RETURN AND FAREWELL TO SLOVENIA

Bye Bye Slovenia.
It's your countryside I'm drawn to; your capital city I love to play in. There's a special kind of magic here; I don't doubt it at least, though I talk to one man that is sceptical of my meanderings about it. In my final hours of busking on my favourite bridge, this stranger interrupts me to talk a while. He retorts to my declarations of love for Ljubljana with "Oh, small countries are like small dogs! They always want attention! People always want to know what you think of their cute little country and then feel inflated with nationalistic pride when you say you love it - it's no better than certain villages in Austria!'"

It was an interesting conversation nonetheless, and as I'd made enough money for my bus to the airport I was happy to let him do the talking. Nothing could change my love for this place...

I arrived from Prague on Saturday night at around 9 p.m after a massive few train journeys, and after a quick shower it's straight to Metelkova Mesto I go, the Haight-Ashbury of Eastern Europe, or at least Slovenia so they say. A man I met there a month ago (has it been that long??) is doing a fire show that night that I want to see. It's raining as usual. There are plenty of puddles to dodge - it feels like I've come home almost!

Seems I've returned at the right time anyway, as it's the 13th anniversary of the existence of this squat turned fully-functioning-city-based-artistic-community and there are loads of innovative performances going on. In 'Gala Yala' (forgive me for forgetting the name of this bar...) a six or seven piece named 'The Stroj' is playing. I've never seen anything like it; all band members have hand made industrial instruments, trumpets made from pipes, huge metal drums and sheets of metal that make the most amazing sounds. They play a kind of organic drum and bass which gets me happily shaking my travel weary booty til the band is spent and their set is done.

Fire blazes and is spun into breath, and goes out again as the gathered crowd applauds and disperses. I watch Bhak's fire show with all the rest; the stink of kero an inseperable part of such magic. It's good to see him again. Later, we drive in the early hours to get pizza from one of the infamous greasy late night joints, and eat with the rain blurring our vision. He decides to come to Bled with me tomorrow, so we each busk seperately for petrol and holiday money.. I love this life... I'm on my favourite bridge and he sets up on the busy Cestova Ulica (main walking street) and all is well.

Ahh, the bridge, the bridge... the rain has stopped, it's Sunday market day, happy passer by weekend, and also a smiling baby contest judging from the looks in the many prams wheeling past me. Police only smile and nod 'Dober Dan' when they walk past, if at all - a far cry from officials in the Czech Republic! I make good money and go to collect my beautiful friend. His didj and drum echo down the street, drawing people ever closer to his magic hat, black and velvet and tall and hungry in the faint sun... but though the rain has stopped the clouds are gathering again, so it's on we go...

Our sense of direction hasn't improved a bit since we last met. Bled is only an hour way, though it seems to take us twice that amount of time for some reason after a lot of map checking and retracing of tyre tracks. It's too rainy to camp, so we circle the beautiful lake two or three times searching for the villa that will be ours for a couple of days.

It takes us a while, but we find it via a local named 'Buyan' (I remember his name as it sounds remarkably similar to Bouillon) who lets us stay for free in an old house he's done up for tourists, in exchange for a few hours of painting the next day (not done by me). Oh, to have a home for the night - it's shelter from the near-storm, it's a lovely nest with a window in its slanted roof, it's our new makeshift home, so we put the billy (jug) on the boil, hang out our wet clothes and sink into Sunday night...

Lake Bled isn't really a place to busk; I go looking for the centre of 'town', walk the wrong way (as usual) and find only apple trees upon narrow country roads... and also! a familiar smiling brown pixie face calling to me from a window; seems Jah guidance has led me to the house Bhak is painting, ha ha ha. He finishes his work; there's a beautiful castle upon a hill to explore. We don't go in but later climb some rocks at the back and gaze down at the vista below. There's a lake, blue and still. A green island in the middle with a church on top. Tiny boats ferrying people back and forth to it, while seagulls soar overhead. A new kind of peace in the air... I feel it's here I find the peace I knew I was lacking...

We drive back to Ljubljana two days later; I get a hostel for a night and Bhak heads to the streets again to make money for his onward journey. We say goodbye on a busy street; a swift and formal goodbye, no need for too many words though I wonder if I'd like a few more. As he picks up his drum again I realise there's nowhere for me to go but... ON. So I walk to a nearby park, sit for a while, wonder helplessly at the endless goodbyes of the traveller and the tugs of attachment. However, I don't reflect too long; the sun is out (hooray!) and everyone around me is smiling. I get up, cast off imagined sorrow and make for the bridge. It's waiting for me...

A few thousand tolas later (1 Euro = 238 tola) I spy a familiar face cycling towards me through the 'crowds'. It's Padma! a rasta girl I met in Rishikesh, India - of all the places! She tells me of her travels since then, of playing in fields with our friends Nico and Sam in England, and I plan to meet her at Metelkova later. That night they are playing 'Yellow Submarine' for free, and after this we are all so tired we just swap a bit of news and hug hello and goodnight once more. I have to prepare to leave this place the next day so I welcome the early-ish night...

It's during my final busk outside of the U.K for the year, the same one where I have the conversation about Slovenia being a small dog, that I also run into my new friend Igor. He's a painter that often sells on the same bridge I sing on, and also has the special significance of being the first person I met in Ljubljana, first time around. NOW, here he is again, cute son in hand, and I have my final Ljubljana converstion with him, promising to email and hopefully (hopefully!) be back next summer... it's a nice way to round things off - how I love this life's symmetry...

I've just finished a draft of this at the airport when a stranger smiles at me and asks how business has gone today. Seems I've been spotted again! We speak for a while about the joys of busking before our boarding calls are announced and then it's on to our planes we go; another fleeting conversation never to be had again, and a final goodbye to Slovenia... I despair not however; I will be in Edinburgh in the morning and in the presence of many a special Scottish soul, so Im not too worried...

VIENNA

It´s strange to come to a place and not busk in it. I´ve become so used to lugging my guitar out pretty much immediately after checking into a place that to not do so feels slightly out of order

However, I have less than 24 hours here, and due to gettin paid for my recent 'Prague gigs' (!) I don't the money so much. As well as this, I know that busking in Vienna is heavily policed. Perhaps next time...

One day in this city is nowhere near enough. It´s beautiful, swathed in grand buildings and decadence, and also verrrry expensive. I visit the Stephansdom cathedral first, it´s just so damn good-lookin', religious stone carvings everywhere I look... A truly holy place even when filled to the brim with tour groups, it takes me a while to walk around its immense interior, and even longer to stroll around outside - that's despite the aroma of horse manure emanating from the exhausts of the most touristic form of transport - horse and carriages...

My favourite part of the day is visiting the KunstHausWien, a museum dedicated to the work of Friedensreich Hundertwasser. He´s incredible; it´s very rare that I pay to go into museums and nine Euro´s seems excessive due the usual busker's budget (oh, to do this next year without financial constraints...), but I´m sold when I realise the man lived much of his later life in New Zealand, falling in love with the country and dying on the Pacific Ocean there... don't know I missed out on hearing about him before, guess my ears were pretty closed to the world of amazing art!

His work is certianly amazing, so bright and unconventional and humorous!! Very Gaudi-esque, he was also commisioned to transform some old buildings in Vienna which have become famously known as ´Hundertwasserhaus´ - all uneven floors, trees growing out of the roof, coloured tiles and curvaceous balconies... it´s off-limits to the public as people still reside there, but I go and look from the outside and marvel at this man who did so much for aesthetics.

I catch the tram all the way to the famous cemetary on the edge of town where Mozart was buried in a pauper´s grave only to find that it´s closed... and that´s about all I have time for this time around, given my absolute exhaustion after three hours of sleep the night before. Despite all that there is left to see and experience in wonderful Vienna, I´m happy to collapse into bed by ten p.m and dream of my return to Ljubljana tomorrow...

FROM PRAGUE TO... PRAGUE! - THE LAST OF MY CZECH BUSKING EXPERIENCES...

From the few excursions I've had and the people I've spoken to, I've learnt that busking without a license is pretty much illegal in central Prague. But what to do? I have to earn my living, after all! And as I've not as of yet recieved a warning, I go out to my spot just across the Charles Bridge to sing for my next meal...

It's a wonderful experience. There's a bunch of rowdy guys hanging around the kebab shop near to where I play... when I see them gesturing wildly to each other it dawns on me that they're deaf, small factor which doesn't prevent ALL of them putting coins in my case despite my gestures not to. It's a beautiful thing... they all gets photos with me and stand around for a while, dancing to rhythms only they can sense. It's almost as if they can get something out of it anyway, that it's more of an energetic thing for them. Time abounds and they move on, I mouth 'Ahoi!' to them and wave wildly and then the street quietens...

There's a man in blue in the distance... 'here comes my warning' says my instinct with a sinking feeling. Sure enough, a policeman approaches as I sing a slow song. The fact that I close my eyes and pretend to be lost in my song makes no difference; he just givces a little cough and waits for me to resurface. He's very nice about it though - just tells me I need permission and that if I'm seen again I will get fined. A little bit of courtesy goes a long way, I think to myself as I pack up reluctantly. I don't mind being given the shove away as along as it's friendly enough, so it's on I go... to climb a hill, to write some songs, to meet a local girl who sings me ballads in Czech. What a lovely day in the sun it turns out to be, and I end it in a cave like little club, propping up the bar with an Irishman and a dreadlocked poet singing harmonies til closing time...

Prague, it's been grand but it's time to move on - perhaps to a place where I can earn my keep a little easier. The bus to Cesky Krumlov seems long, although three hours later we arrive to another beautiful heritage town, much more peaceful than the grand old capital. Upon finding a hostel I make for the town square straight away - it's just gone 5 p.m and there are still a few people milling about, as well as three English fella's preparing to drink the night away at a nearby restaurant. They turn out to be my best audience yet - requesting songs across the courtyard, ordering an orange juice for me which is brought over by a smiling waitress in traditional dress, yelling out encouragement after every song - I feel like a V.I.P!

Today must be one of my favourite busking experiences I think. Various tour groups all take countless photos of me, this oddity sitting near the central fountain and singing while the town bells toll. It's a great scene for an hour or more, before two policemen get in their car and DRIVE past me (they could have walked - it's a tiny square!) and give me a knowing frown. Perhaps they were too uncomfortable walking across the `stage´, with so many tourists watching before their own buses left port. Anyway, it seems busking isn't really a done thing perhaps anywhere in this country, so there's not a lot I can do next but go over to the English guy's table and help them drink some rather delectable wine.

I'm playing for them some more when I feel myself being watched by a couple of smartly dressed looking men, who seem to be having a small conference about me and smiling. Upon finishing my song, the elder of them approaches me and hands me a business, inviting me for dinner in the cellar restaurant even... what a luxurious night it´s turning out to be. So I go down to this beautiful cavern like restaurant, the caves originally used as an escape route from fires in the eleventh century, and I´m asked what I will eat.

To cut a long story short, the man who offered me his card is something of a living legened in the Czech Republic. He owns three swanky hotels in the country, and invites me back to Prague to sing in one of them; all food and accomodation taken care of. The English guys, who have come downstairs to join us as well, know who he is and whisper to me not to miss an opportunity like this. My new`boss´ of the moment, this man was exiled from his country after the Second World War by Russians that came into power in Czechoslovakia, and basically started his life again in Sweden, saving himself from bankruptcy many times over. Now possibly one of the wealthiest men from his country, he returned to Czech after the fall of comunism to help many of his old friends living in poverty. I believe he is a truly great man; the more time I spend with him I realise how lucky I am to have this experience.

So there´ll be no more busking in the Czech Republic for me I think! We drive back to Prague the next day, after I spend less than 24 hours in the beautiful town of Cesky Krumlov (though I do manage to go to the wonderful vegetarian restaurant there, one of the best I´ve ever been to.. highly recommended though I cannae remember the name, sorry). I´m put up in a lovely clean fluffy pillowed room on the seventh floor, a luxury unusual to me athough I do my best to enjoy it as much as possible. That night begins the first of my performances in the lobby bar, and I must say I prefer busking, as nobody in the bar seems to respond very much. Oh sure, there are a couple of good moments later on in the evenings when liquor has helped to lower social barriers, when a few punters sing along with ´Help!´ and ´With a Little Help From My Friends´ with me. Mostly though, I´m playing for myself.

I do get some good feedback but it seems this is a world away from the street. So used to staying in sometimes really skanky hostels, it takes me a while to adjust to such luxury - though don´t think I am complaining. Buffet breakfasts, a choice of three restaurants, bar staff constantly asking me what I am drinking - one could get used to this so eaily... though I do feel kind of lonely as well, and plan to visit my friends in ´La Cave´ in town. This never happens however, as on my last night just as I am planning to go, I end up drinking the night away with an Irish and English man - some great craic, loads of laughs and I end up sleeping for three hours before my alarm tells me I have to get ready to catch my bus to Vienna. Four days of singing in the bar has left me only a few days left in Europe; it´s been a great experience and I´m almost tempted to stay, but it´s time to move on.. to Vienna for a night, then back to beloved Ljubljana for some fire performance action...

CHARLES BRIDGE, PRAGUE

Thursday, 7 September.
The full moon shrouds itself in clouds. I sit on the concrete pavement alongside many others, knees hunched to make a table for my musings, eyes adrift in dreams. We are silenced by a lone guitarist, playing by a candlelight that flickers but never gives out in the mild breeze.

She's incredibly, wonderfully talented; serene in the Prague night. I wonder where she's from, and how she manages to somehow never miss a note. She plays such intricate pieces, still managing to look up and smile at the little child staring up at her. He gets too close to the candle at one stage, just as mesmerised as me, and she stops for a few seconds to make sure he doesn't burn himself on the magic.

I marvel at her apparent lack of ego; her total musicianship, and realise how much I still need to learn. It's great though. I could sit all night and listen, except i didn't bring a cushion with me and am currently sitting on my wallet after hearing too many tales of pickpockets in this city...

Charles Bridge is wonderful tonight, just Marama / Chandra / a big luminous moon in the sky casting her spell over all of us however aware or unaware of it we may be. The statues lining the bridge cast shadows in the extra light given by lamps, and seagulls circle in small flocks above their bronze haloed heads.

Ahh, she plays Spanish Caravan... how many layers this song has! I never noticed before. There's a guy momentarily blocking my view, but as he's wearing a 'Ministry of Silly Walks' t-shirt I forgive him. Ahh, the simple pleasures... I'm just content to sit with my back up against this ancient bridge, feeling so wonderfully small, one of thousands that walk the cobbles every day. I'm amazed by Prague, and though the bridge is scattered with buskers night and day, tonight it's this woman alone that I'm silenced by...

PRAGUE - CZECH IT OUT...

Despite all the tales of pickpocketing and bursting-at-the-seams tourism I have heard over the past few years, Prague is STILL more beautiful and magickal than I could ever have imagined. Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that I've managed to miss the high season, which I'm glad for; it's early September, and the old town still bubbles with human traffic and tour groups so amazed by the cities grandeur that they bump into each other at every corner and are generally all over the place. But wow, these buildings! I've just never seen an old city so majestic, so gothic, so regal... When I finally manage to pull my jaws together, blown away by the aesthethics of the place, I decide it's time to try to work with music in this city.

It's kind of illegal to busk on Charles Bridge without a license, but I cannae resist it! It's too darn pretty - gothic statues casting shadows on the cobbles, Vlatra river in either direction and a certain kind of peace in the air. However, one and a half songs in I'm stopped by a plain clothed bridge inspector kind of guy and because I don't plan on getting my guitar confiscated I don't need to be told twice. I clear off, about one Euro richer (30 kroner?) and find a place across the bridge where the cobbled streets are just wide enough to sit and watch from.

Not too long into my swing of things, two young kids pass by laughing and throw some 'magic game' cards into Stella's case. I can't say I've ever been given game cards as a tip before - but my message of the day? 'Victory favours neither the righteous or the wicked, it favours the prepared.' Woahhh! Deep, man...

Suddenly there is someone in front of me, smoking a cigarette with a guitar on his back. His name is Tomas, he's 18 and is killing time in between English lessons As I see him a few times this day, I realise these breaks last for ten minutes at a stretch, in which he proceeds to empty his wallet for me, more than once, pass by a few times to introduce me to friends and play a tune or two on my guitar before his teacher calls him on his mobile to tell him to get to class!

I meet Russell from Manchester, he stands and watches for a while before I hand him the guitar and he plays a beautiful self-penned song, all about dreams and silver linings the only lyrics I remember... we make plans to go for lunch when I finish, but unfortunately I end up leaving early as I don't like the vibe of a certain local beer-swilling busker. He and his Polish friend Pawel are sprawled out listening on the sidewalk and the rapport is good initially, I even play 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' for them due to not knowing any other kind of punk song to play, but when the local guy begins to get too friendly, and then abusive, I realise it's time for me to 'chalo'. Poor Pawel, he is ashamed of his Czech friend. He hands me a flier for the band both bogans play in - it is advertising a gig that a lot of similarly styled bands are playing at - the style in question? 'Polish alco / grind / noise chaos'. He he he.

All is well however. I feel very safe on the streets, always playing in places where there are many people, very few of whom would dare come too close to me. These kind of minor incidents are extremely rare and actually teach me a lot. Back in Paris, down at Sacre Couer I remember watching a Spanish belly dancer do her thing in front of many a leering local. Tougher than she looked, she had a way of keeping anyone untoward at bay, and while I suppose there is always an element of risk accosiated with busking, the joys always far outwiegh any minor issues. I leave in the end with about 800 Czech crowns in my pocket (25-30 Euro?) and walk my guitar back to the hostel marvelling at the beauty all around me, an aestethic eye-fest so austere it manages to dissapear any negative thoughts...

LAST BUSK IN KRAKOW

One final busk on Florianska Ulca before I leave this lovely city for good... there are a few people I want to say goodbye to.

Anita and Claudia, my waitress friends, are out armed with their menu's; they are such lovely girls and I'll miss playing for them every night. I get their email addresses and tell them I'll try to visit them next year - though we all hope they will have moved onto bigger and better things than this, a dreaded job they dislike but do rather well at.

Andre, the gentle Polish giant who requested Janis Joplin a few days back rocks up and introduces me to his girlfriend. The two of them are carrying a box with a sign attached asking passers by for money - I don't ask why and they don't ask me for anything either, we just say hello and goodbye and smile before they move on again. There's a lot of this on the streets actually, and although some of it is just a scam, so much of it is real.. old men hold out bunches of wilting flowers for sale with shaking hands... scarved women bend over their begging bowls, foreheads to the concrete... and then on the other side of the coin, friends of Andre's wait outside the supermarket and ask people for spare change for their Friday night out on the piss...

It gets cold and I stop busking at around 7.30 p.m. to meet Jannah and Scooter for a final Greenway samosa, bidding farewell to this street I've loved to play on. There's a barbeque at my hostel that night, and I play guitar again there, despite the piles of meat that sit grossing me out on the table. Good salads though - and who says 'you can't win friends with salad'?!

My train to Prague breaks down the next day and is delayed for two hours, and I write this latest offering in the silent space between countries, in the zone where nothing can be done but wait and reflect on what has passed and what may come... I meet such good people on the train though, Rahul and Rishi from England (we talk about India and good vegetarian restaurants), Paul from Sydney as well as an American / Polish-Canadian couple that teach English all over the world and thus, I don't mind the delay. It does mean that I get to Prague at midnight however, which is kind of not good; just another factor one just has to deal with in these crazy travelling times...

Let me see what the streets of this new city shall bring...

ZAKOPANE, POLANDSKI

I feel so at home in this country. I end up spending a glorious week in Krakow, eating and drinking like a queen, singing from 5 p.m. onwards on Florianska ulca, watching Anita and Claudia try to get people to eat at their bosses restaurant. They are two girls I met early on in the piece, I see them every day and they request songs from me in between talking Deutsch, Polish and English to various tourists, and life is good, it really is... I don't feel like a visitor here at all and it proves pretty hard to leave.

However, as time is passing I decide to make for the mountains with two cool girls from our hostel Momotown; Jannah (from Leeds) and Scooter (Boston). We bus to the slopes of Zakopane, and as our coach winds past the Tatra mountains outside the windows I fall more and more in love with this beautiful country - it's A-framed houses all quaint in the beautiful countryside, Tatra's towering behind like gods...

The market place in Zakopane is just as beautiful, a long cobbled / paved street dotted with restaurants, local sheeps' cheese stalls and small booths selling bread. Although being a kind of a ski resort, with a high season that comes at a much colder time, it's still busy here in a nicely manageable kind of way. I take Stella out to play straight away; it's 5 p.m on a Sunday afternoon / evening but business is good nevertheless. People pass by much more slowly here than in Krakow, and seem to have much more time to stop and talk. I meet Alan first, he's Polish but has lived in Melbourne for 25 years and is overjoyed to be back in the land he will always call home, so close to these beautiful mountains... He becomes my angel for the day when he presents me with some eucalyptus lozenges from Australia; a good thing as my throat has been a bit rough of late, I think due to the colder weather.

Then there's Jan, tall, blue eyed and Polish... shaggy hair falls in his artists eyes as he lopes across to say hi. He searches through his bag for something other than money to give to me, and comes across his sketch book, out of which he tears his latest drawing. It's kind of a Dali-esque, ballpoint-penned piece, very surreal anyways, and he tucks it into my case after I insist he signs it -which he does by lighting a match and simply printing 'J A N' on the back with the burned out stick.

One woman comes across wielding a ten Zloty note and, rather than throwing it into my case, she actually posts it through the soundhole in my guitar! It's one way to ensure I remember what the Polish currency looks like I suppose, as there's no way I can retrieve it without a complete string change. Ha ha! It reminds me of the time this happened in Christchurch, New Zealand years ago, where a child posted a coin in my guitar and I felt like quite the jukebox. A Polish girl in our room tells us later that minimum wage in Poland is about 3 1/2 Zloty an hour - less than one Euro! So after I hear this it puts my earnings into perspective and I am amazed and even a little bit concerned whenever I get a coin larger than 2 Zloty.

Back in the marketplace, Jannah and Scooter pass by... they are such cool ladies... we go for an amazing meal (pizza and pierogi's) where a Polish quartet sing and fiddle away on their violins / viola's and little children throw coins in the wishing well running through the restaurant. We're joined by Edoardo, the friendliest Italian I've ever met, and we make a plan to cook together the following night. It turns into quite the hostel event, with pasta, salad, peaches and cream and wine for about 7 people all of different nationalities; I suppose we are one of the only youth hostels in town. Smaller towns like this always seem to bring out a different kind of solidarity between travellers and I like it. It reminds me of Clifden (Ireland) in a way, where a bunch of people from our hostel sat around and sang acapella songs before going out to see a band. Here in this hostel in Zakopane I bring out the guitar and we all sing together for a while as well. It's so nice.

However, when our bus pulls back into Krakow two days later all three of us ladies are happy to be back to the place that feels most like home at the moment. Although I'm off to Prague the following day, the others have a couple of days left to further explore the museums, synagogues, and vodka distilleries of this great city.

KRAKOWSKI, POLANDSKI

I love the Polish habit of addiing 'ski' onto nearly everything... I find out just exactly how widespread this habit is as soon as I arrive to my hostel; within an hour I find myself being asked 'Sharonski, would you likeski some vodski?' and wellski, how can I say no-ski?
(Actually it was a Glaswegian guy that asked me this, so obviously it's a thing travellers latch onto... anyway, the vodka was much appreciated I must say, think I must have Polish blood...). It's a great welcome to the country, almost a rite of initiation, even if I have been planning on detoxing rather than partying here. Wrong choice of city for that, girl!

Krakow really is my kind of place. Not as big as London, Budapest or Paris, but not so small that there's nothing going on - in fact, it FEELS like it's about the same same size as Edinburgh, so it's no wonder I like it so much...

I'm struck by its beauty as soon as I arrive from Bratislava at 9 p.m on a Sunday. I walk to Rynek Glowny gazing at all the beautiful architecture towering around and above me. The first hostel I stay at (before moving to MomoTown in Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter) is situated in this huge and majestic square filled with buskers and human statues by day, so it's here I venture first thing the follwoing morning after sleeping off the effects of some very good Polish vodski and eating a very good breakfast at one of the many 'wegetarianski' restaurants in town (hoorayski!)

Busking here feels strange to begin with. Usually a big square is a great place to begin busking, but here, both tourists and locals are passing by too fast to stop or even look in my direction and I find myself expending a lot of energy just trying to be heard. Thus begins a bit of a 'stop start' busking session - I end up playing a few songs in different locations around the square and surrounding streets for a few meagre coins, always moving on in search of an ever-elusive peaceful place to play.

Four spots on it's still eluding me, although I do find myself being recorded by a smartly dressed woman who's waving a big red microphone in my face. Turns out she works for local radio, and after she's recorded me singing a Simon and Garfunkel song (the beautiful 'Kathy's Song') she asks me my favourite thing about Krakow. Unfortunately, I've only been here since last night and have only seen the square, so that's all I can say - it doesn't feel right somehow to say my favourite thing about her city is vodka, this being the only other Polish thing I've experienced at this point. Anyway, she records me singing another song and then bids me farewell after her partner in crime takes a photo of the scene.

I give up busking in the day time as it seems there's really nothin' doin'. Night time proves to be much more successful, and I play on the famous Florianska street. I move around a bit, but mostly I deposit myself beneath an archway with gorgeous acoustics. My first evening venture goes well, but unfortunalty after this it happens to be raining whenever I go out, so my busking sessions are a bit ad hoc.

One rainy evening I'm singing away beneath the arch as it's the only shelter around, when I'm asked by a tall dude in black jeans, a hoody and a Metallica shirt if I know any Janis Joplin. I sing 'Mercedez Benz' for him and his friends; I love this song and have actually never thought to busk with it, but he loves it, so I play 'Nothing Else Matters' for him just to finish off. The two girls he's hanging out with request Nirvana so we have a good little singalong before it finally gets too cold for me to carry on playing. My fingers near frozen, I begin the walk home about thirty Zloty richer - not enough for a hostel bed but enough for a few good vegie meals, so I'm satisfied.

As I sit writing this today, it is actually wonderful and sunny outside, so perhaps tonight (a Friday!) I'll have more success on Florianska ulca... Whatever the success of my busking pursuits, I know that I love Krakow - the wonderful district of Kazimierz with its bohemian bars in which a new friend and I proceed to drink vodski until closing time, and its shanti crumbling streets exemplifying the quiet pace of this small city. It's in one of these bars that I hear about the death of Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, and I just won't believe it at first, mostly I think because I feel I'm in such a distant world, almost an unreal kind of place where real life doesn't intrude. It makes me wonder what's happening in my part of the world; a factor which I must admit hasn't occupied me much lately.

I decide to stay another couple of days and release my expectations of having much of a busking income - in such a poor country that has been so pillaged in so many ways, this seems a fair enough sacrifice. As I stay here longer I fall in love with the Polish friendliness and ability to simply get on with things despite all that these beautiful lands have suffered. One gloomy day I visit Auschwitz; an intensely moving experience to say the least and come back into town kind of silent... sombre... wondering how such a thing could actually have happened in such a place.

It's unfortunate I haven't given myself enough timeski to visit the rest of Poland. I do feel like it's a place I'll be back to though; I will eventually be spending at least a week in Krakow alone, but I am happy with this decision as it's just too good a city to try and rush.