Oskar Schindler's Factory: Thoughts

Thoughts..

Like many in the 90’s I saw Spielberg’s Schindler's List. Whilst an undoubtedly moving film, it’s probably not one you’d want to watch twice. A tale of one man’s redemption through good works as he battles the Nazi occupiers cruelty in their persecution of the Jews in Poland.

I’m in Krakow this week.

This morning I got up early and walked across the Vistula River and onto the Oskar Schindler Museum situated in the same factory buildings where he protected hundreds of Jews from the Nazi authorities and death.

I didn't know what I expected. A worthy museum perhaps, with exhibitions of metallurgy perhaps and a dry retracing through the themes of the movie. That’s not what I found.

I would say three quarters of the museum concentrates - through photographs, movies and artefacts - on the history of Krakow during the build up to the Nazi invasion and occupation of Poland.

You start at the top of the building and work down as the exhibitions take you through life in Krakow through summer 1939 to 1945 and the inhumanity and savagery - even pettiness - of the Nazi occupation. The tragedy of the Polish people generally, and the sizeable Jewish population in particular, is laid out through well chosen and contemporaneous displays.

Aside: It’s quite shocking to see displays of original Nazi regalia, from banners to machine guns, right through to branded tableware. These days the swastika is so verboten it’s quite a reality check to see the real deal that, instead of some lazy reference point, was actually - not so long ago - a living symbol of real evil.

Swastikas aside, there are many other pointed reminders of the executions, restrictions and even the Germanification of Krakow (language, education, housing; even street names). (1) We in Britain, through the English Channel, Spitfires, the Royal Navy, Churchill and good luck (the free Poles too!), avoided having to face this calamity. (2)

Unlike other museums I’ve been to, the fact that this one is cited in the actual location of so much history, is somewhat humbling. (3) A couple of times, I will admit, I was holding back tears. History weighs heavy in the location, in the subject matter. And it wasn’t so very long ago. And, if history is any guide and the human condition doesn’t change - and it won’t - this could be a path we go down again.

It ends with the Soviet occupation in1945. The Poles gained a country but lost their freedom.

So, what do I conclude:

1) Definitely go to this museum. It’s well worth it and any museum that provokes thought, reflection and a sense of an individual’s heroism against a harsh world is worth the (low) admission price.

2) A renewed hatred of the Nazis. There’s a reason they’re viewed in such disgust. I would caution though that they weren’t the only ones in history with a bad reputation (all countries, peoples and cultures are guilty). They might not be the last.

3) There is hope. I walked back through Kazimierz - the historical Jewish district of Krakow. I sensed no animus but instead saw Jewish shops and restaurants (and even an Israeli flag). Many tourists. History is long with many winding roads shaded from view. Perhaps, sometimes, they lead from a dark place into the light. It’s never perfect though.

Notes

1) Ignorant buffoon that I am, a cursory reading of history reveals the Germification of the Polish language and culture isn’t confined to 1939-45. The whole 19th Century after the Partitions of Poland (1772/95), for example. In the interest of balance, the forced deportations of ethnic Germans from Poland after 1945 shouldn’t be ignored. Which all goes to show, with history, the more you know, the less you really know. Always be alert to simplification, in both broad culture and - most particularly - in the narrow interests of politicians who use collective ignorance to drive a nefarious agenda.

2) The semi satirical American put down of Brits: “You’d all be speaking German if it wasn’t for us,” never felt so chillingly real.

3) A similar sensation you get in the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. Different country, same tragedy.

Thoughts from a Bar in Antwerp

He sits back, laidback, all crotch display, leather jacket and quaffed hair. She’s not the first, the last, or the most important but she is in front of him right now sipping - through a straw - a double gin and tonic though I’m sure she only asked for a single. They smoke. They’re hip, seemingly equal, but this lopsided negotiation has but one outcome. 

So, that’s right in front of me. A tired seduction above 40.

What else? What else?

Family, older father, younger mother watching his beer intake, hunched teenage son. I predict quick sex after some drunken pleading. In a Novotel or Ibis Budget, hopefully not with the child in the same room.

We have Mr Buff, all tight black tee shirt, beard, tattoos and razored hair with obligatory blonde to my left. She’s sat almost on top of him so they must be new or asymmetrical. She rests her face on an elbow in his direction. He leans back; power move. Later, not much later, I suspect he’ll be shaming her into acts that her mother never told her about. Bad boy. Forgotten when she meets the corporate guy with a good income and pension. He’ll not be a bad boy.

Old guy sits on my right in a puffa jacket and a whiskey cocktail. He has his hair but no life, no future. He’s delaying going home to his little flat and a warmed up dinner. He stares into the mid distance, defeat in his eyes. Nothing will happen. Nothing has happened since his wife died ten years ago. 

But wait! Family has allowed the mulleted teenage son to leave and I just saw the older father place his hand on the younger mother’s hand. ‘Yeah, go and look around, sonny. We’ll be here.’ Guy wants to get pissed, she wants a relationship talk. I’m now predicting a long unsurfaced argument will get in the way of that perfunctory sex. Talk is dangerous.

Over to my far right are two older ladies drinking coca cola. As the bottles stand on the table, they discuss their menfolk or lack of and seem very engrossed. Too far away. Too… Yeah.

The family have left together. She looked me in the eye - once, twice - sphinx like in her appraisal as the older husband pays the bill unaware his wife and I shared a moment. A moment she shares a thousand times a day. Does he know, it just takes a brief lowering of his wife’s guard (or regard) and he’s a cuckold risking his pension rights and denied seeing sulky teenager on a regular basis?

I order another Kriek. The waiter’s aftershave arrives before the drink. No peanuts this time.

And apart from an odd guy in a camouflage baseball hat looking at his phone, beyond the too close couple, that’s it? No one else for me to critique on this rainy Wednesday afternoon in Antwerp?

And your author, who is he?

Indeterminate forties / fifties (probably the latter) in a black gilet, Hackett shirt, tapping away at his laptop. Running from life, writing about real life wishing someone - Her? Her? Her? - would see him as a F.Scott Fitzgerald, a Hemingway, an exiled Oscar Wilde (without the gayness, obviously).

Watching the girls go by. Imagining a story within each. Not their worst story. An above average time bar hopping and chatting about history, literature, consensual politics. But, maybe not the best evening ever.

But probably mine. The laptop would disappear and the story would be unwritten. A Secret. Until recalled years later on a blog, as a short story. Names changed, obviously.

And then a blonde beauty walks in wearing a tight sweater and smiles at me innocently. The world is in that smile. A world of possibility, of redemption, of long overdue new beginnings. Of course, a taller, equally blonde male follows her in tow. Of course. But that smile. That smile, now looking at a glass of Rose as her immature boyfriend makes a show of pouring a Duvet. He plays her a TicToK video and she rests her head on his shoulder.

Young love, eh? Whatever happened to young love? That older couple from earlier on; there was no pretence at world changing romance in their dialogue, within their cocoon. It was, sex or no sex. It was do this or I’m not bothered and I’ve got 20 other women who will. The cracked makeup smudged on a pillow and no follow up the next day. It’s how it is now, yeah?

I hope the young couple next to me make it. Within age lies corruption. They may last. They probably won’t. Then it’s just another - what? - another sad story, unspoken. A failed domesticity only remembered by the two and then asymmetrically as some future partner witlessly blunders into “So, you? How many?”

Each day brings the possibility of immortality. But each day is just, everyday. And everyday is just like the last. 

Carpe Diem, motherfuckers.

Postscript

Later. A bar in Antwerp. International group speaking English as their Linga Franca. Unfortunately I therefore overhear as they overshare. The women talk excitedly about their facial treatments - what they’ve had, what they will have. The eldest is 35. The 28 year old agrees and swaps her needle around the forehead stories. Silently, I’m appalled. When they move onto STDs and their ‘it was just sex’ anecdotes, I clutch my pearls, pick up my skirts and run. Fun times in Belgium.

Some thoughts on the Travel Industry 2023

(A version of this article first appeared on LinkedIn which is contrary to my usual practise where I pen some fiery hot take on events and then water it down for polite society. Website was down, you know, sorry)

---

2023 is set to be a big year for the travel industry.

Consumers may fear the future, be impacted by the cost-of-living crisis, forced to cut back on essentials, sacred of WW3, but – it appears – travel is the one item that is sacrosanct on their shopping list. Yep, people love to travel!

Professionally, I speak with travel companies all the time and the consistent message I’m getting is that people are partying like it’s 2019 again. But with a twist.

Figures seem to back this up. Heathrow’s YTD passenger numbers this year are nearly 100% up on 2022. They are only a few percentage points and a few hundred baggage handlers off 2019’s peak.

The UN’s World Travel Organisation predicted in January that travel will – with some caveats – be back to pre-pandemic levels in 2023. Particularly as China and other Asian countries finally eschew COVID era restrictions, the asymmetrical recovery of 2022 will now spread globally. Prior to the pandemic, Chinese tourists accounted for one tenth of all departures. A recovery here will boost numbers rapidly.

Psychologically, being locked down for two years has, I suspect, had an impact on the population. Pent up demand, ‘revenge travel’ has – I think – led to a wider shift in attitudes that values vacation experiences over – what? – ceaseless DIY, banana bread making, even prudence itself.

In a way, this determination to be open to new experiences, to embrace different cultures, to take time out, is a triumph of the human spirit. Brought low, we aim high.

But there is a twist.

The years of COVID took many of the workers out of the industry. From pilots, to hotel receptionists, to cooks, there is a widespread shortage of human capital behind travel infrastructure. People will have to be recruited and trained to bring levels of service back to pre-pandemic levels.

But this should also be a time for technology to drive structural efficiencies in the industry that could ameliorate the missing workers. For example, the check in process at most hotels is time consuming and frustrating where weary travellers often have to repeat information that has already been provided online previously. (This happened to me this week. I got an email from the hotel the night before my stay asking me to pre-register online to cut check in time. When I arrived, yes, of course, there was a blank form awaiting me. I fall for it every time!)

Digital check in – where travellers check themselves in and prove their ID using technology and receive their keys automatically could help both hotels and the passenger experience. It could help drive down fraud and chargebacks whilst freeing up (fewer) staff to concentrate on the customer experience. More prosaically, perhaps the consolidators could pass on more info along with booking and cash. Just a thought.

Blockchain technology has many potential applications in the travel industry from traveller ID to room management and yields and – here’s a good one! – luggage tracking.

One of the strides forward – perhaps – we experienced during the COVID years was the rapid spread of ordering by App in pubs and restaurants. You could order from the comfort of your own table and have stuff brought to you. Payment was easy too. Obviously, the premise of stopping people moving around a venue has gone thankfully but – unfortunately it seems – so has the technology. Bring it back!

One trend that I’m not sure will take off in 2023 but will in future years, is eco travel. There’s always been a tension between mass market travel and the environment. The time element is key; to do things quickly to fit in with time off from work often means sacrificing slower means of travel and can rule out destinations off the beaten track. Bleisure is gonna be big where consumers piggy back off corporate travel. Speaking personally, I always did this!

People are prioritising travel. They will make sacrifices elsewhere to have a holiday but with the economic environment looking uncertain at best and bleak at worst, I predict that whilst numbers may hold up in 2023 – and even increase – spend may not rise as much. Trading down, shorter haul destinations, cheaper hotels, all-inclusive offers, shorter durations might be order of the day. A lot will depend on whether we hit a recession later in the year.

So, travel is back in 2023, picnicking on the precipice perhaps and wondering whether the dark clouds in the distance will block the sun or float away. 

FOOTNOTES

• Chinese travellers set to double to 59M - Economist EIU – Tourism Outlook in 2023. This was written prior to the relaxing of COVID restrictions and so the numbers in 2023 will probably be much higher. Visa’s March 2023 Global Travel Insight suggests as much.

• Read about travel and blockchain here.

• Some travel trends for 2023 can be explored in this article at Phocus Wire.

• Digital hotel checkout is further explored in Hospitality Tech here.

The Battle of East Croydon

The following is an excerpt from the diaries of The Unknown Commuter, who fought in the legendary Battle of East Croydon. He's currently believed to be somewhere between Clapham Junction and Brighton waiting for a train. The reader is advised that the recollection includes strong opinions expressed robustly.

"Rail chaos. Where am I? My 17:52 from Clapham Junction has just been cancelled. Cancelled because too many drivers and conductors pulled a sickie. Because they can’t be bothered calling a real strike and therefore lose pay. So they do this low-down not turn up trick.

The petulant bosses cancel trains at the last minute. Twelve car coaches are reduced to four. When they turn up. Standing next to some git's armpit listening to techno leaking noisily from his headphones. Wanker.

So I stop off at the pub outside the station. And have a pint. Hope the chaos has died down. My train app says the train is now on time. Run to the station. Go on the platform. My train has been delayed. Doesn’t even merit a revised time. Just delayed. That is ominous. Okay, so no direct train. Recalibrate, so; if the 17:52 has been cancelled I’ll take whatever goes to East Croydon – they all go to East Croydon – and take my chances there. I jump on the first train arriving at my platform. Travellers swirl around the opened doors. No one tries for a seat – just to get on and then find somewhere to lean that’s not on a fellow passenger. Somewhere to hold on.

The train, almost deliberately, crawls to East Croydon. I mean, I could walk faster than this fucker. It must know there are whispered reports of mythical connecting train that will take me home. Leaving in ten minutes from East Croydon. So my train goes slow. Very slow. Stops at Purley and just chills for ten minutes. The conductor says something about there being congestion which means we’ve missed our slot to get into East Croydon. Fucking comedian. They’ve cancelled half the bloody trains! What congestion can there possibly be? Congestion at the bar in the striking drivers local, perhaps?

A feeling of bleak despair grows in me as I keep checking the time. I know, yes, I know, I’ve missed my connection. Gone like the wind. Unlike every other train tonight, my connecting train will be promptitude itself. Arrive on time. Leave on time. Of course.

So I join the chaos at East Croydon looking for another way home. Need a piss. Hey – I’m at a railway station. Need a piss. I know there is nowhere to go. When did that happen? When I was younger, I can still remember - though it’s pictured in sepia - you could take a piss at railway stations. Where did they all go those public conveniences? Maybe it was too many junkies shooting up or too strangers giving each other hand jobs but toilets in stations disappeared. So now what we gonna do? Hold it in while we wait for some fantasy train that will take me home which has fantasy functioning toilets.

The platform signs are in on the great swindle. Part of the con. Constantly changing, they show an ever changing landscape of fuck ups. Seasoned travellers, world weary and pissed off, stand up the stairs ready to run wherever directed. Just cause a train to the South coast is always on platform 2 or 3 doesn’t mean they won’t pull a surprise on you last minute. Platform 5! Leaving now. Run plebs! Too late.

So I stand on the concourse. Bladder full to fuck, ready to run, run wherever the electronic scoreboard predicts a train going my direction might be. Flashed up – it will arrive in ten minutes on platform 3. We all run down there jostling for space, for a place. Then the platform scoreboard flashes up that this train has been cancelled. Lots of shouts and swearing. Some of us go back up again. The scoreboard upstairs still says the cancelled train will arrive, er, well, about three minutes ago.

The station announcer employs a world-weary voice. Fed a diet of bullshit and nonsense by the train companies he reads out the ever changing deployment of fantasy trains he knows won’t make it. His bosses just want us off their platform, out of their station. Pass the problem further down the line. Get East Croydon passenger free, demob the mob on someone else’s patch. So they get the announcer to try and parse our journeys – push us to smaller stations with promises of legendary connecting trains. Some fall for it. We see them hours later, mournfully sat at Balcombe or Three Bridges helplessly watching the non-stopping Brighton trains pass them by. Idiots. Novices!

As to my own train, it’s now got a time, eight minutes hence on Platform 3. Hang on. No, it’s now twelve minutes away. No it’s cancelled. No it’s just late the announcer says. Might be at Clapham Junction. Might be further ahead. Who knows. Information is power.

Silently, below us on platform 2, a train pulls in unannounced. Suspicious, some passengers edge towards that platform. I hear a shout – it’s our train – just as the announcer tells us that it is indeed the train we want but it is now getting ready to depart. Shouts and swearing as three hundred people rush towards platform 2. Exactly ten seconds later an announcement says that we should move away from the doors as the train is preparing to leave.

Fuck off.

We rush the train, rush the doors, the rail people on the platform tells us to move away but we’re an unstoppable, feral force of nature. They’re concentration camp guards, and collaborators. Fuck off. To the sword with them!

We storm the train. Push the guy with the folded bike out the way, edge past the confused old couple who had a day’s shopping in London and now rather wish they didn’t. The seats are all taken. Naturally. So we’re packed in, standing, holding onto whatever we can. The LCD sign in the carriage boldly displays that we will be going back up to London Victoria – the wrong way FFS. Can’t these monkeys get anything right? The conductor comes over the tannoy and announces that we should stay away from the doors. Cheers mate, but where are we actually going? This way or that? Not until the doors have shut and we start to crawl away – packed, overweight, angry – and it’s too late to change – does the conductor announce that this train is indeed going south.

And we crawl there. Two toilets out of three are out of action. The one I go in looks blocked. I don’t care. Shut eyes and leave quickly.  Ah the relief. My station is announced. As I get off, tired, sweaty, battered, the station tannoy says that the 19:54 train to Brighton is ten minutes late. It’s taken me two hours of stress to get here. Should be fifty minutes.

Wankers. Truly wankers.

The battle begins anew tomorrow."

This repost from 2016 is dedicated to the morons who are striking all through December on South Western Trains. Tossers. 

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In Bruges.

Decided on a spur-of-the-moment to take a trip to Bruges. I don't think I've been here since, I dunno, 1978. The world has changed, Jim Callaghan's dead, the Boomtown Rats are not at Number 1 in the charts, but Bruges seems pretty unchanged.

Beer and chocolate, waffles and mussels, frites and mayo. Lots of stunning Flemish architecture, good museums, great hotel. Canals, picture postcard views, tri-lingual Belgians... What's not to like?

Gotham City meets Flanders meets Lowry.

I think I might do this again. You know, take off, go somewhere. Be free. Be spontaneous. 

Next week, I'll be coming from - who knows? Brighton? Burgess Hill? Or - what about Battersea Arts Centre?

Yeah. Goede Nacht. As we say around here.

A classic shot - on all the postcards - rendered by TR at an unusual time. After dinner. More Leffe, vicar?

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The Battle of East Croydon

The following is an excerpt from The Unknown Commuter, who fought in the legendary Battle of East Croydon, summer 2016. He's currently believed to be somewhere between Clapham Junction and Brighton waiting for a train. The reader is advised that the recollection includes strong opinions expressed robustly.

"Rail chaos. Where am I? My 17:52 from Clapham Junction has just been cancelled. Cancelled because too many drivers and conductors pulled a sickie. Because they can’t be bothered calling a real strike and lose money. So they do this low-down trick.

The petulant bosses cancel trains at the last minute. Twelve car coaches are reduced to four. When they turn up. Standing next to some git's armpit listening to his techno leaking from his headphones. Wanker.

So I stop off at the pub. And have a pint. Hope the chaos has died down. My train app says the train is on time. Run to the station. Go on the platform. My train has been delayed. Doesn’t even merit a revised time. Just delayed. That is ominous. Okay, so no direct train. Recalibrate, so; if the 17:52 has been cancelled I’ll take whatever goes to East Croydon – they all go to East Croydon – and take pot luck there. I jump on the first train arriving at my platform. Travellers swirl around the opened doors. No one tries for a seat – just to get on and then find somewhere to lean that’s not on a fellow passenger. Somewhere to hold on.

The train, almost deliberately, crawls to East Croydon. I mean, I could walk faster than this fucker. It must know there are whispered reports of mythical connecting train that will take me home. Leaving in ten minutes from East Croydon. So my train goes slow. Very slow. Stops at Purley and just chills for ten minutes. The conductor says something about there being congestion which means we’ve missed our slot to get into East Croydon. Fucking comedian. They’ve cancelled half the bloody trains? What congestion can there possibly be? Congestion at the bar in the striking drivers local, perhaps?

A feeling of bleak despair grows in me as I keep checking the time. I know, yes, I know, I’ve missed my connection. Gone like the wind. Unlike every other train tonight, my connecting train will be promptitude itself. Arrive on time. Leave on time. Of course.

So I join the chaos at East Croydon looking for another way home. Need a piss. Hey – I’m at a railway station. Need a piss. I know there is nowhere to go. When did that happen? When I was younger, I can still remember - though it’s pictured in sepia - you could take a piss at railway stations. Where did they all go to, those public conveniences? Maybe it was too many junkies shooting up or too strangers giving each other hand jobs but toilets in stations disappeared. So now what we gonna do? Hold it in while we wait for some fantasy train that will take me home which has fantasy functioning toilets.

The platform signs are in on the great swindle. Part of the con. Constantly changing, they show an ever changing landscape of fuck ups. Seasoned travellers, world weary and pissed off, stand up the stairs ready to run wherever directed. Just cause a train to the South coast is always on platform 2 or 3 doesn’t mean they won’t pull a surprise on you last minute. Platform 5! Leaving now. Run plebs! Too late.

So I stand on the concourse. Bladder full to fuck, ready to run, run wherever the electronic scoreboard predicts a train going my direction might be. Flashed up – it will arrive in ten minutes on platform 3. We all run down there jostling for space, for a place. Then the platform scoreboard flashes up that this train has been cancelled. Lots of shouts and swearing. Some of us go back up again. The scoreboard upstairs still says the cancelled train will arrive, er, well, about three minutes ago.

The station announcer employs a world-weary voice. Fed a diet of bullshit and nonsense by the train companies he reads out the ever changing deployment of fantasy trains he knows won’t make it. His bosses just want us off their platform, out of their station. Pass the problem further down the line. Get East Croydon passenger free, demob the mob on someone else’s patch. So they get the announcer to try and parse our journeys – push us to smaller stations with promises of legendary connecting trains. Some fall for it. We see them hours later, mournfully sat at Balcombe or Three Bridges helplessly watching the non-stopping Brighton trains pass them by. Idiots. Novices!

As to my own train, it’s now got a time, eight minutes hence on Platform 3. Hang on. No, it’s now twelve minutes away. No it’s cancelled. No it’s just late the announcer says. Might be at Clapham Junction. Might be further ahead. Who knows. Information is power.

Silently, below us on platform 2, a train pulls in unannounced. Suspicious, some passengers edge towards that platform. I hear a shout – it’s our train – just as the announcer tells us that it is indeed the train we want but it is now getting ready to depart. Shouts and swearing as three hundred people rush towards platform 2. Exactly ten seconds later an announcement says that we should move away from the doors as the train is preparing to leave.

Fuck off.

We rush the train, rush the doors, the rail people on the platform tells us to move away but we’re an unstoppable, feral force of nature. They’re concentration camp guards, and collaborators. Fuck off. To the sword with them!

We storm the train. Push the guy with the folded bike out the way, edge past the confused old couple who had a day’s shopping in London and now rather wish they didn’t. The seats are all taken. Naturally. So we’re packed in, standing, holding onto whatever we can. The LCD sign in the carriage boldly displays that we will be going back up to London Victoria – the wrong way FFS. Can’t these monkeys get anything right? The conductor comes over the tannoy and announces that we should stay away from the doors. Cheers mate, but where are we actually going? This way or that? Not until the doors have shut and we start to crawl away – packed, overweight, angry – and it’s too late to change – does the conductor announce that this train is indeed going south.

And we crawl there. Two toilets out of three are out of action. The one I go in looks blocked. I don’t care. Shut eyes and leave quickly.  Ah the relief. My station is announced. As I get off, tired, sweaty, battered, the station tannoy says that the 19:54 train to Brighton is ten minutes late. It’s taken me two hours of stress to get here. Should be fifty minutes.

Wankers. Truly wankers.

The battle begins anew tomorrow."

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