Last week, I reunited with my family’s former host daughter, Lola, in Kraków, Poland. Unlike my usual weekend getaways, this trip was a full-fledged week of living with Lola’s family, allowing me to be more of a visitor than a tourist. I participated in all kinds of Polish Easter traditions and experienced Kraków with someone who truly knows it—the best way to see any city. One of the most memorable moments of the trip was when Lola’s brother, Olek, gave us a tour of Kazimierz, Kraków’s Jewish Quarter. While most of our strolls through the Old Town felt like stepping back in time, this particular walk reminded me how important it is to recognize the history that exists in the everyday places we visit, especially in a world changing so quickly.
Kazimierz’s history is intrinsically tied with the Holocaust, and the Nazis decimated this small quarter. Before World War II, it was home to 17,000 Jewish residents; today, only 140 remain. Its appearance in the film “Schindler’s List” brought more recognition to the neighborhood, but walking through it myself was different—I could feel the pain of history in this place. I felt chills when we passed a high school that had once been Nazi prison, where thousands of Jews and political prisoners were killed. It was hard to believe that a building with such a troubled past was now educating the youth of the future. Looking at the remaining Yiddish store signs, once essential and now unreadable by most, I felt for the first time the true magnitude and horror of Hitler’s crimes against humanity. Because the Nazis disproportionately targeted Ashkenazi jews, an entire language has almost disappeared from our world.
On many of my trips this semester, it has been easy not to think too deeply about the history of the places I visited. A quick Wikipedia search about the city or monument I was standing in front of would usually satisfy my curiosity. However, walking through the streets of Kazimierz, the humanity of the history around me hit me differently. Thousands of lives and stories had unfolded on the same streets I was walking, and here I was, hundreds of years later, able to see the remnants. I felt a deep sense of gratitude and responsibility, and I vowed to remember the history I learned that day.
Poland’s history is more than just the Holocaust though, and throughout the rest of my trip, I appreciated learning more about the amazing country that I was in. With my local guide, I discovered many interesting facts about Kraków and Poland that I had never been taught in school. It was a good reminder that oftentimes the best way to learn is to do, especially when it comes to history.
Europe has been a fitting setting to appreciate history. America, at only 250 years old, feels like a relative baby compared to the ancient countries and empires that have reigned over this continent for millennia. When I asked Lola about Poland’s history, I was shocked when she casually wrote off the 19th and 20th centuries as a “lost period,” when the nation was divided between Russia, Germany, and Austria. Then I realized: for some nations, in the scope of a thousand-year history, a century or two can feel like a blip.
Poland is not unique in this regard; most European countries carry thousands of years of layered history. I’ve been fortunate enough to visit many places across the continent, and with each one, I always wonder how much has changed since its inception. Back in January, I read “How to Be: Life Lessons from the Early Greeks” by Adam Nicolson, which includes a lot about the history and philosophy of ancient Greece. Ironically, what struck me most was not the tales of conquests and mythology, but Nicolson’s description of modern Greece. Once home to powerful port cities, many of these places now rely on tourist economies.
Although I’ve never been to Greece, I had a similar observation when I was in Nice, France. My obligatory Wikipedia read revealed that Nice was once called Nike after the goddess of victory and was a powerful port town. Now, as I walk through the old town, I’m greeted with countless souvenir shops and tourist trap restaurants, a far cry from its glory days. The fruit market I frequented every day would pale in comparison to its ancient predecessors.
As many countries and cities like Greece or Nice drift from their original identities, it feels increasingly important to honor their histories across disciplines. One of my favorite parts of Paris is how well it preserves its architectural identity. Nearly every building follows the same style—ornate, beige exteriors with gray slate roofs and balconies—that dates back to the 19th century when Napoleon commissioned architect Georges-Eugène Haussmann to redesign the city. If you look up at any point during a walk, you immediately know you’re in the French capital.
In contrast, I had a very different experience in Dublin, Ireland. The glass skyscrapers in the northern part of the city left me feeling like I was walking through Seaport in Boston, not a city across the pond. Even though the southern part of Dublin maintains its architectural charm, I was still put off by all the windows in the north. What does it mean that two cities, three thousand miles apart, can look the exact same? Have we lost individuality in design?
The more I notice these similarities, the more I try to seek out the uniqueness in the places that I visit. Slowing down and noticing small details that make a place’s identity help me feel more connected, like I’m honoring the person who made that design choice. In a world of glass skyscrapers, I want to appreciate the Polish architect who designed the beautiful facade of each building in the old town.
Globalization and the pursuit of modernity leave little room to preserve history and tradition. Now more than ever, we must make a conscious effort to remember the stories of the past. Part of our shared humanity lies in those who have come before us, and we must remember their legacies from all around the globe. Whether it’s through architecture or history lessons, we must always allow the past to inform our future.
Frances Connors ’26 (maryfrancesconnors@college.harvard.edu) is the daughter of a history teacher.