7am in Kraków is calm before commotion. The crisp morning air is chilly, contrasting with the warm morning sun. As I catch my breath, I realise that I just made it in time.
Vendors are already set up in Rynek Glówny, the town square. There is a sense of urgency as Easter is just around the corner. I can smell the delicious aroma of obwarzanek Krakówski, braided bread rings, wafting across the square. My stomach is begging for breakfast, but I don’t want to miss this. Around me, market stalls are filled with Easter goods. Locals keen to beat the rush are already purchasing cards, flowers, decorative wooden eggs, chocolates and colourful Easter palms. Easter is an important celebration, no expenses are spared. Tourists are starting to shop for wooden musical boxes and amber jewellery as souvenirs. They stand out amongst the locals who are focused on their Easter preparations. I see a long queue of women forming outside St Mary’s Basilica holding beautiful baskets lined with delicate lace, filled with a sample of their Easter food, patiently waiting to have it blessed by the priest.
But this is not why I rushed here. I am facing St Mary’s but more specifically at the bugle call tower. At the very top, I can see a small window opening. I smile because I had thought it might not be true and I am comforted that there is still such humanity in a world that can at times feel lonely. The sun hits a golden trumpet that emerges from the window. An enchanting melody then commands stillness. The moment so perfect it takes my breath away. Finally, the trumpeter stretches out his arm with an exaggerated wave. I wave back, my heart ever so full. I wonder if he can tell what I haven’t admitted yet. He then repeats this in the windows facing east, south and west, each equally touching as the last. I have just witnessed the 7am Hejnał Mariacki or the trumpet call in English.
The call is performed at every hour every day. What was once a warning call against foreign invaders is now a warm welcome to outsiders like me. Originating in the 14th century, this call has now become a beautiful tradition undertaken by the fire brigade. Poland’s history casts a dark shadow but its beauty and rich culture is brighter. In that moment I am so thankful to see Poland for what it truly is. The horses pulling carriages filled with tourists are trotting over the cobblestones and the crowd is steadily growing but I am still in the moment. I feel so connected to the trumpeter, a stranger who has just unknowingly cheered me up. I wonder how many other people smile because of him, what their stories are and what brought them to the trumpet call. But mostly I wonder about the trumpeter’s own story and who makes him smile.
What a perfect time to be in Poland.
Marie-Eve is a Québecoise living in New Zealand and works as a nursery teacher. She has previously published in Montréal Writes, Quail Bell, LitBreak Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Afterpast Review, The Amazine, Hungry Zine, Juste Milieu Zine, Scraps Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Elixir Magazine and Honeyguide.
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