Warsaw does not care about you.
Poland’s capital isn’t trying to charm, which only makes it more interesting
In November, Warsaw, like the rest of northern Europe, slips into its starchy season. During these shorter days, the concrete takes on a tungsten-balanced glow – Warsaw is morphing into a curious mix. It’s part socialist-core austerity, but more and more becoming a North American-style high-rise canopy with office lights flickering. The neon adds a hint of cyberpunk mischief, softened by the pre-war neoclassical grace that still clings to the edges.
It’s growing faster and taller than its peers. It’s also a little more feral. But the real intrigue lies in the parts built for living, not for looking. Two nights aren’t enough to pin it down, but first impressions still count.
Warsaw’s sweeping, wide streets are somewhat frayed, a little uncurated and unbothered. That indifference exudes a cool the city doesn’t realise it has. There’s momentum here, freshly-painted bike paths and the hum of a booming economy, yet the city is perfectly content with its “we’re still figuring this out” mindset.
On our first night, after a five-hour train ride from Berlin, we went straight for pierogi. Head to the Old Town, the travel blogs said, but we felt this was a bad idea; wherever you are, it usually means ending up in restaurants with laminated menus translated into four or five languages. So we trawled Google Maps, a spot called Przegryź, rating 4.4, on Mokotowska, an art-nouveau thoroughfare with an elegance earned by time and the quiet sense that history has brushed past it more than once.
Nonsensical comic-book art hanging on the walls, offbeat furnishings and a spiral staircase leading down to a checkered tile restaurant floor made me sure we’d made the right choice. Przegryź didn’t disappoint. We ordered three varieties of pierogies, including beef and duck, sage, and pumpkin mixed with a cheddar-like Polish cheese, all good and all washed down with a local unfiltered pilsner. It had the air of a “regular’s spot” where journalists linger over late lunches and art-school types argue about films. In other words, I approved.
Usually, I roll my eyes at the mention of speakeasy bars. Hidden doors, passwords, bartenders with a waxed moustache and suspenders – no thanks. But it was late on a Tuesday evening, and much was closed, so we gambled on a spot called Veles Bar five minutes up the road. It was deliberately hard to find, tucked away down a suspicious alley and unmarked, but the nonsense ended there. Once inside, it was unpretentious, despite the chandelier, with beautiful, restored wood panelling on the bar front. Of course, the cocktails, mine a Warsaw Sour, were good, but they ought to have been for the price.
An after-dark tram back to the hotel was the perfect time to take in central Warsaw, which is growing into itself, a proper high-rise city, currently with the 310-metre Varso Tower, the EU’s tallest building.
I’ve never liked what skyscrapers do to the street: they bulldoze human scale, turn pedestrian life into an afterthought. But Warsaw’s skyline-in-progress had a rough work-in-progress drama to it. Cities often grow into their ambitions years after they first articulate them. It’s not beautiful, not cohesive, but it is memorable. Keep in mind that the consensus on the Eiffel Tower was once that it was an irredeemable eyesore, a blot on the skyline. Times change, opinions change. Warsaw’s future silhouette may end up the same, or it might not. Either way, while the city is figuring itself out, I got the sense it’s slowly solidifying into the kind of capital that knows exactly what it’s becoming and is more confident.
The following evening, we met up with a photographer I’d been following on Instagram for several years at an artsy indie dive bar called Plan B. I shared how Warsaw had pleasantly surprised me, but her wry smile hinted that she was having none of it. Cynicism is a trait shared by many of the world’s best cities, and hers matched Warsaw’s. Shit is getting more expensive, the government sucks, abortion is illegal, and everyone worth knowing already knows everyone worth knowing, she said. So what was her answer? “Move to Iceland”. I laughed. Familiarity breeds contempt, I suppose.
Warsaw does not care about you. But in its indifference, it tells you exactly who it is.
You’ve made it to the end!
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Excellent writing and photography as usual. Made me want to visit Warsaw, its couldn't-care-lessness notwithstanding.