17:43
Back home in my flat, I sit at my desk, writing an email to my four brothers, wishing they could join me for the concert. I sip żubrówka, a bison grass vodka known for its distinct taste and its important role in Somerset Maugham's classic novel, The Razor's Edge. I've added a bit of apple juice, a concoction affectionately known in certain circles as szarlotka, and notice the alcohol taking its effect rather quickly, as I've had little to drink in the past month. Today is a deserved exception.
18:08
I stand on my balcony and glare out beyond the railing, enjoying one last szarlotka before heading to the Cytadela. The sun is low, threatening to fall behind the tenament blocks across the street. The early evening air is warm. Thom Yorke takes the stage in just less than three hours. It's strangely quiet here on the south side of the city, peaceful. Some children play with a football in the courtyard, their shouts echoing across the small street. A few pedestrians return from work or from purchasing groceries for supper or the next morning's breakfast. I make note of the stillness outside, committing it to memory. At the Cytadela the atmosphere will be entirely different.
18:50
I sit at the bus station, having walked the some 500m from my flat, across the square, past the beautiful St. Mary's church, and through the daily market where I buy fruit and vegetables. I wait for the 71 bus while studying some Polish vocabulary cards. 18:55 comes, though the scheduled bus does not. A young woman walks by, pushing her four-year-old child in a stroller. I ask her about the status of the bus, and she assures me that it will come - "na pewno." According to the posted schedule, the next is at 19:10. That'll do fine as well, I think, and return to my vocab cards.
19:21
I arrive at the stop "Polonez," deboard, and join the buzzing stream of people flowing up both sides of the large boulevard, Aleja Niepodległości. Across the street the stream of fans ascends the stairs to the Soviet obelisk and into the Cydatela park. A blue "policja" van is parked in front of the staircase, a couple officers maintaining order as the crowd crosses the street. I take a photograph.
19:30
Halfway up the stairs, a glance down one of the terraced side pathways reveals concert-goers relieving themselves. Most are behind trees; a few behind gravestones. On the stairs, some still sell extra tickets. Lots of them, in fact. 40,000 is the number I heard for how many were expected at this, the first-ever concert at the Cytadela under the open air. Polish is almost the only language I hear in the crowd around me. This makes me happy, though I expected otherwise.
I walk around before entering. Most people seem to be standing outside the main gate, it seems, drinking, eating, waiting for bathrooms, before entering the concert gate...(more later)
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Why Poland?
I hope to write more on this as time allows, but for the moment please accept the following quote from one of my favorite authors in the past year, Andrzej Stasiuk:
"I haven't been to France or Spain and I've never thought about going there. I am simply interested in our part of the world, this central and eastern reality. My goodness, what would I be doing in France?"
Stasiuk lives and writes in the Beskid Mountains in southeastern Poland, near the Slovak border.
"I haven't been to France or Spain and I've never thought about going there. I am simply interested in our part of the world, this central and eastern reality. My goodness, what would I be doing in France?"
Stasiuk lives and writes in the Beskid Mountains in southeastern Poland, near the Slovak border.
Radiohead: scoring the ticket
On August 25, 2009, I went to see Thom Yorke and Radiohead, who played an outdoor concert for 40,000+ right here in Poznań. It was part of a mini-tour that also included St. Polten (Austria) and Prague. Here I recount the events of that glorious day.
14:33
I leave the Biblioteka Universytecka and my research for the day and, after a quick lunch of spaghetti bolognese, a small Greek salad and some fruit salad for 9 zloty at the café Piccolo on ulica Ratajczaka, I begin walking north toward the Cytadela. A friend just responded to my text message that she won’t be going to the concert, and also, implicitly, that she didn’t get the tickets as she had assured she would with the Polish word “spoko” highly intoned as if to say: “Chill out, relax, I’ll take care of tickets for a few of us that are going. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. I’ve got it covered. I’ll get you one too.” Yeah, that was a week ago, and there was time. Now there isn’t, and I haven’t a ticket. If I were smart I’d have bought one for myself a week ago – I can always meet friends there if they decide to go. Outdoor concerts allow mobility. Yeah, that text message really let me down, but I suppose it’s just as well. Perhaps I’ll find something better, I think to myself.
I was somewhat nervous, however, since the media- and ticket-center Empik told me earlier they have no tickets left, as did the music store on Półwieska reputed to be the best “inside” link to every ticket in town. And after all – this was Radiohead, arguably the top band in the world for a decade now, a band who tours rarely (and almost never in North America, according to my better-informed brother, longtime subscriber to Spin and Rolling Stone). But, the girl at the shop had assured me there was a chance there’d be tickets on site today. Somewhat reassured but still nervous, I was going early to find something now. No more waiting.
14:50
I arrive at the entrance to the Cytadela, an old nineteenth-century Prussian military fortification and training-ground, which was in February 1945 the last Nazi stronghold before surrendering the city to the Red Army. Now it’s an expansive wooded park, and quite a mysterious place: a veritable mixture, on the one hand, of beautiful English gardens, a large rosarium surrounding a pool, and wooded paths and park benches, and on the other hand Polish and Soviet monuments, a military museum, desolate brick ruins, and several wooded and terraced military cemeteries. I walk up the 100+ steps toward the Soviet monument – a towering obelisk adorned with the signature Red Army star.
On one of the platforms are two individuals selling tickets. One is about forty, looks to be Polish, with especially short hair, a thick neck and broad shoulders. His cardboard sign reads in block letters: “Tanie Bilety” (cheap tickets). I turn to the other direction, where a younger man, slim and student-aged, dons a red Radiohead T-shirt and a black Arsenal cap. His sheet of paper, standard A4 size and computer-printed, reads: “Selling ticket: 1 zone, 2 zone.” Having checked earlier online, I know the concert ground would be divided into three zones, priced at 220, 160 and 95 zloty, for the three respective zones (about $85, $60, $35). At this point I plan to go to the booth to simply purchase a zone 3 ticket for 95 zloty. I figure $35 is a steal for Radiohead, even if it is far away.
I establish eye contact, then ask: “Ile kosztuje?” (How much?).
He replies: “Do you speak any English?”
“Yes, a little.”
Still hesitating to answer my original question about the ticket, he asks where I’m from.
“Z Polski. From Poland,” I answer instinctively.
“Oh, I am from Russia – St. Petersburg,” he offers.
I nod and smile. He offers me the Zone 1 ticket for 190, maybe 180. Disinterested, I tell him I don’t have that much, and he seems to understand.
“How much do you have?”
“Only 95 złoty – I can go to office and buy there. Zone three.” I nod in the direction of the staircase. “But if you have….” I pause, noticing the other scalper listening closely. Normally I am self-conscious speaking English abroad, avoiding it whenever possible, but this role-reversal will have to be an exception.
The Russian interrupts: “Okay, well, maybe second zone ticket, but I think it’s not enough.” He pauses, then continues: “There is a girl will maybe buy. She says she will come back, but I’m waiting for her still. Can you come back in five minutes?”
I hesitate, looking inconvenienced: “Maybe, I guess. Okay, I come back in 5 minutes.”
After observing the developing scene of concert preparations above, where among other things there seems to be a booth with tickets available, I return to seal the deal.
He seems to have been waiting for me. “She didn’t come. I sell to you. How much can you pay?”
“I only have this,” I answer, holding up a 100-złoty bill.
After a few seconds of looking around nervously, he looks me in the eye. It’s hot, even in the shadow cast by the oversized Soviet obelisk. The master of the black market seems backed into a corner. The Russians may not have the same command of the market as they did twenty years ago – at least not more than a Pole in his hometown.
He hands me the ticket and a 5-złoty coin, then slips the banknote out of my hand. I was expecting to give him the whole hundred, but looks like I’ll have five for a pre-concert beer as well.
“Have fun. I was in Prague two nights ago. Amazing show.”
Shaking his hand, I thank my comrade and wish him an enjoyable evening.
15:13
The zone 2 ticket finally in hand, a feel a surge of energy as I walked around above. There are food and beer booths, people setting up a concert T-shirt stand, and a line of the kind of people who pay way too much for T-shirts. On the side before the entrance is a short stone wall, on the other side of which is a gentle grassy decline and dozens, hundreds of gravestones arranged in rows. Soviet soldiers are buried there – their headstones staring out in Cyrillic script. Each has a star on the front.
Curiously, early concert-goers have arrived and, as elsewhere in the park, are sitting, resting, drinking, socializing, napping, waiting out the last several hours before the concert. A dozen or so have also found a place in the shade here among the gravestones. Some stand – others sit and drink, laugh and mingle, using the gravestones as you would a table, shelf or speaker for setting your beer at a college house party. None of them seems to think twice about where they are. (Or perhaps they all know precisely where they are?) One couple lays sleeping, embraced, spread out directly on top of a gravesite, a coffin resting six feet beneath them under the grass and dirt. I pause and look on, taken aback. One girl(?) with long, frayed, unwashed dreadlocks wears a shirt advocating green political views. She stands, one boot perched upon the base of a headstone, leaning on the top of it while sharing a laugh with a friend.
Having seen quite enough of this puzzling scene, I walk to my bike and ride home for dinner and a drink before the main event.
14:33
I leave the Biblioteka Universytecka and my research for the day and, after a quick lunch of spaghetti bolognese, a small Greek salad and some fruit salad for 9 zloty at the café Piccolo on ulica Ratajczaka, I begin walking north toward the Cytadela. A friend just responded to my text message that she won’t be going to the concert, and also, implicitly, that she didn’t get the tickets as she had assured she would with the Polish word “spoko” highly intoned as if to say: “Chill out, relax, I’ll take care of tickets for a few of us that are going. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. I’ve got it covered. I’ll get you one too.” Yeah, that was a week ago, and there was time. Now there isn’t, and I haven’t a ticket. If I were smart I’d have bought one for myself a week ago – I can always meet friends there if they decide to go. Outdoor concerts allow mobility. Yeah, that text message really let me down, but I suppose it’s just as well. Perhaps I’ll find something better, I think to myself.
I was somewhat nervous, however, since the media- and ticket-center Empik told me earlier they have no tickets left, as did the music store on Półwieska reputed to be the best “inside” link to every ticket in town. And after all – this was Radiohead, arguably the top band in the world for a decade now, a band who tours rarely (and almost never in North America, according to my better-informed brother, longtime subscriber to Spin and Rolling Stone). But, the girl at the shop had assured me there was a chance there’d be tickets on site today. Somewhat reassured but still nervous, I was going early to find something now. No more waiting.
14:50
I arrive at the entrance to the Cytadela, an old nineteenth-century Prussian military fortification and training-ground, which was in February 1945 the last Nazi stronghold before surrendering the city to the Red Army. Now it’s an expansive wooded park, and quite a mysterious place: a veritable mixture, on the one hand, of beautiful English gardens, a large rosarium surrounding a pool, and wooded paths and park benches, and on the other hand Polish and Soviet monuments, a military museum, desolate brick ruins, and several wooded and terraced military cemeteries. I walk up the 100+ steps toward the Soviet monument – a towering obelisk adorned with the signature Red Army star.
On one of the platforms are two individuals selling tickets. One is about forty, looks to be Polish, with especially short hair, a thick neck and broad shoulders. His cardboard sign reads in block letters: “Tanie Bilety” (cheap tickets). I turn to the other direction, where a younger man, slim and student-aged, dons a red Radiohead T-shirt and a black Arsenal cap. His sheet of paper, standard A4 size and computer-printed, reads: “Selling ticket: 1 zone, 2 zone.” Having checked earlier online, I know the concert ground would be divided into three zones, priced at 220, 160 and 95 zloty, for the three respective zones (about $85, $60, $35). At this point I plan to go to the booth to simply purchase a zone 3 ticket for 95 zloty. I figure $35 is a steal for Radiohead, even if it is far away.I establish eye contact, then ask: “Ile kosztuje?” (How much?).
He replies: “Do you speak any English?”
“Yes, a little.”
Still hesitating to answer my original question about the ticket, he asks where I’m from.
“Z Polski. From Poland,” I answer instinctively.
“Oh, I am from Russia – St. Petersburg,” he offers.
I nod and smile. He offers me the Zone 1 ticket for 190, maybe 180. Disinterested, I tell him I don’t have that much, and he seems to understand.
“How much do you have?”
“Only 95 złoty – I can go to office and buy there. Zone three.” I nod in the direction of the staircase. “But if you have….” I pause, noticing the other scalper listening closely. Normally I am self-conscious speaking English abroad, avoiding it whenever possible, but this role-reversal will have to be an exception.
The Russian interrupts: “Okay, well, maybe second zone ticket, but I think it’s not enough.” He pauses, then continues: “There is a girl will maybe buy. She says she will come back, but I’m waiting for her still. Can you come back in five minutes?”
I hesitate, looking inconvenienced: “Maybe, I guess. Okay, I come back in 5 minutes.”
After observing the developing scene of concert preparations above, where among other things there seems to be a booth with tickets available, I return to seal the deal.
He seems to have been waiting for me. “She didn’t come. I sell to you. How much can you pay?”
“I only have this,” I answer, holding up a 100-złoty bill.
After a few seconds of looking around nervously, he looks me in the eye. It’s hot, even in the shadow cast by the oversized Soviet obelisk. The master of the black market seems backed into a corner. The Russians may not have the same command of the market as they did twenty years ago – at least not more than a Pole in his hometown.
He hands me the ticket and a 5-złoty coin, then slips the banknote out of my hand. I was expecting to give him the whole hundred, but looks like I’ll have five for a pre-concert beer as well.
“Have fun. I was in Prague two nights ago. Amazing show.”
Shaking his hand, I thank my comrade and wish him an enjoyable evening.
15:13
The zone 2 ticket finally in hand, a feel a surge of energy as I walked around above. There are food and beer booths, people setting up a concert T-shirt stand, and a line of the kind of people who pay way too much for T-shirts. On the side before the entrance is a short stone wall, on the other side of which is a gentle grassy decline and dozens, hundreds of gravestones arranged in rows. Soviet soldiers are buried there – their headstones staring out in Cyrillic script. Each has a star on the front.
Curiously, early concert-goers have arrived and, as elsewhere in the park, are sitting, resting, drinking, socializing, napping, waiting out the last several hours before the concert. A dozen or so have also found a place in the shade here among the gravestones. Some stand – others sit and drink, laugh and mingle, using the gravestones as you would a table, shelf or speaker for setting your beer at a college house party. None of them seems to think twice about where they are. (Or perhaps they all know precisely where they are?) One couple lays sleeping, embraced, spread out directly on top of a gravesite, a coffin resting six feet beneath them under the grass and dirt. I pause and look on, taken aback. One girl(?) with long, frayed, unwashed dreadlocks wears a shirt advocating green political views. She stands, one boot perched upon the base of a headstone, leaning on the top of it while sharing a laugh with a friend.Having seen quite enough of this puzzling scene, I walk to my bike and ride home for dinner and a drink before the main event.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
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