Lomir ale in eynem

The beautiful Tempel Synagogue

Khaira Arby "The Queen of the Desert"

Roger Davidson Ensemble

My small suitcase was packed. My stomach was churning with excitement. As if I hadn't done enough of it recently, I was to travel once again. My parents were taking me to the train station.

"Should you meet Shevah Weiss" said my Dad, while lifting my suitcase into the car boot "give him my respect and admiration. Here's my business card, invite him to visit us."

My Dad's sense of humour is the dead-pan kind. If you don't know him very well, and superficially judge people by the number of smiles they shoot into the atmosphere, you might think him a very solemn and stern man; which is nothing but untrue.

We both knew that the chances of delighting Mr Weiss (Polish-born Israeli political scientist and former politician; a great friend of the Polish people) with our home made cholent were as scarce as snow in Tel-Aviv. But one can dream, can't they? And since I was going to Krakow, to participate in the XXI Jewish Festival, dreams like that were even appropriate.

Sadly, I didn't end up harassing Mr Weiss. Neither did I stalk him from afar. I simply didn't see him. Could it be because I missed the Friday's Shabbat dinner, to be populated by many VIPs and some 200 hangers-on? Too long I procrastinated with buying the pricey ticket, worrying about my red shoes - my only shoes - would they be inappropriate? Having finally gotten over this trifle internal conflict, I was told that the tickets had been sold out long time ago anyway.

No, I wasn't heart-broken. I'd been already gorging on too many concerts, talks, workshops, meetings etc. offered by the festival - my head and heart full to the brim - that I barely noticed. What a sensual, emotional and intellectual feast it was, what a smorgasbord of top-notch events. I could pee myself trying and still I could not describe it.

"These are the real heretics of klezmer music" bellowed Janusz Makuch, the creative director of the festival, when introducing a band called Sway Machinery " and I love heretics. There wouldn't be growth or progress without heresy."

I couldn't agree more. I did listen to many amazing heretics these last few days, to bold propagators of unpopular thoughts or seemingly jarring sounds. I sat speechless, open-mouthed, sometimes I sang or danced, then wandered the quaint streets of Old Kazimierz in a kind of stupor, as if a huge elephant had jumped of a building and landed on my head, except it hadn't.

During an open meeting called "The Wisdom of the heart. Message from the spiritual elders" conducted by transpersonal psychotherapist Tanna Jakubowicz-Mount - around 30 people shared stories about their sense of identity. Is there a question more difficult to answer and yet less familiar than "Who am I?". The bravery and wisdom of these randomly gathered individuals was mind-blowing.

Jan said he was a Holocaust survivor. David said that although Judaism was him spiritual home, he was just learning to live from his heart. Iwona said she was a leaf on the wind. Ewa was a silver wolverine. Magda, Tomasz and Jeff had been found by Jesus when they needed it. Danusia and Andrzej were recovering alcoholics. Mariusz just was. Smilla was confused; she'd suddenly found herself longing for a God so much that it choked her. And so on. Here we were, a bunch of seekers of something that may never be found. Seeking nevertheless. 

It was a tremendous relief - I repeat, tremendous - to find such alikeness, it this one, but powerful aspect. To be with the Poles of no known Jewish origins, but feeling very strongly about this culture, drawn by affiliation that cannot be rationally explained. It's like Shevah Weiss wrote, perhaps the Poles do miss the Jews after all. Perhaps our genes feel and mourn the loss of the nation that was part of our history, a common element of everyday lives, for many centuries. Through the wild and cruel currents of history, there are hardly any Jews in Poland these days. And some of us long for them.

At the hostel, during the short breathless breaks, I talked to Joanna. She was my age, she matched me with the intensity of emotions that colour her days; she too was mourning love lost. Twice we attempted to go wild and entered the crowded club Alchemia for some midnight klezmer dancing; twice we left after less than an hour, defeated by sticky and pushy crowds, by room where breathing space was quickly shrinking, sucked in by deep, beer-infused throats. "At least we tried" said Joanna as we retreated. Then sleep claimed us fast and brought no dreams.

Yesterday the train spewed me out - crinkled and cranky from the 8-hour trip - in Poznan. The weather was disgusting. Grey unrelenting piss of rain that did more than soiling my thin jacket through and through - it also washed out my juvenile euphoria. Yesterday I danced in the circle and ecstatically to the Yiddish music; I considered giving the belief in angels a go. Today...what goes up, must come down, they say.

I'll sit with it. And since these new metaphorical suitcases are big, heavy and have many pockets, it might be a long sit.