Tourism figures so infrequently into our trip that it is always relaxing when we're able to make time for it. Krakow is for the tourist, so we had to take advantage of the moment and visit it. When the kings of Poland left it to govern from a more central spot (Warsaw) it ceased to grow and change. Luckily from a political standpoint it was not worth destroying. It was so unimportant to the invading forces that it remains much as it was. Before departing we spent a day touring the Wawel (Vah-vehl). It stands on a stone mound by the Vistula lording over the old city.
Behind its fortifications are a Cathedral, the royal residence, the royal treasury, former military buildings and some ruins. Legend tells us that a cave below the castle was home to a voracious dragon noted for carrying off virgins to his cave and eating them. One brave king had a sheep stuffed with sulfur, ignited the beast and fed it to the dragon who upon finishing his meal found himself a little thirsty. Drinking from the river to quench his aforementioned thirst the dragon made an evil cocktail in his stomach and exploded, thus ridding the community its scourge. The dragon wasn't the only problem the people of Krakow faced over time.
When the invading force of the Tartars arrived and took over the city they shot an arrow through the throat of the town crier as he played the song of warning on his horn. To this day the tune remains truncated and sounds as it did that day marking each hour in the old city. The Austrians and Germans had their time in Krakow too, both managing to carry off many of the city's treasures during their occupations. Knowing the legacy of theft, the Poles sent much of the Castle's artwork to Canada just before the first war. When the Soviets demanded its return so they could adorn the Wawel the Canadians balked.
It was not until the 1970's that it all came back and now sits in the museum there. One of the remarkable works that is on display is the \"Last Judgment\" by Bosch, lovely and horrible at the same time. The King's thrown room is worth mention. The ceiling is an enormous wood grail accented with gold leaf. In each of the center squares there are busts of prominent townspeople. Once every indentation in the giant waffle was filled in with a head, now only forty remain. Upon arriving at the castle we began to look for a guide, but the geeks who approached us at the gates of the Wawel made us decide it might be better to see it on our own.
As we looked out upon the river, in earshot of a guide's presentation we realized we wanted to be with this little group. It was a man, a woman and their tour leader. The guide was stylishly dressed, strikingly tan, articulate, concise and interesting. We were reluctant to propose joining the three of them thinking that the couple was British. They turned out to be from North Carolina and were supervising the construction of a Southern Baptist Church in Prague. They'd taken a day off from work and had but 24 hours to see all of Krakow. They graciously invited us to join them and we proceeded to \"do\"
the Wawel. It was an accelerated tour; we booked through the castle and then the cathedral as fast as John and Libba Pruitt could walk. As Izabella the tour guide dragged the Pruitts off to see the other twenty attractions in and around Krakow for what remained of the day we were left to see the rest of the Wawel on our own. We'd noticed a young woman wearing bicycling clothes throughout the day as we had visited the site. Finally mounting the bell tower of the cathedral we approached and met brave Ylva. She'd toured much of Northern Europe on her own, getting as far north as the Lofoten Islands.
Ylva mentioned that her only woe was that she had run out of things to read in English and was on the prowl for new reading material. Her secret to remaining sane was talking to herself. I really admire her tenacity, knowing I'd have difficulty doing such a voyage by myself. Ylva will ride for another two more months before returning to her native Adelaide. Today's ride included another tourist opportunity, the famous [Salt Mine](../../mnt/user-data/uploads/glkrsalt.htm). It stands as the only mine in the UNESCO registry. After having seen it we are not sure why it is a tourist destination. The only really cool part of the exhibit was a church carved into a cavern of salt.
Chandeliers, Mary, Jesus, a bas relief of the last supper and all the other adornments of the place of worship were carved from rock salt. The lighting designer of the attraction took advantage of the translucence of the rock salt, making Christ's sacred heart glow. The mine employed three miners to create all of the sculpture in the Church, paying them only salt miners wages. The underground workers apparently had a lot of time on their hands because they created 26 other chapels and various other sculpture (including more dwarfs than you can imagine). We spent nearly two hours bored to death 100 some odd meters below ground in temperatures hovering around 55 degrees Fahrenheit (14 degrees Centigrade).
We did manage to meet two more cyclists, Monica and Greg. They'd been traveling for a few more months than we had, but only in Europe. Monica commented that she was glad to be going back to the States in a month. She thought she'd appreciated about as much as she could and the rest would better be left for another trip. After a brief lunch in town we hit the road again. Leaving the salt mine village we mounted a hill that made us climb another 100 meters. Climbing would be the theme for the day. Andy had cleverly plotted out a route that would keep us off a nasty four lane highway.
Unfortunately he didn't anticipate how badly the roads were marked and how inadequate our maps were to make such a trip. We missed a turn and ended up hopelessly in the wrong direction. Not being able to correct our navigational error we had to go to the big highway anyway. Andy complained continuously about the error for the remainder of the day. He was very disappointed with our miscalculation which put us some 50 km out of the way and forced us to climb some 500 meters unnecessarily. The big highway turned out to be not-so-bad. It wound through a beautiful river valley and there was a little road on the other bank that gave us 12 km of refuge from the whirring cars.
My head throbbed from lack of food and Andy's crooning about our mistake so I insisted we stop at a roadside motel. Slovakia will have to wait for tomorrow.