Skip to main content

Cafe Kafka?

The main campus of Warsaw University, where I work, is on a hill, with the Kazimierz Palace overlooking a slope down into a small park. At the base of the park are several terrific bookstore/cafes, where I have already spent a pleasant half-hour drinking amazing cappuccino and playing Othello with my son.

But on Valentine's Day I announced at the Center for East European Studies that my husband was coming to take me to lunch. The largely female staff found us endearing and shooed us out the door. We wandered a bit along Krakowskie Przedmiescie, the main street, but were not tempted by anything we saw. The destination of last resort would have been the bufet in the Old Library building, but we've eaten there several times already, and the day called for a special treat, so we headed down the hill.

Halfway down, just at the point where stone steps go down into the park below the Palace, there was a signboard: Cafe Kafka, with specials of the day listed in chalk.

We looked at each other, and looked around. There was no building anywhere near. Just the signboard, the sidewalk, the stairs down, and the street.

We had to do it. We began to giggle. Where was the Cafe Kafka? and who would be lured -- or more importantly where would they be lured -- by such a signboard?

Finally a young woman came down the hill on the sidewalk, and we gestured and spoke in broken English, or Polish, or something, asking her if she had any ideas. Eventually she shook her head, and smiled when this induced further laughter in us.

What was to be done (in the famous phrase)? We walked down the hill, thinking that we might end up at the bookstore cafe... But then, in a corner of a building some 75 yards down the hill and off to the right, we saw it: the Cafe Kafka.



By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired. 
Franz Kafka 


A great find. We will be back. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Cringeworthy? Really??

It's so sad. I've gotten my first reaction to my new book. Well, second reaction. My sweet husband was brought to tears reading the introduction (possibly because he remembered just how many drafts of each section of the book, and of all the sections left on the cutting room floor, that he had read, and read, and read before). But now I've heard from a potential reader that his Russian friend-in-exile (and more importantly that friend's teenage son) think the title is кринжовый. Ouch. That hurts. Why do we need Russian literature? Do we? My Polish friend wrote to encourage me when she saw my linked in post about the publication and assured me that SHE and all her friends still love Russian literature ... even and despite the fact that Russians sometimes misbehave. (Some Russians more than others, and sometimes not just misbehaving--the world's reaction to the murder of Alexey Navalny in prison is noteworthy and important. We need to hold those responsible in contem...

Personal Sanctions. Second Reactions

On Thursday I fled Denver in the face of what was promising to be an epic snowstorm. (My AirBnB host, who grew up in Michigan, advised that Denver is quick to hit the panic button, but I didn't dare stick around to find out. I needed to be home before Monday!) In the plane, waiting for de-icing, I checked my e-mail and learned that I had been added to a so-called "stop-list" of U.S. citizens who are being personally sanctioned for our attitudes toward the Russian government and its internal and foreign affairs. It's not often that you end up on a list with the head of Lockheed Martin--certainly nothing I ever expected. But then, I also had never thought of myself as a Russophobe, and now that's the label that has been affixed to me by the Russian Federation. I had just been upgraded to first class--apparently not a lot of people were fleeing Denver that morning!--so I did what any Russophobe would do: I ordered a vodka from the flight attendant. An American vodka,...

RIP Randy Nolde

In everyone's life there is a teacher who motivated her to try harder, strive for more, reach beyond. Or in my case, a teacher who teased, goaded, poked, pried, laughed, lampooned, and somehow created an atmosphere where I was ready to work my tail off to make him proud. Randy Nolde, we will miss you. Mr. Nolde was my Russian teacher in high school. I first got to know him as a younger person -- the Russian Club Banquet was quite the event in my home town, and my grandmother used to take us regularly even before my sister enrolled in Russian language class. Every year, the high school cafeteria underwent a magical metamorphosis. Huge murals of scenes from Russia -- fantastic, colorful onion-domed churches, and young peasants reaping wheat, and Armenian maidens with long braids and colorful costumes -- hung all around the edges of the room. On the menu: chicken Kiev made by the cafeteria ladies, supplemented with cafeteria salad, but also khachapuri  and piroshki  made b...