The Holiday Marathon in Ukraine:

Rule # 1: Pace yourself. If dinner were a track event, the best analogy would be a really long relay (the only caveat being you hand the baton off to yourself and start over). You’re expected to keep up a steady pace for a long time, but there are times when the pace quickens for a handoff as a new round of guests arrive, and times when you can respectably set down your fork for a breather…or another toast.

Ukraine has 2 Christmases and 2 New Years, and people celebrate both the night before and the night of. My favorite is “Old New Years,” if only because the name is so ridiculous. Catherine the Great changed the calendar, but the peasants saw no reason to stop celebrating on the old date, and instead just welcomed the addition of another holiday.

On December 24, I went to school in the morning to work with the students preparing for Olympiad. That night I went to Olena’s sister’s house for dinner with her family. Houses in Ukraine usually don’t have enough chairs for a party, so the table is moved next to the couches in the living room, and then chairs and benches are added as needed (I’ve seen people sit on the arms of the couch too). This is convenient after the meal when you recline to digest and wait for tea. Of course, you never go “guesting” empty-handed, so I’ve baked a lot of cookies and apple crisps these past few weeks (the apple crisps because people keep giving me apples from their orchards and I can’t eat them fast enough before they go bad, and the cookies to spread American love of baked goods). On Christmas Eve the meal is meatless, and there are 12 dishes to represent the 12 apostles. Kutya is a special Ukrainian dish eaten only on Christmas, and traditionally it is the first dish served (since the Orthodox do everything three times, they have to eat three spoonfuls before they can have any other food—by contrast the Catholics don’t count, they just scoop it out). “It” is made of buckwheat or semolina sweetened with honey, poppy-seeds, grapes and walnuts, and each woman has her own unique way of preparing it. A lot of fish is also served (whole baked fish, fried fish, slices of smoked fish with lemon layered between the slices and raw onions on the side), and mayonnaise salads abound: salat olivie is a crowd-pleaser with carrots, potatoes, hardboiled eggs, kielbasa, pickles, and peas held together by mayonnaise; salat shuba is an interesting concoction known as a “fur coat,” with a bottom layer of salted smoked fish and diced onions, and subsequent layers of grated potatoes, mayonnaise, grated carrots, and grated beets; I’ve also had mayonnaise salads with such diverse ingredients as pineapple, fresh cheese, and krab sticks with a “k.” Varenyky with mashed potatoes or cabbage is common, as are individual vegetable sides of mushrooms, cabbage, beets, pickled tomatoes and cucumbers. Red caviar is spread on thinly sliced bread, cushioned by a layer of cream-cheesy stuff. The next day meat appears on the table: liver tort with layers of mayonnaise and grated hardboiled eggs, kholodets (fish or meat jelly, served cold, and so far the dish with the dubious honor of being the only thing I’ve tried once and will not eat again)…

Sorry if I get a little carried away talking about food, but those who know me well know I make it a point of honor to try any food once, and since I love trying new foods, these feasts require stamina (both to imbibe and to describe). So, back to the actual holiday. Lena’s two-year-old nephew showed me the family photos, her brother-in-law practiced his new favorite toast (“To the childrens!”), and general merriment was had by all. The next day was even better. I had to go to school, because one kid said he would be there to work on Olympiad and I guilted myself into going, but I got there late and he had already gone home, so that was a waste of time (plus Olena asked me why I didn’t just tell him not to come. Nobody told me “no” was an option)! Anyway, I went to Lena’s other sister’s house for Christmas dinner (the two houses are on the same property, and their mother lives with Olha and her family, but Katia’s house is the nice big new one) and got there early to help out. The meal was pretty much the same, with the addition of meat as well as a soup cooked over a wood fire in a cauldron outside, and I split my time between talking to the dad while he cooked the soup and I threw a ball to their giant scary dog, helping Liza, their nine year old daughter, grate hardboiled eggs and spread mayo for the liver tort (which sounds gross but is actually really tasty : ), and chatting with Katia and her guests. After several rounds of food and toasts, we sang Christmas carols in Ukrainian, Polish, and English (I even sang “Silent Night” for them at their behest, though I warned them it would not lull any small children to sleep), and then we had a wild dance party in front of the fireplace. The adults lingered around the table to chat, and the chatting gradually gave way to dancing (after drinks), as the kids played on the computer and ignored their crazy relatives—I was reminded so much of McKeever family parties that I smiled (to myself), since I had no one to share the joke with (it often amuses me that I continue to willfully spin around the globe and insert myself into other peoples’ lives in situations where I can’t fully communicate with them).

On New Year’s Eve I went to my other counterpart’s sister’s apartment and celebrated with their family. I came prepared with my photo album to pass the time till dinner, and a Russian holiday special was on in the background as we sat down to eat at 10 pm. Apparently midnight signals the beginning rather than the end of the festivities in Ukraine, because after the meal, Natalia Frantsivna’s brother-in-law donned a green velvet suit to dress as Deed-Moroz or Father Frost, the Ukrainian equivalent of Santa Claus, and we all headed to the Christmas tree in the center of town, much to the delight of wandering groups of intoxicated youth, who begged to pose for photos with Deed-Moroz. At 2 am we decided to make a “quick stop” at the apartment of the godparents of one of Natalia Frantsivna’s daughters. On New Year’s it is acceptable to call on your friends and family at any time of night, and they must be ready to ply you with food and drink. Our host and hostess were clad in nightgowns, but they willingly obliged. Sasha and Dasha went home to bed, and I would have given anything to follow suit, but instead I followed the rest of the family back to the sister’s apartment for tea and cake. I finally crawled into bed at 6 am and slept till 2 pm the next day. I was looking forward to not getting out of my pajamas when I got a call asking if I wanted to go back to the sister’s house and eat the leftovers. Since I never say no to an invitation, I suited up and headed out. There was still no running water in the apartment (the faucet had also been dry the day before, which made preparing the meal difficult), the brother-in-law grabbed snow off the balcony and melted it for tea. I taught Sasha and her 10-year-old cousin how to play Egyptian Rat Screw.

After New Years comes Orthodox Christmas on January 7th, and I was invited this time to Natalia Frantsivna’s mother’s house for Christmas Eve. Sasha and Dasha played the piano and everyone sang more carols, while I applauded the collective musical talent of the family. At the head of the table was an empty place setting with a slice of bread covering the shot glass—I asked about it and learned that a place is set in memory of family members who have died. Natalia Frantsivna asked when I was going to my student Katia’s house the next day, and when she learned it wasn’t until 5, she said that left me time to come back to her mother’s house for lunch! So I baked two apple crisps for Christmas, Take Two, and played some more cards with the kiddies before heading off to Katia’s house in the village. She is a 9th form student of mine and the best English student at school, but her sister is slightly less interested in her studies. Theirs is another nice big house conspicuously contrasted by the modest cottages surrounding it. Once again, I was warmly welcomed into the midst of another family’s holiday celebrations. The food was delicious, with some slightly fancier takes on the holiday staples. Sour apples preserved in alcohol seem like an acquired taste, but the honey cake was divine. Katia’s father sat next to me and periodically tried to persuade me to take vodka shots—they even wanted me to try the grandfather’s homebrew, but I left that for another day. His surname is Yavorski, so he and his wife took an instant liking to me. Although, everyone here insists that my last name is Polish and not Ukrainian, which throws our family mythology for a loop. I was persuade to join the children as they knocked on doors in the neighborhood and asked to sing a song about Christ being born, in return for which their neighbors were expected to give them candy and money. I dutifully learned the first verse and mouthed along to the rest; the neighbors gave me crooked glances, but tossed a few kopecks and candies my way. The older male cousins stood a cool distance away in the street and smoked, while I pretended to be 5 years old and extorted money from strangers. Katia also showed me her grandparent’s barnyard animals, and explained that there used to be two pigs before they set the homemade sausage on the table. Back at the house we sang for the adults and got more candy and cash, before counting our loot with the glee my brothers and I used to tally up Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on Halloween. Then we all watched the home video of the parent’s 25th wedding anniversary, and Katia demystified the traditions: my favorite is that the groom must wash his new mother-in-law’s feet in the most expensive vodka he can afford, and then replace her symbolic old pair of shoes with a nice new pair. I was sent home with my empty apple crisp dish refilled with leftovers, plus my pseudo-Halloween stash and a ceramic souvenir of a Cossack country celebration to remember the occasion. I think I was most excited about the leftovers. I used the turkey leg to make borscht later that week. I love figuring out how to use everything in my fridge and pantry. The other week I gingerly opened a jar of preserves of unknown origin that had been in my apartment when I arrived—it turned out to be whole strawberries floating in tasty sweet liquid that I’ve been using to flavor my oatmeal.



I didn’t do anything for Old New Year’s, which was fine by me, although some boys did knock on my door and sing me a song. They didn’t throw seeds of grain on my floor like they did on my friend’s. I gave them candy but no money, and then speculated, when I heard one spit in the hallway, if they symbolically spit at stingy people. Spitting in public is not uncommon in Ukraine though, and I think he probably just had an excess of phlegm.

I was exhausted with the holiday guesting schedule, but the first time it let up and I was home alone with no need to bake an apple crisp, I wondered what to do with myself. I like living in my own space, but I also like being around other people. So I’ve made it a point to introduce myself to my neighbors by knocking on their doors and offering cookies, which usually elicits an invitation to tea from anyone over age 12 (when kids answered the door they just took my cookies). I really like the older woman who lives right next to me with her husband (and they have the most adorable little granddaughter, who they were watching during the holidays). I had dinner and then tea with her and we chatted for 3 hours. I am in a sporadic food war with her though, because when I gave her cookies, she returned my plate with garlic cakes, and a few days later knocked on my door with fresh homemade doughnuts and scones, and later a jar of leftover kutya, which I returned filled with my homemade chili, but she is still up by one. I haven’t had time to make her an apple crisp. The other two apartments upstairs house an old Russian lady whose husband was in the hospital when I called on her, and a widower whose poor health means he rarely leaves his apartment. Both spoke mostly Russian, but I still had a good time. The old lady apologized that she could only offer me candy, and the old man gave me apples (you are never supposed to return a dish empty). She was employed here under the Soviets and never left (which is the case with a lot of people, I’ve found). The guy used to drive trucks across Siberia, I think.

I love hearing peoples’ life stories! Natalia Frantsivna’s husband was born in Baku, and he was some kind of local administrator under the Soviets, but I like to imagine his mustache belonged to the KGB. And Andrei—the Bilky historian—when he was 4 the Nazis burned his village, and after the war his mother rebuilt their house. The couple downstairs worked for 2 years in Italy, and together we reminisce about Italian food and toss around words from various Romance Languages. They served me real coffee, and I ran into the woman the other day and said they should come for tea sometime; she said when, I said not today, and we parted ways with me 90 % sure I had invited them on Sunday at 5. Sure enough, she rang my doorbell on Sunday and said they’d run and get some wine and then be right up. I showed them my pictures and we talked about gas prices and travel in Ukraine and America, an impressive feat, since I don’t actually know how much gas costs in America, nor how many liters there are in a gallon, which made comparisons difficult.

I also went back to Lena’s sister Katia’s house, played chess and checkers with their kids, and watched “Prince Caspian” on their flat screen TV. Katia and her husband’s kuum and kuma (the godparents of their child), whom I met at their house on Christmas, actually live in the building next to mine, so Lida has sent her daughter to me with fresh food on occasion, and one day when I could hear music coming from the town center, they knocked on my door and invited me to check it out. It was a concert sponsored by Yulia Timoshenko as part of her election campaign, so I went home with a free poster of the blond-braided lady holding a bunch of wheat. Lida invited me to her house for lunch after I hitched a taxi ride with the food-war neighbor and her husband to the train station (they were heading to Kiev to return their grandchildren to their parents, and I needed to buy my ticket to visit Alia); lunch lasted till 8 pm, since we looked at all their pictures of trips to Poland and videos of their daughter’s folk dance concerts, and then watched “Ratatouille” in Ukrainian.

For a few weeks my only social engagements were with children or older adults, and I was entirely missing the 20-30 year age bracket. Jessica’s friends graciously stepped in to fill the gap. First, my visit to Alia in Starokonstantiniv was brief, but a welcome change of pace. I had to wake up at 4 am to catch the train at 5, and when I got on it was dark and there were bodies passed out on benches all over the place. I had to walk through the whole train to get to my compartment (which is frowned upon, since Ukrainians magically know where on the platform to stand in order to be right in front of their compartment when the train stops), and then I stretched out on a bench, pulled my hood over my head, set my alarm for 3 hours, and passed out myself. I awoke to find an old man drinking tea and doing a crossword puzzle across from me. The conductor ladies on the train befriended me because I kept anxiously asking if we were at my stop yet, and we chatted a bit before realizing they would also be on my return train the next day. Once I got to Alia’s apartment, I didn’t leave for the duration of my visit (Alia went to an accordion concert with her counterpart while I took a nap), except to pick up another PCV who lives near her and was also visiting. She made us both jealous with stories of her puppy, and we made tacos with homemade tortillas, substituting carrots and cabbage for lettuce and tomato. Chicken, onion, sour cream, and spicy ketchup rounded out the experience. The next day the other volunteer left early and we watched a movie in Alia’s bed, since we didn’t want to get out of our pjs but we couldn’t go back to sleep. Then the volunteer came back because the bus to her village couldn’t run due to poor road conditions. She ended up taking my train.

When I got back home, I found a sticky note in my door, written in English from someone named Kamilia; it said she knew the old volunteer and supposed I lived here now, she wanted to practice her English, plus she was a good cook so I should give her a call. Then I got an e-mail from Jessica’s best friend Anya, who lives in Kiev but grew up in Kozyatyn, and is dating an RPCV who returned to Ukraine after COSing and is now working in Vinnytsia. They sometimes come to Kozyatyn on weekends, and Anya invited me to go out with them last Saturday. We went to a few cafes and had wine and chocolate, then tea, and then beer and French-fries. First though, I went to Matt’s Vinnytsia English Club in the morning with Kamilia, and since we got there a few hours early, we passed the time at her best friend Nadia’s apartment drinking tea. Kamilia had turned out to be the one English teacher who faithfully attended Jessica’s English Club, and she showed up at my school one day to introduce herself, post-sticky note. I was sitting in the teacher’s room the next day when a guy poked his head in and asked where he could find the American. The teachers silently pointed to me. He introduced himself and wanted to know if I would have a club for adult learners. I said I’d get back to him but first I needed to find a space where we could meet.

On Monday I had to go to Vinnytsia again for a Peace Corps mandated swine-flu vaccine; I’d been there twice before, both times leaving from the same track on the same platform. This time around, the same train (I thought) was waiting on its usual track ready to go, so I hopped on and sat down. It lurched to life a little earlier than the two other times, but I wasn’t worried till it began to lurch in the wrong direction. Then I got worried. A babuysia confirmed my suspicion that I was not in fact on the train to Vinnytsia I had purchased a ticket for. Luckily she, like so many other people I’ve met here, went out of her way to help me. It so happens that she lives in a village one stop away from Kozyatyn, so I got off with her at 8:15 am on a bitterly cold Ukrainian morning and we together crossed the tracks and stopped at a desolate, snow-covered country road to wait for the bus back into town—or rather, to wait and see if the bus might come. For that is what you do in Ukraine, where there’s never a printed schedule, and even if there is, it more often than not goes unheeded. “They’re more like guidelines, anyway,” as Captain Jack Sparrow would say. The bus did in fact come, but the driver waved his hands apologetically to indicate that it was already stuffed to standing room capacity, and so neglected to stop. We were left alone again on the country road, this time with no hope of a bus, and a good chance of losing the ability to count to ten on my fingers if I continued to stand in the cold (this whole week the temperature has hovered in the 0-10 degree range—both on the street and at school. Most people keep their coats on. I have also adapted the rice crispy cereal slogan to suit my wallpaper, since “snap, crackle, sparkle” pretty much sums up its activities at the moment, as it is cracking from the cold.) A girl about my age also had to get to the center, so she called a cab and we split it (the babuysia went home after several times ensuring that the girl would help the American get back to the train station). The girl got out without paying and I thought, oh well, she took advantage of me having further to go and got a free ride, but at least the babuysia was nice, but then when I tried to pay the driver he said not to worry about it, so it turns out everyone was nice! I had to buy a new ticket on a more expensive faster train, but all in all my little misadventure could have gone much worse. Once in Vinnytsia the shot took all of 5 minutes, and since there were no other volunteers around (I had hoped to run into people and go out to lunch), I called Nadia and asked if she wanted to meet up. We had lunch and she wanted to show me a museum, but it was closed since it was Monday (we still ended up talking to her curator friend for a good half-hour). Then she helped me find the restaurant where Miranda had called to say she was eating lunch (Georgian cuisine—the country, not the state!) with another volunteer, so I hung out with them for a few hours before catching a marshrutka back home.

On Wednesday I started my French Club—next week will be Spanish—and on Thursday I was supposed to have Film Club, but I couldn’t get the ancient computer to play the movie from my flash. Only Kamilia and Slava (the guy who wanted me to start an English Club for adults) had shown up anyway, so I went to Kamilia’s house and we baked a blueberry tart, watched the episode of “Friends” I had planned to show at Film Club on her computer while we ate dinner, and then I played with her 2 year old son and had tea with her husband and his best friend while she tutored the pupil who unexpectedly showed up at her doorstep (who happened to be one of my 5th formers, since she lives near my school). We watched “Legends of the Fall” and she asked if I would stay the night and go to her village school on Friday; since it was cold and dark and I didn’t want to walk the 40 minutes past the railway station to my house, I said yes (plus I though it would be interesting to see the village school). Her husband works as a security guard in Kiev, a few days on and then a few days off, so he left for work that night.

Her son Djora’s bare bum took a liking to the pullout couch where I was going to sleep, so he decided to hang out there without any pants on while I looked at pictures with Kamilia. I got over it. Just like I got over the fact that I’ve worn my long underwear pretty consistently for the past 2 weeks without washing it. Besides, it was pretty convenient to just take off my shirt and pants and have another shirt and pants already on to use as pajamas. And my finger worked just fine as a toothbrush, so I’ll have you keep your snarky comments about my slipping standards of hygiene to yourself. You try doing yoga in a t-shirt with the space heater unplugged so the boiler can heat up and then realizing that the water isn’t going to get any warmer so you shiver through a shower before gratefully donning that long underwear once again. I like baking because the oven functions as another space heater.

I hung out with the kids at Kamilia’s school on Friday morning, playing ping-pong on the table in the hallway and eating mashed peas in a broth with a sausage thrown on top from the cafeteria, and trying to get them to ask me questions. One girl knew all about me and I was wondering how till she said she read an article in the paper; a local reporter came to the school and interviewed me the other day, but I didn’t know the story had already run. Then Kamilia and I and Slava’s friend went to the local history museum and had an exhaustive guided tour of its three rooms, and later polished off some tea in the multi-colored cube building near my apartment. I got home 33 hours from the time I had left my apartment the day before. These last few weeks have been just as busy, but I'll have to cover them another time. This weekend I'll be in Ivano-Frankivsk for approximately 24 hours, but to get there and back I'll spend 27 hours on a train (all that for a two hour meeting--stretching even my love of travel to the breaking point).

Love to all and a special thanks to Lisbeth for the postcard and Mrs. Rand for a lovely letter; both got held up in Kiev but eventually followed me to site and were my first mail here in Kozyatyn!