Going Somewhere
An 1100-mile quest to meet Abel Korzeniowski
Music expresses what words cannot. I could write without music, but I feel like my work is better, richer when it exists within established aesthetic parameters, be they audio or visual1.
As I turned my thoughts to planning my second novel, I knew this much: if it was going to be adapted into a film, it would be directed by Tom Ford and scored by Abel Korzeniowski.
I’m aware this conceit straddles a fine line between delusion and disgustingly ambitious, and I'm not going to pitch my novel before it’s even written, but I will say that it’s a strange midpoint between A Single Man and Tony & Susan (both of which have been adapted by Ford); a tale of grief and revenge, with a beautiful auburn-haired woman at its centre.
As I planned my novel, all I listened to was Abel Korzeniowski’s work, and back in November, I found out that he would be coming to his home city of Kraków (where I also used to live) to conduct a concert of his work two days before my birthday. I told myself it was fate and sold a Miu Miu bag to pay for the trip.
“Do you think Tom Ford will be there?” a friend asked, and I gently said I doubted it.
Now, I am keenly aware that this should have been a seventy-two-hour round trip, but as someone who doesn’t do things by half, the trip quickly spiralled into a ten-day, 1100-mile extravaganza going from Gdańsk to Warsaw to Kraków.
In those ten days, I would visit multiple castles, develop a crippling infection, spend a small fortune on painkillers, and somehow have an Abel Korzeniowski waiting for me at the end.
Here's how it went:
December 4th
When I landed in Gdańsk, my Spotify Wrapped had dropped. It was 81,000 minutes of disaster, but it did include a thank you message from a certain Pan Korzeniowski. Clutching a handful of sheet music, he talked about preparing for his concert and said, "I hope to meet you there and chat at the Q&A the next day."
The Q&A was already sold out, but I sent a begging email in the hope the organisers would take pity on me, writing 'Przyjeżdżam do Krakowa specjalnie na ten koncert!
Gdańsk was quiet, the Christmas lights weren’t on yet, and unlike my stay last year, there wasn’t a flake of snow on the ground, so my movements around the Old Town were noticeably faster. Unfortunately, my 50-day streak on Babbel wasn’t really cutting it and I told myself it’s because I speak Polish with a Cracovian accent.
December 5th
I got a ticket to the Q&A as my train pulled into Tczew station, and I vowed to always think of this small city with fondness.
I was on my way to Malbork Castle. Malbork is one of the many reasons I extended this trip. To some, it’s merely the largest brick castle in the world, to me, it's the happiest place on earth. By coincidence, it is the fifth anniversary of my first arrival in Poland and the first anniversary of my first visit to Malbork. As I listened to Jeremy Soule music from a Celtic Sleep playlist (it’s for a project, I promise), I felt a magic in the air.
At Malbork, I was reunited with Jakob, the narrator of the Malbork Castle audio guide and the love of my life (though I have done some light research, and I don’t think his name is Jakob, but this is a conspiracy for another time).
The air is positively balmy at four degrees, and there is no need for a scarf as I FaceTime my friend Jo. Ok, if I’m being honest, I’m wearing a new Samantha Pleet dress that I bought specifically for this trip that I want to show to a staff who are indifferent at best.
The new range of Malbork-themed candles in the gift shop slightly disappoints me (their candle game is not as strong as Versailles), as does Jakob’s farewell, “ I wish you a fabulous day. I hope we will meet again,” like our past means nothing, like we’re strangers.
December 6th
Did you catch the foreshadowing of my utter stupidity? After a feverish sleep in which I was convinced Isabella Rossellini was my nursemaid, I woke up with the kind of illness you can feel in your spine. I staggered to multiple Zabka’s to buy painkillers, which, at £3 a packet, really undermines the concept that Poland is noticeably cheaper than England.
After a nap, I forced myself out of my apartment to go on a tour of the Town Hall but left when I started disassociating on a bench.
December 7th
I’m meant to have a brisk morning visit to Malbork, see some museums in the afternoon and then get to a ballet class in the evening. I watched ten episodes of The Nanny instead.
December 8th
Now in the full throes of sinusitis, I stagger onto the train to Warsaw. My arrival in Poland's capital is marked, as it always is, with the sounds of Chopin’s Nocturne (Op. 9 No. 2), from the train's tinny speakers. As I surfaced Warszawa Centralna, the top of the Palace of Culture is covered in fog and the rain is fierce.
I arrived at my Chopin-themed hotel and order a Mojito in the bar adorned with musical notes and loose brushstroke portraits of ar Fryderyk, in the hope the alcohol will sterilise the sores on the roof of my mouth into submission. I google whether I should drink when I’m sick and am surprised that the answer is no. Now struggling to breathe, I discard my mum’s gentle suggestion that I come home.
December 9th
I fell asleep in a Cos changing room.
December 10th
My birthday is fast approaching, and I feel a sense of dread. I buy a plate adorned with a portrait of Barbara Radziwiłł from a café in an old church tower and tell myself I'm manifesting a place of my own to display it in.
I know there’s an argument to be made that I should put decorative plate money towards a deposit, but I also go into a pharmacy and pay £9 for one box of ‘special’ painkillers, so maybe now isn’t the time for financial prudence.
In the Old Town, I say hello to the Mermaid of Warsaw and dislike the new Christmas decorations. I also worry that the audioguide narrator of the Royal Castle has been replaced by AI or a man with a remarkably flat voice. I miss Jakob, but does he miss me?
I get the train to Kraków, and after a brief circuit of the old town, I have a madeleine moment with a kebab. I watch Sleepless in Seattle and start crying about the possibility of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks missing each other twelve minutes before the film finishes. It’s because I’m sick, I promise.
December 11th
Credit where it’s due, those £9 painkillers know what they’re doing. I have breakfast in my favourite cafe, tour the vintage shops of Kazimierz and debate whether or not to buy a Lurex ball gown (I err on the side of caution).
December 12th
Despite having lived in Kraków for many months, I have somehow never noticed the Cricoteka. Given that it is essentially a museum on stilts, this is an incredible testament to my powers of unobservation. Nevertheless, I entered the museum, and in a long, darkened hallway filled with props, I can almost trick myself into thinking I’m one of Hein Heckroth’s sets for Bluebeard’s Castle. I don’t think the watchman understood why I spent so long walking up and down, staring afeared at what is essentially rubble and deluding myself I look like Ana Raquel Sartre.
December 13th
You know the drill - museums, castles and vintage shops. I met my friend Emanuela for dinner before the concert, and though I haven’t seen her for two-and-half-years, and we now live in different places, work different jobs and are in different stages of our lives to where we were then, it quickly feels as though no time has passed.
We go to the ICE Congress Centre which, again, is a building I’m not sure I have ever noticed. We arrive promptly at 7:00 for a concert that the website lists as lasting 100 minutes, and someone holding a suspiciously large number of speech cards says there will be a presentation. What follows is 33 minutes (we timed it) of medals being presented to various members of the Sinfonietta Cracovia by civil servants in ill-fitting suits. I’m all for prizes, but it feels like a school assembly, and I find myself nodding off.
Eventually, Korzeniowski takes to the stage with suitable aplomb. From Nocturnal Animals, he plays Wayward Sisters and Table For Two, and I am disappointed by the lack of The Field (you would think they would take requests for someone who travelled over 1000 miles).
From A Single Man, we get Snow, Sunset (which the first violinist devoured), and when Stillness Of The Mind transitions into And Just Like That, I start weeping so violently that I felt my body ricochet against the back of my seat. I burn with possibility and beauty, and even though I can’t taste anything, have a crippling toothache, and can’t comfortably breathe or sleep, my endeavour feels entirely worth it.
Korzeniowski, deservedly so, takes bows after every piece, and we are treated to not one encore but two. Within a second of the final piece beginning, I gasp aloud.
After the concert finishes, I bemoan the lack of merchandise and go to a cafe with Emanuela, where, with nearly twenty-four hours to my birthday, we get cakes and mimosas. I can’t taste them, but I am content.
December 14th
After a final breakfast, I head to the Pałac Potockich for the Q&A. Even though there are only sixty people in the audience, the event organisers have an English translator (maybe some sad woman emailed them), and I get to wear a little earpiece that makes me feel like I’m at the UN.
During the Q&A, Korzeniowski talked about the importance of being well-dressed and his hopes for his music to be ‘independent of image’2. He confirmed that Tom Ford’s third film is currently in pre-production, but he has not yet been selected as the composer (get it together, Tom!). As the moderator opened it up to the audience, I learned that Polish people at a Q&A are somehow even more unhinged than English people.
Examples of questions asked include, “Why did your parents call you Abel?”, “Do you think that your talent was given to you by God?” and “Have you ever heard a melody in a dream that you then used in your compositions?”
It should be noted that Korzeniowski gracefully navigated all these questions, whereas I would only be able to answer with a flat “No,” à la Jeremy Paxman after a contestant gives a wildly incorrect answer on University Challenge.
I have a coughing fit I can't quite swallow, and when the invitation is extended to shake Korzeniowski’s hand, I am more concerned with washing mine to prevent any spreading of germs, which immediately puts me at the back of the queue.
When we meet, my words are mostly vomit. I tell him I came from London and that, to me, his work is already independent of image, that I write to his music, and if it is ever a film, I want him to do the score. He speaks of the symbiotic relationship between artistic mediums, and as he signs something for me, he writes below the addition and Thank You.
I ask for a photo, but as I am the last in the queue it has to be a selfie, which is appropriately terrible. My glands are still huge, but I’m happy.
After that, I headed for the airport.
Now we are here. I’m twenty-eight and still sick. I don’t have my taste buds or appetite back, which is annoying but has meant that I feel noticeably less sluggish this Christmas. I have no sense of smell, so I’m yet to burn my Malbork candle, which is a sentence too euphemistic to not include, but I’m very aware there are far greater tragedies.
Even with the distance of a few weeks, memories of illness fade, and I feel imbued with the promise of time passing, of things improving, of being reunited with friends and places that I love again and again. I don’t know if my path will cross with Abel’s again, though I hope Tom Ford’s does. I’m happy I could say thank you, and once whatever I bring forth into the world is ready, I know I will say it again.
The plan for my novel is currently at 90 pages and isn’t even close to being done. I listen to Abel’s music, independent of image, to forge new ones.
And so it continues. Whichever path you tread in 2025, I hope it is a happy one that brings you a little closer to your dreams - just remember to wear a scarf.
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Happy New Year!
L x
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