The balding man approached from across the wide, cobblestone plaza, said he knew I was American by my shoes, then asked to share my bench.
He said the birds swooping and darting across the sunset were swallows, “retrieving us from mosquitoes.”
He said the stooped, grey-haired women, all in black, were “vestigial remains” of communist times. “Town squares everywhere in Poland are fluttering with them at dusk, like the birds.”
He said the “outage of communism” was “Poland’s bounty,” yet he still didn’t trust politicians. He paused, searching for the English words to best convey his view: “Politicians, they’re all Jews.”