Monday, January 31, 2005

Ukraine: Dodging Gender Equality

First: I realize the last few posts haven't been very exciting, but I promise I have some good stories coming. Also, I've been working more on more travelogues, so they're coming, too. In between, it's just been easier to type about my day-to-day. Oh, I have another date with Diana tonight. Wish me luck. Will there be a kiss? Who knows!

Onward: I was interviewed by a local paper yesterday. It was a bit of a brain whupping because I both had to give the interview in Ukrainian and I had to think about everything coming out of my mouth so that Peace Corps wouldn’t get upset. The reporter asked me about positive things about Ukraine and I told them about the food and how friendly people have been, etc, and then she asked for negative things and I said I couldn’t think of any. She pushed me on it, so I told her about being mugged, which isn’t a negative opinion, just a negative fact and hopefully that’ll be okay. That part of the interview was for a local paper.

Then she went on to interview me for a woman’s magazine, asking me if all women in America were feminists and if feminists were bad mothers, and did I think Ukrainian women should be independent and how did I feel about the way Ukrainian men treat Ukrainian women. A mine field, for sure. I told her that you can’t stereotype (same word in Ukrainian and English) and that, yes, most American women try to be independent, but not all of them. I hadn’t been in the country long enough to know about Ukrainian women, and that the only couple I had seen was my host family and they were a good couple. She asked if I liked independent women and I told her yes, but that was just a personal preference. I suppose I could have done a pro-feminism tirade, but Peace Corps would probably have put me on a plane back home. I told her I really couldn’t answer all those questions and that she should talk to an American woman about American feminism. I told her I’d put her in touch with a female volunteer, which, I admit, was passing the buck.

I’d also like to defend Peace Corps briefly, and possibly myself. Peace Corps is really good at what it does. What it does is support thousands of volunteers all across the globe in thousands of locales in dozens of countries. Peace Corps brought me here, trained me, pays my expenses, protects me, and clears out obstacles to me working. I have a lot of praise for it. In light of the firestorm of bad press they had last, I don’t blame them being careful with the media. Also, public opinion is very important in Peace Corps’ work. If people are hostile towards it, then they’re hostile towards volunteers and no progress can be accomplished. A volunteer spouting off opinions in a newspaper is not only unlikely to change things, but puts at risk every other project of every other volunteer in the country. You can choose to make a lot of noise, or you can change things from within. Now, there’s a real difference between changing things from within and just being quiet about them, and it’s the difference between bravery and cowardice. If I want to change gender roles in Ukraine, then the right way is through English clubs or Youth Camps, talking to kids who will one day be adults who run things. Actually gender roles is actually a really common topic at clubs and camps, along with racism, democracy, HIV/Aids and dozens of others. That’s how you make a difference, in my opinion.

I also talked to a local climbing enthusiast yesterday that wants to open a climbing gym. I was under the impression that his group was more organized than it is. Basically, he said, they needed money. Okay, but what’s the plan, what are the costs, how is the business going to be run? They didn’t have that yet, it was still a dream. And it’s a dream I’d like to help them achieve, and I can get them a sizeable grant to start it, but not if they’re not serious about the nitty gritty of it. They’ve been organizing adventure races for years, so I think they can do it, it’s just a matter of them getting organized on it. In any case, they’re excited about having me climb with them when the weather warms up, and I’m excited, too. And here I thought I’d go to years without it.


Saturday, January 29, 2005

Ukraine: Being like a Kolbassa

I went out again with Diana last night. We went to Podim with Steve and Amy and Amy's host sister. The midnight show was two dance numbers, a lounge singer, a saxophone player and two female strippers. No male strippers, so it was the girls' turn to feel cheated.

Things are going well with Diana. We talked and danced most of the night. She taught me some Ukranian slang: pokovbaciticya is literally "being like a kolbassa" and is slang for dancing. The other is beedeervaticya which means "to tear your buttons". It means to have a good time or to get down on the dance floor. In return, I taught her "S'up?" and "Y'aight?", which she wrote down for her research on English idioms and slang.

We held hands while sitting at the table between dancing, or my hand rested on her leg or hers on mine. It was nice. That's the thing when you first start dating. Every little thing is a big step and so you notice it. I was sitting there thinking how nice it was to hold her hand or have her fingernails trail in my palm and I knew that if we kept dating, in a month or so I wouldn't notice things like that at all. But yeah, at the beginning, all the big things are huge. I took out my little notepad to write down the new Ukranian words she taught me and she jokingly patted my head and said "good student" but then her hand carressed the back of my head and the back of my neck before she removed it, and that was huge.

At the end of the night she gave me a kiss on the cheek before she got in the cab. Actually, I'm feeling pretty good about it all because it's obvious that we like each other. So in that respect, I'm comfortable letting things move at their own pace. I'd rather our first kiss be romantic rather than at a table in a smoky club or outside while three other people are waiting around for me. Basically, I'm not in a rush and I'm savoring all the little things.

I just wish it was a little closer to Spring. It's -10 celcius and we had a huge snow fall, so while it's pretty, movement in the city is slow. Trolley busses are getting stuck and it sucks for me to hike the mile into the city. And that's putting a crimp on a lot of dating plans. Grrr. Be warm, dammit!

Friday, January 28, 2005

Ukraine: Half-Victory

Okay, I spoke too soon on the Media policy victory.

The new policy, which was sent to all volunteers, basically states that you should discuss any article with your Regional Manager and, if they suggest you don't publish it and you do, and something negative happens because of it, you can be administratively seperated (sent home).

Which, makes sense from their point of view. If a firestorm of bad press comes because of an article, Peace Corps can say "we advised him not to publish it and he did anyway. That volunteer has been seperated from Peace Corps and is leaving the country," thus annuling the problem.

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that.

***

Here's the new policy, as sent out by Peace Corps Ukarine:

MEDIA AND TECHNOLOGY (Revised Policy)

POLICY: Trainees or Volunteers are free to discuss their role in the PeaceCorps with media representatives, however they should, if possible, notifytheir Country Director or his/her appointed representative - e.g. RegionalManager, of such discussions before they take place. Volunteers and Traineesmust be aware of, and be sensitive to, the impact their personal commentsmay have on themselves, their co-workers and program, and the Peace Corpsworld-wide.

Volunteers may write articles for publication; however, these should be discussed in advance with the Country Director or his/her appointedrepresentative - e.g. Regional Manager, to ascertain whether they mightcause problems which the Volunteer may not have anticipated. Publication ofmaterial, contrary to the advice of the Country Director, which subsequentlyresults in adverse consequences for the Volunteer or the program, may begrounds for administrative separation.

PROCEDURE: Discuss the article that you intend to publish with your CountryDirector or his/her appointed representative - e.g. Regional Manager, beforereleasing it for publication.

DISCUSSION: This policy applies whether or not you mention Peace Corps inthe article or interview. Remember that Peace Corps is apolitical and thatit is against Peace Corps policy to express personal political views in the Peace Corps. Volunteers are invited guests in Ukraine and as such shouldnot criticize the Ukrainian government or Ukrainian culture and people inany media form.Volunteers should remember that many forms of electronic communication arenot secure, including e-mail, electronic newsletters and list-serves. Whilemany Volunteers find these forms of communication to be very effective, theyshould bear in mind that ill-considered statements could be used toembarrass themselves, Ukraine, the Peace Corps, or the United States.Material that might be viewed as disparaging to Ukraine or as politicallysensitive by the Ukrainian government could create significant problems forthe Peace Corps program in Ukraine. The care taken in private communicationshould be no less than the care taken in public utterances; messages tofriends and family or the contents of web pages may be passed to the pressor others and become a public issue.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Ukraine: First Date With Diana

Firstly, I hope everyone likes the changes to the site. I spent the weekend slaving over a hot computer for you! This main page can now be accessed though the URL http://www.teachertraveler.com.

In any case, what you get is a lot more content. Some never before posted stuff is the comic book "Negatives", eight new travelogues (including Great Britain, Vegas and Chicago), some new Slightly OFFs, and some articles I've published.

In any case, on to my date with Diana:

Apparently I'm helping Ukrainian women become more independent. After two games of billiards and about an hour and a half of conversation between games, Diana asked: "so, what shall we do now?" To which I laughed and remarked, "oh yeah, I have to make all the decisions." She gave me a quizical look, so I told her about some of the advice I'd received about dating Ukranian girls. One bit of advice was to get them a flower on the first date, which I had done. Another was to make all the decisions about where to go and what to do.

"How is it in America?" Diana asked me, and then answered herself: "oh, the women are more independent, yes?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then I will be more independent," she said, "let's go for a walk."

So we went for a walk in the snow, and she showed me the park with the rock that Zhytomyr was founded on over 1,200 years ago. It was a very sweet, 5th grade kind of date. She said her hands were cold and asked to hold mine, so we walked around holding hands for a while, talking. And then, later, when I walked her to the bus stop, she gave me a kiss on the cheek before she left. I called her again last night and she's going to go dancing with me and two other volunteers tomorrow.

So, it's going well, I think. I still feel like I'm walking into a minefield of cultural issues. I've asked other volunteers for a vague schedule of what to expect. I've heard sex by date five. I've heard kiss on the lips by date 37 and marriage with kids on date 38. So, obviously you can't stereotype Ukrainian dating, but I still feel like I'm playing a game without a rule book. So I guess I'll play it by ear. Like I've said before, though, I just want to make out with her. I don't think I can go wrong with that, right?

In any case, my Ukranian may be making a comeback. When Diana found out that I knew some, she wanted to speak nothing else, if only because she only speaks Russian with her friends. Then, she started correcting my grammar while we were speaking, and then explaining the grammar rules behind the corrections (she is studying to be a teacher, after all). So if anything, this should be pretty good for my language skills.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Ukraine: Rock Stars and Gremlin Cars

I went to Berdiechiev today, a small town about an hour south of Zhytomyr, to judge a Spanish Olympiad. Why? I don't know. I've told them repeatedly that I'm not fluent in Spanish, but they asked me to come anyway. I've been watching Invader Zim with the Spanish dubbing for a week now to get my brain back into gear.

When I arrived, I was immedietly snatched by two teachers from another school that had attended one of my seminars last week. Apparently they had arranged for me to come teach at their school, but no one had informed me. They took me to their school, showed me around and then had me conduct two classes. With nothing better to do, I just did a Q&A with the kids, letting them practice their English and telling them about America and my experiences in Ukraine. Those kids treated me like a rock star. One class asked me no less than three times if I liked Ukrainian girls. Then, after class, they all asked for my autograph.

Later, after I "judged" at the Spanish olympiad, which was no more than me asking questions in Spanish while other teachers joted down scores for the responses, I was taken off to eat lunch by the Spanish department. In the room were people that spoke Ukranian, English, Russian and Spanish, but only two actually spoke all fluently. I was not one of them. In the onslaught of tongues, I actually just switched of my mental monitor and--I shit you not--was conversing in four different languages. Now, this sounds impressive, but it's not and I'll explain why.

If languages are lanes on a road, these teachers could switch smoothly from one to the next, speaking gramatically perfect in each without effort. My language was more like driving a cobbled together gremlin through traffic snarled by a 42 car pile up. Every fifth word out of my mouth was in a different language. I don't know what I was speaking, but the conversations were moving too fast for me to pay attention and somehow my brain kept filling in the slots with whatever word was available.

For whatever reason, it put me back in gear to work on my Ukranian again and start working on my Russian hardcore instead of what I have been doing: watching movies in Russian and calling it studying.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Ukraine: No More Hair

So, I did it. Karil gave me a crew cut this weekend, and all the curls are gone. I shaved as well, so no more goatee. My host mother and several female coworkers lament the loss, although I had no idea they liked my hair. After all, most Ukrainian men my age, including both my host brothers, have crew cuts. At a “scrabble party” on Saturday, hosted by a volunteer for the advanced speakers at her Library club, a girl named Diana told me no less than three times how much like a Ukrainian I looked. In fact, she hadn’t known I was American until I opened my mouth.

Ironically, when we got to talking about types, she said she prefers guys with long hair and facial hair. I told her she missed me by 24 hours. Still, she did agree to come out to a dance club with myself, Steve and Amy. It’s kind of funny that being in Peace Corps, the “toughest job you’ll ever love,” I still go to dance clubs every weekend.

At the midnight show at the club they didn’t have female strippers, but a male one that stripped three separate times in between dance and acrobatic numbers. The last time he came out, he stripped to “Shokolad Zaichick,” a popular song. Except shokolad zaichick is Russian for “chocolate rabbit”, which also happens to be what a lot of Ukrainians call blacks. As the stripper was black and as he was wearing a bunny suit, that was the joke. He stripped down to the bunny ears and a g-string adorned with a plastic carrot on the front. Steve and I felt cheated that there were no female strippers, but it seemed like the club had taken an earlier comment I’d made to heart: “why the female strippers at a dance club? The guys aren’t the ones you need to get in the mood.”

Diana and I spent most of the night talking and dancing. She’s 21 years old, fluent in English, studying to be a teacher, an award-winning artist, so beautiful I couldn’t stop looking at her, and the only Ukrainian I’m aware of that likes Portishead and Massive Attack. She gave me her number and we’re supposed to play billiards tomorrow. This is not a guaruntee, though, because apparently Ukranian women are notorious for accepting dates and then not showing up.

So we’ll see.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Ukraine: Victory!

Victory!

The VAC (Volunteer Advisory Council), brought my proposal to change the Peace Corps Ukraine's policy towards writing for the media to the administration. The administration has agreed to change the policy! Wooohoooo! As soon as it's implemented, I will no longer have to get my writing approved by Peace Corps for publication!

This is what I love about Peace Corps Ukraine: it's really dynamic and really willing to work with you.

What's follows is the e-mail from my VAC representative and after that is the e-mail I sent to the VAC. It's all kind of long, and not required reading, but it's there in case you wanted to see the correspondence. Karl Beck, by the way, is the country director.

VAC to Me:

Hey Daniel!

I am going to be representing Region 5 at our VAC meetings and addressing any concerns that you may have. Thank you for writing us about the media issue that you encountered. This was talked about in our meeting for an extensive period of time and the discrepancies between the wording in the Peace Corps handbook and PC Ukraine handbook were displayed and Karl Beck decided to change the wording in the PC Ukraine handbook to directly reflect that of the Peace Corps Volunteer Handbook! Great news! I'm sorry that you had such a rough time with this and hopefully in the future the process will be much smoother. If you have any other concerns or input for us, please let us know!

Thanks again!

Marisa [Last Name Rmoved for Privacy Reasons]

Me to VAC:

To whom it may concern,

I was asked to write about the Orange Revolutionand my experiences as a Peace Corps trainee for publication in theUnited States. As per Peace Corps of the United States Ukraine Policy and Procedure Handbook guidelines, I submitted the article to myRegional Manager for approval. It was rejected because some of things written about were not"consistent with Peace Corps policy." The article was completelyapolitical in nature, focusing, in fact, on the sharp ideological divide in the country while never giving any opinion whatsoever on either candidate. The main items of concern to my Regional Director were a reference to excessive vodka drinking, a reference to making out with several girls, and a sometimes unflattering description ofUkraine, particularly its crumbling cities.

Since my wish is to maintain good relations with my Regional Directorand the items in question were not integral to the article as awhole--merely interesting window dressing--I have no problem with editing these items out.

The whole episode did impel me, though, to consult my handbooks, andI noticed discrepancies between the Peace Corps Handbook policy onmedia contributions and Peace Corps Ukraine's policy.

Personally, I would very much like to see Peace Corps Ukraine's policy on writing for the media removed and it be replaced by thepolicy as stated in the Peace Corps Handbook.

Here are the relevant passages from both handbooks:

Peace Corps Volunteer Handbook

"You are free to discuss your role in the Peace Corps with the press or anyone else—keeping in mind the responsibility that goes with that freedom…your thoughtful and accurate views and insights can contribute substantially to bringing to the U.S. a better understanding of another country. You may write articles for publication, but you should discuss them in advance with the CD, or ask him or her to review what you have written for problems you may not have anticipated."

Peace Corps of the United States Ukraine Policy and Procedure Handbook

"Before an article is published or broadcast, however, it must be submitted for the Regional Manager's review and approval."

"Submit a copy of an article that you intent to publish to your Regional Manager before releasing it for publication."

"Volunteers are invited guests in Ukraine and as such should not criticize the Ukrainian government or Ukrainian culture and people in any media form."

The Volunteer Handbook uses carefully considered language. You canalmost feel the tightrope walk the handbook faces: it does not want bad publicity or press for Peace Corps and the host countries itserves in, but it also seems aware that forbidding something to be written in the media would be censorship and therefore anathema to the freedom of expression that the United States holds dear and wishes toteach to the world.

The rules, according to the Peace Corps Handbook, seem thusly: if you are going to write an article for publication, you should "discuss"the article with your CD. This means that you only need to tell your CD that you are writing an article and what it is about. You do not even have to show it to him or her. Another possibly action offered by the Handbook, presented as an alternative and not as a mandate, is to actually show the article to the CD. Even then, the CD she can only point out problems, not forbid its publication, for never once is the word "approve" used. This word, obviously, would mean that PeaceCorps had some form of control over what a volunteer writes for public dissemination and I have the feeling that Peace Corps does not want to be seen as an organization that controls what its Volunteers say. Peace Corps, in fact, thrives on being transparent, saying it has nothing to hide. A policy of censorship implies just the opposite. This is why I think this particular language is in the Peace CorpsHandbook.

Peace Corps Ukraine's Policy Handbook does no tightrope walking, though. Not only does it specifically say that all articles must beapproved, but it also says that certain subjects cannot criticized. Politics, obviously, for Peace Corps is apolitical. But it goes one step further to say that a Volunteer cannot criticize the culture or people of Ukraine. This policy, I feel, is dictatorial in nature and even comparable to many of the policies of information-control that Americans feel are destructive to a free society. I understand the argument that Peace Corps can only work if it is welcome, and critical articles can strain or destroy its relationships with its host countries. I understand, too, that Peace Corps' success depends on its reputation, and this reputation can be stained or destroyed by bad publicity.

I want Peace Corps to be welcome and uccessful in Ukraine, but there is something deep inside me thatreacts negatively to this policy, that feels that, as representatives f the United States, we should not be censoring our own. uch of Peace Corps Ukraine's policy as been one of leading by example: a willingness to learn from past mistakes, accept suggestions and change structures and polices as needed. This has been done in part, as mentioned by country director Karl Beck to my cluster, to show Ukrainians the American methods of running an organization. In this light, it seems incongruous to not lead by example in the realmof free speech. Do we want Ukrainian organizations to not allow their employees to express themselves in the media and to forbid expressions critical of the organization or of their country?

I think Peace Corps Ukraine's policy towards writing for the media should be as stated in the Peace Corps Handbook and go no further. I submit that the new language be taken out of the Peace Corps Ukraine'sPolicy and Procedure Handbook and the language in the Peace Corps Handbook be put in verbatim.

-Daniel Reynolds Riveiro

Friday, January 21, 2005

Ukraine: Mugged

Peace Corps gave us several safety and security sessions. I paid attention. It’s a shame I didn’t listen.

The first rule I broke was not to stay out late. We emerged from the nightclub, David, Amy, Alexandra and I, at three in the morning.

We stood there breaking another rule: don’t speak English loudly and call attention to yourselves. We were debating, perhaps too loudly, on how to get everyone home. There were four men in their early twenties standing on the corner, and one turned at the sound of our voices. He called to Dave, asked him if he spoke Russian. Dave said he did. The question wasn’t directed at me, but I answered that I spoke Ukrainian. The man asked nothing more, but continued to glance at us. I noticed this, but was used to being looked at. In Obhiev, even when I shaved my face clean, shined my shoes, wore my leather jacket and carried a Babushka bag, people still watched me walk down the street. Something in my stance or my walk or my aura pegged me as a foreigner. All Americans have it, because I can recognize one in Ukraine from two blocks away, have done so in a crowded mall in Kiev.

We got Amy into a cab. We got Dave into a cab.

Alexandra wanted to take a cab, but not from the club. They were cheaper to take, she said, from nearer to my house. Maybe she wanted to spend more time talking to me. That was a nice thought.

We walked towards my house, maybe a mile from the club. I wasn’t following a third rule: look behind you, be aware of your surroundings. My attention was on Alexandra, concentrating on yanking Ukrainian words from my brain to keep the conversation going and have it be deeper than "what’s your hobby?"

On the outskirts of town, we found a cab and she got in. My house was only a ten minute walk from there, and it never even occurred to me to take a cab, because I walk home every day. That was rule four that could have prevented it: if you do stay out late, take a cab home.

Walking home from there, the buildings disappeared and trees crowded in on either side of the road. On my right, the landscape dropped off into a valley. My house sat in the bottom of that valley. Trees grew up and out of it, their tops level with me as I walked along the sidewalk. I heard footsteps behind me. I looked back and saw two men walking in my direction, walking quickly. My first instinct was that they were going to jump me, mug me, but I always have that feeling when someone walks up quickly from behind, and it’s proved false a hundred times.

They got closer. The thought occurred to hurry up, maybe to run, but I was at the side road that led down to my house, a muddy track that plunged downward at a steep angle, one that was now covered in ice and had to be walked down carefully.

The men got closer. One of them called to me. I thought I should head this off, and turned towards both of them.

“You speak English?” asked one of them in English. It was the last English I would hear from either of them. It was the guy who had spoken to me outside the club. He and his friend had followed me. Shit.

“Yes,” I said.

The one who had spoken was a little shorter than me, wearing black as most Ukrainian men do, with a few days of blonde growth on his face. He took two steps forward while his friend stayed still. With nothing but the tops of trees and the drop off into the valley behind me, they had me penned in.

The shorter one, who did all the talking, asked me in Russian for my phone. I told him I did not understand. I had been told, by another volunteer, that if you’re in trouble, don’t let them know how much of the language you speak. He tried to get it into my head that he wanted my phone, saying it in a dozen different ways in Russian. He couldn’t have known I had a mobile; I hadn’t taken it out all night.

How do I get out of this? Sadly, my only plan was that they would get frustrated and leave.

He demanded a couple more times for me to give him my phone. I shrugged in incomprehension. He looked down the steep path that led to the houses on the valley floor, then stuck his hand in his jacket, as if he was gripping a gun.

There was no pretense now. I was being mugged.

I looked to his friend. His friend stood close, taller than me, at least six feet tall, with a dark beard. The facial hair is what struck me the most. Ukrainian men are usually clean shaven, fastidiously so. I told myself to remember their faces.

The friend unzipped his black jacket halfway, stuck his hand in to indicate he had a gun. Something about the way he did it made me realize that neither had guns, that they were winging this.

I can get out of this.

Give us your phone.

“You need a phone?” I asked in English, mimicking with thumb and finger the universal sign for phone. I don’t know why, but it was obvious I couldn’t keep playing dumb when telephone was the same word in Russian and in English.

Da. Telephon. Telephon yest?” The shorter one, hand still in his jacket, reached forward and grabbed my sweater with his other, bunching it in his hand, threatening. I can get out of this, I thought. These guys don’t know what they’re doing. I knew that. I knew that if they were serious, they would have shown me a gun or a knife or just kicked the shit out of me and taken everything they wanted off my bleeding body.

Do I say I have no phone? What if they try to pat me down? What if they feel my documents in my jacket pocket? My passport is in there. I don’t want them to get my passport.

I shrugged my shoulders to show I didn’t understand.

Then my neck exploded in pain and I staggered a step. The other guy had punched me. Maybe he meant for my head, but it had connected with my neck. I had my hands out, heard myself saying “chill!”

Everything changed then. I was on automatic. I just took out my mobile phone and gave it to them. The shorter one put it in his pocket. Maybe it was because I knew they were serious enough to hurt me, that I was honest enough with myself to know that I couldn’t fight both of them that I gave in. The taller one rubbed his fingers together in a sign for money.

Fine. Fuck it. I took out my wallet, pulled out the bills in the front slot to give to them. The taller one took the money and then snatched the wallet out of my hand. There was another hundred hrivna in the second slot and he took that out as well. Then, for whatever reason, he put my wallet in his pocket.

“I want my wallet,” I said in Ukrainian. They looked a little surprised to hear me speak the language. I was pissed. I had just handed over my cell phone and money without even a fight.

“What?” the taller one asked.

“You have my money, give me my wallet.”

He took it back out of his pocket. There was nothing of value in it. Originally it had been a dummy wallet, with nothing more than a few hrivna in it in case I was mugged. When I first came to Ukraine, I kept my money in one pocket, my wallet in another. But then I got comfortable, felt safe, went back to putting money in the wallet. In it, though, were pictures of my great-grandmother, of Robynne, and of my students from Oklahoma City. I didn’t want them to have them. More the the point, I wanted to regain some kind of control of the situation.

The taller one looked through it, unzipped an inner pouch, found 60 more hrivna in there, my emergency stash. I used to keep it in my boot, until I found out what being in a boot does to money, until I felt comfortable in Ukraine, felt safe, and had put it in my wallet.

The taller one seemed delighted in the find, and gave me my wallet back. They were jovial then. And why shouldn’t they be? They were fucking amateurs. If they were pro, they would never have given me back my wallet, would not have let me stalled them for ten minutes on the street with my pretended confusion. They had just discovered that punching and American once would get them 750 hrivnas worth of loot and they were happy.

Grinning, they put out their hands for me to shake. I was beyond thought then. I shook their hands. I was being punked and I knew it.

“You’re a good man,” the shorter one said in Russian, touching his head to mine. “We love you. You’re our Ukrainian.” It was condescending. I wanted to beat the shit out of them.

As they left, walking uphill back towards the city, they shorter one called back to me: “learn Russian.”

I walked down the icy path, not really thinking at all. I slipped, not paying attention, and landed on my butt. I picked myself off the ice, angrier than ever, crossed the bridge and arrived at my house. I used my key, but for the first time since I arrived in Zhytomyr, the chain was on the door. The night could not get any worse.

I pounded on the door until my host father opened it in his underwear. He was half awake, and heading back towards his room as soon as he had the chain off the door. I had to yell down the hall to him, at his retreating back: “I just got robbed.”

He seemed not to hear. So I sat in the kitchen for a long time. And then I called Peace Corps.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Ukraine: The Shower Ritual

So my shower is in the basement of the house, which doesn't get any heat and is currently below freezing. There are some hot water pipes in the bathroom itself, but they do little to dispel the cold unless you're right next to them.

Now, I'm unsure why whatever heats the water in the pipes is not connected to the shower, but it's not. Rather, the shower is connected to the tiny water heater by the sink. That water heater is fine for making enough hot water for doing dishes, but it's not enough to make more than a few minutes worth of hot water come out of the shower.

My family is part polar bear. They talk, host mom included, of the joys of taking a jog and then jumping into an icy river. "That river?" I asked, pointing out the window at the one near the house. No, that one's polluted by the beer factory upstream. Ah.

In any case, my delicate nature does approve of jumping into icy rivers, nor does it like taking freezing showers, so I developed the shower ritual.

First, I wash my hair while fully clothed. I wet it over the tub, and then immedietly shut the water off, giving the heater upstairs time to make more hot water. I put in the shampoo, and, since the instructions on the back of the bottle say to leave it in for a few minutes, I read a bit of whatever book I'm working on, holding it out at arm's length so that water doesn't drip on it. I wash my hair first because if the hot water goes out at any point after this, at least my head won't be doused with freezing water.

I quickly rinse the shampoo out, switch the water back off, and then towel-dry my hair. Now it's time to get brrrrr. Off goes the sweater and the rest of whatever layers I happen to be wearing and I lean over the tub and wash my torso. Whatever hot water is not hitting gets goose-bumps from the freezing air. The water gets shut off. You get the idea from here. The bottom bits go, and by then some warm water has accumulated in the tub so that my feet aren't on cold porcelein. I lean against the hot water pipes on the wall to keep my torso warm while I wash the rest of me, then the water gets shut off, I dry off in a hurry and toss my sweats on. I'm still a little damp but at least I'm warm.

The punch line: I've been doing this for the better part of a month. Then, two days ago, I notice my host mother turning a knob on the water heater by the sink. She went to go take a shower, and as soon as I heard the water in the bathroom turn on, I saw the small gas flame that heats the water tank turn into a roaring inferno. After her shower, she turned the knob back.

Before I took a shower this morning, I turned the knob. When I took my shower, hot water came out and didn't stop coming. It was the first hot shower I'd taken since I left the United States.

Victory!

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Ukraine: Accepting One Way

It's over. I throw in the towel. Ukraine wins. For the past three weeks I have been frustrated at the home situation, not being able to eat what I want, being henpecked by my host mother over things that seem little to me but not to her.

Something's been changing, slowly but steadily, but the night before last I was organizing files on my computer and reread my Peace Corps application essays. In them I talked about my desire to learn about a new culture, my ability to adapt. I realized that I haven't learned much about the culture other than the language, have barely adapted at all.

So last night I decided to just accept Ukranian culture for what it is. I decided to eat what I'm told to eat, dress the way they want me to dress, do what I'm told to do. One of two things will happen: I'll find I enjoy living the way Ukranians do and stop spending so much money, time and effort trying to keep up American habits, or I'll decide it's not for me and gladly get my freedom when I have my own apartment in April. What I'm not going to do is keeping getting annoyed at little things or annoying my host mother with little things, and what I'm not going to do is live more than two years in a country without ever trying to live like its residents.

So this morning instead of scarfing some cereal that my mom sent me in a care package or cooking up an omelet with cheese, I ate what my host mother and her mother-in-law were eating: holodetz topped with a mixture of beets and garlic, bread with butter and homemade jam, and wheat steamed in hot milk, downed with a glass of compote, which is made by boiling apples in water and drinking the liquid that results. It wasn't fantastic, but it wasn't terrible, and what made it worth it was these two women going ga-ga that I was eating all this Ukranian food that I had mostly eschewed before. I had a great conversation with the mother-in-law, who came down for a visit from Moscow. She speaks slowly enough that I understand her, and we talked about train trips. She once took the TransSiberian Express across Russia, and that's something I'd like to do.

In any case, it's two months of being a Ukranian, but at least I'll give it a go. For now, at least, I'm just going to accept the one way.

By the way, I'm coming up on four months in Ukraine. That's a third of a year. Sometimes it feels that long, but mostly it feels much shorter. It's a little sad it took me that long to start trying to fit in. My hair's still long and I still have a goatee and I still wear my green ski cap, but at least I'm shining my shoes every day. It's all about baby steps. I might shave and get a haircut after winter is over.

Oh, I bet that first paragraph made you think I was quiting Peace Corps, didn't it? Well, that's not going to happen yet. As much as I miss home, I don't feel like I'm done with this country, that I haven't by a long shot finished what I came to do...

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Ukraine: Revolution's End

First: Thank you Catwoman and AnonomousGirl for your continued comments! I really appreciate them.

Second:

Well, the Supreme Court said that the election results can be published, even though Yanukovych is still in the midst of his last appeal. That permission pretty much means that they can go forward with the innauguration and Yuchshenko will be probably be innaugurated next weekend.

So confident is Yuschenko of the win that he's ordered the tent city on Khreshatic--one of the most visible symbols of the revolution and a powerful example of nonviolent protest--to come down. And, of course, the problems have started. No one wants to leave the tent city until the innauguration, until what they were protesting for: the installation of Yuchshenko as president to be completed. Why Yuchshenko wants the tent city down before the innauguration, I don't know. The decision has drawn complaints from within his own camp, particularly from Yulia Tymoshenko, the tiny leader of an opposition-bloc who passionately stirred up the crowds throughout the revolution.

Of course, she's a little upset because it looks like she won't get her promised position of Prime Minister. And no wonder: the East hates her. Putting her in that position is a slap in the face to half the country and will not help in the delicate negotiations Yuchshenko will have to carry out to meet his campaign promises. This vacuum for the position has started infighting within the Yuchshenko camp, which was never completely consolidated. Rather, it was a number of political blocs and student groups that came together to make sure Yanukovych did not win.

I hate this part of human nature. Ghandi spent the last half of his life fighting for the removal of British rule. He succeed, only to have the country collapse into violence after his death as Muslims and Hindus fought for control of the country. Students protested in Tianamin Square for months, went on hunger strikes, finally brought the Chinese government to the negotiating table, and then power struggles between the student groups led to a collapse of the talks. Not long afterwards, the the Chinese sent in the military to clear the protesters out.

Why is it that people can join together to fight for something, and as soon as they win they begin fighting among themselves? I realize Ukraine will likely not collapse into violence the way India and China did, and the divides between the groups in India and China were certainly more pronounced than the divides in the opposition group, but it's just so frustrating and sadening to see people struggle for something, win, and then turn on each other.

Regardless, from a selfish perspective: I got to live first-hand through a revolution! That's really petty, I know. This country didn't surge back and forth for two months on the cusp of greatness or destruction just so I could voyeristically watch in awe, but it is so damn cool to be able to say that. Even if people have no idea where Ukraine is, I can say that once I lived in a country that collectively held its breath for three months, whose struggles caught the attention of the entire world. I mean, how many people get to grow old and be able to say they once lived through a revolution? Well, my grandparents and my mother, certainly, but the revolution in Cuba did not turn out they way they hoped. Thank God this one stayed peaceful, and regardless of people's political leanings, I'm happy that we're all trying to work towards a better future for Ukraine.

Here's hoping for the best...


Monday, January 17, 2005

Ukraine: Things to Love and Hate

I LOVE TEACHING!

I just have to say that. I was asked last minute to teach a class at a local school and threw a lesson together. It went really well and was watched by a couple teachers, then they asked me to teach the same lesson to the next class.

I miss being in the classroom, I really do. I only got to teach two classes a week in Obhiev, and I thought my only chance to teach kids would be at my weekly English club, but I may be filling in at this other school a little bit, which would be great. I'm sorry, but giving seminars to adults is simply not as much fun as teaching kids. So, in any case, Ш had a great couple lessons and фь feeling great about that.

I HATE UKRAINIAN GROCERY STORES!

After I taught, I went to go get some chips and a soda before I hurried back to the institute to finish writing the Listening and Speaking portions of the upcoming regional Olympiad (big competition for Ukrainian students; very important). It's not a great lunch, I know, but I knew I could grub more when I got home.

In any case, I stopped at a local gastronom, a little market store. Most shopping in Zhytomyr is still done in the big open air market near the center of town, but there are a lot of small market stores on the corners. The problem with these stores is that they're set up to prevent theft. There's a long counter that wraps around the interior of the store, and all the food and beverages are on the walls behind the counter. The counter of this particular gastronom was staffed by four women, and each had their own little section and register.

So I have to go to where the chips are and ask that woman for the chips. She gets them for me and rings them up. Then I go to the other end of the counter where the drinks are. I ask for a Fanta. The lady standing there tells me she's not the drinks lady, she's the meat lady. The drinks lady will be back in a while, she says. The meat lady goes back to staring off into oblivion while a line starts forming behind me of people waiting to buy beverages. The meat lady is right there, doing nothing, but it's not her job to get the drinks. She gets the meat. Ten minutes go by, and I finish eating my chips.

The people behind me start to get impatient and tell the meat lady she needs to get the drinks. Frankly, I wasn't sure she was allowed to get the drinks, so I didn't want to bug her about it. I was glad the people behind me decided to do it for me. Finally, in a huff, she moves two feet, gets the Fanta for me, and rings it up. This is why I don't like Ukrainian grocery stores.


Sunday, January 16, 2005

Ukraine: One Way

I got to talk to one of my clustermates last night, whom I haven't seen since we left for site. We had a ton of stories to swap, but her best one was this:

She has no hot water at her site (neither do I, and one of these days I will detail my shower ritual, because I think it's pretty damn funny). Unlike at my house, though, her family has it set up where you can heat water on the stove and then dump it into the bathtub. In any case, she's taking a nice, hot bath when her host mother bursts into the bathroom (Slavs seem to have no sense of privacy) and begins yelling at her in Russian. Liz learned Ukrainian, and has no idea what the host mother is mad about, but mad she is. Liz sits there in the tub, curled fetal to hide her nudity for a few more minutes before the host mother seems to realize that maybe this isn't the best time and leaves.

Later, Liz asks her host sister what the problem was. Apparently, Liz wasn't bathing correctly. You see, apparently you don't actually take baths in the bathtub in Liz's household. It's for washing clothes. What you actually do is fill the tub with hot water, sit on the toilet, ladle water out of the tub and wash yourself over the sink. Liz pointed out that would make it really hard to wash various parts of yourself. The host sister said those parts were not important.

Which brings us to the two As that I truly miss about America.

The first is availability. Possibly I can go into that later, but if I want something in America, they system of phonebooks and franchises means I will always be able to find it. Unlike, say, the three days and several trips to the market it took to find black shoelaces.

The other is acceptance. In America, we just sort of understand that there are multiple ways to do things. From what I can tell, in a Ukrainian household this is not the case. There really is only one way to take a bath, or one way to do the laundry, or one way to hang the towels and if you do not do it in that way, well, you're ignorant and they don't know how you survived this long. My Ukrainian mother could not believe that I would want to put cheese in my omelet. This is not how you eat eggs! Admitedly, this culture has been in survival mode for most of its history and if a certain set of habits kept you alive, you did them and taught them to your kids, and they did them and kept on doing them. That's my theory at least. But in Ukraine, it seems as if there are not many ways to do things, there is only one way.

Liz and I joked that there was probably only one way to have sex in Ukraine. And I vocally imagined that the first time I tried to roll over so that the Ukrainian girl could be on top, the girl would freak out and yell at me the way our host mothers do: "No! This is not the way this is done!"

Liz, for her part, is now semi-dating a Ukrainian man. He speaks no Ukrainian and she speaks no Russian, but apparently you don't need to talk when you're kissing. I'm slightly jealous, because I would like to make out with a Ukrainian girl. That's it, just make out.

I'm very into the British concept of pulling, which I was informed about last summer. When you "pull" a guy or girl, you've gotten them to make out with you. Which seems to me a much safer goal then trying to get them to sleep with you, and all the problems that entails, especially in this culture, which is simultaneously much more open about nudity and much more conservative on the idea of casual sex. And by casual, I mean having sex with someone you don't plan on marrying, no matter how long the relationship lasts. So I'd like to pull a Ukrainian girl and leave it at that.

But then she might tell me I was doing it the wrong way...

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Ukraine: Ukrainian Host Mom

There are three types of women in Ukraine: maids, mothers and babucias. The maids may not have their maidenheads, but they are maids: young and looking to get hitched, dressed to the gills and showing plenty of flesh despite the cold weather. American trashy is Ukrainian classy, so it’s not uncommon to see knee high boots over stockings that run into mid-thigh skirts. This is professional dress, as I’ve seen teachers and police women wear them.

After maids get married, they have a few kids and become mothers. They still look like maids, but are actually MILFs, because some of the hottest women I’ve ever seen were pushing strollers. As those kids get older, though, the maids complete the transition to mothers, cut their hair short and wear clothes that, while still stylish, reside in the muted black/gray spectrum and no longer show as much flesh.

And then there are the babucias, wearing boots and heavy overcoats to their knees, backs bent and wearing head scarves. There is barely a continuum, a blurring of distinction in Ukraine women. Rather, there really are these three rigid visual roles. You’d have to be here to see it, but the roles are that distinct, the manner of dress that conforming.

Along with that conforming is an obsession with looking your absolute best. On the street, it looks like fashion week in Milan as men and women walk around in pointy shoes, glossy leather jackets and a variety of flared and skin-tight garments that announce that how you look is to be taken seriously.

The keepers of looks are the mothers, and at no time did this become more obvious than the first time I visited my new home in Zhytomyr. I had just gotten back from a seminar at a small village in the country side. Getting there was an uncomfortable two hour bus ride, getting back was the same. I arrived home already running late to have dinner with the other volunteers in the city.

When I arrived at home, moving quickly and trying to get back out the door, my host mother, Larissa, called to me and told me to come into the kitchen. She was preparing food. I told her in Ukrainian that I had to go, that I was going to a restaurant with friends. She was visibly upset that I wasn’t staying for dinner, had forgotten or ignored that I had told her I wouldn't be eating at home tonight. She told me that I should have a glass of water with her, at least.

It was carbonated, of course, and as she asked me about my day as I gulped it down, trying to get out of there. I didn’t mean to offend her or rush out, it was just that every minute I was late was another minute the volunteers were standing outside in the cold, as we were supposed to meet by the tank monument in the center of the city.

I told her this, but she had used the time while I was drinking the water to prepare a sandwich and she now offered it to me, saying I should eat it. I told her I had to go, that I would eat at the restaurant. “Ukrainian girls don’t like skinny men,” she told me in Ukrainian. “You must eat.”

As I had only known the woman for three days and didn’t know where the line should be drawn, I started to quickly eat the sandwich. While I was eating it, she prepared another sandwich, put it on a plate, and inched it towards me.

I looked at it, but didn’t pick it up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I told her. I got up, and then she noticed a small discoloration on the front of my green turtleneck, from where I had dropped some food on it some days before. I had been living out of a backpack for days, had no other sweater and no way of washing it. Actually, had she not pointed to the spot, I never would have seen it.

She followed me to the door, telling me I had to change my sweater, that I could not go out with this sweater. “I have to go,” I told her. She told me to go get one of her son’s sweaters. I could not go out with this spot on my sweater. Had I not felt so pushed with the water and the sandwiches, I may well have changed it, but I felt that at some point my boundaries had to be established.

“No,” I said, “I have to go.”

She then put herself between me and the door, arms out like the wings of an F-15, and said that I had to change my sweater. Now.

I looked at her for a second, thinking of options. The resulting answer was: I’m 25 years old. I have to spend three months living here. I’m not going to be treated like a child, whether I act like one or not.

“No,” I told her firmly. “I am leaving.”

She looked a little hurt and I felt bad, but she moved away from the door. I pulled on my green Miami Dolphins ski cap and she picked up her son’s black cap, holding it out for me. I think she hates my ugly green ski cap. I shook my head no.

She reached up with her hands and straighten the cap on my head so the emblem was in the middle, and then began picking white lint out of it while it was still on my head, as if I was some small chimpanzee. I bore this for about a minute more and then left.

I told the other volunteers. They were not surprised.

On the way home, I bought her a flower, hoping to make up. She was not happy to have me return. The host father joined the discussion, and he was on my side. I was an adult, he told her. I could dress how I wanted. She actually said this in response: “no, he is a child.”

At which point I realized that I was not going to be her third son, despite her telling me that my first night in the house. We could be friends, but I was not going to have another mother. I didn’t say this, but my stance was clear. She shook my hand when I left the next day for Kiev, a turnaround from when she greeted me four days before with a huge hug.

I felt horrible. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I didn’t want to spend three more months under a motherly microscope. I tried to explain this to my Regional Manager when I got back to Peace Corps office and he wanted a debrief on how it went. He looked at me and said: “why didn’t you just change the sweater?”

I tried to explain, and he said: “you can’t expect them to change.”

And he was right. I came to Peace Corps expecting to to conform to their culture, but that lasted barely two weeks before I was back to dressing how I wanted to dress, acting how I wanted to act. Changing how you behave is a huge thing, hard, harder than I imagined it would be. It was very egocentric to think that Larissa would give up her ingrained behaviors on how to be a mother, behaviors that are very exact in Ukrainian culture, just because I was from America and wanted to dress the way I wanted to dress.

Ironically, my mother would want me to dress the way Larissa wants me to dress: looking my best, no stains, no lint, no wrinkles, shiny shoes; my mom just doesn’t put herself between me and the door.

As an update, things between Larissa and I are going very well. She still looks dissaprovingly at some of my clothes, but doesn't say anything. Also, she's back to calling me her third son. Unlike her sons and husband, I do my own laundry, a lot of my own cooking and wash my own dishes even when she cooks. She tries not to let me do this, but I think there's an unspoken agreement that I will be independent within the household, that she does not have to do any work for me, and therefore I will be independent of her overt scrutiny. I'm sure I violate all sorts of cultural taboos by doing this (the sons, 17 and 19, respectively, watched curiously as I cooked), but it seems to be working.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Ukarine: Semi-Censored

Well, my regional manager was slow in getting back to me with what needed to be edited in the article. My regional manager is a great guy, so don't get the wrong impression of him, but I think this was low on his list of priorities to deal with.

Frustrated, I simply cut out everything that could be controversial, made the article a bit more praising of Ukraine and sent it to him, asking him to read it and just give me a yes or no.

The e-mail was also recieved by my regional manager's boss, who gets copies of all correspondance. The boss got back to me because my regional manager was on vacation, and was more than willing to work with me to get the article read and possibly approved.

I got a call the next day. The article had gone up one more level, to the Deputy Country Director. It came down to: a few spellings needed to get fixed (apparently there is a right way to transliterate cyrillic) but on the whole they would let it pass with reservation. The reservation was this: they didn't want any of the negative descriptions printed. It was also made known that I should really consider these reservations.

What I was told was this: "Ukrainians know that the water is bad. They don't need to be told that. And they don't want you telling Americans that. I would not go to America and tell Americans what was wrong with their cities."

Most of the article talked about incongruities in Ukraine: the fact that you can't drink the water, but you can buy a mobile phone; the fact that there are piles of uncollected trash outside of the buildings, but the insides of the apartments are pristine. Basically, Peace Corps wanted me to leave in the mobile phones and pristine apartments, take out the trash and undrinkable water. I thought some of the descriptions--which were not opinions, but simply facts--should stay.


Now, I am thankful that they worked with me on this, because they could have just rejected it again. And I respect the line they walk, and I have nothing but praise for both my regional manager and his boss, who worked with me on getting the language right so that the descriptions could stay intact, but the overall portrait wasn't a negative one.

Would I liked to have just printed what I originally wrote? Sure. But I respect cultural sensitivity, and the fact that I need to have it if I am to be succesful these next two years. I also understand that people probably don't appreciate an Ameican coming for a few months and then saying negative things about the country, whether those things are true or not.

In any case, the article was approved and I sent it to my editor yesterday.

My regional manager is happy (thankfully, he doesn't feel like I went over his head), Peace Corps is happy, I'm happy, and my editor at the magazine is happy.

Although it was pointed out to my by Peace Corps that maybe I should stick to my job as a teacher and leave the writing until I was no longer with Peace Corps...

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Ukraine: The Starving Cats Story

This is the starving cats story: Carrie, a volunteer living in Zhytomyr, extended her Peace Corps service for an additional year. Because of this, they rewarded her with a full month off to go home to America and see her family. She gave me the keys to her apartment and asked me to feed her cats and water her plants while she was away.

This, I successfully did once. Getting into Carrie’s apartment is no easy matter, for there are deadbolts above and below the center door lock, and these are opened by turning the keys in opposite directions of one another. The top lock is brand new. The bottom one was created sometime around the fall of Rome and has one of those keys with two teeth that you only see in old movies.

Because of the nature of the locks, it's hard to tell if you've succesfully unlocked them. If the door won't open, you know it's one of the locks, but you're not sure which one it is. Also, once you're pretty sure you have the bottom lock opened, the key for the top lock has to be in and twisting for that lock to stay open. Once you've tried every possible combination of turning, the door finally opens and you're inside.

Like I said, I did this once. I fed the cats, emptied the litter box, watered the plants, borrowed two books and found that I could not get back out. Getting out required turning more keys from the inside, sneezing up a storm due to my cat allergies. In my frustrated turning, I managed to unhook a latch that held one of the locks open. That had been my mistake.

Successfully out of the apartment and my histamine production starting to slow down, I went home. The cats were going through their two bowls of food every three days, so that meant three days of not sneezing.

After the three days, I was standing in front of the apartment door perplexed. Amy, another Zhytomyr volunteer (there are a total of five in the city) was with me, and neither of us, for all the key twisting, could not get the door open. By putting my weight on various parts of the door, we had determined that we had both the top and bottom locks disengaged, but it was holding firm in the center of the door, at the middle door lock, for which there was no key. The cats mewed at us from inside.

We knocked on the doors of the two adjoining apartments. One held a portly middle aged man who told us he had no idea how to get the door opened. The other held a man I had met before, a man I am determined to photograph. This man is in his fifties, naught more than skin and bones, with a permanent five o’clock shadow of white whiskers. The most distinctive thing about him (other than he’s been drunk every time I met him) is his glasses. He wears bifocals that are at least an inch thick. The smaller lens on the bifocals makes his eyes look tiny, while the bigger lens makes his eyes look like they would in a funhouse mirror, wrapping around the tinier eyes in the smaller lens. He always has his chin up, and always moves in tiny, jerky movements, one foot sliding after the other. He pushed at the door. was unable to help, either.

At this point, I simply knew I had starving cats on the other side, and that I certainly had the money to afford to buy Carrie a new lock. I rammed the door with my shoulder. It didn’t budge. I rammed it again. It still didn't budge. My shoulder hurt. You know, it looks a lot easier in the movies.

The first guy came out of his apartment, yelling at us, telling us to stop that, so we did, and we left, cats mewing behind us.

With Carrie in the USA, I text messaged Dave, a volunteer who had completed his service in Ukraine, but was back as an election observer for the National Democratic Institute. He and Carrie were friends, and I thought he could get a hold of her. He got back to me with her coordinator’s number in Zhytomyr. I called her coordinator, who called the landlady and then called me back. The landlady was in Odessa, and would be there for a week. I envisioned skeletal cats and Carrie screaming at me.

The coordinator made a few more calls and got back to me: be at the apartment at 2:00 PM the next day, the landlady’s son will meet you. When I arrived at the apartment, the son, who was in his twenties, was already there with a friend. They had the same keys I did, and none were for that middle lock. They went through the same routine I had, trying to turn the locks this way and that, pushing on the door in different spots to find out which ones were engaged. They, too, determined that it was the middle lock.

The son went downstairs and came back with another man. He tried twisting all the locks and pushing on the door. Nothing happened. They aroused the next door neighbor that yelled at us. He tried twisting all the locks and pushing on the door. Nothing happened. They got out the glasses-man, but he didn’t try anything, as he was quite drunk. They started debating whether or not to use the balcony from the glasses-man’s apartment to get to Carrie’s balcony. The problem is the balconies are enclosed, so someone would have to hang from the edge of one and try to break out a window on the other, all while four floors up.

There were now five Ukrainian men and an American on this tiny landing, pushing doors, twisting keys and speaking in loud, booming Russian (well, I was speaking in Ukranian, and my voice doesn't boom). The cats, hearing us, mewed pathetically from inside.

I didn’t understand everything the men said, but apparently they had abandoned the balcony idea and were now debating how to break the door down.

A heavy-set woman in her fifties came downstairs. She offered her help. She twisted the locks, she pushed at the door. Nothing happened. Then she told the son to take the keys off the key ring. He did. She put one in one lock, the other in the other, twisted both simultaneously and told the son to twist the door knob.

The door opened.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Ukraine: The End of the Holidays

Well, they just took down the big tree in the middle of the main square (the one with the statue of Lenin in it). The tree has been the site of excessive partying since December 31st. During the day, there are things for children to do in the square: horse rides, horse-drawn wagon rides, a colorful little people mover thingy that loads up a dozen kids at a time, two each to a car. Multiple Santa Clauses walked around so people can take their pictures with them. At night, the demographics of the crowd shift, and teenagers and people in their 20s drink and sing very bad kareoke, crackling speakers blasting drunken Ukrainian to the other end of the square.

There’s a stage in the square, for what purpose I’m not entirely sure because I’ve never seen someone perform on it. It’s the impromptu place to sit. At night, teenage boys with one arm over their girls, bottle gripped in the hand of the other, sit on it and sing along to the kareoke, legs swinging over the pavement. By the end of the night, the stage is covered with empty bottles.

The first half of January is a big deal for Ukrainians. They not only celebrate New Year’s on January 1, but also Orthodox Christmas on January 7 and the old New Year’s day on January 13. There is also a less celebrated holiday on January 22 called vodo krashne. It literally translates as “beautiful water” but the way my host mother describes it, a better translation would be “holy water”. Since all these holidays are close together, Ukrainians pretty much consider the first two weeks of January one big holiday.

It's over now, and the kids just went back to school today. I had my first English Club meeting today (it went well) and I also spent the afternoon at the Institute writing Olympiad Questions. It seems that my vacation is officially over as well, and it's time to get to work.

One thing I'll miss about the holidays being over is the fireworks. The fireworks had been going off nonstop every night. Fireworks that would be illegal in the states are available here, the big ones that launch from mortars and put huge explosions of colored sparks into the sky. You can buy them, a set of ten, for 200 hrivnas at the bazaar. All the mortars are glued together, and you light one fuse that sets them off in quick succession, lighting up the night sky. The stall that you can buy the fireworks from is the same one where you can buy AK-47s. Seriously. I couldn’t afford the mortar fireworks, so I paid 5 hrivna for the mother of all bottle rockets, the size and shape of a bottle for contact lens solution.

Back at my house that evening, my entire family gathered in the snow. I put the stick the rocket was attached to into some packed snow and lit the fuse. The fuse burned into the rocket, and then nothing happened. I thought it was a dud. Two seconds later, with a whistling scream, it launched into the air and exploded seconds later into an expanding ball of red sparks. It was pretty damn cool.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Ukraine: Moments

I walk past yellow leaves slowly drifting to the ground, an Indian summer of warmth, winter about to come on long and strong. Children play in the tiny park, one of dozens scattered throughout the city, the playground equipment old but freshly and brightly painted. Kids laugh as they play on the swings, which do not have chains like ours do, but straight metal poles. They do full revolutions on these, suicidal swings up to vertical, gripping the poles on either side of the seat with white little knuckles, hair flipping down in the direction of gravity before their momentum carries them past the point of suspension and they swing back down, back to right-side up, squealing.

They are heavily bundled: toddler marshmallow men, in blues and reds contrasting with the piles of yellow leaves all around them. Around them are gray concrete buildings, monoliths that hide all hint of nature. I didn’t even know there were hills around Obhiev until week three. Behind the buildings are gray, endless clouds, drab, soul-leaching. The children and the leaves, though, they stand out against the dismal, surrounding palate as if they are colored images in a black and white photograph, bright, attention-arresting, smile-making.

I am taking pictures of the kids playing, of a woman rocking her child in its carriage back and forth, back and forth. A woman, an old woman, a babushka in three sweaters, a jacket, pants and fur lined boots even though the weather is not yet that cold, a head-shawl hiding all but her face, touches me on the arm and asks me in Ukrainian, “isn’t it beautiful?” And I reply back to her in her language: “Yes, it is.” “Where are you from?” “America.” “Do you like Ukraine?” “I love it.”

Because what else do you say?

***

I was walking to the internet club, hands thrust in my pockets, head down against the cold. My feet leave shallow impressions in the snow. I always feel like I’m walking across one of Florida’s black sand beaches when I walk on snow; the texture is the same, although the temperature, it goes without saying, is different. As I pass a woman with a stroller, I hear her talking, realize she’s talking to me, and look at her. “Shcho?” I ask. What?

She repeats to me, in Ukrainian: “can you help me?”

I realize she needs help lifting the stroller, her child still in it, up a flight of stairs to where the elevator is. I don’t hesitate to tell her yes, and I take one end and she takes the other and we slowly lift it to keep it level, to not wake the tiny baby swaddled in a white blanket inside.

And I’m slightly confused because everyone knows I’m an American. I tried fitting in for the first couple days until I realized, even dressed up, boots polished, face shaved, hair short, in a leather jacket with a babushka bag still at my side, I was still getting stared at by everyone I passed. So I stopped trying to fit in. I was wearing my baggy, faded and fraying blue jeans and my mud-encrusted boots, my green ski-cap with the Miami Dolphins logo on it, and my omnipresent headphones were around my neck. Of course I was one of those Americans living in town. And yet she asked me to help carry her child up a flight of stairs, which touched me for some reason. It really did.

***

If I could have gotten on a plane right then, I would have. New Year’s Eve, missing home very badly, hungry because dinner was holodetz and I could only stomach so much. I had kept busy on Christmas, so I had dealt with it well. New Year’s Eve, though, another family staple for me, was not busy, and I had time to reflect, to miss, to become depressed. My Ukrainian host family promised a big party, but we only came together at the table to watch a countdown on television. It was midnight, and then the family dispersed. My host brothers were going to a friend’s, my host father went into the living room to watch television and my host mother and her friend talked in Russian in the kitchen.

I managed to call my close friend, Robynne, for two minutes on a calling card, the first time we had spoken since I had left the states. I could hear Molly, Robynne’s daughter and my goddaughter, making noises in the background, and I knew again that I would miss Molly get big, that the last time I saw her she fit in the crook of my arm and that the next time she would be walking and talking. The phone cut off before Robynne and I had a chance to say good-bye. I waited for my mom to call, but she didn’t. Later, she told me later that couldn’t get a line into the country. I was lonely and tired and my blood sugar was crashing. I just wanted to go home. To America, home.

And right before he left, my host brother Kiril came in and handed me a CD and a card. The CD was of club music, because he knew I liked to dance. The card said: “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Be strong in Ukrainian and do not give up!”

It had perfect timing.

Saturday, January 08, 2005

Ukraine: Bonding in the Banya

I am naked except for a pair of sandals and the brown felt version of Gilligan’s hat. My host brother, Kiril, back from Cadet School for the holidays, is unadorned in the exact same manner, except he is wearing a dark blue ski cap. Oh, he’s also beating me with birch branches.

I’m told this is a Ukrainian tradition.

I probably shouldn’t have told my host mother, Lorissa, that I had a sore throat, because she had been making me gargle five times a day with a mixture of water, salt and iodine. Stranger still, she thought that the perfect cure for me was a visit to the neighbor’s banya.

The banya, or bath house, is a 2,000 year old Slavic tradition that goes like this: you sit in a sauna for a while, then you go into a steam room, then you get beaten with a bundle of leave-covered birch branches, then you dive into an ice cold pool, and then you repeat. And this is from a culture where my host mother yells at me if I go out into the cold too soon after drinking hot liquids, go outside with wet hair, or walk on a cold floor without wearing socks.

I asked Kiril, as we walked to the banya, how this was supposed to make me feel better. “It is supposed to rid you of evil spirits,” he replied. If I was an evil spirit having to go through all that, I wouldn’t stick around, either.

Have I mentioned before that Ukraine is the country where Leopold von Sacher-Masoch was born? It is from his name and his writings that we get the concept of “masochism.”

***

The banya was a stand-alone structure that had been hand-built by the neighbor out of mortared white brick. It was fifteen feet long and four feet wide. A wide pipe jutting out of the corrugated metal roof leaked ashy smoke into the sky. This should be interesting, I thought. Walking across a plank to its door, Kiril opened it and we stepped inside.

Directly in front of us was the banya’s heart: a massive iron stove burning hunks of scrap wood. To the left was the room with the steam room, shower and pool. To our right was the sauna, and in it were three teenage boys sitting and relaxing in their underwear. Good, I thought, I get to keep my underwear on.

After introductions, the teenagers moved into the steam room to let us have the sauna, but not before stripping off their underwear. Okay, I thought, I won’t be keeping my underwear on.

Kiril and I took off all our clothes, put on our sandals and hats, and then sat in the dry heat to talk.

Ten minutes later, we were in the banya’s other room. One quarter of the room was taken up by a wooden enclosure, the steam room. I could hear the three boys beating each other in there with the birches, loud painful-sounding thwacks. The concept of three naked guys smacking each other in a steam room does have homoerotic undertones, so feel free to insert a gay joke here.

I was not looking forward to getting beat with branches. I’d once attended a bondage party because my then-roommate had been DJing had it. Curious, I had allowed two leather-clad women to tie me shirtless to bench and whip my back. I discovered then that S&M was not my thing.

The “pool” was on the left, a hole in the ground lined with cement, barely four feet deep, two feet wide and six feet long. It also had no water in it. Between the pool and the steam room, a showerhead jutted out of the wall.

We waited for a minute before the three teenagers came spilling out of the wooden room, thick plumes of steam following them. Kiril and I went in, him holding a big cup of water and a bunch of birch branches covered in wide, flat leaves. After closing the door behind us, I sat on a wooden bench while Kiril put the birch branches in a pot of water to soak. He then poured water from the cup into the upturned mouth of a piece of pipe running to the furnace.

Steam filled the room. I was informed the steam was over 200 degrees Fahrenheit, and I believe it. The skin on my face was burning. After a minute it was simply too hot for me to take, and I had to quickly leave the steam room before going back in a minute later, keeping my head down and out of the scalding steam gathering at the top of the room. Kiril sat upright, eyes closed, head in the steam, ski cap on his head (“to keep in the heat”, he had said).

Sweat poured out of me, off of me, running down me and pooling in the plastic sandals on my feet. Kiril and I talked, sucking in huge breaths between sentences, the air heavy and thick and burning my lungs. We talked about language and Ukraine and America and places we’d been and places we wanted to see. And then, fifteen minutes later, we exited the steam room, panting.

The birch branches, Kiril said, would come later.

The next step was a quick shower in tepid water before going back to the sauna. The teenagers were always one step in the process ahead of us, and so were going back into the steam room as we were moving into the sauna. They left behind on a table some salo, three empty bottles of water, an empty bottle of vodka, and lemon rinds.

We repeated the sauna/steam room/shower process two more times. By the third time we were in the steam room, I could run my hand down my arm and dead skin would be pushed ahead of it, gathered into white gunk.

Finally, Kiril reached for the birches. Taking them out of the pot of water, he held them over the steam rising out of the upturned pipe to heat them up, and then told me to turn around. I did, and he began hitting my naked back and butt with them. They didn’t hurt, just gave my back a pleasant tingling sensation. Every ten hits or so, Kiril would push the branches against me and run them down my back, as if trying to scrape the evil spirits off me.

He told me to turn around and then told me to cover my groin with one hand and my heart with the other. I did, and he began beating my stomach and chest, my face turned up and to the side, eyes closed. By the time we were done, the floor of the steam room was littered with leaves, some clinging to my skin and hair.

We went out for another shower, and then back into the steam room again, where I commenced to beat him with the birch branches. He then hit me again with them for good measure.

At this point, I still didn’t understand how this was an experience that could enthrall an entire culture for over two millennia. Gasping for breath from swinging the birch branches over and over in the steam filled room, lungs feeling char-broiled, I still didn’t get it.

We left the banya, and Kiril switched on a nozzle in the pool. High pressured water shot out as if from a fire hose. Kiril stepped into the pool, directly in the path of the spraying water, one hand over his genitals, the other over his heart. He rotated around, lifting his legs to get them into the spray, and then he hurried out of the pool.

When I stepped into the spray, the water was so cold that my chest seized. The freezing water felt like a thousand pricking needles on my steam-cooked skin. I could feel every spot where the birch branches had hit, a mental image of overlapping lines, glowing red, etched over the length of my body. I did a few quick rotations in the spray, lifted my legs as Kiril had done, and then hurried out.

We went back into the steam room and sat, both of us gasping for breath, steam expanding lungs that had seemingly shrunk and disappeared moments before. I felt light-headed and near to passing out. And then I did feel it: a sort of full body high, skin tingling as feeling returned to it. My head cleared out and I felt very awake, aware, serene. And in that moment was the secret of the banya.

We weren’t finished: the last step was to exit the steam room, soap up and do some serious exfoliation with a sort of plastic Brillo pad. Kiril asked me to scrub his back with it as hard as I could. Yes, we were both still naked, so go ahead and enter another gay joke.

He scrubbed my back in turn, there was shampooing involved, and then we were done. We got dressed and stepped out of the banya. I was surprised to see ice-covered asphalt outside, had forgotten that it was still the middle of a Ukrainian winter. Maybe that’s why what the purpose of a banya is.

Kiril took a home-canned jar of pickled peppers to the neighbor as thanks for letting us use the banya, and then we went home.

After a banya session, you’re supposed to eat a filling dinner and then go straight to bed. I did this, feeling on the edge of exhaustion after gulping down the food and three glasses of water.

When I woke up the next day, I felt as great as they said I would.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Ukraine: Orthodox Christmas

Today is the Orthodox Christmas, so I spent the afternoon in a small farming village where my host mom has family. They plied me full of food, and everything except the vodka and wine had been homemade. The butter had been made from the milk they got from their cows, the apple juice (which I drank three glasses of) came from the apples in the orchid behind the house.

They speak the worst sergic there, though. Sergic is Russian and Ukranian combined. Here's a phrase I heard: "Dyakuyu vam toshz." Basically, it's "Thank you as well" except "Dyakuyu" is a Ukranian word, "vam" is common to both languages, and "toshz" is Russian. Gave me a damn headache, although it was a lot of fun.

Oh, whoever anonymousgirl is, thanks for the posts! Sadly, my grandfather's present is still the Penthouse, sitting hidden in my room.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Ukraine: Censored

I wrote 1,500 words for a magazine called Subsystence and submitted it to myRegional Manager, as per Peace Corps Ukraine guidelines. It was rejected for talking about drinking vodka with Ukranians, trying absinthe, and my sometimes unflattering (but completely true) portraits of Ukranian cities.

Peace Corps Ukraine actually forbids us from writing anything critical of "Ukraine, it's government, its culture or its people" and it doesn't want us writing about activities "that do not reflect Peace Corps policies." I'm not going to fight it on this particular article and just edit what they want, but I am taking it to the volunteer advisory council because I think information-control is anathema to the values the United States stands for.

We'll see. Pissed me off, though. I'll write more about it when I get more internet time.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Ukraine: Pretty Paper

Money, I discovered, is naught but pretty paper unless someone will take it, but we’ll get to that in a second.

I was surprised to learn it, but the Ukrainian economy functions on American dollars. You see, many Ukrainians lost their life savings when the Soviet Union broke up thirteen years ago and the Russian banks refused to give them their money. So, Ukrainians don’t trust banks. Also, mega-inflation wiped out what little savings Ukrainians had left in 1994, when wheelbarrows of their former currency, the “coupon”, couldn’t bгy a roll of toilet paper (in fact, I’ve heard at least one story where coupons were used as toilet paper). The government has since revalued their currency and introduced the hrivna, but most people still don’t trust Ukrainian currency.

Their solution? They started buying up what, in 1994, was one of the world’s most stable currencies: the American dollar. Now, most people have their life savings in American dollars hidden somewhere in their apartments. There are currency exchanges for American dollars every two blocks in every city, even the small ones.

Just last month, during the Orange Revolution, whean people feared another economic collapse, dollar buying hit an all time high. While the dollar was plunging against every other currency in the world, it was rising against the hrivna in Ukraine, up $0.30 since November. The Ukrainian government had to buy up a ton of hrivnas just to keep the currency from collapsing.

Now, this can be good if you come to Ukraine with dollars and want to exchange them. This can be not good if you’re me and you had decided the safest place to hide your American dollars while traveling was in one of your Doc Martins. Most of the bills in my boot--and this is nasty--got sweaty, absorbed the black leather or whatever from the interior, and came out looking like somebody had brushed them with tar. I then promptly discovered that Ukrainian currency exchanges will only take pristine bills, worried that anything less might not convert back into hrivnas in the future. No one wanted to take my money.

I left the states with $160. Sixty dollars was my own, hurriedly withdrawn from a working ATM in Florida (and that took some searching in the aftermath of Hurricane Jean) before flying to D.C. for staging. In D.C., they gave me my per diem, which was $120 for three days. Since the hurricane made me miss all of staging, I only spent $20 on a nice dinner before I left D.C

In training in Ukraine, I found that our per diem was $12 a week. What you can live on for three days in our nation’s capitol was more than they gave us for a month in Ukraine, and I never felt like I didn’t have enough money..

Now that I am a volunteer, my living allowance is $179 a month, which is still more than three times the national average. That means I am living comfortably, well fed, in an apartment, traveling and well entertained in Ukraine on $2,148 a year. I could easily save twice that much in a year of teaching in Oklahoma, and always did, spending it on travel during my breaks and hi-tech goodies. But here’s the fun thought: I could save $3,000 in a year of working in the states, and then go to Ukraine (or any other country like it) and live comfortably for a year without working. I may do that in the future, for six months or so, in a warmer country, and write a novel or something.

Anyway, here I was in Ukraine, with nearly 650 hrivnas worth of American dollars that turned out to be nothing but expensive paper. My host brother suggested the black market, but Peace Corps has told us so many times not to use it that it wasn’t worth the risk. Over the course of three months, mostly by looking pathetic and visiting dozens of different exchange booths, I was able to exchange all but $60. Each exchange booth usually would take one $20 bill, almost certainly out of pity, and hand the rest back. That money bought my mobile phone and my family their Christmas gifts.

Three different exchange booths rejected the last three bills, the bills that had been on the outside of the stack and looked the worst. Ironically, $60 was the original amount I left Florida with, and after three months in Ukraine I still hadn’t spent a dime of my own money. I finally resigned myself to taking that $60 back to the states, and seeing if anyone would even accept them as legal tender there.

Then another volunteer clued me in that Peace Corps would exchange rough-looking money for pristine bills for us as a courtesy. I went to the Peace Corps cashier in Kiev yesterday, and even though she raised her eyebrows at them, she gave me three brand new $20 bills. A Ukrainian currency exchange took them, and I no longer have an American dollar to my name.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Ukraine: Boxing with my Brother

I once predicted that boxing would be the gentlemanly art of me getting my ass kicked while wearing a pair of red gloves. This turned out to be incorrect. The gloves were black.

I probably had it coming. Just an hour or so before, I had looked into my host brother’s room. Inside my host brother, Sergei, was wrestling with one of his friends and winning. After their bout, I asked to step in and Sergei, who is half a foot taller and forty pounds of muscle heavier than me, easily took me down and was on top. Not realizing that I had been a varsity wrestler in high school, he soon found himself thrown over my shoulder and onto his back, whereby he was pinned. He said I won because he was tired.

Sometime later, the boxing gloves came out and his two friends had bloodied (literally bloodied) themselves against each other in front of two female friends that had stopped by (and what better way to impress the ladies?). After the ladies and the friends left, Sergei and his friend Dima boxed one another, Sergei showing his boxing training as he slowly stalking Dima. Dima would flail wildly at Sergei before Sergei would beat him back into a wall and then unleash a hail of punches.

After Sergei was done and I had changed into a pair of sweat pants, I asked “moshna?” May I? Dima put the black boxing gloves on me and Sergei and I circled each other on the carpet. I had told him I didn’t know what I was doing asked him to go easy. He agreed, suggesting I first work on straight shots.

This I did, although I could never get through his defense, and spent a lot of time dodging his punches. I did notice that I kept closing my eyes whenever I punched, something I endeavored to correct. I connected a few times, after which, Sergei told me: “hit harder.”
I didn’t want to hit harder, as I was afraid he would start hitting me harder.

One jab at a time seemed not to be working, so I started throwing in combinations, remembering all the sportscaster commentary heard while watching boxing matches in Jim’s apartment.

More of my hits started connecting as Sergei would dodge one punch at get hit by another and a small smile appeared on his face. That really worried me. Somewhat like a computerized GRE test, I had the sneaking suspicion that the better I did, the more difficult this would be.
Sergei started coming forward, stalking me like he had Dima, snapping my head back with a few well-timed punches. I realized that the blood on his gloves was from me. I didn’t get mad, but I did get amped, realizing that a shot to the body and two to the head really does work. I finally got a solid one through, making him blink and causing two trails of blood to appear out of his nostrils. His response: “Good.”

Already five or six minutes into the fight, I was getting tired and he seemed to still be going strong. His reach easily outclassed mine and I spent the next two minutes just trying to stay out of the way of his punches and futilely tried jabbing to keep him back.
I didn’t even see the haymaker, but it spun me around and my vision went black. I’m not sure how I stayed upright, but I was calling an end to the match before my vision had even cleared. “I am sorry. I am tired,” Sergei said as way of apology for hitting me that hard. We tapped gloves and I collapsed in a chair, panting.

My lip was bloodied, but other than that, all was well. I have to admit that, aside from the fear of marring my face, it’s a great stress reliever and a great workout. We’ve agreed to do it again.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

Ukraine: Drinking With Ukranians

I went drinking with Ukrainians last night. This is something my American friend Sarah had been imploring me to do since before I left the states. As someone who has drank less than ten times in 26 years, I did not think Ukraine would not the best place to start. Still, I had decided that I would drink as social conventions dictated. And social conventions had dictated…
In celebration of New Year’s Day, my host brothers and their friends took me to a local club. The door guard had an AK-47, but other than that, it seemed normal.

The rectangular dance floor was flanked on either side by round tables. At one end was a stage with two poles, and on the other was the door that led out to the bar. There was already two bottles of vodka at our assigned table when we arrived, as well as a bottle of juice.

The waitress brought two plates of sliced fruit and we began. About every ten minutes, Pasha would theatrically point at the bottle with both index fingers, then rotate his wrists down to his shot glass. That would be Sergei’s cue to pour a round. We’d raise our glasses, no one could hear the toast over the thumping beat, we’d clink our glasses together, and then everyone would throw the alcohol to the back of their throats, sip some juice and then eat some fruit. Sometimes this involved standing up to drink, but I’m not entirely sure why.

One should never try to keep up with Ukrainians when they are drinking vodka.

There is no way to describe what drinking is to Ukrainian culture. I read that Prince Yaroslav the Wise, who converted the entire country to Christianity (and shepherded--at sword point--the entire citizenry of Kiev into a freezing Deniper river to be baptized), had his pick of religions. He contemplated Islam for a time, and especially liked how this would help him ally with the Turks. He finally decided, though, that the Islamic prohibition against drinking was too much for any Slav to take.

I had a theoretical notion of how important drinking was to Ukrainians, but no real understanding that drinking can be like breathing, to be done at any hour on any day for the simple sake of survival. Drinking vodka with breakfast is common. Teachers toasting and getting toasted in the lounge before their next class is common. And twelve toasts at a Ukrainian club in quick succession is certainly common.

Social convention dictated I better have a glass to raise for every single toast, and that alcohol must be in that glass. I did two full shots the first two times, then I moved to half shots, and then I prayed the bottle would run out before I did. It was with joy that the last drop of the second bottle disappeared down someone’s gullet, and I was proud to have made it that far.
But then two more bottles were ordered.

I had already gone straight through buzzed to drunk. Alcohol is a depressant, and this is the effect it has on me. I do not become crazier the drunker I get, although I do become more uncoordinated. Drunk for me, sadly, is sitting with my eyes half-lidded, contemplating the world through a haze, knowing that getting up may be a bad idea.

As more toasts were done, I clinked my glass and then sipped at the vodka in it, valiantly to stay in a state that would let me walk home. Every sip was still sinking me deeper into that purple haze, though, me looking around the room with an idiot smile on my face.
A lurching trip to the bathroom revealed Turkish toilets, which are common in Europe, especially Eastern Europe. Turkish toilets are basically porcelain around a hole in the floor. To use them, you squat over the hole. This is not easy to do when you are drunk, and I don’t understand the logic of why every club in Ukraine has them.

Back in the main room, the dancers cleared off the floor at midnight, and a stage show started. These are common at Ukrainian clubs, possibly to give the dancers time to rest and consume more alcohol. This one had a lounge singer, two choreographed dances by four very beautiful Ukrainian girls wearing thongs and a lot of lace, a trio of male break dancers, and a stripper. The strippers are pretty common, too. This one made skilful use of both poles, finally dancing before us in a red thong and nothing else. I was appreciative.

Well, mostly, because the gyrating, beautiful, naked woman simply reinforced a common emotion of late: loneliness. The emotion was further intensified when our table, fully inebriated, made its way to the dance floor after the show. The floor was thronged with very beautiful women wearing very little clothing, but I couldn’t have picked one up if I wanted to. Ukrainians do not go to discos to meet members of the opposite sex. In fact, any single girl on the floor probably has a Mafioso-looking boyfriend who hates dancing and is watching her from the shadows. I’m told the clubs in Kiev are becoming more Americanized and more the place to meet girls, but in Zhytomyr tradition was still enforced and so was my singlehood.

Those Ukrainian men that do dance in clubs do so very poorly. The only reason they are on the floor in the first place is because the alcohol put them there, and it is also telling their limbs to shake spasmodically to the music. In this manner, I fit right in. My usual style of dancing was out of the question, so I mostly bounced up and down and waved my hands around to the beat. Often times it did not feel like I had arms. This was a pleasant sensation. Sergei told me to show them how Americans danced, but this was not to be done. I started, but it felt like someone had poured concrete into my legs, and so I stopped, and went back to waving my hands in the air. We did this for about an hour, sweat pouring off of us and my host brother Karil, bless his heart, moving about the floor like an epileptic dolphin, and then we went home.

So at least I can say I have gone drinking with Ukrainians, something regarded as an art form the world over. Sarah would be proud.