From Warsaw with Love

1   |   2   |   Itinerary   |   Home

There is no art in the Modernist bar of the new Sofitel, aside from some mass-produced abstractions. This was once a 1960s Brutalist communist block, hogging one side of the marble parade ground where young soldiers with bayonets guard the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier 24 hours a day. Now a cappuccino will set you back $10, and you can squirm as you listen to an elderly German promising an afternoon of shopping to two sulky 20-year-old Russian escorts. A 10-minute walk away is the pedestrian shopping zone with its boutiques selling Polish designs at $1,000 a frock and its gay-friendly coffee shops with rotating photography exhibitions.

I have walked from my Art Deco hotel, the Rialto, one of two boutique hotels in the city, where the attractive staff are dressed in high-fashion brown uniforms. They are strangely reserved, like the whole place, which is hushed. The austere Kurt Scheller Restaurant and Bar, the most highly praised restaurant in all of Warsaw, with modern cuisine and prices that could be from any city in the world, is deserted every night. That’s partly because this isn’t a tourist destination yet, so the place is empty, aside from a couple of Dutch businessmen in the bar doing deals on cellphones. But I suspect it’s also partly because the Poles are not quite used to luxury yet, to being relaxed with it as we are. They are trying it out, very carefully, like recent graduates in a new job.

Right in front of me is a gleaming glass office building. On its ground floor is a mall that houses the Armani boutique and the Dolce & Gabbana shop. On this Friday afternoon, the shops are silent, the models in black behind the counters staring dully at the empty square. Agata explains to me later: People are making money here, yes, but they are working hard at it, making deals, signing contracts. They haven’t quite got to the level of wealth that creates a class of ladies with nothing to do on a Friday afternoon but shop.

But they do go out on Friday night. In the bars of Mazowiecka Street – in Paparazzi and Labo and Zoo – are the real golden youth of Warsaw. There are queues of taxis and velvet ropes and the sparkling stone facades of a restored 19th-century city. This is Warszawka, and you can see why it irritates people when you consider that a schoolteacher makes about $1,000 a month. A schoolteacher can’t afford to eat in any of the restaurants we’ve been going to, not even once a month. These are the children of industrialists, of entrepreneurs who profited from the collapse of communism by buying contracts worth thousands and exploiting them for millions – stuff that wasn’t exactly illegal but wasn’t properly regulated either.

In Constitution Square, a vast parking lot dominated by superb neo-Deco lampposts, the Stalinist facades are now covered by posters the size of football fields, advertising American movies. This architecture – and, in particular, the Palace of Culture and Science (PKiN) that dominates the skyline, a Chicago-style tower with gaudy ornamentation – is mocked by guidebooks and hated by intellectual Poles, a reminder of communist oppression and hardship. But it’s the kind of thing that will be designated “historical” and protected in 50 years time. And so it should be; it’s fantastically grand, awe-inspiringly stern.

It’s not as if Poles don’t like reminders of misery. In a sense, the whole city is a memorial; almost all of it was built on the ruins of 1945. The communist government chose – surprisingly, I think, given their decidedly unromantic nature – to make as much of it as possible look the way it once was, sorting through the rubble and salvaging a cornice here, half a statue there. Walking through the gorgeous Old Town, with its pastel-walled, frescoed Baroque buildings, you come across historical plaques every few blocks. You might think, Oh, maybe there will be some information about which king built this palace, and you go up close and read, “Thirty citizens were executed by firing squad against this wall in 1944,” which can give you a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach. And there are fresh flowers on each of these memorials. It’s hard to resist the sense that you are walking on an enormous mass grave.

And yet, there is a strange, giddy joy, even among my uncertain hosts. Happiness is, to be honest, hard to explain here. At dusk, when the wind blows down the wide avenues and workers cram onto aged trams to get home to their narrow apartments in concrete blocks, the streets empty and a solitary man in a raincoat walking behind you can make you clench your bag and walk faster.

So here in Szlafr.ok, after midnight, we are sinking into our black velvet banquettes and drinking Mariusz’ dangerous flaming drinks and inhaling the fumes through straws. It’s an elaborate ritual. Marcin, who promotes kitsch disco parties at a club called Aurora, is angry at Agata that she would support the new president, Lech Kaczynski of the Law and Justice Party, a bellicose nationalist. Agata seems to think Kaczynski would improve relations with Russia: “This is the modern world, and you have to forget the past and reach out to your neighbours.” But Kaczynski has done nothing but enrage those powerful neighbours – and he recently embarrassed every hipster in the city by cancelling its first gay pride parade, obviously to placate the Catholic Church. There are sighs around the table. It may be a cool place in parts, but it’s not exactly Berlin yet.

Everybody here, it must be said, is thinking of leaving. Why wouldn’t you if you were 26 and spoke perfect English and had a European passport? The world demands exploration. Marcin has already tried Spain; he may go back. Mariusz might leave to run a bar in the Canary Islands. In the meantime, he is asking Ania to get us more drinks. Ania is not terribly happy about this. The bar should be closed by this time; we are the only guests left, and we are not even paying. She throws down her apron and leaves. The manager shrugs: We will calm her down tomorrow. In the meantime, Mariusz is going behind the bar himself. No need to leave yet. “This drink called Mad Dog,” announces Mariusz. “You drink one shot, like this.” The Mad Dog is vodka and Tabasco sauce. It burns. I feel very present in this moment. The electronic music makes my head spin; the velvet feels black to the touch. I think everyone should stay. 

>> Where to Stay, Where to Eat, What to Do

Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net

1   |   2   |   Itinerary   |   Home