A brilliant blue sky had broken through, and it seemed that this year's 3rd of May holiday was going to be a belter. Spring - so treasured here in this land of the neverending winter - was finally arriving, and bang on target for the holiday. The birds sang, the dogs wagged their tails even more than usual, and the portly pigeons bowed their heads as if to say, 'how do you my dear chaps?' As tradition laid out, a parade was about to sweep through Cracow's splendid Market Square. Politicians, soldiers, charities and of course, the venerable Guild of Fowlers (decked out in their traditional seventeenth century garb of velvet tunics, oriental silk belts and fur hats) were all about to make their entrance, led by the jolly din of the army's brass band.
However, just as the clock was about to strike midday, it appeared that there was another band that was vying for the crowd's attention. Somewhere, a decidedly phat hip hop beat emerged from behind the crowds, as a young musketeer pressed the play button on an old 1980's ghettoblaster. The noise came again, this time with a touch of bombastic rap over the top. A possee of cocksure youths, who had settled in underneath the statue of Adam Mickiewicz (Poland's national bard) nodded their heads in anticipation. Cracow's breakdancing bandits had come to rock da joint.
Moments later the parade swept in. First the cavalry, the sun glinting from their 1930's visors. Then the band, who were sporting navy blue and crimson uniforms from the Napoleonic era, finished off by tall square-topped 'czapkas' (the traditional Polish helmets) - each of which was adorned by a white plume of feathers. The crowds clapped, and on came the assorted political parties, banners held aloft. As usual, a smattering of the loony left (and the equally loony right) pottered by, adding a faintly comical dash to the presense of the great and the good from Warsaw.
The most poignant scene however, was the small yet proud group of second world war veterans, their numbers noticeably smaller than the previous year. With the midday sun, they were having to put on a brave show to keep up with the pace of the march.
However, barely had the marchers left the square when a new noise announced itself over the ring of the brass band. It was the old skool sound of Africa Bambaata's Voodoo Nation, and the beats were coming thick and fast, the ghettoblaster primed to max volume. The possee of lithe young Poles were hopping back and forth like a group of eccentric ninjas. Within seconds one was spinning about on his head, egged on by cries of 'Yo!' from the rest of the crew.
The crowds turned round to take stock of this unexpected arrival. Two proud looking old men, perhaps veterans themselves, marched purposefully towards the hip hop possee. A confrontation seemed inevitable.
'Its outrageous, scandalous, that you desecrate a day like this! Don't you know how many gave their lives in the war? The sacrifices that these men made? I mean, your generation has absolutely no idea ...''
But no such thing was said. Indeed, the old men were just keen to secure themselves a good view of this unfamiliar, yet clearly highly entertaining phenomenon. Within minutes a huge circle had formed around the breakdancers. Children slipped excitedly to the front of the crowds whilst others sat on their fathers shoulders in a bid to gain the optimum view.
One B-Boy moved forward at a time, delivering a minute or so of tricks. Backflips, somersaults and headspins followed, much to the delight of the crowd. One lanky fellow with a bandanna bounced up and down on his hand and then propelled himself clockwise so that he swished round above the paving stones like a catherine wheel.
However, there was one breaker in particular who stood out from the rest. He had greased back hair and a slightly hawkish looking face. Small and light, he had the right build for the job, and he surveyed the scene before him with a superior, nonchalant air, firm in the knowledge that he was the king.
As he stepped up for his second turn of the arena, a wave of anticipation ran through the crowd. What eye-popping stunts would he perform this time? A flic-flac perhaps, a windmill, or maybe the venerable New York Jackhammer.
Up into the air he went. Wooosh! A handstand on one hand. But just as he reached the crucial moment, a button popped open somewhere and down came the trousers to reveal a distinctly old skool pair of Y-fronts. The crowd roared with laughter, and the king dashed out of the arena, beetroot red, in a bid to regain his composure. One of his chums quickly stepped up to maintain the rhythm.
Yet the show was not over yet. The breakers each took their turn, and then in true Rocky Balboa style, the king came back for his third attempt. Unflustered, he wowed the crowds with some perfectly executed helicopter moves and flic-flacs. Justice had been done.
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