next day to give her my written interview.
We walk along Estery from one edge to another, only a few hundreds meter to decide that this is my favourite street ever: there’s two super-colourful and sunny bars, a cozy pub with old Singer sewing machines on the tables, another cafe, an alternative club and even a little shop with take-away pizza, a kind guy and a wide vegetarian choice.
The visit at Kazimierz is full of colours, sandwiches left over the road as art-pieces and good mood at every corner. We decide to reach the Wawel castle by walking along the river, getting confused by the cruel sculpture of an upside down angry pig in the middle of it. The sun goes down while we climb the hill, the sky has an amazing red colour and the water reflects the building on the bank.

The day after the souvenir shop is closed, so I go to Kolory cafe and over a tasty cappuccino I write a message for the girl, eventually on a piece of paper with a quote by John Lennon on the other side. In the yard where most of the good mood gathers, there’s a man who’s carrying heavy tables and smiling; maybe he’s the son of the old, mental lady that the day before was going to the people saying something kind; and his dad could be the curious, elegant Italian man who watches everyone in front of his pizzeria, in one of the most crowded streets.

My solitary visit ends. Even in such a nice trip, I preferred my loneliness.
So to discover some stories that are hidden to most of the eyes. Some of these stories are real, some others, who knows.