On the last Thursday and Friday of April, I went to Vinnytsia to volunteer at the Special Olympics, which basically entailed us setting up plastic darts, bowling (the pins kept blowing away), and mini-basketball as entertainment for the kids who weren’t playing, and then sitting around in the sun eating the McDonalds hamburgers and pies the event coordinator kept bringing to us (Micky-Ds was a sponsor). Not ideal—we would have liked to be more useful and less ornamental—but as a volunteer you learn you can’t change everything right away, so we’re hoping for better things next year. The most disheartening part was that kids who lived in orphanages or had learning/mental disabilities could play too, so the teams were mostly filled by able-bodied kids, who shouldn’t really have been playing in Special Olympics, and the kids with more limited abilities sat on the sidelines. Unfortunately competition took over the spirit of the games, and I heard one kid who got a ribbon for 5th place shout in frustration, “This isn’t worth celebrating.” On Thursday my marshrutka home broke down, and we sat for half an hour waiting for a different one to take us back to Kozyatyn, while I chatted with an English teacher from School #3 who I had met in December at the Olympiad, but hadn’t seen since (she had gone to Vinnytsia to Mike and Matt’s English club, so she got a lot of practice that day!)
On Friday Megan came with me to site after the SA and before GAD the next morning in Kiev, so we ate peanut butter and chocolate frosting and watched/exchanged movies. We watched another movie on her laptop on the morning train ride to Kiev, fascinating all the people around us, especially a little girl who kept peeking around the corner but not saying anything. GAD was epically long but inspiring and productive as usual. I worked on the GADFly newspaper and helped figure out Camp G.L.O.W. logistics. Afterwards a bunch of us went to a Middle Eastern restaurant for dinner, and I reveled in the wonders of chickpeas. I took the train home that night, making for an exhausting weekend of travel where nonetheless every night was spent at home.
The first Thursday in May, my friends Andriy and Pasha came to my school to give their HIV/AIDS lectures to the 9th-11th forms, and I sat in on a few to observe. Both are very charismatic speakers, but I objected to a few of the stereotypes that got a good laugh from students and teachers alike, about boys wanting girls who haven’t slept around (the metaphors used were the ideal fairy tale princess and a pair of old shoes, plus a jab at homosexuality by referencing the absurdity of a prince wanting to marry another prince). The teachers were in a meeting during the big break, but Natasha had locked the English classroom so I couldn’t get in to give the 8th formers the exam I had written, and the meeting continued for almost the entire lesson, so I was stuck in the hall with the kiddies, improvising. Then, unexpectedly, three boys from School #1 showed up for my English club, so I rearranged things there as well.
Thursday the 13th we held an all-day HIV/AIDS training for 15 school psychologists and health teachers, facilitated by a PEPFAR trainer I invited from Kiev. Open Heart, the local NGO Kamilia and I work with, provided lunch and technical support, and Kamilia organized the whole thing. In the morning I had my doubts: we had a last minute room change, things people promised would be done weren’t done, many people couldn’t come because of poor timing (at the end of the year, when everyone has to prepare for exams)…but somehow it all came together, and the participants even delayed going to lunch because they were asking us questions about how we could work together, and discussing specific points from the lecture! Yay enthusiasm!
After the Botanical Gardens, I got off the train, went to bed, woke up, and got back on the train the next day to the town of Bar. To get there I had to catch a bus from Vinnytsia, and I’m not used to buying tickets in advance for buses, so I just sat down until someone informed me I was in her seat. Luckily there were two seats near the driver for stand-bys, and I almost bounced out of mine a couple of times as we careened over epic bumps and potholes. The volunteer in Bar had organized a baseball weekend for her students. She worked in a lesson on HIV, which we then jokingly tied to baseball metaphors for our own amusement. Ten volunteers showed up to help, and we taught the kids how to throw, catch, and bat, plus what the heck you’re supposed to do when you put all those things together and make a game. We were supposed to give a demonstration in front of the mayor, so we lugged all the equipment rented from Peace Corps (who knew the office had batting helmets?) through the streets of town, wearing most of it to lighten the giant babuysia bags the stuff came in. Abbey and Grace made stir-fry for dinner in Abbey’s awesome host family house, and then we played Catch-Phrase all night. Oh how I’ve missed being a dork with other dorky Americans! I hadn’t planned to spend the night (in fact I thought it was a one-day event), but there was an extra bed and I borrowed a contact case and solution, so I figured Chomoo nee? The answer might have been furnished by my fellow marshrutka-riders on the way home the next day, after wearing the same clothes for 48 hours straight, including overnight and several hours of baseball in the rain on Sunday.
What do YOU think the role of a TEFL volunteer should be in her local community and host country?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
School and society
My Earth Day Concert was typical chaos; I couldn’t find the key to the auditorium, students were piling up in the stairwell, girls were changing into their garbage bag skirts in the bathroom when they were supposed to be onstage reading their essays, none of the 5th formers understood anything the 6th formers were saying…but at least a handful of kids at School #5 can tell you now that Den Zemli is on April 22nd. The tech teacher came after school to fix my electricity, and joked that if he shocked himself I should give him mouth to mouth. Haha—awkward laughter—pretend to be confused.
I arrived at school one Wednesday to find out that all the students were leaving after 4th period to travel en masse to an “aesthetics lesson” in town, meaning an excursion to hear the Vinnytsia Symphony Orchestra. So I taught 2 lessons, had two tutoring lessons, went home for lunch and headed off to enrich my aesthetic. It turned out to be perfect for me since it was geared toward young children: a woman onstage introduced the instruments and partially narrated the fairy tale, and then the music told the story, so I was able to follow along better. After the concert, Pasha came over to watch “Moulin Rouge,” but the quality was bad so we started a Russian version of “The Others” before I went to dinner at Larissa’s, the youngest English teacher at my school—she lives down the street from me but I had yet to go to her house. I had invited her to lunch but she couldn’t come, so kind of by default she invited me to dinner. I baked an awesome poppy-seed cake because I remembered she likes poppy-seeds, and I sat in her kitchen while she got dinner ready. I felt rude speaking in English in front of her husband at the table, but she always prefers to speak English with me so I oblige. She cracked each egg onto a plate before adding it to the syrnikiy mix to check if it was spoiled. I also learned that the domashniy syr that I love can be made by leaving fresh milk on the counter for a few days until it turns into kefir and then heating it on a low flame until magically it morphs further into delicious homemade cheese. I will have to try it, but I don’t know where I can get milk straight from a cow in the U.S. We did the obligatory first visit photo album inventory, and I didn’t get home till 11 pm.
Last week has been taken up with exams at school; for the oral they must memorize and recite a text, so I helped grade those. Today I got to school for my first lesson at noon, showed “School of Rock” to the 8th formers, and was then informed that I was going to a concert at the Music School in town. Ironic. So my 7A class and 11th form club were canceled and I headed back into town with the only 3 other teachers who were invited. I was still confused as to why I was there if not everyone was, but I had a vague idea it might have been envisioned as an honor/special treat for me, so I rolled with it. Open Heart had organized a blood-testing tent on the square in town, with health professionals from the HIV center in Vinnytsia, so I stopped by after the concert to see how it went, and then had peach juice and vareniky with liver (why do I like these things?) with Andriy and Pasha. They reported that 40 people came to get tested, and not just former drug users, but average adults and some young people too, which is a big step forward because very few people in Ukraine get tested, due to the stigma surrounding HIV as a drug-users’ problem, which is unfortunately long out-dated. The biggest risk group now is people aged 15-25, and the most common path of infection is through unprotected sex, so the fact that so few people know their status contributes to the spiraling epidemic.
I also recently found out that it’s alarmingly common for kids to try cigarettes or alcohol between the tender ages of 5-7, since I asked my friends about it after one 5th former told me another 5th former smoked. Two days later that was confirmed when I decided to take a walk to the island and read. I had just pulled my book out of my bag when some 6th formers from my school came up to say hello. I talked with them for a while—mostly in Ukrainian but a little in English—and we even played a few rounds of cards. But then one pulled out a cigarette and lit up in front of me! He was 14 and still in 6th grade, but his friend from another school who was only 10 was smoking with him. I asked them if they knew smoking was bad and what it could do to them; I tried the scare tactics, saying my grandfather was a smoker who died of lung cancer, and asking if their parents knew (his did, but didn’t care), and finally I said I couldn’t play with them if they were smoking, so I took my leave, shaken by the experience but also thinking about what I could do at school to shake them up as well.
The only reason anyone is still in school the last week of May is so that it can be properly recorded in the class journals, the sacred texts of the Ukrainian school system. I sit in fascination in the teachers’ room, watching my colleagues chase each other down for the different class books. Grades, absences, lesson plans, and homework must be recorded for each school day, and no cross-outs are tolerated. Conditioned from Soviet times, it is hard to erase from the national mentality, so that official documentation bears little resemblance to reality, and no one thinks anything of it. This is why many volunteers have a hard time cooperating on grant projects, because it is the norm to write was is needed and then do whatever you want. Lena didn’t show up for our lesson, and Natasha sat in the back frantically entering grades into the journal for our two lessons together; another teacher asked Larissa if she could excuse our 6th formers from their lesson to return books to the library, and our 7th form was still reciting their oral exams, but the class was so noisy Larissa called in their class mistress to yell at them and then sent everyone who hadn’t studied home (half the class does no work and shamelessly accepts 2s—graded on a 12 point scale—but they will still progress to the 8th form). At the teachers’ meeting during break we learned that the students would have two hours of lessons with their class mistresses on Thursday, then we would have another meeting and the kids would go home. Friday we just have the Last Bell concert at 9. Monday we had off for Pentecost. Then for almost all of June there are no real classes, but both teachers and students alike must come to school.
Compare/Contrast: What do you think are the biggest problems facing schools and society in America today?
I arrived at school one Wednesday to find out that all the students were leaving after 4th period to travel en masse to an “aesthetics lesson” in town, meaning an excursion to hear the Vinnytsia Symphony Orchestra. So I taught 2 lessons, had two tutoring lessons, went home for lunch and headed off to enrich my aesthetic. It turned out to be perfect for me since it was geared toward young children: a woman onstage introduced the instruments and partially narrated the fairy tale, and then the music told the story, so I was able to follow along better. After the concert, Pasha came over to watch “Moulin Rouge,” but the quality was bad so we started a Russian version of “The Others” before I went to dinner at Larissa’s, the youngest English teacher at my school—she lives down the street from me but I had yet to go to her house. I had invited her to lunch but she couldn’t come, so kind of by default she invited me to dinner. I baked an awesome poppy-seed cake because I remembered she likes poppy-seeds, and I sat in her kitchen while she got dinner ready. I felt rude speaking in English in front of her husband at the table, but she always prefers to speak English with me so I oblige. She cracked each egg onto a plate before adding it to the syrnikiy mix to check if it was spoiled. I also learned that the domashniy syr that I love can be made by leaving fresh milk on the counter for a few days until it turns into kefir and then heating it on a low flame until magically it morphs further into delicious homemade cheese. I will have to try it, but I don’t know where I can get milk straight from a cow in the U.S. We did the obligatory first visit photo album inventory, and I didn’t get home till 11 pm.
Last week has been taken up with exams at school; for the oral they must memorize and recite a text, so I helped grade those. Today I got to school for my first lesson at noon, showed “School of Rock” to the 8th formers, and was then informed that I was going to a concert at the Music School in town. Ironic. So my 7A class and 11th form club were canceled and I headed back into town with the only 3 other teachers who were invited. I was still confused as to why I was there if not everyone was, but I had a vague idea it might have been envisioned as an honor/special treat for me, so I rolled with it. Open Heart had organized a blood-testing tent on the square in town, with health professionals from the HIV center in Vinnytsia, so I stopped by after the concert to see how it went, and then had peach juice and vareniky with liver (why do I like these things?) with Andriy and Pasha. They reported that 40 people came to get tested, and not just former drug users, but average adults and some young people too, which is a big step forward because very few people in Ukraine get tested, due to the stigma surrounding HIV as a drug-users’ problem, which is unfortunately long out-dated. The biggest risk group now is people aged 15-25, and the most common path of infection is through unprotected sex, so the fact that so few people know their status contributes to the spiraling epidemic.
I also recently found out that it’s alarmingly common for kids to try cigarettes or alcohol between the tender ages of 5-7, since I asked my friends about it after one 5th former told me another 5th former smoked. Two days later that was confirmed when I decided to take a walk to the island and read. I had just pulled my book out of my bag when some 6th formers from my school came up to say hello. I talked with them for a while—mostly in Ukrainian but a little in English—and we even played a few rounds of cards. But then one pulled out a cigarette and lit up in front of me! He was 14 and still in 6th grade, but his friend from another school who was only 10 was smoking with him. I asked them if they knew smoking was bad and what it could do to them; I tried the scare tactics, saying my grandfather was a smoker who died of lung cancer, and asking if their parents knew (his did, but didn’t care), and finally I said I couldn’t play with them if they were smoking, so I took my leave, shaken by the experience but also thinking about what I could do at school to shake them up as well.
The only reason anyone is still in school the last week of May is so that it can be properly recorded in the class journals, the sacred texts of the Ukrainian school system. I sit in fascination in the teachers’ room, watching my colleagues chase each other down for the different class books. Grades, absences, lesson plans, and homework must be recorded for each school day, and no cross-outs are tolerated. Conditioned from Soviet times, it is hard to erase from the national mentality, so that official documentation bears little resemblance to reality, and no one thinks anything of it. This is why many volunteers have a hard time cooperating on grant projects, because it is the norm to write was is needed and then do whatever you want. Lena didn’t show up for our lesson, and Natasha sat in the back frantically entering grades into the journal for our two lessons together; another teacher asked Larissa if she could excuse our 6th formers from their lesson to return books to the library, and our 7th form was still reciting their oral exams, but the class was so noisy Larissa called in their class mistress to yell at them and then sent everyone who hadn’t studied home (half the class does no work and shamelessly accepts 2s—graded on a 12 point scale—but they will still progress to the 8th form). At the teachers’ meeting during break we learned that the students would have two hours of lessons with their class mistresses on Thursday, then we would have another meeting and the kids would go home. Friday we just have the Last Bell concert at 9. Monday we had off for Pentecost. Then for almost all of June there are no real classes, but both teachers and students alike must come to school.
Compare/Contrast: What do you think are the biggest problems facing schools and society in America today?
All my stories are about food...
For at least a week I had salo cravings—we’re talking slices of cured pig’s fat, eaten on bread with garlic. My fellow volunteers were appalled by my treason of our unspoken American understanding (we don’t eat chunks of fat if we know it’s fat, only when it’s melted and disguised in all our other foods), but what’s the difference from spreading butter on bread, or eating a slice of bacon?
Sunday May 2nd was my first shashlik experience, and the food was well worth not-so-subtly inviting myself to my counterpart’s daughter’s 15th birthday party. (“So, Natasha, what are you doing on Sunday?” “Oh, it’s Dasha’s birthday, so we are probably going to our dacha to celebrate. If you are around, you should ask her if you can come.”…next day in class…“Dasha, I hear it’s your birthday on Sunday; am I invited to your party?” I’m her English teacher, poor girl, what could she say?) But it was a gorgeous day: all the flowers and fruit trees were in bloom, the alcohol was chilling in buckets of ice cold water drawn from the well, and the shish-kebabs were rotating on their skewers over the campfire in the woods. We had consecutive rounds of tender juicy meat, heavenly whole fish stuffed with onion and garlic and tomato, eaten by breaking it in half (to answer the age old question WWJD), plus a special soup that had stewed for hours in a cast-iron cauldron over the fire. My neighbors were also there. Luda and I went on a walk around the block and talked about corruption in Ukraine; even though in theory they have free national health care, you must pay for even the smallest service in hospitals (and elsewhere), such as ensuring a nurse goes on her rounds to check on your sick daughter. I sat at the grown-up table, though I didn’t contribute much to the adult conversation. Every so often a train would be visible/audible through the thin strip of woods, and the adults would remark, “There goes the 5:15 to Moscow.” I earned my keep by helping Natasha wash the dishes with a weed she pulled from the lawn; it has soap-like, fat-dissolving properties, which makes it a totally bad-ass plant! The kids attempted s’mores after dinner (introduced as a novel American dessert, but here they don’t have the right marshmallows or graham crackers, and they forgot the chocolate!)
The next day at the bazaar I went crazy and bought every green thing in sight, so excited after a winter where the only green vegetables were pickles. I made super salads for a week: chervil (why have I never discovered this before?—it’s amazing!), lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onion, green onion, parsley, dill, salt, pepper, oil, vinegar, garlic, hardboiled eggs, chicken, raisins, apples, domashniy syr, carrots, walnuts, pumpkin seeds, buckwheat…and then sat on my balcony and ate them out of the giant mixing bowl. I also did some laundry (sigh, moan, sigh) and other chores around the house that I tend to let slide. My run was fantastic, partly because I stumbled upon another hour-long loop that took me down dirt roads with quaint cottages and beautiful gardens, through a few fields, and past a little lake.
On Friday April 23rd, I made enchiladas (homemade tortillas and everything—as Sebastian the crab says, “If you want something done, you’ve got to do it yourself!”) with Kamilia at my house, and then later watched “Forest Gump” and slept over at her house. She had to take her son to the doctor’s in another town early in the morning, so she left the keys with me and I slept in and had her house to myself for a bit (I put a few things a right angles and did the dishes) before walking home, running into Sasha in a tux on his way to a friend’s wedding, and taking the train to Vinnytsia for The Collaborative, since the bus had no more seats. Abbey gave some good tips on teaching writing, and we talked about organizing summer camps before heading to an Italian restaurant to get pizza for dinner. I was going to the theatre with Matt and Anya though, so by the time my pizza came I had 5 minutes to eat it—I gave it a valiant effort and shoved as much down my throat as I could before running to catch “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in Ukrainian, about 10% of which I understood. It was still really cool to be in a theatre at a cultural performance, since PCVs usually “slum” it, so to speak.
On Sunday I made Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake (intrigued by the recipe’s title, I had to try it out, and it was surprisingly moist and delicious) and hosted my friends for a planning session on their HIV/AIDS prevention lectures; my contribution was limited to cooking, as I had a very difficult time following the rapid, technical conversation in mixed Russian and Ukrainian (in brief: “AIDS prevention=yay—ok now eat cake!) I also skyped with my family and found out my brother was going to Bowdoin!
Last week, I made green borshch according to the Babuysia’s Cookbook, but mine turned out red. Tasty, but not quite right. This week I tried again, but added so much rice (substituting for potatoes) that the wooden spoon actually stood up in the pot. It’s a work in progress.
Saturday I went to a café with Luda and Anya, a friend of hers who came to English club for the first time this week. They had bought a liter of orange juice and sunflower seeds, which I thought an interesting combo for a bar, but I diligently worked each individual seed free from its shell as we talked about wedding traditions. I also managed to stick my elbow into the birthday cake sitting on the bar, getting yellow frosting all over my sleeve. I loaded up on vegetables the next day at the bazaar, and had only just walked in the door when it started to pour. So I did some afternoon yoga, enjoying the sounds of the storm. Then I met up with Anya and Matt, and Anya’s friend Sasha from Kiev joined us as well. At the entrance to the café we ran into Lena’s sister and her husband, who I haven’t seen in forever, but I keep hoping they will invite me back to their house (eventually I’ll just invite myself over, as I resort to from time to time). The conversation covered world religions, American attitudes toward food, and growing up in the 90s (which meant something very different in Ukraine than in America). We walked by the town square later, and a religious “concert” was just finishing, so I said hello to all my Nazarene friends (and detected strong judgment on their part for my having been in a café, which I shrugged off but did not appreciate, since it goes back to my earlier discussion on issues of tolerance). I went home to have a salad, and then hung out on a park bench with Pasha and a bunch of teenage girls for a bit (a drunk man who had clearly spent the day fishing asked us for cigarettes, and kept repeating, “There are no more fish in Kozyatyn,” which perhaps in and of itself is not that amusing, but the delivery was hilarious). Later I wanted to make hot milk to dip my chocolate bar into while I watched “Love in the Time of Cholera,” but I ended up making cheese. Or so I thought, since the milk turned all lumpy, but Larissa said that meant it wasn’t fresh, because no matter how long you heat really fresh milk it won’t curdle, whereas to make domashniy syr you have to start from kefir. And if you want sour cream, you just let fresh milk sit out for a few days and scoop the fat off the top. Then you use the sour milk to make cheese! Brilliant. It keeps bringing Laura Ingalls to my mind.
Monday was lasagna day! Luda’s relatives work in Italy, and they sent her lasagna noodles (which you can’t find in Ukraine, except if you want to spend a lot of money in Kiev). We also substituted a type of cream cheese for mozzarella, but the end resulted tasted good to me (then again, when it comes to food, I’m pretty easy to please—I even ate some of that lumpy milk I heated the other day)! Luda’s mother is the music teacher at my school, but it didn’t feel odd to be friends with my colleague’s daughter and hang out in their apartment. They made delicious tea from berry bush leaves they themselves had gathered and dried. Anya and Luda had gone to the village to visit Luda’s boyfriend, and they were still marveling over how much nicer and more attentive village boys were to the “city girls,” so we decided next time we’d kick it up a notch with an American girl.
Food for thought: Tell me about your wildest food adventure.
Sunday May 2nd was my first shashlik experience, and the food was well worth not-so-subtly inviting myself to my counterpart’s daughter’s 15th birthday party. (“So, Natasha, what are you doing on Sunday?” “Oh, it’s Dasha’s birthday, so we are probably going to our dacha to celebrate. If you are around, you should ask her if you can come.”…next day in class…“Dasha, I hear it’s your birthday on Sunday; am I invited to your party?” I’m her English teacher, poor girl, what could she say?) But it was a gorgeous day: all the flowers and fruit trees were in bloom, the alcohol was chilling in buckets of ice cold water drawn from the well, and the shish-kebabs were rotating on their skewers over the campfire in the woods. We had consecutive rounds of tender juicy meat, heavenly whole fish stuffed with onion and garlic and tomato, eaten by breaking it in half (to answer the age old question WWJD), plus a special soup that had stewed for hours in a cast-iron cauldron over the fire. My neighbors were also there. Luda and I went on a walk around the block and talked about corruption in Ukraine; even though in theory they have free national health care, you must pay for even the smallest service in hospitals (and elsewhere), such as ensuring a nurse goes on her rounds to check on your sick daughter. I sat at the grown-up table, though I didn’t contribute much to the adult conversation. Every so often a train would be visible/audible through the thin strip of woods, and the adults would remark, “There goes the 5:15 to Moscow.” I earned my keep by helping Natasha wash the dishes with a weed she pulled from the lawn; it has soap-like, fat-dissolving properties, which makes it a totally bad-ass plant! The kids attempted s’mores after dinner (introduced as a novel American dessert, but here they don’t have the right marshmallows or graham crackers, and they forgot the chocolate!)
The next day at the bazaar I went crazy and bought every green thing in sight, so excited after a winter where the only green vegetables were pickles. I made super salads for a week: chervil (why have I never discovered this before?—it’s amazing!), lettuce, tomato, cucumber, onion, green onion, parsley, dill, salt, pepper, oil, vinegar, garlic, hardboiled eggs, chicken, raisins, apples, domashniy syr, carrots, walnuts, pumpkin seeds, buckwheat…and then sat on my balcony and ate them out of the giant mixing bowl. I also did some laundry (sigh, moan, sigh) and other chores around the house that I tend to let slide. My run was fantastic, partly because I stumbled upon another hour-long loop that took me down dirt roads with quaint cottages and beautiful gardens, through a few fields, and past a little lake.
On Friday April 23rd, I made enchiladas (homemade tortillas and everything—as Sebastian the crab says, “If you want something done, you’ve got to do it yourself!”) with Kamilia at my house, and then later watched “Forest Gump” and slept over at her house. She had to take her son to the doctor’s in another town early in the morning, so she left the keys with me and I slept in and had her house to myself for a bit (I put a few things a right angles and did the dishes) before walking home, running into Sasha in a tux on his way to a friend’s wedding, and taking the train to Vinnytsia for The Collaborative, since the bus had no more seats. Abbey gave some good tips on teaching writing, and we talked about organizing summer camps before heading to an Italian restaurant to get pizza for dinner. I was going to the theatre with Matt and Anya though, so by the time my pizza came I had 5 minutes to eat it—I gave it a valiant effort and shoved as much down my throat as I could before running to catch “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” in Ukrainian, about 10% of which I understood. It was still really cool to be in a theatre at a cultural performance, since PCVs usually “slum” it, so to speak.
On Sunday I made Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake (intrigued by the recipe’s title, I had to try it out, and it was surprisingly moist and delicious) and hosted my friends for a planning session on their HIV/AIDS prevention lectures; my contribution was limited to cooking, as I had a very difficult time following the rapid, technical conversation in mixed Russian and Ukrainian (in brief: “AIDS prevention=yay—ok now eat cake!) I also skyped with my family and found out my brother was going to Bowdoin!
Last week, I made green borshch according to the Babuysia’s Cookbook, but mine turned out red. Tasty, but not quite right. This week I tried again, but added so much rice (substituting for potatoes) that the wooden spoon actually stood up in the pot. It’s a work in progress.
Saturday I went to a café with Luda and Anya, a friend of hers who came to English club for the first time this week. They had bought a liter of orange juice and sunflower seeds, which I thought an interesting combo for a bar, but I diligently worked each individual seed free from its shell as we talked about wedding traditions. I also managed to stick my elbow into the birthday cake sitting on the bar, getting yellow frosting all over my sleeve. I loaded up on vegetables the next day at the bazaar, and had only just walked in the door when it started to pour. So I did some afternoon yoga, enjoying the sounds of the storm. Then I met up with Anya and Matt, and Anya’s friend Sasha from Kiev joined us as well. At the entrance to the café we ran into Lena’s sister and her husband, who I haven’t seen in forever, but I keep hoping they will invite me back to their house (eventually I’ll just invite myself over, as I resort to from time to time). The conversation covered world religions, American attitudes toward food, and growing up in the 90s (which meant something very different in Ukraine than in America). We walked by the town square later, and a religious “concert” was just finishing, so I said hello to all my Nazarene friends (and detected strong judgment on their part for my having been in a café, which I shrugged off but did not appreciate, since it goes back to my earlier discussion on issues of tolerance). I went home to have a salad, and then hung out on a park bench with Pasha and a bunch of teenage girls for a bit (a drunk man who had clearly spent the day fishing asked us for cigarettes, and kept repeating, “There are no more fish in Kozyatyn,” which perhaps in and of itself is not that amusing, but the delivery was hilarious). Later I wanted to make hot milk to dip my chocolate bar into while I watched “Love in the Time of Cholera,” but I ended up making cheese. Or so I thought, since the milk turned all lumpy, but Larissa said that meant it wasn’t fresh, because no matter how long you heat really fresh milk it won’t curdle, whereas to make domashniy syr you have to start from kefir. And if you want sour cream, you just let fresh milk sit out for a few days and scoop the fat off the top. Then you use the sour milk to make cheese! Brilliant. It keeps bringing Laura Ingalls to my mind.
Monday was lasagna day! Luda’s relatives work in Italy, and they sent her lasagna noodles (which you can’t find in Ukraine, except if you want to spend a lot of money in Kiev). We also substituted a type of cream cheese for mozzarella, but the end resulted tasted good to me (then again, when it comes to food, I’m pretty easy to please—I even ate some of that lumpy milk I heated the other day)! Luda’s mother is the music teacher at my school, but it didn’t feel odd to be friends with my colleague’s daughter and hang out in their apartment. They made delicious tea from berry bush leaves they themselves had gathered and dried. Anya and Luda had gone to the village to visit Luda’s boyfriend, and they were still marveling over how much nicer and more attentive village boys were to the “city girls,” so we decided next time we’d kick it up a notch with an American girl.
Food for thought: Tell me about your wildest food adventure.
English Club: Good Times with Friends
The first week in April I dedicated English Club to April Fool’s Day, and we had a great session comparing American and Ukrainian humor and telling anecdotes. Pasha told of when he sold his grandma’s cow for drug money (“No, Babuysia, I haven’t seen Bessie this morning.”) We had many of the same categories of jokes, but Ukrainians also enjoyed self-effacing jokes about salo, beets, and vodka, with a wry appreciation for life’s hardships, whereas American self-effacing humor I think focuses more on life’s excesses.
I was having tea with some friends at my apartment, and I commented that I used to be afraid of the gas stove; my friend replied, yeah, when we used to make our own drugs, one of my friends almost blew herself up accidentally. Normalno.
I love that my Ukrainian friends love “Friends,” or “Droozie,” as it’s known here, because both they and my brothers can quote it with ease. We watched some episodes together at club and during tea.
Once during the week I had Italian night with Luda from my adult English club—we made a pasta dish with olives and meat and drank wine and listened to Italian music and talked about our shared interest in Mediterranean men.
The first week of May, club was “travel” themed: where we would like to both visit and live. Topping the list for travel were India, Brazil (Ukrainians don’t need a visa), and Australia, whereas England ranked high for resettlement (due mostly to football allegiances).
Kamilia came over to help me cook on Friday, and we invited the English club over for dinner. The pastor’s wife and three kids came with another girl from the church who helps with the healthy lifestyles trainings as well. My oven was so inadequate they had to leave before the food was fully cooked. I had a nice conversation with some neighbors on Saturday after taking out the trash.
On Tuesday the 11th we started school 3 hours later because the 11th formers had an exam, so I was under the impression I would be at school till 6 pm. We made plans to hold the English club at Kamilia’s and cook dinner there, since I would be done so late, but instead I finished an hour early, because Larissa was just giving exams to our co-taught 6th and 7th formers. It was sunny out, so I decided to read on a park bench while I waited for Kamilia; a somewhat intoxicated man sat down across from me and started trying to guess my name, listing off Ukrainian women’s names—I told him like that he would never manage. The topic was war, so everyone recounted family history; Andriy’s grandfather was a Soviet war hero (but Andriy sold his medals for drug money once upon a time), Pasha’s great-grandmother was a rebel, and Luda told stories of cannibalism during the Holodomor. My favorite comment though was when Pasha said I reminded him of Joey from “Friends,” because I often laugh at things other people say in Ukrainian or Russian, even when I have no idea what they’re talking about.
My blog is monitored by my Peace Corps Regional Manager, since it is accessible to the public, (yay free speech!) and she asked for clarification when I made some comments about my friends selling cows and war medals for drug money. I am including my response, in case any of you were also wondering what the heck I was talking about:
I am sorry that you were confused by the content of my blog, so please allow me to clarify. Pasha and Andriy are indeed my friends, and they are certainly not drug users. They were, many years ago, but they have since successfully gone through rehab, and are now active members of the Church that runs the local rehab center, as well as an NGO called "Open Heart." As volunteers working for Open Heart, they regularly visit local schools to give lectures on healthy lifestyles and HIV/AIDS prevention, run youth groups, and organize other events such as the testing I also wrote about. I admire their hard work and good example, and I hope you can see (as I do) that they are good people despite their past. I also make a point to publicly support them, because I think it sets a good example for my community. As to my comments, they are all true statements, and since my blog attempts to address the 3rd goal of Peace Corps (namely, to inform Americans--my friends and family--about the host country), I value my Ukrainian friends' insights as a fascinating look at some of the difficulties of living in Ukraine in the 90s.
This past weekend I went with Pasha to the Botanical Gardens in Kiev to see the lilacs in bloom. It’s a huge park and we explored a lot of it, as I explained my constant desire to see what is around the next bend, or at the end of the horizon (ask friends I have traveled with or brothers I have biked with). It was awesome to speak Ukrainian all day, but it definitely tired me out, and I’m still not able to express everything I want.
I saw my first movie in theatre in Ukraine after more than 7 months in country! I went to Vinnytsia to see “Robin Hood,” essentially with a church group, because most of my friends in Kozyatyn happen to be members of the Church of the Nazarene. It is fascinating to me how religion and drugs, both extremes of which I do not approve, have been a part of the lives of my friends. I don’t know if in America I would have the courage to get to know people like that, so I am happy to think it reflects my philosophy of stepping beyond one’s comfort zone, which for me is somehow easier to do abroad, in a place where everything theoretically is uncomfortable. And the people I’ve met are good people, which I would never have known if I had judged them on my regular standards. I have mixed feelings about religion, considering myself more spiritual than religious, and yet having been raised Catholic (for which I consider myself culturally Catholic). Basically I’ve come to the conclusion that all belief systems are equally valid, so long as they don’t infringe on the rights of others, and I enjoy learning about them in a cultural context, but strongly dislike when they come in conflict, which happens more than it should considering the ideas people profess. Anyway, I’ll stop philosophizing and get back to the film, which wasn’t that good. I didn’t understand all the Ukrainian, but the action didn’t seem very logical either. I did, however, enjoy the theatrical experience, which reminded me of America, since we walked through a mall with things I couldn’t afford, brought popcorn and chips and soda into the theatre, made snarky comments about the previews, and had Big Macs and fries and McSundaes for dinner (it was so surreal to be hanging out with a group of Ukrainians in McDonalds). Pasha and his friend Yura and I walked around town a bit afterwards, and they indulgenced my penchant for exploring unknown quarters of the city as we took a very roundabout way back to the train station. Yura said I had beautiful hands, and I was flattered by the unusual complement (I wanted to type that so I’d remember it when I’m old and wrinkly). I was so tired when I got home at 11:30, but I had to stay up to type and send Ira’s application for camp, since I had walked an hour to and from school that morning just to get, because somehow in the craziness of leaving for the concert yesterday I had managed to misplace it and I felt guilty.
Ponder this, por favor: How do you judge the people you care about, and is there anything that would preclude you being friends with someone?
I was having tea with some friends at my apartment, and I commented that I used to be afraid of the gas stove; my friend replied, yeah, when we used to make our own drugs, one of my friends almost blew herself up accidentally. Normalno.
I love that my Ukrainian friends love “Friends,” or “Droozie,” as it’s known here, because both they and my brothers can quote it with ease. We watched some episodes together at club and during tea.
Once during the week I had Italian night with Luda from my adult English club—we made a pasta dish with olives and meat and drank wine and listened to Italian music and talked about our shared interest in Mediterranean men.
The first week of May, club was “travel” themed: where we would like to both visit and live. Topping the list for travel were India, Brazil (Ukrainians don’t need a visa), and Australia, whereas England ranked high for resettlement (due mostly to football allegiances).
Kamilia came over to help me cook on Friday, and we invited the English club over for dinner. The pastor’s wife and three kids came with another girl from the church who helps with the healthy lifestyles trainings as well. My oven was so inadequate they had to leave before the food was fully cooked. I had a nice conversation with some neighbors on Saturday after taking out the trash.
On Tuesday the 11th we started school 3 hours later because the 11th formers had an exam, so I was under the impression I would be at school till 6 pm. We made plans to hold the English club at Kamilia’s and cook dinner there, since I would be done so late, but instead I finished an hour early, because Larissa was just giving exams to our co-taught 6th and 7th formers. It was sunny out, so I decided to read on a park bench while I waited for Kamilia; a somewhat intoxicated man sat down across from me and started trying to guess my name, listing off Ukrainian women’s names—I told him like that he would never manage. The topic was war, so everyone recounted family history; Andriy’s grandfather was a Soviet war hero (but Andriy sold his medals for drug money once upon a time), Pasha’s great-grandmother was a rebel, and Luda told stories of cannibalism during the Holodomor. My favorite comment though was when Pasha said I reminded him of Joey from “Friends,” because I often laugh at things other people say in Ukrainian or Russian, even when I have no idea what they’re talking about.
My blog is monitored by my Peace Corps Regional Manager, since it is accessible to the public, (yay free speech!) and she asked for clarification when I made some comments about my friends selling cows and war medals for drug money. I am including my response, in case any of you were also wondering what the heck I was talking about:
I am sorry that you were confused by the content of my blog, so please allow me to clarify. Pasha and Andriy are indeed my friends, and they are certainly not drug users. They were, many years ago, but they have since successfully gone through rehab, and are now active members of the Church that runs the local rehab center, as well as an NGO called "Open Heart." As volunteers working for Open Heart, they regularly visit local schools to give lectures on healthy lifestyles and HIV/AIDS prevention, run youth groups, and organize other events such as the testing I also wrote about. I admire their hard work and good example, and I hope you can see (as I do) that they are good people despite their past. I also make a point to publicly support them, because I think it sets a good example for my community. As to my comments, they are all true statements, and since my blog attempts to address the 3rd goal of Peace Corps (namely, to inform Americans--my friends and family--about the host country), I value my Ukrainian friends' insights as a fascinating look at some of the difficulties of living in Ukraine in the 90s.
This past weekend I went with Pasha to the Botanical Gardens in Kiev to see the lilacs in bloom. It’s a huge park and we explored a lot of it, as I explained my constant desire to see what is around the next bend, or at the end of the horizon (ask friends I have traveled with or brothers I have biked with). It was awesome to speak Ukrainian all day, but it definitely tired me out, and I’m still not able to express everything I want.
I saw my first movie in theatre in Ukraine after more than 7 months in country! I went to Vinnytsia to see “Robin Hood,” essentially with a church group, because most of my friends in Kozyatyn happen to be members of the Church of the Nazarene. It is fascinating to me how religion and drugs, both extremes of which I do not approve, have been a part of the lives of my friends. I don’t know if in America I would have the courage to get to know people like that, so I am happy to think it reflects my philosophy of stepping beyond one’s comfort zone, which for me is somehow easier to do abroad, in a place where everything theoretically is uncomfortable. And the people I’ve met are good people, which I would never have known if I had judged them on my regular standards. I have mixed feelings about religion, considering myself more spiritual than religious, and yet having been raised Catholic (for which I consider myself culturally Catholic). Basically I’ve come to the conclusion that all belief systems are equally valid, so long as they don’t infringe on the rights of others, and I enjoy learning about them in a cultural context, but strongly dislike when they come in conflict, which happens more than it should considering the ideas people profess. Anyway, I’ll stop philosophizing and get back to the film, which wasn’t that good. I didn’t understand all the Ukrainian, but the action didn’t seem very logical either. I did, however, enjoy the theatrical experience, which reminded me of America, since we walked through a mall with things I couldn’t afford, brought popcorn and chips and soda into the theatre, made snarky comments about the previews, and had Big Macs and fries and McSundaes for dinner (it was so surreal to be hanging out with a group of Ukrainians in McDonalds). Pasha and his friend Yura and I walked around town a bit afterwards, and they indulgenced my penchant for exploring unknown quarters of the city as we took a very roundabout way back to the train station. Yura said I had beautiful hands, and I was flattered by the unusual complement (I wanted to type that so I’d remember it when I’m old and wrinkly). I was so tired when I got home at 11:30, but I had to stay up to type and send Ira’s application for camp, since I had walked an hour to and from school that morning just to get, because somehow in the craziness of leaving for the concert yesterday I had managed to misplace it and I felt guilty.
Ponder this, por favor: How do you judge the people you care about, and is there anything that would preclude you being friends with someone?
The not-so marathon
In mid-April I ventured to Zacarpatska (Beyond the Carpathians), ostensibly to run a half-marathon, but really to enjoy the wine festival and the company of other volunteers. Alia and Megan got on a train at midnight only to discover people asleep in their assigned bunks; then they realized the ticket lady had sold them the wrong ticket, so they had to get off the train! Beregovo is a gorgeous town on the Hungarian border that feels much more like Eastern Europe (it even has a different time zone!) than the rest of Ukraine, ethnically, linguistically, architecturally, and culturally (the fact that there even was a wine festival is telling). The day of the race was so beautiful that I momentarily contemplated running the half just to continue admiring the scenery (the route followed the rolling foothills of the distantly visible snow-capped Carpathians, with vineyards and flowers blooming, green buds on the trees and a blueblue sky), but then I decided that drunk pasta dinner wasn’t the best pre-race prep, and opted instead for the 10K. I was in awe of the volunteer who organized the event: 40 runners got bibs and breakfast and dinner tickets for two nights at registration, we had a walking tour of the town and were set loose to sample the wines before the pre-race pasta dinner, on the course there were water stations and at the finish a beer tent (with PB&J sandwiches!), and a celebration dinner/wine tasting/award ceremony concluded the festivities. I consider it a good day when my kids hand in their homework or correctly formulate a question. Erin, on the other hand, has half a million in grant money from the EU. Still, there were the usual last-minute changes and minor glitches (it took 3 hours to feed everyone at the award dinner, and our 5 star hotel had only 2 beds for 3 people, so we made one big bed and had a slumber party) that reminded us this was Ukraine. Alia and I had a picnic by the riverbank in Mukachevo (smoked fish and pickled peppers on fresh bread) before heading to the station. On the train ride back, we said goodbye to vacationland as it slipped past the window and we returned to the “real” heartland Ukraine we know and love: cold, wet, gray post-Soviet industrial home sweet home. Spring still had not sprung at that point, so the difference was marked. As I stared out the window I saw haystacks with big wooden poles stuck in them, goats and cow herders, burning fields, and a golden sunset over the misty mountains Dracula once called home. A word of advice: don’t use your fancy expensive sleeping bag in steerage—it’s unbearably hot since the trains are always sweltering, and too much of a curiosity to avoid a conversation with your traveling neighbors, who are drinking beers and saying some things you don’t understand and some things you pretend not to understand as you burrow into your self-imposed sauna and ignore the occasional pat on the feet as they carry on carousing in the compartment around you—keep in mind it’s only 9 pm, but your train is getting in at 6 am and you have work at 8.
What is your favorite landscape and why?
What is your favorite landscape and why?
Shaking it up.
Prepare yourselves for the latest onslaught. It's coming. In the interests of everyone's sanity, however, I have tried to break up my posts into something resembling categories. I have also blatantly stolen Lindsay's format of posing a question at the end of each post, in the hopes that you fine folks will comment and make my life worth while. Get to it.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
"It's a female disease"
Hoping for quotes for the GADFly’s new column, “Ukrainians Speak,” I asked my Adult English Club what they thought about feminism in Ukraine. An 11th form girl asked what that was. That does seem to be the question here. Everyone has heard of it, but no one can say what it means. Many people—men and women, Americans and Ukrainians—mention something to the effect of “a notion conjured up by a mob of angry bra-burning lesbian man-haters.” The men in my club—people I consider my friends, and generally rational human beings—gave the following responses: “It’s a female disease”—Pasha. “I think feminism is when unlucky women try to guilt men with their problems”—Slava. “It’s not a problem in our country”—Andrei. All of them adamantly denied the possibility that men could be feminists, seemed insulted, even, by the suggestion.
When I defined feminism as “the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes,” the 11th form girl said it was an issue in Ukraine, because employers assume women will want children, and may therefore be less likely to hire them, since maternity leave is so long here. Even that fact illustrates the peculiarities of the status quo in Ukraine. I think Soviet influence and economic necessity made it less revolutionary for women to go to work than it was at the same time in America (or maybe it was just as revolutionary, but Soviets were in the business of being radical), but domestic responsibilities did not keep pace with the changes in the working world. Often women now have two full time jobs, one at work and one at home, which is reflected in the global statistic that, “Women do two-thirds of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income.” To pass the time while my school’s technology teacher was fixing my electricity, I asked his opinion. He replied, “If a man isn’t married, is he a feminist?”—Eduoard. Granted this was in Ukrainian, but what I think he meant was, if that single man has to do all the household chores that wives usually do for men in Ukraine, by necessity he believes in the equality of the sexes, or at least is begrudgingly forced to submit to such a reality.
One of my 9th formers, in her application to attend GAD’s summer leadership camp, wrote, “In my opinion, young modern women should be independent and can do a lot by themselves. I know a lot of young women who want to get by in this life without anyone’s help.” And yet when I go to my Adult English Club, the same Pasha who said feminism is a disease insists on helping me take off my coat, and all three of them walk me the five blocks back to my apartment after the club. Chivalry or chauvinism, endearing or annoying, neither or both? Iryna Krupska (our Training Coordinator) finds feminism in Ukraine perfectly compatible with such courtesies, and I remember an article in our Cross-Cultural Reader stating something to that effect as well. I like how Krupska moves away from formal rights and talks instead of the “possibility for self-realization,” because she also points out that laws, as well as formal gestures that have lost their meaning (I loved getting flowers and chocolate on Woman’s Day, but my friend noted bitterly that many men prioritize liquid celebration over the congratulation of their womenfolk), can coexist with ingrained attitudes that prevent their full realization.
When I defined feminism as “the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes,” the 11th form girl said it was an issue in Ukraine, because employers assume women will want children, and may therefore be less likely to hire them, since maternity leave is so long here. Even that fact illustrates the peculiarities of the status quo in Ukraine. I think Soviet influence and economic necessity made it less revolutionary for women to go to work than it was at the same time in America (or maybe it was just as revolutionary, but Soviets were in the business of being radical), but domestic responsibilities did not keep pace with the changes in the working world. Often women now have two full time jobs, one at work and one at home, which is reflected in the global statistic that, “Women do two-thirds of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income.” To pass the time while my school’s technology teacher was fixing my electricity, I asked his opinion. He replied, “If a man isn’t married, is he a feminist?”—Eduoard. Granted this was in Ukrainian, but what I think he meant was, if that single man has to do all the household chores that wives usually do for men in Ukraine, by necessity he believes in the equality of the sexes, or at least is begrudgingly forced to submit to such a reality.
One of my 9th formers, in her application to attend GAD’s summer leadership camp, wrote, “In my opinion, young modern women should be independent and can do a lot by themselves. I know a lot of young women who want to get by in this life without anyone’s help.” And yet when I go to my Adult English Club, the same Pasha who said feminism is a disease insists on helping me take off my coat, and all three of them walk me the five blocks back to my apartment after the club. Chivalry or chauvinism, endearing or annoying, neither or both? Iryna Krupska (our Training Coordinator) finds feminism in Ukraine perfectly compatible with such courtesies, and I remember an article in our Cross-Cultural Reader stating something to that effect as well. I like how Krupska moves away from formal rights and talks instead of the “possibility for self-realization,” because she also points out that laws, as well as formal gestures that have lost their meaning (I loved getting flowers and chocolate on Woman’s Day, but my friend noted bitterly that many men prioritize liquid celebration over the congratulation of their womenfolk), can coexist with ingrained attitudes that prevent their full realization.
Not a Peep
My first two-hour run was awesome! I went way the heck out of town but somehow found a highway that looped back, ran past my school, and all over the place. The wind out in the fields was ridiculously strong. My second two-hour run was accidental, and afterwards I was pretty sure I gave myself Achilles tendonitis. My heel had been hurting for a week since that run. I took a gamble on another loop road that didn’t pay off, finally asked for directions in a cemetery (I was informed that I was very far away from where I wanted to be), and had to turn back past all the tractors and trains and empty stretches of windswept fields with babuysias on bicycles I had seen before. (PCMO text update: I did inflame my tendon, but it was the “Tibialis Posterior” rather than the “Achilles,” thank you very much).
Palm Sunday is actually Willow Sunday in Ukraine, because willow branches are blessed instead. I went to the Catholic mass upon Lena’s invitation, but didn’t actually see her there till halfway through the service, so I sat in the choir with Kamilia. We both went for “Religion, Round 2” at our friends’ church (of the Nazarene), which was in Russian (but I understood some metaphors about girls in miniskirts and coaches in boxing rings). Several of my friends stood to speak at different points. I enjoyed the informality of the service, which was held in the same basement room where we have our English club. We all met up at Kamilia’s later, and Nadia came from Vinnystia! Dinner was followed by karaoke, and on the way home, Pasha said he could tell I was American by the way I walked, which oddly offended me (I like to pretend I keep the neon “Obvious American” sign to a dull glow). Then he explained it was because I don’t wear heels everywhere, and I couldn’t argue with that. As much as I admire pretty shoes, I’m not enough of a masochist to actually wear them on a daily basis.
I took the bus to school on Tuesday, an indicator of how much my foot was hurting. I sat next to my director and used the opportunity for some detective work on the Internet mystery (Financial or technical problem? Status: unresolved). On Wednesday in Kiev I scored a free shirt from the drop box, got my heel checked out by a PC doc since I was in the office anyway (he said nothing serious, just overworked), and explored headquarters, but the office was eerily empty, as all had gone to welcome the new group of volunteers arriving that day. I did chat a bit with the director, his wife, and the #2 guy on their way out, and had pelmeni with squash sauce for lunch with the HIV project coordinator. I then ambled through Kiev for 2 hours on my way to an embassy-sponsored training on using blogs and wikis in the classroom, most of which wasn’t new to me, but I’m still glad I went. I called Olga (the pregnant girl who gave me her coat in December) and waited for an hour to rendez-vous at the metro for an hour’s stroll through the botanical gardens. Her son is now one month old.
Next stop: Odessa! I found my way to the couchsurfing address, Susanna let me in to her apartment at 6 a.m., and then we both went back to sleep. Later we compared life philosophies before her friend came with precisely half an outfit, and then we strolled around the streets laughing at the looks she got. City of humor, indeed. I bought a ridiculous sparkly cowboy hat to avoid being totally eclipsed, but it kept flying off my head. We met up with more of Susanna’s friends and went to a basement practice room with dusty cement walls, floor, ceiling, and pillars; some played cards while others rocked out and I marveled at the serendipity of my life. Back at Susanna’s, we watched “South Park” in Russian, drank, and ate sunflower seeds. I am constantly in awe of the patience Ukrainians exhibit for gnawing at the shells to extract the tiny seed, over and over again, for endless hours of entertainment. I was also the only one not taking straight shots. Substances flowed free and pure. The next day I waited till 1 p.m. and she was still not up, so I left a note and went for a liberating solo stroll about town and along the Black Sea, and had a photo sesh at the Potemkin steps. I didn’t feel like being too touristy though, so I called Susanna on a whim and asked if she would cut my hair (she had mentioned before that she was a part-time hairdresser, so now I have bangs for the first time since kindergarten) and then I listened to another jam session before baking an apple crisp and rushing to my train. The pregnant daughter and her mother in my compartment were wearing matching sweatsuits for the journey. I’m pretty sure my feel smelled bad, but I’m sadly ok with being a smelly kid in Ukraine. Laundry especially is overrated.
I sought out flowers in Kiev for Olha before taking the elektrishka to Bilky and helping with the tail end of Pasca (Easter bread) baking. Olha and I caught up and made vareniky before I went to bed at 8 p.m., got up at 1 a.m., walked half an hour to Borova in the dark with our basket, placed it in the queue around the church, and went inside to stand for the (short) 3 hour version (some people come at midnight and stand all night). Orthodox interior design was what I’d call “divine chaos,” icons covering every inch of the walls with no apparent logic, and newcomers pushing forward to light candles and bump chins with a fancy icon on an altar in the front. The priests circled and prayed in a front room, occasionally popping out to throw a blessing at the crowd, which exclaimed and prostrated itself in unison (me doing everything backwards, Catholic style from left to right), and likewise whenever the chorus repeated, well…the chorus. There was communion for the really devout, and the rest got to kiss the cross. I welcomed the bowing as a covert forward bend (stretch and shake it out, hallelujah). The structure wasn’t as clear as a Catholic mass, but there did appear to be some kind of gospel, during which the priest entreated the congregation to understand their faith.
The blessing of the baskets was the most beautiful thing I have seen in Ukraine. As we stood in the dark cold and a light drizzle, a line of baskets lit by candles snaked around the church, and the priestly procession perambulated thrice before liberally dousing us all with holy water. We ate the main Easter meal at 6 a.m. (first the blessed things, beating our eggs, cutting with the holy knife, and saving the holy crumbs) and went to bed till noon. Ate, slept, ate. I hung out in pajamas with 2 old ladies all day, complaining about aches and pains and eating some more. It was a thoroughly enjoyable way to spend the holiday. Andrei the history guy/octogenarian and his wife came for a late afternoon visit, and then I caught the last train home.
On Easter Monday I went on a walk with Pasha, Slava, and Marina. In Ukrainian, the verb “to walk” is equivalent with the concept of “to hang out with,” but it also usually quite literally entails walking around town. I also formulated a theory on American obesity as opposed to the infuriatingly fatless European physique; it states that Ukrainians work harder for their food, so it takes longer and therefore they eat less. Case in point: symuchkiy, or sunflower seeds, are something of a national obsession here. Ukrainians keep handfuls in their pockets at all times, and expertly extract each individual nut from its shell with their teeth, one after another, without end. As an American who values convenience and quantity, I haven’t yet accepted symuchkiy as suitable snackage—it’s way too much work for way too little food. My friends drank juice and ate dried fish (to get at the meat of which you have to peel off the skin as well) and cheese, whereas I opted for prepackaged ice cream. Theory, confirmed. We sat in the park, walked around the island where the stadium is, and proceeded to get the song “Running, Running” stuck in each other’s heads.
Palm Sunday is actually Willow Sunday in Ukraine, because willow branches are blessed instead. I went to the Catholic mass upon Lena’s invitation, but didn’t actually see her there till halfway through the service, so I sat in the choir with Kamilia. We both went for “Religion, Round 2” at our friends’ church (of the Nazarene), which was in Russian (but I understood some metaphors about girls in miniskirts and coaches in boxing rings). Several of my friends stood to speak at different points. I enjoyed the informality of the service, which was held in the same basement room where we have our English club. We all met up at Kamilia’s later, and Nadia came from Vinnystia! Dinner was followed by karaoke, and on the way home, Pasha said he could tell I was American by the way I walked, which oddly offended me (I like to pretend I keep the neon “Obvious American” sign to a dull glow). Then he explained it was because I don’t wear heels everywhere, and I couldn’t argue with that. As much as I admire pretty shoes, I’m not enough of a masochist to actually wear them on a daily basis.
I took the bus to school on Tuesday, an indicator of how much my foot was hurting. I sat next to my director and used the opportunity for some detective work on the Internet mystery (Financial or technical problem? Status: unresolved). On Wednesday in Kiev I scored a free shirt from the drop box, got my heel checked out by a PC doc since I was in the office anyway (he said nothing serious, just overworked), and explored headquarters, but the office was eerily empty, as all had gone to welcome the new group of volunteers arriving that day. I did chat a bit with the director, his wife, and the #2 guy on their way out, and had pelmeni with squash sauce for lunch with the HIV project coordinator. I then ambled through Kiev for 2 hours on my way to an embassy-sponsored training on using blogs and wikis in the classroom, most of which wasn’t new to me, but I’m still glad I went. I called Olga (the pregnant girl who gave me her coat in December) and waited for an hour to rendez-vous at the metro for an hour’s stroll through the botanical gardens. Her son is now one month old.
Next stop: Odessa! I found my way to the couchsurfing address, Susanna let me in to her apartment at 6 a.m., and then we both went back to sleep. Later we compared life philosophies before her friend came with precisely half an outfit, and then we strolled around the streets laughing at the looks she got. City of humor, indeed. I bought a ridiculous sparkly cowboy hat to avoid being totally eclipsed, but it kept flying off my head. We met up with more of Susanna’s friends and went to a basement practice room with dusty cement walls, floor, ceiling, and pillars; some played cards while others rocked out and I marveled at the serendipity of my life. Back at Susanna’s, we watched “South Park” in Russian, drank, and ate sunflower seeds. I am constantly in awe of the patience Ukrainians exhibit for gnawing at the shells to extract the tiny seed, over and over again, for endless hours of entertainment. I was also the only one not taking straight shots. Substances flowed free and pure. The next day I waited till 1 p.m. and she was still not up, so I left a note and went for a liberating solo stroll about town and along the Black Sea, and had a photo sesh at the Potemkin steps. I didn’t feel like being too touristy though, so I called Susanna on a whim and asked if she would cut my hair (she had mentioned before that she was a part-time hairdresser, so now I have bangs for the first time since kindergarten) and then I listened to another jam session before baking an apple crisp and rushing to my train. The pregnant daughter and her mother in my compartment were wearing matching sweatsuits for the journey. I’m pretty sure my feel smelled bad, but I’m sadly ok with being a smelly kid in Ukraine. Laundry especially is overrated.
I sought out flowers in Kiev for Olha before taking the elektrishka to Bilky and helping with the tail end of Pasca (Easter bread) baking. Olha and I caught up and made vareniky before I went to bed at 8 p.m., got up at 1 a.m., walked half an hour to Borova in the dark with our basket, placed it in the queue around the church, and went inside to stand for the (short) 3 hour version (some people come at midnight and stand all night). Orthodox interior design was what I’d call “divine chaos,” icons covering every inch of the walls with no apparent logic, and newcomers pushing forward to light candles and bump chins with a fancy icon on an altar in the front. The priests circled and prayed in a front room, occasionally popping out to throw a blessing at the crowd, which exclaimed and prostrated itself in unison (me doing everything backwards, Catholic style from left to right), and likewise whenever the chorus repeated, well…the chorus. There was communion for the really devout, and the rest got to kiss the cross. I welcomed the bowing as a covert forward bend (stretch and shake it out, hallelujah). The structure wasn’t as clear as a Catholic mass, but there did appear to be some kind of gospel, during which the priest entreated the congregation to understand their faith.
The blessing of the baskets was the most beautiful thing I have seen in Ukraine. As we stood in the dark cold and a light drizzle, a line of baskets lit by candles snaked around the church, and the priestly procession perambulated thrice before liberally dousing us all with holy water. We ate the main Easter meal at 6 a.m. (first the blessed things, beating our eggs, cutting with the holy knife, and saving the holy crumbs) and went to bed till noon. Ate, slept, ate. I hung out in pajamas with 2 old ladies all day, complaining about aches and pains and eating some more. It was a thoroughly enjoyable way to spend the holiday. Andrei the history guy/octogenarian and his wife came for a late afternoon visit, and then I caught the last train home.
On Easter Monday I went on a walk with Pasha, Slava, and Marina. In Ukrainian, the verb “to walk” is equivalent with the concept of “to hang out with,” but it also usually quite literally entails walking around town. I also formulated a theory on American obesity as opposed to the infuriatingly fatless European physique; it states that Ukrainians work harder for their food, so it takes longer and therefore they eat less. Case in point: symuchkiy, or sunflower seeds, are something of a national obsession here. Ukrainians keep handfuls in their pockets at all times, and expertly extract each individual nut from its shell with their teeth, one after another, without end. As an American who values convenience and quantity, I haven’t yet accepted symuchkiy as suitable snackage—it’s way too much work for way too little food. My friends drank juice and ate dried fish (to get at the meat of which you have to peel off the skin as well) and cheese, whereas I opted for prepackaged ice cream. Theory, confirmed. We sat in the park, walked around the island where the stadium is, and proceeded to get the song “Running, Running” stuck in each other’s heads.
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