Krakow Melt (13 page)

“Yes, Augustyna, this is known as
parkour
, a vicious extreme sport born in the suburbs of France and now running rampant across Poland. By all accounts, these homosexuals are quite athletic, but parkour is evidently not made for high heels.”

“Ha, ha. Have a happy
mingus Dyngus, Piotr, but please stay inside. You wouldn’t want to get wet.”

“We’ll see you all tomorrow night.”

TV Polska 2
jingle

MUSTH

For the first time in my life, I was actually hoping to see the police.

Dorota and I were walking through the streets of Kraków on a day almost like any other, slurping from a shared
mi
ty czekoladowe
ice cream cone. But there were subtle differences: that day, the sun was blocked by a giant rainbow flag, and we were marching with a few hundred queers who were either half-naked or wearing extravagant costumes. Except for me in my navy overalls, it was Pantone overload. We were happy to give the March of Tolerance some legs, but angry not to see any cops there to protect us.

We marched behind a truck-sized banner that said NIE LEKAJCIE SIE. To get this made, we were told, the organizers had to commission a discreet printing service, one that had specialized in samizdat during Communist rule. (As you can see, they forgot the accents.)

We had no floats. This was, after all, an illegal parade. Lech Kaczy
ski, mayor of Warsaw and leader of the Law and Justice Party, had been the first to ban a Polish pride parade. When angry Warsaw homos demanded an audience with him, he said he “refused to meet with perverts.” That’s okay with me. I wouldn’t want to meet with Lech, either, because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from play-wrestling him to the ground and writing my name on his forehead. I have no problem being called a “pervert,” but if anyone’s going to violate my right to assemble, I want them to know exactly who they’re fucking with.

Unfortunately, Lech’s institutionalized hatred caught on, and it was no container of cherries.

Conversation gradually broke off as we left Universytet Jagiello
ski and marched through the Stare Miasto. Chanting took over:

Nie l
kajcie si

Nie l
kajcie si

Kraków is a small town with ancient ideas. You can feel ridiculous shouting slogans to a garlic peddler sweeping the dust off her square of sidewalk, even though you know she’s part of the problem. Not joining the parade, we’re told, is her crime.

Nie l
kajcie si

Nie l
kajcie si