accordion players, or why I love Poland
Every Sunday morning, just before the church up the street rings in the 12 o’clock hour, a man goes into the courtyard of our apartment complex and plays one song on his accordion.
The first time I heard this, I thought it had to be pre-recorded music that someone nearby was playing. And when I ran outside and saw him playing, I fell a little more in love with Poland.
Our neighborhood accordion player is not the first musician I’ve seen playing; I’ve been on a few buses and trams where someone would play his accordion in exchange for change from passengers, and I’ve walked by more than one restaurant where someone was playing the accordion.
Ever since I was a little girl and unearthed my dad’s old accordion from our under-the-stairs crawl space in the home I grew up in, accordions have always reminded me of some far-off place. And apparently, I’m now living in that far-off place, and absolutely loving it.