I made it home again. I went back to bed after writing the last entry and stayed for two hours. It was wonderful.
On the train coming home I sat with two Polish women who kept trying to talk to me. It was actually amazing how much information we exchanged. Then at the bust stop I had quite a long talk with [another] woman. She asked me how much my backpack cost. From there we progressed to where I came from, if my parents were with me, if I had any siblings, [etc.]. When I told her I was an only child, she shook her head, as if to say that she feels for my parents. It was rewarding – she told me my Polish is beautiful (“ladna”).
While I was heading back to the Rynek this afternoon a man approached me, asking “Do you speak English?” I must have been extraordinarily, obviously American. At the Greek restaurant I believe the guys had a bet on whether I was American. I guess my cap and North Face stuff made it a bit more than obvious.
Every day there is a woman who balances on the edge of the first seat of the bus, getting off around two or three stops after I get on. She has short hair which is frayed and silvery. Her body is more round than the average Pole, and she always wears a skirt with a gray sweater, and her veins stand out clearly on her pale legs. A couple of days ago the bus driver applied a bit too much force [on the brake pedal] a bit too quickly. She tumbled out of her seat with a thud and cracked her head against the door of the glass enclosure around the driver. No one offered to help; no one asked her if she was okay. We PCVs stood watching, remembering that Chrissy told us that it is often better not to get involved. A bit ironic, for it is too late for us not to get involved . . .