(In which a sweary Tim, vodka in one hand, beer in the other, laptop twix and between, attempts to summarise Poland’s second city sat in a bar; gradually sliding into a lulled pissness. The late summer heat is on in Krakow, the sun is shining and yet he manfully pens this hipshot hot take from within a bar taking refuge from tourists, near and perhaps within, the historic centre. Could I instead be sightseeing? Could I be looking through churches? Could I be describing the architecture? No. Fuck that. Même merde, endroit différent. For a similar cockeyed take on foreign cities, see my Thoughts from a bar in Antwerp)

Part of the Krakow Trilogy

The smoke fills the bar.

Diverse young people - in Gothic attire, suits, sporting tattoos, nose rings, ripped clothes, beards - smoke cigarettes like it’s Brighton 2007. Almost nostalgic, in fact.

Now, I’ve been around. Liberal Netherlands, for instance. Sans joint, you’re outside the joint these days. Alsjeblief. But here, and obviously not all bars in Krakow, smoking seems tolerated in some. I thought it was an EU-wide ban. Clearly not. Fans silently whir above me.

I don’t smoke (vape, anyone?) but the libertarian in me, likes the choice. I always thought - before the COVID gestapo overreach obviously - that blanket smoking bans were wrong: What about having smoking pubs and non smoking pubs? Let the public decide. But I lost the argument I never made.

Anyway, my new favourite bar in Krakow - B.O.H.O (on Stolarska Street) - doesn’t care. The clientele aren’t 50 something American tourist Karens waving their hands dismissively at the smoke, but locals and me. I sit inside. The small tables outside scoop up whatever tired tourists there are. Good, stay out on the pavement.

I mean, who’s here with me right now in this back room (with open windows onto the street)?

On the next table, we have blonde mullet guy talking to - chatting up? - a brunette girl who is giving him too much eye contact for my liking. Get a fucking room! They’re both about twenty and lean ever so closely together and pore over each other’s mobiles to demonstrate a point / show an insightful Tictoc (or whatever kids use these days). Both smoke. And both - betraying their age perhaps - are drinking some iced coffee / chocolate concoction. I think, and who cares what I think, they’ll be some fumblings, some awkward love making tonight.

But maybe he should get her a vodka to help nature take its course?

Permed heavy rock guy in a long overcoat (why? It’s 25C) has just left with strappy top free spirited girl. Part of me hopes that, outside the bar, she thanks him for the coffee and overlong discussion about Star Wars minutiae, and then leaves him for the comforting vibration of a rampant rabbit or something. (Editor’s note: What the fuck do you know about this Tim? Straying from the path into the dark of Mirkwood here, methinks?).

We have tattooed lady in black lipstick and shades pouring over hand written sheets of paper. Maybe her novel. She has an oversized coffee and an ashtray in front of her. She earnestly consults her phone and then carefully writes onto her sheets of paper. Edits to her masterpiece? A manifesto of hate and dislocation perhaps. More likely unrequited love and pussycats? Dunno. She offered me her plug when my laptop looked like dying which was nice of her. Battery packs are a life saver in more than one way.

Blonde couple next to me have finished their drinks but have just lit up anyway. Money seems tight. Mmmm. Anyway. Her eye contact is getting ever more suggestive. As are her ‘innocent’ hand and knee movements that accidentally touch mullet guy. He seems clueless. Take the W mate. And yet. And yet. He prevaricates like he’s channelling the younger Tim Robson. Unable to close the deal, he’s moved back into his chair. As has she. That fleeting moment lost. Maybe I should help out?

I wonder, have they ever seen Indecent Proposal? Probably not. Am I playing the ageing satyr? The world weary roué? One million dollars reduced to a round or two of vodkas? Bad Tim. Bad Tim

They liven up to Love My Way by the Psychedelic Furs. It’s that sort of place. English Indie music. Perhaps I should let slip that the tune they’re half singing along to to, I saw performed at the Brighton Centre Feb 7th 1987. No? 1987! That’s like, a long fucking time ago granddad!

(The gig was to follow up on the beefed up version of Pretty in Pink which enlivened the movie de jour of the same name and briefly tickled the charts in 1986. All I remember of the gig was that they wore ridiculous raincoats which seem daft even in 1987. Not cool, just stupid.)

They sit engrossed in their own phones. She texts. He looks at something ephemeral. They leave. Probably it’ll happen on the balance of probabilities. Maybe not. I hope so. He put in the hours.

Two blokes in front of me smoke and tap on their laptops. No novels being created here. There’s a matrix of coding on one screen and impenetrable graphs on the other. Must be working. They flip between languages as they sip coffee.

Another couple sit in the corner. Apart from tangentially touching lighters and an ashtray, they sport an empty glass between them. He talks a lot. Baseball cap, wire glasses; he has views. Lots of views. The not unattactive girl robotically nods but leans her head against the wall, eyes closing. Although he’s speaking Polish, I think I can understand what he says. Roughly translated, ‘blah, blah, blah, I like to drive women away with a shitty stick’.

In fact; am I the only one in this bar who actually buys booze? The rest seem to get a coffee, a free water and then smoke cigarettes and live their life. Beardy who’s joined the two laptop nerds even takes a sip from a flask hidden in his bag and laughs as I spot him doing it. This is a fucking social club for writers, nerds and nerds trying to get laid.

Then a lady in a long red and tight dress walks in; all mystery and old time glamour. I try not to stare. She plonks down a thick feminist text and a packet of cigarettes on the table next to me and disappears off to the bar. Chance, serendipity both laugh their arse off at me. Me, who has to leave in ten minutes for the airport and out of Krakow, leaving Poland behind. I have The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Kundera on the table next to my beer, my vodka, my laptop. Maybe she could have been the one. Maybe she would be more than just a bitchy footnote in a blog. A might have been. Indeed; She. Could. Have. Been. The. One.

But time. Circumstance. They mock my foolish thoughts and dreams.

So I drink up my beer, chug the vodka and finish this blog to the sounds of Ed’s Funky Diner.

Need a piss first though.

Slightly More Serious Review

B.O.H.O Coffee and Bar is within the Old Town area of Krakow, quite near to Planty Park. Small tables front the property. Inside it’s a pleasing mismatch of a large red armchairs and sofas, indispersed with more standard wooden tables. The bar staff are friendly, everyone smokes but - apart from a wannabe English writer - no one seems to drink alcohol that much. I make up for them. Could be that I came during the daytime.

It’s a cosy bar spread over three linked rooms and is frequented by locals, distressingly way younger than me. There’s a studenty / just graduated vibe to it. The atmosphere is welcoming though and was the perfect place for me to write - in fact - it’s harder to spot those without a laptop than those with.

The music tends to be (or at least when I was there) Indie music from the 80’s. No problem with that!

I didn’t sample the cakes / food etc. They would have got in the way of my beer and vodka chasers so I can’t comment on the food but it looked good.

This was my favourite place in Krakow. It must have been; I returned there three times over three days in the blazing sun of late August 2025. Yes, the vignette above is a composite piece. All art is, by definition, arrayed in the robe of artifice my friends. I make no apology for that. It’s my literary Impressionism in action.

But for further and more sober insights into Krakow and where else other than a friendly bar to go to, check out my Krakow Trilogy.