I can’t remember spending a more uncomfortable night. I fidgeted constantly in my rigid lower bunk bed, sleeping in short, unsatisfying 20-minute bursts and, worst of all, running at least once an hour, often more frequently, to the loo. By the end of the night I knew every loose floor board in the building; I knew exactly when the door of the dorm would start its low, mournful groan; and I knew without using my torch exactly where on my way down the steep wooden staircase I had to duck my head.

I was in southern Poland to research this feature for National Geographic Traveller magazine. In search of wilderness I’d come to the Bieszczady Mountains and was spending the night in a remote mountain hut, in sight of both Ukraine and Slovakia. Chatka Puchatka (which means Pooh’s Hut) is part of local folklore and my guide Magda had brought me here on the top of a 1200 metre ridge to show me at first hand why so many people put up with the discomfort of a night in the refuge just to witness sunset and sunrise from this isolated spot.

On reflection, having a few beers in the very basic bar was not the wisest move, knowing full well the catalogue of misery that my bladder has inflicted on me over the years. I’d got chatting to the barman Mariusz, a young lad who was standing in for the infamous Lutek, who I’d been hoping to meet. Lutek had lived in the refuge on and off for over 50 years and during my week in Poland I heard from several sources some of the colourful stories about this eccentric man: his drinking exploits, his constant clashes with authority and his undying love for his long-dead horse.

On the other hand it was in drinking those beers and chatting to Mariusz that we had secured a privilege that proved priceless. With no running water or electricity, the toilet block for the 25 guests staying in the refuge is a stinky affair and involves a scramble over a rough ridge; not the most appealing of tasks in the pitch dark, even if you only have to do it once. We had been given a key to the manager’s toilet, meaning that I didn’t have to keep venturing out into the cold wind which had whipped up steadily during the night.

But it would be wrong to make this a story of mountain-top toilet troubles. I’d come up to see the view and what a view it was. The refuge dorm had emptied long before the 5.45 sunrise and I joined the two dozen others who sat in silence staring to the east as the sun began to appear over the Ukrainian hills. The chill was forgotten as bands of blue, mauve and pink became steadily brighter. Tripods were carefully and quietly assembled while the advancing daylight revealed the mist-covered contours of the Bieszczady mountains.

I sat in satisfied lethargy, my ability to do nothing but take in nature’s beauty undimmed by the sleepless night. While I’m not one for pampering and luxury, neither do I get excited by the prospect of camping or sleeping in places without basic comforts. There are times though, and this was one such occasion, when a little discomfort is handsomely rewarded.

Many thanks to the Polish National Tourist Office for organising my trip to the Bieszczady Mountains. They paid for pretty much everything, including the beers in the hut if I’m not mistaken. I didn’t think it was my fault.

A sleepless night in the Polish Bieszczady Mountains is a post from: 501 Places

It’s not every day you address the person sitting across the table from you as Mr President. Neither is it every day that you interview a man for whose freedom you marched as a teenager. Whether or not these are sufficient reasons to explain my bumbling questioning of Lech Wałęsa, Poland’s first democratically-elected president after the fall of communism, they are all I can offer in my defence.

I had landed at Lech Wałęsa International Airport in Gdańsk, with little idea that I would be sitting in front of the man himself less than 24 hours later. I was in Gdańsk to research a short feature about the city for an airline magazine and had arranged to meet Margaret, a lady who runs her own tour business in the city. We’d connected online and I had asked her to show me the sites of Gdańsk that relate to the Lech Wałęsa story. A high-profile biopic movie about his role in the peaceful overthrow of communism in Poland was about to be released and my story was timed to coincide with the film’s expected release.

Margaret had hinted by email that she would try and secure an interview with Wałęsa but I had never expected anything to come of it; so much so that I’d already booked an onward train the next morning and had no clothes with me that were remotely suited for meeting a former Head of State. I had woefully underestimated Margaret’s connections and ability to deliver the impossible.

That night I practised my introduction and drew up a list of questions – about the film, about his current work, about his favourite spots in Gdańsk, even about his meeting the previous week with the Dalai Lama. I would conduct the interview in Polish and while it’s the first language I spoke as a child, the vocabulary you pick up in your early years has limited value when you’re interviewing ex-presidents.

My late-night preparation was blown away within seconds of the start of the interview. Here’s the transcript of my woeful opening:

Me: So I’d like to begin by giving a brief introduction…
LW: No, first question

Me: Ok, the first question (I fumble around a bit)
LW: Are you prepared for this?

Me: Yes, yes. (More flustered fumbling). So I’m writing an article about the film…
LW: First question (I listen now and still hear the impatience in his voice)

Me: Ok, first question. (Nervous pause before finally getting started).

For the next 20 minutes I stumbled through my questions with Margaret offering Mr Wałęsa valuable translations of my broken Polish along the way. I finished without any further alarms, but I didn’t want to leave with the impression that this was just another in a daily grind of interviews, so pulled out what I thought was my trump card. I passed him a photo of me marching through the streets of Nottingham with my brothers carrying a Solidarność banner that we had made, in support of the union that Mr Wałęsa had started. This at least produced a wry smile, before it was time for the official photo (above) and a prompt exit.

While my Gdańsk article duly appeared in the Wizz Air magazine, I was unable to place the Lech Wałęsa interview as I had hoped. My efforts were not helped by the fact that the film is still awaiting its release, 16 months after my interview. While his feelings about the upcoming film might still apply, his thoughts on the Euro 2012 tournament are probably not of interest any more.

My encounter with the Polish ex-President and Nobel Prize winner proved a baptism of fire in terms of interviewing famous people. If I’m put in that position again I hope I’m able to perform with a lot more conviction. In the meantime I’ll look out for the film and see if I recognise something of the man I met on that nervous morning in Gdańsk.

Oh, and if you happen to be in Gdańsk and want a good tour guide to show you around, please get in touch with Margaret – she’s helpful, knows that city and surrounding region very well, and can arrange the seemingly impossible.

Erm, erm, erm… Mr President is a post from: 501 Places

Drive through many of the villages in the north east of Poland and the eerie silence might lead you to believe there is no-one left to tend the miles of flat farmland, stretching beyond the horizon in every direction. A handful of ramshackle wooden homes occupy well-defined plots along either side of the road. An occasional stork flying low overhead signals a rare sign of life in these sparsely populated borderlands.

Two of these villages close to the Belarus border are remarkable for their simple wooden mosques. These attractive old buildings in Bohoniki and Kruszyniany are the spiritual hub of Poland’s last remaining rural Tatar communities.

The Tatars arrived in Poland in the 14^th century during the latter Mongol advances into Europe. In recognition of their loyalty to the Polish crown in military campaigns they were granted land by the King of Poland in the late 17^th century and have lived here ever since.

Poland’s borders changed dramatically after 1945 and several traditionally Polish Tatar communities now found themselves across the Soviet border in Lithuania and Belarus. During the communist years religious education for all Poles, including the Tatars, was banned from schools and the practice of regular prayer fell away.  Only these two Tatar villages now remain in Poland.

I meet the Imam of the Bohoniki mosque, Aleksander Bazarewicz. He is dressed in jeans and a grey fleece jacket and we sit in the main prayer room as he describes the challenges facing Poland’s Tatar community today. “The future depends on our young people. They have a very big responsibility. We need to communicate the importance of our Muslim values so that they remain enthusiastic to stay and support our community.”

There are currently around 4,000 remaining Tatars in Poland. Most are scattered around the north and east of the country, a result of successive migrations caused by Poland’s shifting borders. The Tatar language in Poland died out around 300 years ago, although there are new attempts to revive it among both adults and children. The Imam concedes that it’s an uphill battle to keep the culture alive, with young Tatars part of the overall Polish exodus across the EU. “We’ll need each remaining Tatar family to have 10 to 15 children to preserve our communities”.

I am invited to a nearby house offering agritourism breaks to visitors. Here I enjoy kolduny, a traditional Tatar dish of dumplings in broth, served by a young lady speaking perfect English; a result of spending several years working in London.

Half an hour away in the village of Kruszyniany, I meet Dzenneta Bogdanowicz, a cheerful lady with an ever-present smile. She offers eco-tourism breaks with a distinctly Tatar twist on her family-run farm. Visitors can enjoy some of the finest Tatar cuisine and learn about the cultural and sporting traditions of the Tatar people. There’s even a yurt in the farmyard. Dzenneta is particularly proud of the recent surprise visit to her farm by Prince Charles, who was fascinated by the small wooden mosque and greatly enjoyed his exposure to Tatar culture and cuisine.

The newly established Tatar Trail offers visitors a chance to explore these villages and other points linked to the Tatar heritage of the Podlasie region of Poland. By sharing their rich and eventful history with curious visitors, perhaps the Tatars are giving themselves the best chance to keep alive a way of life that has survived in Poland for over 600 years.

This article first appeared in Travel by Handstand in June 2012. 

On the trail of the Tatars in Poland is a post from: 501 Places

I’m sure many writers will identify with this. Your story gets published and while you might be pleased with the finished article there’s something that the readers will never know: that what you’ve shared with the reader is only half of the story. Indeed the untold back story to an article is often more illuminating than the article itself.

So it was with my recently published article on the BBC Travel site about Jewish Krakow (pdf here for UK folks). I thought I’d use this blog to share my experiences researching this story in Krakow as the experience taught me a lot about the work that can be involved in securing a commissioned story.

First of all, a bit of background. I had a commission to write a feature on Krakow for the National Geographic Traveller magazine (in the current March 2013 issue). As freelancers will appreciate an overseas journey for one story alone is not the most efficient use of time, so I pitched two other ideas. One was immediately accepted (Microbrewing in Poland – pdf) while my rather vague pitch for an article about Jewish Krakow was pushed back to me; I needed to come up with a more focussed angle and I knew I’d have to find it while I was out in Poland.

I flew out to Krakow for two days. On the first afternoon I rushed around collecting the information I needed for my city guide (thankfully I am already familiar with Krakow so I had an advantage here) and the evening was taken up with the arduous task of touring the city’s ale houses.

I had the entire second day to search for an angle for my Jewish Krakow story. My first port of call was the Oscar Schindler factory – an excellent museum telling the tragic story of Krakow during the war years. I was here for 90 minutes and could have easily spent half a day watching the videos and absorbing the testimonies of those who lived through the city’s darkest period. But I didn’t find a real hook on which to build my story.

I then wandered around the streets of Podgorze, the area of the city the Nazis set aside as the Jewish ghetto – it’s a down-at-heel district of Krakow, with a few haunting memorials to the atrocities that took place here; but still nothing stood out for me in terms of a story.

By lunchtime I was back in Kazimierz, known as the Jewish quarter but on the surface resembling an open-air museum of Jewish heritage.  I had heard of some recent immigrants from Israel who had come here to re-establish a Jewish community in the city; I was keen to meet them and was now convinced that this was my hook.

Finding them proved to be easier said than done. I visited the Jewish Cultural Centre and while the staff were cheery and welcoming they couldn’t shed much light on any recent arrivals. They did point me towards a newly opened restaurant and when I arrived there the waiter did indeed confirm that the owner had recently arrived from Israel. Sadly however he was out of town. Could I return tomorrow? I walked away and tended to my hunger with a plate of pierogi, slowly accepting that my quest might draw a blank.

Re-energised by my hearty lunch I set off and soon cast off my inhibitions about walking into any business that appeared to have a Jewish connection. My task was made harder by the fact that it’s apparently cool to look Jewish in Kazimierz and places with no Jewish links are prone to use a bit of Hebrew writing.

After drawing a few more blanks I finally stumbled into the Galeria Szalom, where the owner’s warm welcome suggested she was happy to have someone relieve the boredom of a quiet Thursday afternoon. I explained my mission and she smiled and immediately called up her friend, a lady Rabbi who came to Krakow from Israel to lead the city’s progressive Jewish community. Rabbi Tanya had only just returned home from a trip away and after a quick chat she kindly offered to put off her unpacking to come to the gallery and speak with me. And so after several hours plodding the streets and many doors pushed with no success, I knew I finally had my story.

The experience taught me several lessons that I have tried to take on board in my efforts at staying afloat as a freelance writer. I learned the value of targeting a pitch so that an editor can see clearly that there’s a good story to be told; I saw the importance of stacking up the commissions for a trip to provide the best return on the time spent away from home; but most importantly I saw that if you keep trying, sheer persistence in hunting for a good story will usually bring its rewards.

Knocking on doors in search of a good story is a post from: 501 Places

With barely a soul in the first class carriage I figured the three hour journey would be a good chance to get some work done. I had just spent two days in the rural backwaters of eastern Poland to research a couple of articles and was returning to Warsaw in time to catch an evening flight back to London. Feeling pleased with my research I’d treated myself to an upgrade (an additional £4).

Just before the train set off from Bialystok an elderly man entered my carriage. I lifted my gaze from my laptop to exchange greetings before returning to my writing, while my fellow passenger contented himself enjoying the view from the window.

For an hour I tapped away at my keyboard, briefly glancing up from time to time to enjoy the slowly changing landscape. Marshlands, wide rivers, storks on telegraph poles, large birds hovering above their prey waiting for the moment to pounce; scenes that haven’t changed much for several generations and which make this area so popular with hikers, bikers, kayakers and birdwatchers.

All the while the man sat silently, staring out of the window and smiling to himself. He was dressed in his suit and carried a briefcase which he kept close to his side throughout the journey. I wondered where he was carrying something valuable or whether it was me, the stranger with the funny accent, who was making him nervous. I put my laptop down eventually, unable to concentrate due to a combination of a lack of sleep and the repeated jolting of the train.

We exchanged the occasional glance, the old man and I, but no words were spoken. I’ve never been good at starting conversations with strangers; by all accounts many people suffer with the same affliction, leading to these long pointless silences where both sides would welcome the distraction of a conversation but none is willing to break the ice.

So it was in this case. As we approached Warsaw East I picked up my bag. It was then that one of us, I don’t remember who, made a quip about the late running of the train. The man snorted, saying that the train is always late and that the Polish railways are an embarrassment to the country. I told him I would get out and walk across the river to visit the recently opened Chopin museum. He laughed dismissively, telling me that I was wasting my time in such a poorly designed place.

He asked what I was doing in Poland and when I told him I was working as a travel writer he instinctively waved his hand in a mocking gesture, bemoaning the fact that so many people write about Poland but none of them are brave enough to get to the root of the country’s problems. He worked out that I was from England and launched into a diatribe about the Poles leaving their home country to work in the UK, wasting the education for which the Polish taxpayer had paid.

Name a subject and he would have found a reason to moan. As I got off the train I breathed a sigh of relief that our conversation had only started 5 minutes before our arrival into Warsaw. Perhaps starting conversations with strangers on a train isn’t always as rewarding as it’s cracked up to be.

The two stories I was in the region to research:

Poland’s Stork Village – how one farmer in Poland has created the perfect habitat for nesting storks – for National Geographic Traveller

On the Tatar Trail in Poland (for Travel by Handstand, available only via iPad app) – a tale of two tiny Muslim communities, descendants of the Tatars who blazed through Europe in the middle ages.

Strangers on a train: why it’s not always good to talk is a post from: 501 Places

“Do you really want to stay there? It’s horrible!”

It was 9.30pm and I’d been in Bialystok for a little over half an hour. The bed I had arranged was not available and having been given a couple of phone numbers by the apologetic hostel receptionist I thought I’d got lucky. There was a bed, it was in a hotel right by the station and I could get a single room for £15. Happy that I had avoided the rowdy Dutch school group that had invaded the hostel and looking forward to a quiet night, I set off back to the station from which I’d just come.

At 9.45pm, hopelessly lost and aware that I wasn’t in the nicest part of town, I stepped into the brightly lit McDonalds and asked for directions. It was here that a friendly girl warned me about my planned accommodation. She suggested another hostel just along the road. “It’s a nice place and very close. Only 200 metres” she said. “Much better than the station hotel. Please don’t go there.”

I decided to check out the station hotel in any case and soon saw what she meant. The dimly lit entrance was hidden behind a parking area for buses and in the entrance lobby were a dozen or so burly men passing around a bottle of vodka and a paper cup. Perhaps it was the half-light of the wholly inadequate bulb, perhaps it was the shabby neglected interior that perfectly matched the porch on which I now stood. Either way I suddenly decided that the hostel up the road must be a better option.

I walked 200 metres. I walked 1000 metres. Still no hostel. Only a deserted main road and a handful of men staggering around a bus shelter who called out a greeting to me. Giving up the search I headed back towards the station, resigned to enter that most uninviting of hotel lobbies. As I walked I thought back to the dives I’d stayed at in my teenage years. I thought too of that most famous Polish writer Richard Kapuscinski and his journeys through the remote parts of Africa. He had to put up with rooms crawling with cockroaches and far worse.

It was at this point I told myself to ‘man up’ and I marched confidently into the dim lobby. The drinking men ignored me and in the gloom I spied a half open sliding window in an office at the other end of the cavernous entrance (this was 1970s communist architecture at its finest). I peered through the little window and cheerfully greeted a man who was slumped by a TV. I asked if I could check in. He glared at me and cursed, telling me to go up to the third floor and leave him alone.

With no lift and no lights I stumbled up the dark staircase and eventually found a similar window, this time occupied by a more approachable-looking woman. She smiled, surprised I suppose that I had made it beyond the welcome committee in the lobby. We chatted, she complimented me on my Polish and then gave me the key to my room. The toilet, she explained in an embarrassed tone, was down the corridor. But the room had a shower and sink.

One step into the toilet was enough. The smell was an instant reminder to me of the time we’d discovered a decomposing rat behind our wall panels. I retreated in haste. By this time I was exhausted, and having spent ten hours crossing the country by train I fell asleep without unpacking my bag.

It was only in the morning light that I saw the blood stains on the sheets. Sometimes it pays to listen to advice from the staff in McDonalds.

Sound advice on local hotels – from the girl in McDonalds is a post from: 501 Places

Wander around any city for long enough and you’ll discover surprises in the most unexpected places. This is certainly true of Warsaw, where much of the city’s history, often tragic, often bloody but always fascinating, is hidden behind the brick and concrete of the main streets.

While much of Warsaw was rebuilt after 1945 by planners who had skipped the ‘making buildings pretty’ module in their architecture course, many of the surviving and renovated buildings have maintained their original structure. In the case of many of the apartment blocks this means that inside the belly of the buildings there is a courtyard, created to give a little bit of light to those appartments without a street view.

These courtyards are well worth exploring and as I discovered on my recent trip, most are open for visitors to stop and take a look. I wandered around the streets to the west of the Palace of Culture and found many open courtyards, mostly well maintained by residents and kept as a quiet place to enjoy the cool shade in the summer heat. Many have religious shrines, either in the form of a simple picture or a more elaborate statue. On digging a little deeper I found that most of the shrines have their own history attached to them. Many were erected during the war to provide a place where residents would pray for their safety; others were built to give thanks for a miraculous escape from death.

On Brzeska street, behind a very ordinary gateway, lies a well maintained shrine to the Virgin Mary at the back of a dreary courtyard. It was in this place that in 1943 the Germans rounded up a bunch of residents and were loading their rifles ready to kill them. Such random executions were a frequently used tool to maintain a level of terror in the local population and deter any form of rebellion.

As they were preparing to murder the local residents, a woman saw what was happening from a top floor appartment. She was a German married to a Pole, and called down to the soldiers in her native language. After speaking to them and persuading them to put down their guns, they left without firing a shot. The statue was erected shortly afterwards to mark this narrow escape and has been carefully preserved since.

There are many such tales in the courtyards of Warsaw. The city authorities have begun to erect plaques to tell the many stories that exist on almost every Warsaw street. The best way to discover them however is to wander in and ask. The original survivors of the war years will not be around for ever; it is vital that their stories live on.

Hidden Warsaw: stories behind the courtyard shrines is a post from: 501 Places

At some point in our lives we have all received an unwanted present. We usually hide it away and hope that no-one will notice. When Stalin decided in 1951 that he wanted to make a ‘gift’ to the people of Poland, he chose to erect a colossal tower in the heart of Warsaw that would be the tallest building in Poland. This was one present where pretending it didn’t exist was not an option. Almost 60 years after its completion, the summit of the Palace of Culture and Science still marks the high point of the Warsaw skyline, its 188 metre high roof topped with a 43 metre mast.

Much has changed since the concrete skyscraper, better suited to Batman’s Gotham City than to a European capital, was opened in 1955. Originally given the grand title of The Jozef Stalin Palace of Culture and Science, the building dropped the name of its Russian benefactor soon after opening as Kruschev took over in the Kremlin and the reign of Stalin was quickly denounced. You can still see where Stalin’s name was scratched out of the stonework as you enter the building.

For many years, whenever the people of Warsaw stared up at the giant monolith they were reminded of their entrapment under the influence of their all-powerful neighbour to the east. Every year government workers would be expected to parade with pride outside the Palace of Culture and Science, in celebration of the glorious achievements of the People’s Republic of Poland, as it was known between 1952 and 1990.

As communism fell there was talk of pulling down the Palace of Culture and Science. As well as being an unwelcome reminder of a past that Poles were eager to leave behind, many considered it an ugly eyesore that looked out of place on the Warsaw skyline. Yet the palace survived and has since been used for varying functions (most recently it is home to a Da Vinci exhibition). A surly lift attendant whisks you to the popular 30th floor observation deck without a hint of emotion and for those few seconds it’s easy to imagine you’re back in the bad old days.

The Warsaw fanzone for the Euro 2012 football tournament is being erected in the square just under the palace, in the same spot where those annual parades took place in the communist years.  Over 100,000 people will crowd into this space on match days to cheer on the national side. For many folks the prestige of hosting Euro 2012 finals is evidence of Poland’s transformation from an Eastern Bloc basket case to a dynamic 21st century central European nation.

The fans over the age of 40 might still remember marching in support of the Soviet-backed regime on the same spot where this summer they will be sipping a beer amid the sponsors’ banners while watching football on giant screens. The world has moved on in Warsaw, but Stalin’s gift still stands firmly at the heart of the city.

An elderly lady was watching the crowds shuffle into the new national stadium at the opening match last week and she spoke to me with visible excitement and pride. “Isn’t this fantastic?” she said with a beaming smile. I asked her if she remembered the days of the old stadium and she laughed, telling me that she remembered well the days before the old stadium was built in the immediate post-war years. “But we’ll lose” she said raising her hands in a gesture of resignation. “The stadium is wonderful; it’s a shame that our team is no good.”

My trip to Warsaw was hosted by the Polish National Tourist Office.

Warsaw Palace of Culture: Stalin’s unwanted gift to Poland is a post from: 501 Places

Our long term memory is a funny beast. I look on many of my childhood events and they appear to be not only distant but also dim; quite literally so. Our holidays seem to have took place if not in black and white then in a washed-out hue while memories of people and places are increasingly becoming frayed at the edges.

Warsaw in 1978

I’m heading to Warsaw next week and am naturally drawn back to the scrambled memories of my first two visits to the city. When our family touched down in Warsaw airport in 1978 it marked a series of firsts. For my parents it was their return to Poland since they were deported as children by the Russians in 1940; the towns and villages of their birth were no longer in Poland and were very much out-of-bounds to them. For us three boys it was our first time on a plane and our first time in another country (although some might have included North Wales as an equally foreign land).

As a wide-eyed nine year old I soaked up my new environment with insatiable curiosity. This was the land of which my parents had spoken since before we could even remember; it was also a place where for once we didn’t have to spell our names and where that strange language that we had learned to speak at home was suddenly commonplace.

I remember the big shops that were almost empty, where shop assistants had rudeness and indifference written into their job descriptions; I remember the queues for bread and having to get up before 6am just to get to the market to buy food; I remember my uncle watching Benny Hill, the most successful UK export and one that was deemed acceptable entertainment by the communist regime; I remember family members taking us to church and then disappearing within 5 minutes, anxious not to be seen by the authorities (being actively religious could seriously damage your career prospects); most of all I remember the men with their carts selling sodówki (fizzy drinks). Many of them only had two glasses and a soda fountain. We’d take it in turns to quench our thirst in the summer heat. Did he even wash the glasses between customers? I don’t remember that.

Back again in 1992

Things had changed when I returned alone in 1992. The communists had gone and a disorderly reorganisation of society was taking place. There was food in the shops now, but very little money around to pay for anything. My cousin took me out to McDonald’s on its second day of operation in central Warsaw; the queue stretched for a couple of blocks and bouncers on the door kept out the undesirables. Anything was available on the streets of Warsaw if you had the money, from Russian military uniforms and hardware to Romanian babies, sold for cash with no questions asked. The National Stadium, abandoned in the 1980s, had now become the largest open-air market in Europe and was a place of great notoriety. Benny Hill was gone too, replaced by Allo, Allo. A comedy based around foreign people speaking poor English in a funny accent was dubbed in Polish and recited by a monotone voice. A recipe for disaster you’d think and yet if you opened your window in a typical appartment block when the show was on, you could hear raucous laughter coming from dozens of homes.

I’ve been back a few times since but am particularly looking forward to seeing the city now that it has been spruced up in preparation for Euro 2012. As I’ll be on a press trip I’ll no doubt be shown just how the city has been transformed. The old stadium has been replaced by one of the world’s newest sporting arenas and new shopping centres, hotels and restaurants are everywhere. It is inevitable however that when I wander through the Warsaw streets part of me will still see the city through the eyes of a 9 year old boy. Will there be enough remnants of the past to trigger those old memories? I guess I’ll soon find out.

Poles apart: growing up with Warsaw is a post from: 501 Places