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Subterranean Jazz Club

So I made it to Poland, and have time for a couple of nights out on the town before my Polish classes begin…

The jazz scene in Krakow, apparently, is nothing to sneeze at. I didn’t even think I had a good nose for underground jazz clubs, but I walked into one of many of Krakow’s alleyways marked with a “jazz” sign. Descending the steps into the basement, I reached a tunnel shaped like a brick-encased subway, with a bar and broad oak tables. Up front was a three piece jazz band, playing some standards. Upright bass, keyboards, and drums. A picture would be worth a thousand words, but as I didn’t have my camera, I have license to ramble.

Since I liked the looks of the place, I ordered a beer, which is not something you can just decide to do on the spot because Polish beers come in half liter portions. More of a “commitment” than a “drink.” The wooden tables gave this a real communal feel. I inevitably ended up chatting with neighbors; some teachers from Norway leading a class on “conflict”; a couple on honeymoon touring through the cold countries of Europe, making stops at key romantic locations such as Auschwitz.

The music was a perfect backdrop, though every now and then I marveled at their authoritative execution of some familiar jazz standards- Perdido, All the Things You Are, Night in Tunisia. The lead singer announced in his very best English, “We are now taking set break. We will leave stage. Another set will be following. You will know when our next set is beginning because we will be on stage.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was testing his range of English communication, or if he just had a very dry sense of humor. This matter wasn’t really cleared up after they returned to the stage and played another song. “We are now back on the stage. Our second set has now begun,” he told us.

I made it through this set. On the way out, I saw the band sitting around a table, and wanted to make sure they knew they were appreciated. My slippery command of Polish allowed me just one word. “Dobry,” I exclaimed to them. “Dobry! Perdido, night in Tunisia, Dobry!”

There was absolutely no reaction to this. Not even an appreciative nod.

On the way out, I reflected on this attempted communication, and tried to put myself in their shoes. What if I had just finished playing a set at a local coffeehouse, and someone from another land who was a foot taller than me stood over me at the stage. “GOOD!” “GOOD!” he exclaims in my face. I would either laugh, or run. These Polish musicians were far more polite.



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