The Real Rzeszow

Today I got to see the regular Polish people, not the size two, perfectly proportioned, super models who stroll down the touristy squares and promenades.  I have never seen so many church services on a Monday.  My mother would be delighted I'm bombarded with Catholic church services night and day.  What a shame I don't understand a word they're saying! 

I stop at a run down market, which looks like it dates from the communist era, where they sell cotton babushkas and plaid shorts.  I walk past the remnants of old synagogues to parks where they don't bother to rake up the leaves and kids run around the fountain playing hide and seek, yelling "Hee haw."  Here the women are not skinny or glamorously dressed and have hair dyed odd shades of magenta and orange and pencil thin eyebrows.  Here grannies in shapeless house dresses look down at the park from their balconies and old men take off their shoes in the park.  Here old men dress in suspenders and carry old leather briefcases.  Maybe it's just this is not a weekend and people are dressed for work, not to impress.

I see groups of young people congregating around the old well in the Rynek, or town square.  As usual, a few popular kids dominate the conversation, while the rest listen.  Why is there always one kid awkwardly hanging around the group who everyone ignores?  It reminds me of junior high.  Apparently the social rules are the same no matter what language you speak.

Funny how there are signs in the parks commemorating the fight against the Austro-Hungarians and Russians in World War I, but no mention anywhere about World War II.  Sad how I can't forget what everybody else here is trying so hard to deny


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