Kraków: Living in a Metaphor

MY FIRST VISIT to Poland was in March this year—to the eastern city of Poznan, in connec­tion with the release of the Polish edition of my novel The Cliffhangers. It was the fag end of winter. The trees had no leaves, and they stood still with slender branches pointing upward.

I was back in Poland in September. This time at the end of what had been a hot summer. I was in Kraków as part of my travels to write a book called ‘Literary Trails in Poland’, which is a genre-bending attempt at travel writing meeting literary explorations.

Thanks to the Polish Institute New Delhi and the Szymborska Foundation, I was on a dream-come-true journey. I stayed at the apartment of the Nobel-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska. I slept in the same room as the poet had slept. I ran my fingers over the spines of the books in her living room, and I sat and wrote in the room where she must have written her later poems.

It was overwhelming.

On the first night of my stay in the poet’s apartment, I went to bed excited about the next few days’ literary trails in the UNESCO City of Literature.

The early morning mist clung to the cobblestones as I stepped out of Szymborska’s apartment on Piastowska Street to catch a tram to go to the Main Square. Kraków was stir­ring, the scent of fresh bread and coffee wafted from cafés preparing for the day ahead. I had come to the UNESCO City of Literature on a pilgrimage of sorts, seeking to immerse myself in the depths of words and stories that have shaped this ancient Polish city.

My first stop was the iconic Rynek Główny, the Main Square that has been the beating heart of Kraków for centu­ries. As the mist lifted, I was greeted by the imposing bulk of the Cloth Hall, its Renaissance façade a testament to the city’s long history as a centre of trade and culture. But it was not the architec­ture that drew me in that morning—it was the ghost of a young poet.

Near the centre of the square stood the monument to Adam Mickiewicz, Poland’s national poet. His stern bronze gaze swept across the square, as if still composing verses about the city he loved. I paused to read the inscription, my rudimentary Polish struggling with the flowing lines of ‘Pan Tadeusz’. A group of schoolchildren gathered around the statue, their teacher’s voice carrying across the square as she recited Mickiewicz’s words, keeping the poet’s spirit alive in the heart of the city.

Stepping into the Main Square was akin to crossing the threshold into a vibrant canvas painted with centuries of history, culture, and literature. Rynek Główny unfurled like an ancient manuscript, inviting the curious to turn its pages.

As I meandered through the square, I was drawn to the majestic Cloth Hall (Sukiennice), a magnificent structure that has served as a marketplace since the Renaissance. Its arches and stalls were reminiscent of the bustling ex­changes that once took place here, where ideas flowed as freely as goods. It was in places like this that writers such as Mickiewicz found inspiration. I imagined him strolling here, perhaps contemplating the weight of his verse while weaving through the crowds. “Poetry is the strongest of all arts,” he once proclaimed, and in this square, I could almost feel the very spirit of his words resonate.

As I sat at a small café nestled along the edge of the square, the aroma of fresh­ly brewed coffee mingled with the crisp early autumn air, and I found myself reflecting on the profound connection between the city and its literary heritage. I recalled the time I had read about the café culture that flourished here in the early 20th century, where luminaries like the novelist Witold Gombrowicz held court. Gombrowicz’s works, often exploring the absurdities of identity and existence, resonate with a disarming humour that I found endlessly engag­ing. “We are all in the hands of our own clichés,” he once said, a sentiment that seemed especially poignant as I observed the eclectic mix of locals and tourists, each ensconced in their own worlds, sipping coffee or lost in a book.

After finishing my drink, I walked towards the narrow streets that radiate from the square, each turn revealing a new treasure. Just a short walk away, I discovered the quaint bookstore Ksiegar­nia pod Globusem; its charming façade beckoned me inside. The scent of old pages permeated the air, a comforting aroma that drew me deeper into the laby­rinth of books. Here, among the tomes, I found myself in the presence of Polish literature’s rich history. I moved my fingers along the spines, pausing at the works of Szymborska. Her keen observa­tions of the mundane and extraordinary intertwined so beautifully; I could al­most hear her voice whispering through the pages. “The most important thing is the word itself,” she once said, and in this sacred space, her words resonated with an urgency that compelled me to read.

As evening approached, the square transformed into a gathering place, alive with the sounds of laughter and conversation. I walked to Café Nowa, a contemporary literary café that has become a haven for local writers and artists. The atmosphere was electric; discussions of novels and poetry swirled in the air as animated writers debated the nuances of contemporary Polish literature. It was here that I encountered a group of young writers, each with aspirations of crafting the next great Polish novel. One recited a poem in a fervent voice, echoing the rhythm of a heartbeat, drawing us into the depths of longing and nostal­gia. “We are all wanderers in search of meaning,” another said, and I was struck by the truth in their words.

This city, with its storied past, seemed to offer a mix of voices, both old and new, woven together by the common thread of the written word.

I walked to Café Nowa, a contemporary literary café that has become a haven for local writers and artists. It was here that I encountered a group of young writers, each with aspirations of crafting the next great Polish novel. One recited a poem in a fervent voice, echoing the rhythm of a heartbeat, drawing us into the depths of longing and nostalgia. ‘We are all wanderers in search of meaning,’ another said, and I was struck by the truth in their words

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With dusk settling in, the square was illuminated by the warm glow of street lamps, casting a golden hue over the historic buildings. I strolled to the Wawel Castle, not far from the square, its silhouette a majestic reminder of Po­land’s royal past. Standing at the castle’s edge, I thought of the many writers who have drawn inspiration from these sto­ried walls. From the folklore of dragons that once roamed the Vistula River to the poignant tales of love and loss, the narra­tive of Kraków continues to unfold.

I WOUND MY WAY through narrow streets towards the Jagiel­lonian University, one of the oldest in Europe. The weight of history was palpable there, in the worn stone steps and ancient archways. I imagined Copernicus walking these same paths, his mind reaching for the stars. In the university’s museum, I stood in awe before priceless manuscripts and early scientific instruments, tangible links to the great minds that have passed through these halls.

Kraków was a centre of learning in the medieval period, a place where scholars flocked to exchange ideas. The Jagiellonian University, with its hallowed halls, has nurtured many great minds, including the Renaissance polymath Nicolaus Copernicus, whose theories challenged the very fabric of our understanding of the cosmos. Here, amid the literary cafés and bookshops, I could sense that same spirit of inquiry alive and well, a testament to the city’s enduring legacy.

The afternoon found me in the Ka­zimierz district, once the centre of Jewish life in Kraków. Here, the ghosts of Isaac Bashevis Singer’s stories seemed to lurk in every shadowy doorway. I stopped for lunch at a small café, its walls lined with bookshelves. Over a steaming bowl of zurek, I thumbed through a weathered copy of Julian Tuwim’s poems, the lyrical Polish dancing off the page.

I walked around the square. Elderly men and women sat around, selling old postcards dating back to the turn of the last century, and sepia-tinged black-and-white photographs. Their faces were lined, eyes mirrored tales of history. I browsed through them, wondering what unique stories they could tell me.

At Cheder Café on Józefa Street, time seemed to move differently. The walls were lined with photographs of Jewish writers and intellectuals who once called Kraków home. Hebrew and Yiddish books filled the shelves, and the coffee was served in small cups with carda­mom, the way it had been for centuries.

A local historian joined me, sharing stories of the pre-war literary scene. She spoke of Bruno Schulz walking these very streets, his imagination trans­forming ordinary shops into magical realms. “In The Street of Crocodiles,” she explained, “Schulz wrote about how ‘reality is as thin as paper and betrays with all its cracks its imitative charac­ter.’ Sometimes, in Kazimierz, you can still feel that thinness.”

As the day waned, I made my way to the Massolit Books & Café, a haven for bibliophiles on Felicjanek Street. The shelves groaned under the weight of books in a dozen languages, and the air was thick with the murmur of literary discussions. I settled into a worn arm­chair with a collection of Szymborska’s poetry, letting her words wash over me as I sipped strong, black coffee.

The aroma of freshly ground coffee mingled with that distinctive aroma of aged paper and leather bindings. The wooden shelves reached towards the ceiling, their spines a colourful display of literary history. The café’s resident cat, a ginger tom, lounged on a windowsill, seemingly absorbed in the siesta light.

An elderly gentleman in a worn tweed jacket sat in the corner, his fingers traced lines in what I recognise as Szymborska’s poetry collection. “Read­ing,” he told me in careful English, “is how we keep our heroes alive.” He was professor emeritus at the Jagiellonian, and he shared stories of Szymborska’s famous ‘Thursday Literary Salons’— how she would sit in her favourite café, chain-smoking and delivering witty observations about life and literature.

The golden light of late afternoon drew me to Planty Park, the green belt that encircled Kraków’s Old Town. Here, beneath century-old trees, I spotted couples strolling hand-in-hand, students sprawled on the grass with their books, and old men locked in intense chess battles. I found a quiet bench and pulled out my notebook, inspired to capture some of the day’s impressions in verse.

Walking through Planty Park, a leafy parenthesis, I thought of how Czeslaw Milosz described these very paths in his writings. His apartment at Boguslawskiego Street 6 still stands, a modest testament to literary greatness. The building’s weathered façade bears silent witness to the verses that were born within its walls.

Not all tourists were allowed into Milosz’s apartment, which is now under the custody of Kraków UNESCO City of Literature. But I was fortunate that Ela Foltyniak, head of Kraków UNESCO City of Literature, took me to the apart­ment. As she opened the huge doors to the apartment where the literary giant of the century lived and wrote in the last decade of his life, I was struck by the way it was kept as if the poet had just gone out and would be back soon. His notebooks, passports, pens and other stationeries were on the table. His jacket was hung across his chair; there were files of his contacts in one corner; on the wall was a framed poem by Irish poet Seamus Heaney, written exclusively for Milosz. On the side of the writing table were his two computers. There was a sense of immediacy in the room—the poet could walk in any time.

“The purpose of poetry,” Milosz once wrote, “is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person”—words that seem particularly poignant in this city of many layers.

At the House of Literature on Krupnicza Street, once home to many of Poland’s leading writers, I paused to admire the baroque portal. Inside, the rooms echoed with literary ghosts— Young Poland movement poets who once gathered here, debating art and politics over strong black coffee and cigarettes.

AS TWILIGHT SPREAD, I made my way to the Potocki Palace, home to the Kraków Poetry Salon. There was a reading by a young poet whose work addressed Poland’s complex history. The ornate room was packed, the audience hanging on to every word. Though much of the Polish eluded me, the emotion in the poet’s voice transcended language.

Later, I found myself in the cosy con­fines of Café Camelot, its Art Nouveau interiors a fitting backdrop to literary conversation. Over a glass of cherry Nalewka, I hit on a conversation with a local literature professor, Chris. We discussed everything from Bruno Schulz to Olga Tokarczuk, our words weaving through Polish and English as we bridged cultures through our shared love of literature.

Walking through Planty Park, a leafy parenthesis, I thought of how Czeslaw Milosz described these very paths in his writings. His apartment at Boguslawskiego Street 6 still stands, a modest testament to literary greatness. The building’s weathered façade bears silent witness to the verses that were born within its walls

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As afternoon turned to evening, I made my way back to the city centre, stopping at the Józef Mehoffer House. The Art Nouveau gem, once home to the famous painter, now houses a museum dedicated to the Young Poland movement. The lush, symbolic paint­ings transported me to the turn of the 20th century when Kraków was a hot­bed of artistic and literary innovation. I recalled Stanislaw Przybyszewski and his bohemian circle, their dreams of a new Polish art echoing through time.

Kraków, I realised, is more than just a UNESCO City of Literature. It’s a living, breathing poem, each street a stanza, each square a verse in an epic that has been centuries in the writing.

As the night deepened, I reluctantly bid farewell to Chris and began the walk back to catch a tram to Piastowska Street. The streets turned quiet now, but the city’s literary pulse still thrummed beneath my feet. I planned to visit the Czartoryski Museum the next day to see Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine, and perhaps take a trip to the Nowa Huta district to explore its socialist-realist architecture and unexpected literary connections.

DAWN BROKE, PAINTING the sky in hues of pink and gold as I set out for another day of literary exploration. My first destination is the Czartoryski Museum, home to Leonardo da Vinci’s enigmatic Lady with an Ermine. As I stood before the painting, I was struck by how the Renaissance masterpiece seemed to embody the spirit of Kraków itself—a delicate balance of old and new, of mystery and revelation.

But it was not just the famous painting that captured my attention. The museum housed an impressive col­lection of literary artefacts, including rare manuscripts and first editions. I found myself lingering over a display of Mickiewicz’s personal effects, imagin­ing the great poet at work, quill in hand, crafting the verses that would help define Polish national identity.

Leaving the museum, I decided to take a tram to Nowa Huta, the planned socialist-realist district that stands in stark contrast to Kraków’s medieval core. As we rattled through the streets, I pulled out my copy of Andrzej Stasiuk’s Tales of Galicia, its gritty realism a fit­ting companion for the journey into Kraków’s more recent past.

Nowa Huta surprised me. Behind the imposing façades of workers’ housing blocks, I discovered a vibrant literary scene. In a converted steel worker’s club, now a cultural centre, I stumbled upon a lively debate about the role of literature in post-communist Poland. Young poets and novelists argued passionately about tradition and innovation, their words a testament to the enduring power of literature to shape and reflect society.

De Revolutionibus Books&Cafe on Bracka Street opened early, its modern minimalist design a stark contrast to the baroque buildings surrounding it. Its owner explained how they had created a space for contemporary literature while honouring tradition. “We named our­selves after Copernicus’s revolutionary work,” she said, “because books should still revolutionise minds.” The carefully curated selection included works from Kraków’s current literary stars— Magdalena Tulli, Adam Zagajewski, and Witold Szabłowski share shelf space with international authors.

Café Singer, named for Isaac Bashevis Singer, combines a café with a cultural centre. Old sewing machines serve as table bases—a nod to the Singer family’s business. Singer wrote about this very street. In his stories, these buildings spoke Yiddish and traded secrets.

I went around the Main Square to discover Kraków’s contemporary literary pulse. At Ksiegarnia pod Globusem, a bookstore that has stood on the corner of Market Square since 1953, I met young poets who were part of the city’s thriving literary scene. They told me about the Ha!art Founda­tion, which publishes experimental literature, and the Kraków Poetry Salon, where emerging voices share space with established writers.

The Conrad Festival, they explained, has become one of Europe’s premier literary events, attracting writers from around the world to discuss literature’s role in our changing times. Every Oc­tober, the city becomes a living library, with readings and discussions spilling out of formal venues into cafés and bars.

I found my way to the Nowa Prow­incja Café on Bracka Street. The low-lit interior, with its worn wooden tables and local art, felt like a creative sanctu­ary. A young woman scribbled in her notebook—perhaps crafting verses that would one day join the city’s rich poetic tradition. The waiter, noticing my inter­est in the café’s literary history, showed me photographs of famous writers who had sat at these very tables. This used to be the favourite of Szymborska, and it was evident on the walls—portraits of the poet were hung on many of them.

On Maly Rynek, Bonobo Ksiegarnia Kawiarnia repre­sents the new wave of Kraków’s literary culture. The space seamlessly blends bookshop, café, and cultural salon. This morning, young writers clustered around laptops while a poetry translation workshop unfolded in the backroom.

A contemporary poet and activist led the workshop. “Kraków’s literary tradition isn’t just something in muse­ums,” she said during a break. “It’s alive, evolving. Last week we had a couple of new writers reading from their novels. The discussion went on until midnight—just like in the old literary salons, but with different questions, different anxieties.”

Inside the St Mary’s Basilica, the air was heavy with incense and history. It was here Karol Wojtyła, later Pope John Paul II, used to pray before join­ing literary discussions at the nearby Catholic Intellectuals Club. The sun set behind the basilica as I walked towards the Literacka Café at the Pod Baranami Palace. Here, beneath crystal chandeliers, there were countless literary debates that had unfolded within the baroque walls. The waiter told me how Stanislaw Lem used to fre­quent the place, perhaps contemplating his sci­ence fiction masterpieces over a cup of coffee.

In the dusky light, Kraków transformed into a palimpsest of literary memories. Each café table seemed to hold the invisible imprint of books once read here, conver­sations once had, poems once conceived. The city itself became a living library, its streets chapters, its cafés the margins where readers scribbled their thoughts.

As night fell, I made one last stop at the tiny antiquarian bookshop near the Main Square. With his glasses perched on his nose like two full moons, the owner of the shop showed me a first edition of Adam Zagajewski’s poetry. The pages reeked of time and tobacco, and I imagined the hands that had turned them before mine.

With the sun setting, I hurried to my next destination: a small theatre tucked away in a courtyard off Florianska Street. They were staging a play based on Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles. The intimate space was transformed into the dreamlike world of Schulz’s Drohobycz, reality bending and shifting before my eyes. As I watched, I was struck by how Schulz’s words, born in a small Galician town, had found new life here in Kraków, a testament to the universal power of great literature.

After the play, still lost in Schulz’s surreal world, I wandered the streets of the Old Town. The night was alive with the sounds of music and laugh­ter spilling from cafés and bars. On a whim, I ducked into Pijalnia Wódki i Piwa, a no-frills bar that is a favourite haunt of local students and artists. Over shots of zubrówka and plates of pickled herring, I fell into conversa­tion with a group of young writers. Their passion was infectious as they debated the merits of various literary magazines and shared excerpts from works-in-progress. I was reminded that Kraków’s literary tradition is not just a thing of the past, but a living, evolving entity.

As the night thickened, one of my new friends suggested we visit the for­mer home of Stanislaw Lem. Though it was not open to the public, simply standing outside the unassuming build­ing where Lem wrote his visionary works felt like a pilgrimage of sorts. We spoke in hushed tones about Solaris and The Cyberiad, the warm summer night filled with visions of distant planets and philosophical robots.

It was well past midnight when I finally returned to Szymborska’s apart­ment, my head spinning with words and images from the past two days. As I drifted off to sleep in the poet’s room, lines from Szymborska’s poems mingled with snippets of overheard conversations and the rhythmic clatter of tram wheels. In my dreams, Kraków transformed into a vast library, its streets lined with endless shelves of books, each building a chapter in an ever-unfolding story.

Morning came too soon, and with it the realisation that my time in Kraków was drawing to a close. Over breakfast, I pored over my notes, trying to capture the essence of this literary journey. How does one summarise a city like Kraków, where every stone seems steeped in poetry, every café a potential birthplace for the next great Polish novel?

As I packed my bags, I realised that I had barely scratched the surface of Kraków’s literary wealth. I had not visited the Stanislaw Wyspianski Mu­seum, or taken the time to fully explore the city’s many excellent bookshops. I had not traced Milosz’s footsteps through the university quarter or sought out the places mentioned in Slawomir Mrozek’s satirical works.

But perhaps that is the beauty of a literary city like Kraków—it can never be fully explored, never fully known. Like a well-crafted novel, it reveals its secrets slowly, inviting repeated visits, rewarding careful attention. As I headed to the train station, my suitcase heavier with newly acquired books, I was already planning my return. For Kraków, I had discovered, was not just a city to visit, but a story to be continued.

As Adam Zagajewski wrote, “In the end, there are only cities and books.” In Kraków, they are one and the same.

About The Author

Sabin Iqbal

Sabin Iqbal is a journalist, novelist and literary curator. He curates Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters. His third novel, Tales from Qabristan, will be published soon

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