Poland Travel, Just Below the Surface of Doubt and Taste

How Krakow and Wroclaw revealed lessons in presence, grace and intentional travel

It is astonishingly clear to me now that no matter the destination, my first trip out as the official Untethered Traveler was always going to have its set of prickly challenges and surprises to unpack.  

On one hand, I could argue it hadn’t even been 100 days since I pulled myself out of the job market and committed head, hand and heart to this purpose-led career path.  On the other hand, it had been just under 100 days and to show for it, I barely had 1,000 Instagram followers, had to round up quite generously to claim three dozen Substack subscribers and had fewer email addresses in my database than I had fingers and toes.  And as an overachieving Type-A, inpatient as hell, self-prescribed workaholic this already had me in a constant state of panic, go-go-go, and more-more-more before I ever even boarded my flight to Poland. 

So that first morning in Krakow, when I opened my eyes from under the white duvet I’d fitfully wrestled with all night, the absoluteness of the life I had chosen never felt so unsure, unproven and honestly so damn unhinged.

Here I was halfway around the world putting my dream into action, following my gut and answering the call of Eastern Europe and I was too overwhelmed to roll out of bed that first day. I felt mercilessly held down and suffocated by the fragile, frayed condition of my nerves, my hopes and dreams and my tender, delicate psyche.  Snapshots of the comforts I was leaving behind flashed before my eyes torturing and teasing me all the more – those reliable paychecks, the fleeting perks of travel status, that new kitchen backsplash I’d been drooling over, the C-suite title that came with the office I’d spent 15 years toiling, compromising and anguishing to make a reality.  

Suddenly, there seemed to be so many unknowns in front of me.  Why did they all seem so urgent, so insurmountable and so terrifying?  I had 20 days of travel ahead of me and 46 years of life behind me and yet in those first few minutes of consciousness I couldn’t see beyond the nagging, unfair pressure to answer a question I’ve never made myself answer to before – is this really all going to work out? 

Screw it.

I shot up, brushed my teeth, got ready and stepped out onto the pristine, sunny streets of Old Town Krakow.  What traveling has taught me over the years is that Taste, in whatever form it would materialize, would eventually rescue me from exactly this kind of tedious and invasive self-defeating dialogue.  Head held high with knees a little weak and breath perhaps a bit more measured than usual, I forged on, holding back all this ill-timed anxiety right where it belonged – just below the surface. 

Old Town Krakow had a quaint, easy feeling to it.  I wandered across its great big old square, past St. Mary’s Basilica, down aisle after aisle of Krakow’s outdoor Folk Art and Craft market eventually meandering over to the Black Duck for my first meal of the trip. Here over a plate of something delicious, beautiful and recommended by the waiter against my own better judgement, I would find the antidote to this morning’s episode of self-doubt and worry.  And if I didn’t? Taste would still be the perfect distraction to silence all this overthinking, to reconstitute my faith in what had carried me this far these last 100 days and to settle my bristled nerves once and for all.

It was in fact a very pleasant meal in a very pleasant courtyard, and so was dinner that evening at Folga, where I secretly adopted the waiter as my first ever mentor on Polish wine. As my time in Poland continued, I would commit to becoming – in front of any willing teacher – a more educated and most of all more curious and openminded guest. 

 My late lunch the next day at Szara Ges surprised and delighted with even more fantastic wine (admittedly not Polish), an oh-so-succulent bowl of asparagus soup and potato dumplings masterfully dusted with just the right amount of black truffle.  But the real surprise, was their signature bird’s egg dessert – truly a treat for all five senses.   

Some 24 hours later, I’d sit down for what would become my second favorite dinner of my entire life at Noah where every bite and sip was altogether beyond.  Thankfully, I once again let the server take the reins on my order, a move that’s now been both time and tastebud tested in Poland and over the last 20 years of my travels.  The server steered me to plates I would have never dared to try - starting with the herring – creamy and fresh. It took but one bite for me to realize I was in some very good hands.  Her real gift was introducing me to veal sweetbreads, a dish I had purposefully but foolishly avoided for a lifetime.   

As I relish simply being able to recall and savor the richness of that texture and flavor, I feel compelled by a higher power to share three pieces of taste-led travel advice.  First, we should never, ever stop trying and giving our tastebuds credit for evolving.  I don’t like the same boys I did when I was 16, wear my hair the same way or still read the same books, why can’t my tastebuds get the same credit for growing up too!? Second, we should never assume because we tried it once – somewhere, someplace – we’ll never like it anywhere else again.  And finally – three – we should never bring a fixed, closed-off palate to a restaurant that for matters yet to be revealed has invited us to dine with it.  Connect with the person who knows the dishes the best and then – let taste happen.

To the second missive above, I could have said until I found my way to Old Town Wroclaw’s Piwnica Świdnicka that I didn’t “get” Pierogis.  I could have written them off for the rest of my life, striking them from my taste repertoire – in their motherland of all places! But I sensed that even though I didn’t love what 3,600 other diners had come to over the years at Krakow’s Pierogi MR. Vincent there was still something for me to take away from Poland’s national dish.  And yes, as it would turn out there was.  Like with so many different things we try – I’m dumbly stating the obvious here – it’s all about the ingredients, the ambiance and the setting.  Goose Pierogis with black truffles and champignons from a location that has seven centuries of history serving Polish fare - did I like those Pierogis? Check.    

The tastes of Krakow and Wroclaw behind world class culinary talent, genuine Polish hospitality and small-town charm did their best to captivate and distract me from the metastasizing feeling of dread and doubt that was brewing inside of me.  But it still wasn’t enough.  Unpredictably, without provocation or invitation both would rise up and demand attention from me – during a crowded train ride to Wroclaw, on day two of writing Blog 23 on Venice, during those pesky nights staring at the ceiling battling jet lag and the worn off effects of Advil PM and red wine.

The best way I can describe how I felt is that I was restless and off-balance in a sanctuary – travel – where I had long found nothing but peace and poise.  It was frustrating and disconcerting that in my first journey back on the road after so much prophesizing about being right where our feet are, I couldn’t slow down and just be.  I felt guilty for almost everything especially not reading, posting or writing enough. The internal talk track was unrelenting and deafening.  Worse yet, for the first time ever travel felt like an exhausting, unrewarding chore.  

I persisted though as one does when they’re on day six of a three-week trip. And without much pomp and circumstance, maybe because I’d finally let my guard down and stopped trying, something shifted. I couldn’t tell if it was because I had thrown out the script or was actually executing the same one I always fell back on.   But in the end, from a table on the patio at Ida Kuchnia I Wino, the noise in my head finally softened, time slowed and I found space and grace.  

While I still had – have – questions about what might come next for me, I at least had rediscovered enough perspective and with it the permission to have faith that through the gift of travel I was going to be okay and figure it all out.  I won’t pretend what I write next came to me like some vision, over yes more herring, perfectly stuffed cabbage leaves and a piping hot-out-of-the-oven hazelnut soufflé.  But it did come to me as I relived that gastronomic, cosmic turning point and coincidentally as I replayed those three pieces of advice I just shared on taste. 

Each now seemed like its own toothsome metaphor to go forth and live a life tried at and spent to its fullest.  I had to trust in my evolution; I had to keep trying at this new thing over and over as uncomfortable and uncertain as it might seem; and I had to follow my gut through the doubt that festered just below the surface to where my taste had long been calling me – this very spot – right here, right now.  

Right where my feet were.