The email from SAS caught me entirely off guard – the weather in New York was impeccable, with a comfortably warm morning and cloud dappled blue skies above.
The subject was unexpected, blaring the the words “Cancellation information from SAS” in my inbox.
The were informing me that my flight from Newark to Copenhagen had been canceled and they were working to rebook me. I considered calling, but instead opted for patience rather than panic and control. Six minutes later the next email informed me that I had been rebooked on Lufthansa, flying to Krakow via Frankfurt.
It was an itinerary that would get me to my destination 3 hours later, but at least I wouldn’t lose a day.
And the added bonus was that I’d get to fly on the Queen of the Skies, one of the few 747s still providing passenger service.
My assessment would change (but just barely) when I arrived in Frankfurt. What had been a tight fifty minute layover in Copenhagen was now more than three hours. It felt excessive, but in reality was necessary.
In the past I’ve complained about the Paris airport, comparing it to Calcutta.
In reality, I knew nothing. I haven’t connected on an intra-europe flight in Frankfurt in over 20 years. I don’t remember much about that connection, but this one took two hours just to get from the plane and through passport control, with agents directing us first to one long line, then throwing up their hands in frustration and sending us on to a second similarly-long line.
I hadn’t pre-booked my train from Krakow to Wroclaw, and this is where the next bumps hit. When buying my ticket the machine informed me the next train was full and I’d have to wait an hour. Eventhen, I would be booking into the first class carriage, but had no assigned seat.
No seats were available for the entire journey, the kiosk explained, but I might get one if it was left vacant for some of the segments.
Second class was entirely full, so I accepted this option, as the next train would require yet another hour wait.
Ticket secured, I stopped at a lunch counter for some food before the journey.
On the train, there were about twelve of us who lingered in the hallway bereft of a real seat.
For a time I sat on the steps down to the lonely door, and even managed to find a real seat for about 20 minutes. But in the end I spent the last hour of the three-hour ride standing, and trying to keep out of the way of other passengers on their ways to the bathroom or dining car.
And so I arrived at beautiful Wroclaw, much later and a bit more road-weary than I had anticipated.
But when I stepped out in to the streets neighboring the train station, with their elegant buildings, none of it mattered.
None of what happened before could dampen my spirit when I found this Monument to the Victims of Stalinism.
And none of what happened on the journey would tame my enthusiasm when I sat down at Konspira, a local restaurant themed on the conspiratorial spirit of Poles who resisted the Nazis and Communists.
And my joy was unbound when I caught sight of gilded Market Square with her grand cathedral.
I had made it to Poland and I was euphoric.
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