Polish Festival

It's with excitement that I convinced my family to go to St. Stanislaus's Polish Festival this summer. Arriving at this small church in South Omaha, I was shocked by how difficult it was to find parking. Who knew that such a small parish would bring such a big turnout? Then I remembered that people of Polish descent love a party and beer. Obviously. The festival started at noon, and we arrived around 4:30. After a brief exploration of South Omaha from our car to the church, we discovered that they were already out of many of the food options. Luckily they still had kielbasa and one type of pierogi.

We waited in line for beer tickets, during which the guy who looked at my ID didn't believe it was me.

"This doesn't look like you."
*shrug* "Things change, I guess."

But really, the only thing that's changed in the past year and a half is my hair cut... Same height, same weight, same face.

After we grabbed our Budweiser (Really? No Zywiec?), we sat down to play pickles. This must be a Nebraskan Polish thing. It's my Polish side that loves pickles, and it's only Nebraskans who know what I'm talking about. For reference: They're the pull-tabs.

Pickles are the best. The floor was littered with pickles. There were at least two different stands to play pickles at. Probably eight-ten people worked each stand, and the ground was covered all around the stands with pickles about an inch deep. It was impossible to see the pavement.

After the festival, we visited my great-aunt the nun who advised me to not marry a Polish boy. Instead I should marry a Polish Catholic boy. Obviously. I'll get right on that.