Bridges and havana cigars

Visiting new places is always unpredictable. It can be charming, but it does not have to be. It can even hurt, if you poke Things and People too far.

Yet, I was for ever planning to go “somewhere” to meet the “unknown” and to feel overwhelmed by the sheer presence of living.

In Paris it was an incredible art from all ages, an intensity of streets, an amazing architecture, phenomenal vistas and cheeses of capricious character. Plus wine, parties, late night talks about the meaning of life with all kinds of immigrants; all submerged in singing and playing on guitars.

When I desired to centralize my soul, I would stand on a bridge which tzar Alexander the III presented to the French as a gift and from behind those figures (gilded in gold) I would watch a View. To this day I don’t understand the reasons behind it, but that is how it was.

London was different, but here I understood that this city is beyond any form of overview. That simple observation appeared out of the blue, while I was standing in an Irish pub, in the basement, just off Piccadilly Circus, drinking Guinness, smoking havana cigars and listening to various musicians, who played there after a whole day busking in tunnels of London Underground. Smoke was dense, voices somewhat like Deep Throat from “All the President’s Men”, dark nectar was creamy, smooth and strong.

Then, at late hour, I would stand for a while on the Waterloo Bridge. Unless it was raining.

Amsterdam is natural even if events are extreme. The wholesomeness of Dutch culture is like a field, which allows all to flourish. Crossing this bridge on Prinsegracht is like walking around one’s own home. Coffee is often just as good too.

I remembered that once I went to a meeting in a house near by that cafe and there seventeen people were discussing (in English) the ways to run a hostel, in which most of them were staying. Not a single person was Dutch and we came from seventeen countries.

One day we were standing there, water gently flowing under our feet and a bird with a huge wing span, flew above us. A friend of mine told us that this was a rarity and then we drunk St.Emillion wine, while he was cooking Spanish food.

And so, by and by, I came to Cambridge, but before that I smoke my last havana cigar on a Clare Bridge, across the Backs and watch boats, ducks, swans on the river. I looked at them and thought “Yes, it makes sense”.

So I sold my house in London and moved to Cambridge. A few days later I came back to the Clare Bridge to say “Thank you”. It was a beautiful afternoon.

It all leads to a place without a bridge, to a little town, almost a village, in a middle of Poland and yet far away from people pushing you off the pavement in a hurry. This place has a market square and a few streets. Yet, for many centuries stories were born here, painters were seduced by light alone, writers weaved their stories, affairs flourished, music was played, friendships were formed, ideas shared, tears wetted faces and laughter rebound in small canyons.

Does it mean that all of it can happen even without crossing a bridge and smoking a havana cigar?

Obviously yes, but not that often. Perhaps Kazimierz Dolny nad Wisłą is unique?