The Kindness of Strangers

Five years ago I was visiting Krakow, Poland. I was in town partly to do research for the 2nd edition of the Beer Bible, but partly to satisfy a lifelong wish to visit a city I’d romanticized in my mind. In one of those rare cases, my expectations were met by a city that might be the most beautiful and vibrant in Europe—or at least in the sample size of my experience. I’ve found that long research trips—that adventure ran 32 days—are best broken up by at least one stop that is more about tourism and relaxing than work, and I couldn’t have chosen a better place. 

Except for one small issue: my body appeared to be allergic to itself.

It started five years previous to that visit, when I suddenly developed food allergies. Peanuts came first, followed by sesame seeds and a greater intolerance for gluten. I have never had food sensitivities, except a body that couldn’t digest a lot of bread (a genetic predisposition my mother and grandmother shared). I have lived my life fearlessly, eating whatever was placed before me. It had become a small little marker of identity I didn’t realize existed, but having to be the person at the table who asked about nuts and seeds revealed its precise scope and texture. 

To add insult to this annoyance, my condition wasn’t even very serious. If I ate one of the forbidden foods, it lead to a rash of hives 12-18 hours later. The outbreak would be enduring and very uncomfortable, but not life-threatening. My torso would just scream to be scratched for the next week to ten days, interrupting attention and sleep. This made travel a bit riskier, another development I did not welcome.

Thanks to a Chinese herbalist who provided me with a very bitter powder, I had been able to keep matters in check. Earlier on that 2019 trip through Europe, however, I had a major outbreak. I’d learned that if things got very bad, the steroid Prednisone was a magic elixir that would not only knock out the hives, but make me invulnerable for the days I was taking it. I knew not to travel without it, so when a flareup hit me in Lewes, England, I started taking my Prednisone. This was a compromise, because side-effects included wild mood swings, trouble sleeping, and low blood pressure that led to dizziness. Still, these were far preferable to the alternative.

For the eleven days I was taking the steroid, which concluded the day I arrived in Krakow, things were great. I happily traveled through Belgium and Vienna, even enjoying a bit of bread along the way. I wasn’t too worried about what came next, because a course of Prednisone usually reset my system to its regular baseline of manageable itchiness. Arriving in Poland, I was alarmed to see that rash come roaring back. I doubled my dose of herbs, laid of the beer for a day, and was very careful about my diet. No matter, the hives were there to stay. I still had stops in Vilnius and Berlin, so this would not do. 

I knew that if I wanted to stay in Europe, I’d have to get another course of Prednisone. But how does one get a prescription in a foreign country? Not easily, it turned out. I tried a pharmacy first, hoping they’d take pity on a traveler who was after a non-narcotic. They were sympathetic, but the laws were clear. Instead, they said I needed to visit a doctor and get a prescription. The pharmacist gave me the address of a clinic on the outskirts of town and wished me luck. 

It was a few miles, but I decided to walk because it would distract me from the scratching and allow me to take in more of the city, and I eventually found myself on a vast highway in a mostly undeveloped area with a few buildings and a strip mall. Once Poland exited its communist era, schools started teaching English, and everyone under forty seemed fluent. Arriving at the squat, cinderblock clinic, I found two elderly women at check-in. They spoke no English. What followed was a slow effort to use Google Translate to convey my needs. They never really understood, but told me to wait until the doctor, a man in his 80s, was free. Fortunately, he was seeing a traveler who spoke English and some Polish, and he helped me communicate, sort of, what I needed.

Unexpectedly, the doctor chased me out. He apparently thought I was running some kind of scam, the nature of which I could never quite grasp (why would anyone be working so hard for a single course of steroids?). The issue was money, somehow. Desperate, I returned to the kindly and patient ladies at the check-in and tried to explain all this. Amazingly, they got the picture and told me that I would need to pay the doctor for the visit. Yes, yes, of course, I told them. As an American, it never occurred to me that a doctor’s visit would be free. Of course, the clinic required payment in złoty, and I didn’t have cash. No problem—the nearby strip mall had an ATM. It accepted my card, spat out some bills, and voila! The women at the front desk took my money and sent me straight in and the doctor, who had apparently apprised of my plan. This time he was very kindly and accommodating. He explained (via the then-crude phone translation) that I had a more serious issue and needed to be seen by a doctor, which was of course correct. I assured him I would do so when I got home. I paid the ladies and by the next morning I was ready to keep rolling. I celebrated with a tour of the local breweries. 

Travel is always full of surprises, some of them unpleasant. I may have led a charmed life, but in my experience, regular people in foreign countries have always been quick to help. My “memories” on Facebook offered me a post from that Krakow trip over the weekend, and all this came rushing back to me. As wonderful as the city was, I will always remember it as much for the help I received that day as the gorgeous old castles and cathedrals. 

Epilogue. The rest of the trip went fine, but my body was experiencing a kind of systemic failure. I got back to the U.S. and the rash became permanent. I gave up beer and then coffee and eventually even food. In the past, fasting calmed the itchy nerve endings. Nothing helped until a friend recommended a gut naturopath. She gave me a stool sample and we discovered I had an overproduction of some kind of intestinal yeast. She gave me an antifungal and within days the rash left. Today I am back to my old self, happily eating and drinking whatever is placed before me. 

Let’s end with some photos from that trip, including shots of Wawel Royal Castle, St. Mary’s Basilica, Ursa Maior Brewery, and other assorted delights.